Tom’s apprehension mounted as his fears were brazenly put into words. “What exactly are you saying?” he asked, casting Jonathan a surreptitious glance to see his brooding frown.
“Look around you, Mr. Shear,” Carson demanded, gesturing with lifted arms. “It’s obvious you’ve freely given the police another avenue of consideration besides Theodore Chandler. The fact that they’ve taken advantage of your gift can only mean they’re not satisfied with the outcome of their previous investigation. If this is true, and considering your childhood abuse, they’ll definitely call on you again. When that happens, you are to refuse the interview and call me immediately.”
“Does this mean you’re taking the case?” Jonathan asked.
It was then that Tom noticed the chill in the air and saw the faint outline of a little girl standing in the corner over Carson’s shoulder. He could barely make out the pale yellow of her sundress against the dark red wall he could see behind her—through her. Her long blond hair was matted and stringy. Bruises looked like shadows across her face, shoulders, arms, and legs. She stood barefoot, scowling, listening to their conversation with clenched fists. Carson’s voice suddenly sounded too loud and abrasive.
“I’ll have to look into a few things before I can answer that, Mr. Fields. In the meantime, I’ll keep myself available for counsel.”
As he turned back to Tom, Tom jerked his eyes away from little Julie Dobbs and met Carson’s stare prompting the man to cast a glance behind him, but there was nothing to see. The little girl was gone.
As Carson turned back, he gave Tom a suspicious look, then crossed his arms in front of him as if just now noticing the cold. “I’m curious about something, Mr. Shear. How did the police find you? Did you advertise the collection?” he asked.
“No. In fact, I had decided not to open this particular collection to the public.”
“Then why did you?”
“He was coerced into it, I’m afraid,” Jonathan said with an apologetic smile, either ignoring or not noticing the slight, almost-not-there condensation of his breath. “If it hadn’t been for a few friends’ insistence, myself included, the collection would have remained out of the public eye.”
“It seems you would’ve been wise to follow your instinct, Mr. Shear.”
Tom bristled at the chiding, but was refrained from commenting by the resonating doorbell.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to call an end to our discussion. I’ve completely forgotten about a buyer coming to collect today.”
“That’s quite all right,” Carson replied, casting one last curious glance around the room. “We’ve covered enough ground for one day.”
Suddenly, a woman’s soft, melodious laughter filled the room. The sound was gone in an instant, but was enough to raise the hair on Tom’s body.
“What the hell was that?” Jonathan blurted. His wide eyes searched the rose scented air. “I thought the house was haunted by children. So who the hell was she?”
“I have no idea,” Tom responded, refusing to say more.
“Remarkable.” Carson seemed to give himself a mental shake as the doorbell broke the spell.
As Tom led the way into the foyer, his attention was caught by the oscillating motion of the chandelier. Crystal prisms tinkled musically as the three men watched in stupefied fascination. The doorbell gave voice once again and the motion ceased as if by an invisible hand.
Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“You know, Tom,” Jonathan said with a weak smile, “you really should look into having that fixed.”
“I’ll do that,” he replied with a glance at Carson.
“Astonishing.” The color was slowly returning to the man’s face. “Maybe there is truth to your story after all, Mr. Shear.”
Tom’s face was expressionless as he held Carson’s gaze. Without a word, he turned and opened the door.
The day was still bright and traffic moved ceaselessly southbound toward the square along Church Street, exceeding the thirty-five miles per hour speed limit. But the day and traffic were subliminal to Tom as he faced the man standing on his front porch. Although this man was noticeably slimmer and still maintained a full head of thick russet hair, Tom had no doubt of his identity.
“Mr. Shear? My name’s Michael Raymond.”
Tom returned the man’s relaxed smile, even though his own emotions rioted in his mind. “Mr. Raymond, yes, of course,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Please come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
As he closed the door on the chilly draft that preceded the man from outside, he gestured toward the two men standing behind him. “May I introduce Mr. Jonathan Fields and Mr. Russ Carson? I’m sorry to say they were just leaving.”
“Not on my account, I hope.”
Carson’s smile was indifferent as he shook the younger man’s hand. “Not at all. Our business here is finished for the day.”
