The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1)

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The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) Page 16

by Olivia Wildenstein


  “You have motive. More motive than your sister.”

  “What?” I repeat, too stunned to think of anything else to say.

  “We just want to check your alibi,” Leah says.

  “I was at home. Working.”

  “Anyone can attest to that?”

  “I work alone, so no.”

  “So you have no alibi?” Austin states.

  “I have an alibi. I just have no one to confirm it.”

  “That could prove problematic.” He slips his feet off the table and plops his forearms on the metal surface.

  “My sister confessed to the crime,” I say.

  “Perhaps she’s covering for you so that you could go on that little show of yours.”

  My heart is pounding so loudly that it feels like it’s trying to kick its way out of my ribcage. “I’d like a ride back to the museum now.” When neither gets up, I repeat, “Now.”

  Detective Clancy holds up a finger to her lips. “In conclusion, Ivy Redd attests to not knowing Troy Mann was involved with the mafia. She also states to having sold him a quilt. And she says that Aster may not have been herself on the night of August 17th. Is this all correct, Ivy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Thank you. The time is 3:25 p.m. and the day is August 25th. This was Leah Clancy and Austin McEnvoy.” She presses down on a button to click off the recorder, then rises and leads me back down to the lobby and out of the police station.

  The paparazzi haven’t wasted a second to find out where I was taken. They probably followed the black sedan Dominic sent to fetch me. Danny, the driver with the tangled eyebrows, doesn’t address me once during the ride back, but he does peek at me several times in his rearview mirror, disappointment and curiosity warring on his face. It’s the same look everyone on the show gives me the second I step back into the museum, from Cara to the film crew.

  As I get into the elevator, eyes cast downward to avoid the stares, a hand slides between the closing doors and presses them back open. And then Brook steps in and dismisses my assistant and the doors shut. When the elevator starts rising, he tugs the red emergency lever. It stops and the lights dim.

  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, but he remains silent. Then his lips part and close, and then they part again.

  “What?” I ask when I can no longer take it.

  “Dominic’s worried about you. He’s worried you have a lot on your plate. Perhaps too much. He thinks that maybe you should…”

  “Maybe I should what?”

  His shadowy gaze drifts over the floor, then over the wall behind me, and finally perches on my face. “He thinks that maybe you should drop out.” He speaks quickly, as if saying the words fast will dampen their sting.

  “Drop out? Of the Masterpiecers? No…no way. I want to stay. I need to stay.”

  “Ivy, you’re doing well, but—”

  “But what?”

  “But there’s a lot to think about. Between the media, and Kevin, and your sister. You should see what’s being written up in the newspapers.”

  I snort because it finally dawns on me where he’s going with this. “I’m bringing the show bad press. Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “Well…not exactly.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  He scrapes his hand through his perfect black hair. “Yes.”

  “Don’t you know journalists love scandals?”

  “I know that, but—”

  “They don’t intimidate me, Brook. And neither does Dominic. I’m sorry about the bad press, but I’m not leaving the show. This is my one chance. Maybe you don’t understand because you’ve never had to worry about where your next meal came from, but I can’t drop out. And I’ll say this again however many times I need to, but I had nothing to do with Kevin’s pictures.” I shake my head, and my hair flutters against my bare shoulders. “You know, for a second there, when you cornered me, I thought you were going to ask me how I was doing. I thought you were worried about me. But I guess people like you, like Dominic, like Josephine, only worry about themselves.”

  “Don’t say that,” he says, stepping forward. He’s close enough to touch me. Thankfully he doesn’t. “I am worried about you. The situation sucks, Ivy. Really, it does.”

  “I’m still not leaving. If you want me out, you’ll have to disqualify me.”

  From the regretful look he gives me, I realize that must be exactly what they’re planning, and my mood, already soured by the precinct and the interview, spoils like bad milk.

  “That wouldn’t be fair,” I say in a raspy voice.

  Brook doesn’t respond. The silence hangs heavily between us. It fills the small space like steam, thinning the breathable air.

  “The public’s vote counts for something,” I add, mostly to reassure myself. “Now, can you please switch the elevator back on?”

  His fingers hover over the lever. “Could Aster have had anything to do with Kevin’s pictures?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “But you’re not sure? She’s your sister—”

  “If I remember correctly, you had no clue your brother entered the competition,” I snap back.

  He frowns, and it leaves a deep vertical groove between his dark eyebrows. “I did know. His girlfriend told me.”

  “The one you screwed?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  After a long bout of silence, he says, “I have a great lawyer.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  His forehead smooths out. “I meant for your sister, Ivy.”

  “Oh.”

  “And he’d be free.”

  “Really?” Suspicion creeps into my brain. “Is he free even if I decide to stay on the show?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he work pro bono?”

  “No. He’s a friend.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “So you can forgive me for being disrespectful toward you.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just say yes, and I’ll make the call.”

  His offer feels too good to be true, yet I find myself accepting. “Okay.”

