by Wendy Byrne
"What happened at the City Center Gallery?" He had a really good poker face, and it was nearly impossible to figure out if he knew the answer or not. The fact he knew I'd been there was weird in a way I didn't even want to think about.
"Actually it worked out pretty well. They're going to show some pieces of mine at the new artists showing next week. I'm thrilled, especially since it was harder than anything to even get an appointment with a gallery manager in New York. And I'm going to something called the Gilded Lily Celebration tomorrow which is a preview of the new artists' work." Saying it out loud made my stomach queasy.
"I've heard that Celebration thing is pretty wild, but I guess you must be used to that as an artist." He didn't wait for me to respond and instead launched into the reason for his visit. "You figure out anything else about your father?"
"Other than what I already knew? Not really." Did he find out about M.C.? Or did Phil say something about our run-in at the bowling alley? Or maybe Bud at the bowling alley? I held my breath. "I can't find a trace of him."
"What did he tell you in those emails he sent after the initial letter?" His suspicious nature seemed to return as he gave me a half-eye roll. "You never did show them to me."
"Nothing of significance. Why? Have you heard something?"
"What you think is significant and what I do might be two different things. Make sure you forward them to me at your earliest convenience."
"Do you think the killer was still in the house when I got there?" Even the idea it might be possible made my pulse race.
"Judging by the time of death, it was shortly before you said you got there." The skepticism he felt bled through his words as if they were written in bold dark letters across my forehead.
"You should be able to figure out how long I'd been there from Gabe." And then grumbled under my breath. "I know you trust him."
"I've known Gabe a long time." He sucked in a breath as if rethinking the trajectory of the conversation. "But that doesn't mean I don't trust you. I just don't know you."
"It's not like you didn't run my record from every database possible. Right?"
He avoided commenting either way. "I have a murderer in a town of a couple thousand people. That doesn't happen around here, and I want to make sure it doesn't happen again."
"Are you saying it's my fault it all happened? Considering I don't even know my father, let alone Stan, that's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"
"I'm saying weird things are happening around here since you've arrived. Is that necessarily your fault? I'm not sure. But I do know that one way or another it's directly related to your father."
"And the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? Is that what you're inferring?" My heart kaboomed inside my chest even while the rational part of me tried to take measured breaths.
"Vi's gang has been acting mighty strange since they've been hanging with you."
I stomped my foot. "Are you frickin' kidding me? Are you saying I corrupted a bunch of senior citizens because they've been hanging around with me?"
He ignored my question. "Oh and did I mention that Mayor Charlie got admitted to the hospital for a possible heart attack shortly after someone fitting your description talked to him?"
"Wait a minute." It took more time than usual to compute what he was inferring. When it did, it wasn't pretty. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. "He might have been stressed out over the fact he'd done something wrong…like…hmm…poisoning Stan."
"Your father had a prescription for OxyContin, the same opioid that killed Stan." He didn't say another word before strolling out the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After Sheriff Crowder's revelation last night, I couldn't sleep. And now the idea of dressing up and hobnobbing with the social elite of Iowa City at the Gilded Lily Celebration made me slightly nauseous. Unlike the Midas touch which brought fame and fortune, I had the opposite affliction.
Could my father really be a murderer? That thought had been circling around my head since the sheriff dropped that bombshell last night.
After lunch, I took a long soak in the tub and listened to Miles Davis while I tried to drive away the funk that had overcome me. I plunked my head against the back and attempted to conjure up my happy place. No one would be interested in an artist who had the stench of death following her around. Okay, I was being overly dramatic, but I felt like the worst kind of loser right now.
In my water-filled bliss, I must have drifted off at some point because when I popped opened my eyes, Viola was knocking on the door, and the water had turned cold. I sloshed out of the tub, wrapping myself in a robe and slipped open the door.
"I wanted to make sure you hadn't fallen asleep since the party starts in a couple of hours and I haven't heard a sound coming from your room."
She was sweet to check on me. And thank goodness she did. Who knew how long I would have stayed in that comatose state otherwise. "I fell asleep in the tub, but I'll be ready in a jiffy."
Viola eased her way into my room. "Maybe I could help with your hair. I used to work with the stage productions when I was in college and might be able to finagle a way to get that gold-colored mask to work for you. Pinning up your hair in a French twist would be a great idea for the period."
I felt a little bad that she looked so excited. No doubt she had been waiting for me downstairs. My stomach growled in protest as I'd picked at my lunch. But after yesterday, eating didn't rank high on my priority list. I went into the bathroom, dried my hair, and slipped on the dress with some help from Viola. The fabric seemed so fragile I was afraid I might rip something inadvertently.
She pulled out her smartphone. "Look at these pictures I found when I did a Google search for Gilded Lily." When I sat at the vanity table, she glided over my cheeks with gold-flecked powder. "I went to the beauty shop in Crane and they had the most amazing store with all sorts of different colors. I think technically it's for eye shadow, but it works, don't you think?"
Personally I thought the look might take a little getting used to since right now I resembled a cross between Princess Leia and the woman in Goldfinger. It was not a good look on me. But I didn't want to hurt Viola's feelings, so I thanked her for her help. After slipping on my strappy gold sandals, I rushed down the stairs.