“Russ Carson.” Michael Raymond looked thoughtful. “Are you the Russ Carson of whom my father has spoken? His name is Craig Raymond. He owns several art galleries throughout the country and abroad. If I’m not mistaken, I think he said he was once referred to you by Theodore Chandler.”
“You’re Craig Raymond’s son?” Carson responded in surprise. “I should have recognized the resemblance. Of course, I know your father. I helped him with a few financial matters before turning to criminal law.”
“That’s right. He’s stated more than once that the financial world lost a very sly and clever man when you found your true calling. Is it true that you still dabble from time to time to help others in matters of finance?”
“Indeed. But only a select few.” Carson gave a thin smile. “Well, it was very nice meeting you, Mr. Raymond. Please, give your father my regards.”
“I certainly will.”
Carson accepted the coat Tom retrieved from the rack beside the door. “Mr. Shear, I’ll be expecting to hear from you,” he said shrugging it on.
“Of course.”
Jonathan took his own coat from Tom’s hand then gave Michael Raymond a curt nod. “It was nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure was mine, I’m sure.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Tom.”
“Count on it.”
Tom saw them out before turning back to Michael Raymond. The man was taking in his surroundings with a smile playing along his lips. He glanced at the closed French doors on either side of the foyer.
“I have your father’s paintings wrapped and ready to go,” Tom said, drawing the man’s attention.
“Splendid. But before I rush off, might I impose on you for a tour of your gallery? I’m anxious to see what I missed the other night. After my father’s ceaseless praise, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend your showing myself.”
“In that case, let me take your coat.” Tom concealed the nervousness he felt with a smile. “Your father showed quite an interest in my Ice collection, so perhaps you’d like to start there.”
“Actually, I’ve heard so much about your collection of Rage, I think I’d like to start with it, if you don’t mind. I’ve been told it’s extraordinary.”
Tom’s smile remained fixed as he felt the familiar clenching of his stomach. “Of course,” he replied hanging the man’s coat. “Right this way.”
Tom retraced his steps down the left hallway and stood aside to allow his guest to precede him as they entered the red gallery. Resisting the urge to look up at Emmy’s portrait, he turned to watch Michael Raymond’s reaction. Tom thought he detected a slight paling of the man’s skin as his slow steps took him from painting to painting, but he was unable to read the man’s thoughts beneath his controlled expression.
“Is it as you expected?” Tom asked, his voice slicing the unnerving silence. He watched Michael complete a full circle of the room as he waited for the man’s reply. The only sound was the slow tapping of the man’s footsteps.
“Yes and no.”
For some reason
, Tom felt, rather than heard, the hesitation in the other man’s words.
“Yes, in the way of my father’s description, but no, because I failed to realize the overwhelming effect it would have on my emotions. I am in awe, sir.
“If I may ask, how did you come upon such a concept and where did you find such worthy subjects? I feel as if I should know each of these children by name.”
Tom was startled by the bluntness of Michael Raymond’s questions. He couldn’t help but feel they held more meaning than the mere words revealed and Tom’s smile became guarded as suspicion tinted his unease.
“I came upon the concept by a series of child abductions that occurred last year. Their familiarity is justifiable, since their pictures were distributed in every newspaper across the state.”
“Tremendous,” Michael intoned, apparently missing, or maybe ignoring, the connotation in Tom’s voice. Michael cast a wistful glance around him and shook his head. “It’s remarkable how you managed to capture the acute suffering they must have shared. I repeat, sir, I am in awe of your talent.”
“In that case,” Tom replied, stepping toward the door, drawing the man’s attention away from the corner where Julie Dobbs stood once again beside her portrait, “perhaps you would care to see the rest of my collections.” Her shadowed eyes were locked onto Raymond’s back with drilling precision. Her small hands clenched and unclenched with menace.
Michael seemed to shiver and agreed readily, following Tom from the room. Tom continued the tour with Innocence, now on nervous alert, dreading more surprises.
“You’ve done wonders with the house, by the way,” Michael said as they made their way from room to room.
“You talk as if you’ve seen this house before.”