  The elevator jerks to life and the lights snap back on, bright, blinding. Soon, the doors are opening. Brook brushes a strand of hair off my cheek and whispers that he’s going to call his lawyer friend right away. I thank him in a muted voice before stiffly walking out, past Chase and Lincoln who are standing by the door of the makeup room, past the myriad of assistants and camera crew on their coffee break, past the tree-lined hallway, and into my tented safe haven.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Aster

  I gaze at the television screen long after the afternoon test has ended, but I don’t see anything.

  “Male deodorant has a real fascinating effect on women,” Driscoll says, tipping his head to the commercial on the television. “Want a whiff of my armpits, Redd?”

  Mechanically, I look up at the guard. “I’m allergic to male stench.”

  His smile drops and so does his voice. “I forget. You’re one of them now.”

  “One of them?” I ask.

  “Lawn grazers.”

  “Huh?” When it dawns on me what he’s inferring, I feel a sharp desire to slap him. I curl my fingers into fists against my stiff jumpsuit. “What is it you want, Sergeant?”

  “What is it I want? Now let me see…a lightweight dome tent, a Harley Davidson, a set of fancy steak knives—”

  “I mean with me. I doubt you came for small talk.”

  “You doubt right.” He shifts on his spindly legs. “Turns out you’re a popular girl, Redd. You got someone waiting for you in the visitation area.”

  I’m betting it’s Josh. He probably made a U-turn on the freeway. “Officer Cooper?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Just said it wasn’t.”

  For a moment, I think it’s Ivy, but she’s in New York being question
ed by some detectives.

  “You better hurry. Fancy man like him probably has elsewhere to be.”

  “Fancy man? I don’t know any fancy men.”

  “Quit stalling. I gotta go train the yobwoc.”

  I frown as I stand up and trail him to the door.

  He glances back at me. “Gotta go explain that giving prisoners access to Internet on cell phones doesn’t fly with me. You knew that, right, Redd? That you ain’t allowed to ask guards for their phones?” As I walk past him, he adds in a low voice, “At least not for free?” He falls in stride with me. “In the future, if you ever need a phone, I got one.” He pats his pant pocket, and then his hand crawls to his crotch, which he pats in turn.

  Asshole, I think but don’t say. My eyes must be pretty expressive though, because Driscoll’s cocky grin dissolves. When he buzzes me into the attorney visitation area, a suit-clad man pushes his chair back, rises, and extends his hand. “Hi, Aster. I’m Dean Kane, your lawyer.”

  “My lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  His dark suit and pink tie held flat against his dress shirt by a gleaming gold bar makes him look too elegant to be state-appointed. His retainer alone must equal what I make in a year.

  Sure enough, he adds, “You’re my pro bono case of the year.” Then he props his briefcase on the table and gestures toward the chair opposite him.

  “So”—he takes out a folder—“I familiarized myself with your case, Aster. You’re being charged with first-degree murder for running over—”

  “First-degree murder?” I yelp. “It was self-defense.”

  “You hit a man, then you ran him over. You’re facing forty years to life imprisonment.”

  “What?” I pinch the skin on my arm to make sure I’m awake. Unfortunately, I am. “But he threatened me.”

  “That’ll be the base of our defense. But there are aggravating circumstances that aren’t going to work in our favor. For one, your psych report.” He takes out a paper from the file. “It says here you were diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of twelve and that your condition has progressively worsened.”

  I feel like I’ve been punched…hard. Spasms erupt in my extremities and then move to my muscles…to my teeth…to my bones.

  He shuts the file. “Also, a witness informed me that you took something from the crime scene, which gives you motive for the assault.”

  “A…A witness?”

  “Yes.”

  I choke on my saliva, which makes me cough.

  Dean nods. “What was worth killing a man for?”

  I blanch.

  He leans across the table. “I’m on your side, Aster.”

  “I didn’t take anything.”

  “Did you not hear me say I was on your side?” When I keep quiet, he drums his fingers on the table. His large gold pinkie ring draws my attention. I try to make out the insignia. Suddenly, he stops tapping and grumbles loudly. “Look, I have several other cases I need to oversee. Either you cooperate and give me something I can work with, or I’ll leave you to some newbie public defender who’ll ensure that the only way you leave this place is in a casket. Now, I strongly suggest option number one as I’ve never lost a case in the past, and without me, judging from your file, you’re not getting out of here alive.”

  I don’t want to die. And I don’t want to stay in here forever. “My sister’s quilt.”

  It takes him a second to register that I’m speaking about the case. “What did you do with the quilt?”

  “I destroyed it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s not the quilt that your sister auctioned on the Masterpiecers?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about the quilt?”

  “Just—No.”

  “Just whom?”

  “Just a friend,” I say.

  “Which friend?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  “To make sure they don’t go telling anyone else that you took a quilt from a dead man.”

  “He won’t say anything.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Because I trust him.”