As I drove, I contemplated a plan of action. My fingers trembled and my mouth went dry as I envisioned making my way through the crowd, smiling, making small talk. I sucked in a calming breath, got out of my car, and headed toward the front door of the mansion.
Despite the coolness of the September night, the front door was wide open, with only the storm door revealing the scene inside. My gaudiness paled in comparison to the others I'd spotted wearing everything from gold-painted bodies and little else to elaborate costumes suitable for the Carnival of Venice. Since Dr. Hunter and his wife lived in Iowa City, I had to wonder if they'd attend.
Once inside, there was a table marked for artists with gold nametags as well as business cards with the name of the gallery and the artist's names underneath. I took my stack and did a cursory recognizance of the scene to see where I might best infiltrate without being obnoxious. A twinkling of lights lit up the perimeter of the hallway leading to a gallery room that opened up into a conservatory with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard. A sprinkling of artwork was spread throughout the place, and I strategized about making the rounds while straddling that line between friendly and not-too-eager.
A group congregated around the champagne fountain in the corner of the room. An assortment of cheeses, fruits, mini-quiche, and chilled shrimp were displayed along a long table covered in frilly gold mesh. A mix of music played in the background while people chatted and laughed and mingled.
For a moment or two I wished I'd have taken Gabe or Viola with me. But I brushed back thoughts of vulnerability and continued on. Compared to hunting down a killer, this was a piece of cake. I settled in front of an inter
esting abstract painting and listened to the conversations.
"I love the use of color to convey theme," someone said.
By coincidence they were discussing a painting done by Ike T. I examined similarities to my own work, but didn't see a connection.
"His color gradation translates the mood," I said while I'd hoped to hear someone respond. "Do you know the artist?"
"He's rather mysterious and usually doesn't show up here. Or anywhere for that matter. While the name infers a male, rumor has it the artist is female."
"I wonder why they remain anonymous?" I asked to see if others had their own opinions.
"Does seem to drive up the price of the paintings so they might be on to something," the man whose artist's nametag read Jefferson said. "I see you're also an artist. Where are your works?"
"I haven't found them yet." Feeling a little better now that someone had befriended me, I walked with the man with crazy gold Mohawk hair. Wearing an iridescent purple tuxedo jacket with a purple and black bow tie along with worn-in jeans, I had a feeling that this was his normal look with or without the Gilded Lily Celebration.
He held out his elbow for me to grasp. "Then let's find them and start some chatter."
"Then we'll do the same for yours. What do you say?" All the anxiousness I felt seemed to melt away as I grabbed his crooked arm. This might not be such a bad night after all.
Before we got there, a woman in a gold leopard print caftan and matching turban grabbed Jefferson by the arm. "Aren't you going to say hello?"
"Hi Zora, this is Isabella. She's a new artist with City Center Gallery."
The woman grasped the ends of my fingertips and stared at me. "Be careful what you wish for. All is not what it seems. Find some sage and smudge yourself. The quicker the better."
"Nice to meet you?" My voice went up on the end as I tried to interpret whether the woman was an artist or a fortuneteller or just trying to scare me half to death.
"We've got to get going, Zora. Catch up with you later." He tugged on my elbow and whispered in my ear as he ushered me away, "She's a little weird, but harmless."
Wading through a crowd that seemed to be growing by the minute, I spotted one of my works and steered him in that direction.
"Oh honey, don't you love this one?" He spoke loudly while pointing to my painting. "The artist's use of color and theme intertwine beautifully. I think we should commission the artist to do our whole house." Any misgivings I might have had with his over-the-top theatrics dissipated as people started to take notice and oohs and aahs followed. For the first time since college, I felt like an artist.
I stifled the giggle and hid my smile. "I've heard that my works are similar to Ike T's. Do you see the resemblance?" I whispered as we stood apart from the crowd.
"Hmm…" He put his hand on his chin and took his time examining the painting. "Your styles are similar, so I could see why somebody might be confused." He hid a smile and brought me along to the next painting. "Like in this one, your strokes are alike in the background, but not so much in the body of your painting. It takes a discerning eye to spot the difference."
I had to admit our styles were comparable and could see why there might be some confusion. But the idea that might be interpreted as me copying his style still stung a little bit.
"Oh…there's my husband. He said he'd rescue me midway through this crazy event, but I hadn't counted on making a fast friend." Jefferson waved in the direction of the door. "Mason, over here."
The man gave Jefferson a kiss on the cheek, followed by one on mine. "What have you two been up to?"
"We're talking up our own paintings like some scandalous hussies. But I'm okay with that," Jefferson said.
I went in between the two of them and linked arms. "You two have been here before, so give me an idea of who might be attending. Any big spenders?"
"The social elite—doctors, lawyers, big shots in the area—who have money to burn. The thousand dollars for an invite guarantees riffraff will be kept to a minimum," Jefferson said.
"The only poor folks here are the artists," Mason added.
"Do either of you know if Dr. Derek Hunter usually attends?"
Mason scrutinized me before he spoke. "You don't look like one of his groupies."