  “From now on, you shouldn’t trust anyone but me. And you shouldn’t talk to anyone else. Okay?” Dean asks.

  “Okay.”

  “Was there anything else in the bag?”

  “No.” I bite my lip. “Why did the cops interview my sister?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Please…I need to know.”

  “They wanted to make sure she wasn’t the one behind the wheel of the Honda.”

  “Huh?”

  He sighs. “That she wasn’t the one who ran Troy Mann over.”

  “Of course she wasn’t! It was me in the car.”

  “Don’t worry, she told them that. She also told them about your affliction.”

  “My what?”

  “The schizophrenia.”

  I bite down on my tongue to avoid sobbing or screaming—whichever comes first. “She told the detectives I was crazy?”

  “Yes, but that’ll work in our favor. It’ll explain why you ran him over after you rammed into him. You’ll get sent to an institution.”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  He eyes me in silence as he gets up and tucks the file back into his fancy leather briefcase. “Would you rather stay here?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then make it work, and I’ll make it work.”

  “How am I supposed to make it work?”

  He swoops down and drops his voice. “Act like your mother used to.”

  “You mean does. She’s still nuts.”

  His lips perk into a bright smile. “You’re a quick study.”

  I’m not sure what he means, but don’t have time to ask as he’s already standing and knuckling the door for the guard to open it. “Before I forget, I found out who was behind those doctored photos of the contestant.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you as soon as I inform Mister Martin,” he says, before flying down the hallway, the bottom of his pink tie flapping against his shiny belt buckle.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ivy

  While prepping me for the evening ceremony, Amy doesn’t dare look straight into my eyes, but Leila does. Her kohl-lined gaze is blacker than usual, and tighter. She’s still mad at me. When Amy leaves to gather more pins, she says, “You’re throwing everything away.”

  “I’m not throwing anything away.”

  “Oh, come on, Ivy. You’re all broken and hopeless. I can feel it. I can see it. And if I can see it, I know that you can too. Snap out of it.”

  “Snap out of it? My life outside these walls is crumbling and you’re telling me to snap out of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no idea what it feels like to be trampled by the world, scrutinized by everyone. No idea!” My voice trembles. “So don’t you dare tell me to snap out of it!”

  Leila’s face shutters up just as Amy returns. Her head swings from Leila to me. She can tell something has gone down, but thankfully, she doesn’t get involved.

  Leila undoes the black apron tied around her waist and sticks it on the counter in front of me. “My hand’s cramping,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “But—” Amy’s mouth is gaping.

  Leila’s already gone.

  “But—she—half your face,” Amy stutters.

  “Are you done with my hair?” I ask in a toneless voice.

  “Almost.” Her hands tremble as she sticks a bunch more pins in. “Um…do you want me to get another makeup artist? I’m sure—”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll do it myself.”

  As she packs up her tools, I take the black liner and some violet powder, and finish what Leila started. One of my eyes looks smaller than the other, but I don’t care. I just want to get this night over with. I toss the brushes and pencils onto the black
apron and walk into the dressing room just as Maxine and Lincoln wiggle into their outfits.

  “Could these be any shorter?” Maxine asks, attempting to tug the skirt on her cocktail waitress-like dress further down.

  “At least we have tights on,” Lincoln says, her green-gold eyes on me as I pull my outfit off the hanger.

  “They’re so sheer,” Maxine complains. “Everyone will see my cellulite.”

  “Oh, stop it,” Lincoln says. “You don’t have any.”

  “I do. Look.” Maxine pinches the back of her thighs.

  The discussion makes me want to hit something. How can they talk about stupid butt dimples in front of me? My sister’s in a correctional facility for killing a man, and I’m being accused of setting up a fucking contestant.

  “Oh…well,” Maxine says with a sigh. As she turns away from the mirror, she notices me. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  “Sorry about what?” I ask.

  Maxine’s face colors. “Oh…uh…well, Kevin…he uh, told us what’s going on.”

  “What did he say that makes you sorry about my sister?”

  “Um…just that she…that the man…that she’s being charged with first-degree murder.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” I tell her.

  “I’m sorry, Ivy. I didn’t mean—”

  I pull off my bathrobe and tug on the tight satin number. “Just drop it, okay?”

  She nods a great many times before finally rushing out of the dressing room.

  “So…what’s up between you and Brook?” Lincoln asks. They brushed her blonde hair to one side like a fifties actress and strapped a crawling diamond earring to the ridge of her exposed ear.

  “Why don’t you ask Kevin? He seems to know everything around here,” I say as I yank on smoke-colored tights.

  “Funny”—she snorts—“seriously though, you were in that elevator a long time.”

  “How do you know how long I was in there?”

  “Because your assistant came huffing and puffing up the stairs, carping into her mouthpiece about Mister Jackson not letting her do her job. So”—she bats her eyelashes—“what happened?”

  “He told me I should quit the show and I told him to go screw himself.” I leave out the part about the lawyer.

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Not in those exact words, but yeah, I did.”

 

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