I shook my head. "No…I'm doing a little investigating." I lowered my voice. "And he's one of my prime suspects."
Jefferson clapped his hands. "Do tell. The guy's a misogynist pig, so whatever you think he did, I'm sure he did."
"But proving it is another thing."
"We're in," Mason and Jefferson said simultaneously. "What can we do to help?"
"Snoop. Eavesdrop." I giggled. "And if you can tell me what costume he might be wearing, that would be helpful as well."
Jefferson surveyed the crowd. "With these costumes, it's hard to tell. He's pretty tall, so we need to concentrate on males six feet or over."
"The guy in the court jester costume's a possibility," Mason said.
"So is the Father Time guy. Or maybe the guy wearing the gold suit and the mask," I offered. "I guess we'll have to play it by ear."
Mason steered us toward the champagne fountain. "I don't know about you two, but before we go snooping, I need liquor and some shrimp ceviche."
"We missed last year since we were on our honeymoon in Hawaii." Jefferson held up his hand linked with Mason. "This might be my third time here. They're usually boring affairs that we can't wait to leave, but I'm loving the idea of snooping."
"What are you investigating?"
Instinctively I knew I could trust them so figured I might as well cut to the chase. "Do either of you know Tony Gallione?"
"Don't know him personally," Jefferson said. "But I did hear he's somehow mixed up in the death of his friend Stan, but right now he's MIA. Why do you ask? Do you moonlight as a private detective?"
"Oh, that would be awesome," Mason said.
I shook my head and let the words tumble out. "He's my father, and now he's missing. On top of that, he's the chief suspect in his friend's murder. And even though I never met him, I…"
Mason patted my back while Jefferson linked his fingers in mine. "It's okay. We'll do what we can. Who doesn't love a good mystery?"
"You've met him?"
"Oh, honey, everyone's met him. Nobody trusts him." He did a quick smile. "Sorry, but I want to be straight with you. And…well…he wasn't exactly well liked."
"I've heard that a lot. But since I've never met him, I'm trying to keep an open mind."
"How does Dr. Hunter figure into this?"
"Dr. Hunter's wife was having an affair with my father. Doesn't that give the doctor a reason to be involved in the framing of him for Stan's murder?"
"But I'd always heard he and his wife had an open relationship," Jefferson said.
"Me too," I agreed. "But somehow I can't shake the feeling that there's more. With the Doctor getting in trouble for some kind of opioid prescription scandal, and Stan being poisoned with opioids, I see a link, don't you?" I didn't want to think about my father's prescription matching up with Stan's cause of death. "How about we snoop and circle the wagons back in fifteen and see what happens in the interim?"
Jefferson clapped his hands. "Great idea. Let's see who can come up with the most outrageous overheard gossip—no fair making stuff up, Mason. Hopefully we'll get a lead on your father at the same time."
Mason grumbled something relative to making things up as he walked away. I decided to remain on the patio as it seemed the people out there were drunker and more likely to be loose with their words.
I turned as I heard a familiar voice bellowing through the patio area and spotted somebody who might or might not be M.C. If it was, the man's normally chubby body looked even chubbier in a weird court jester costume in patterns of royal blue intermixed with vibrant yellow. A mask obscured his face, so I couldn't say for sure. But if it was, I had to assume his heart attack amounted to no more than anxiety or guilt-fueled chest pains s
ince he was out on the town and appeared to be drinking heavily if his demeanor was a clue.
I concentrated on trying to guess if the man he was talking to in a Zorro getup might be Dr. Hunter. The guy looked to be the right height, but between the mask covering most of his face and a bandana thing covering his hair, it was impossible to tell. I needed to get closer. I hoped that between his inebriated state and my costume, neither man would remember me.
"How's it shaking?" Jester's words were slurred as he laid a beefy hand on Zorro's bicep.
Based on the recoil of Zorro's arm, there was some friction between the two despite the jovial, albeit drunken, behavior of the jester. Zorro glanced at the offending hand, and the jester pulled it away.
"Didn't mean to compromise your arm." Jester's choice of words definitely made me think Zorro might be a surgeon. I supposed his livelihood could be anything involving the use of hands, which narrowed it down to anything between a professional wrestler and plastic surgeon. But I was working with my buzz of adrenaline spiked with a glass of champagne and going with the flow.
"I…can't…find…" Between the music and competing conversations erupting around me, I only caught every other word. But I got the sense their conversation was secretive by the way their gazes shifted around the room and they moved together toward the corner.
I couldn't follow them too closely without being obvious. Zorro passed something to the jester. I could only speculate what it might be, and none of my thoughts were good ones—money or drugs were at the top of my list. After the exchange took place, they separated and went in different directions.
As I pretended to be examining one of the paintings and thinking about what to do next, I heard what sounded like the names "Stan" and "Tony" as two women walked by. Something about them seemed familiar. I might be seeing and hearing things that weren't there, but I couldn't help but believe they were the same group of women I'd spotted at Stan's funeral. They walked to the corner of the patio and stopped beside a large fern. I didn't want to breach the weirdo threshold—the invisible line that meant I was way too close for comfort. But in order to hear what they were saying, I needed to get closer.