“Oh, yes. Many times, in fact. I use to play here as a boy.”
“Really,” Tom said, veiling his shock.
“Indeed. Jacob Chandler and I used to be great friends when the Chandlers resided here.” Mirth danced in his cobalt eyes as he chuckled under his breath. “We used to imagine the place being haunted.”
Tom swallowed past the restriction in his throat and pasted an expression of humor on his face. “Is that right?” he asked.
“Of course, we never told anyone of being tucked in at night by a woman smelling of roses whom we couldn’t see. Who would have believed us? You know how fanciful children can be. Besides, Jacob had an image to uphold. He was Theodore Chandler’s son. I was heartbroken by the news of his death a few years back. A swimming accident of some sort at Lake Lanier. Of course, his parents were devastated. He was their only child.”
“That’s terrible,” Tom replied. “I had no idea. It must be doubly difficult for Mrs. Chandler since the unfortunate death of her husband.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Poor woman. Nasty business, that was. I still can’t believe Theodore Chandler was the kind of person who could do such a thing. I knew the man fairly well, and I’ve just failed to understand how such a person could change so drastically.”
Michael paused as his face took on a look of revelation.
“I say, your Rage collection wouldn’t by any chance be connected with the Theodore Chandler incident, would it?”
Tom hesitated before replying. “It has a connection, yes.”
“Am I wrong in assuming the concept was conceived in this house where the Chandler tragedy took place?”
“That’s right,” Tom answered, his paranoia and suspicions growing.
Michael’s gaze held him in speculation and his murmured “Fascinating” made Tom’s skin crawl. Tom smiled congenially and turned away, eager to end the tour before further inquiry could be made.
He led the way into the last gallery room and watched Michael Raymond tour the dimensions of the room of Ice. After scrutinizing each painting with an experienced eye, Michael took in the interior of the room and smiled with pleasure.
“I have to repeat, Mr. Shear, I am in awe of your talent. Even the furnishings of your gallery reveal an artist’s touch. I was especially impressed with the beanbag chairs and throw-pillows in the gallery of Innocence. The décor matches the themes of your work to perfection. It sets the different moods very cleverly, indeed.
“And keeping the temperature lowered helps preserve the art as well. Smart, very smart,” Raymond replied, then seemed to reconsider. “On the other hand, you might consider raising it up a notch, especially in the Rage gallery, for your clientele’s comfort, you know. While I was there, I could practically see my breath.”
“I’ll look into it.” Tom wasn’t sure whether he should be amused or alarmed. He decided to ignore it. “I’m glad you approve of my work, Mr. Raymond,” he said. “A man of your status could be very helpful to a man in my position.”
“Quite right,” Michael agreed. “And I plan to be just that. After seeing for myself the talent you have to offer, I feel it necessary for our establishment to include your name in our list of distinguished artists. Of course, I’ll need to consult my father on an appropriate proposal, but I see no obstacles standing in the way of a successful arrangement.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.”
“You’ll be hearing from us in the next few days, I’m sure. My father mentioned discussing business over dinner, so be expecting an invitation.”
“I’ll be sure to accept.”
“Splendid. Now, I’m afraid to say I must be off. I’ve already lingered longer than I expected. Have you by any chance a business card?”
“Of course,” Tom said, leading the way out of the room. “They’re on the table in the foyer. Take one for your father, as well. We’ll gather his purchase on the way out.”
“One moment.” Michael Raymond stopped and cocked his head, listening. “We are alone in the house, are we not?”
“Yes, we are.” The hair along Tom’s neck began to rise as the familiar scent grew stronger. He could barely detect the tinkle of connecting crystal as the chandelier in the foyer began to sway.
“Do you not hear that?” Michael’s voice took on a note of urgency. His eyes flared as a woman’s voice chuckled with an ominous edge, then began humming the soothing melody of a child’s lullaby that echoed softly through the gallery.
Tom sat hunched over on the sofa in his upstairs den with his elbows on his knees and waited as another ring sounded in his ear. Suddenly, the same male voice he had spoken with earlier came through the receiver.
“Chandler residence.”
Tom straightened his spine. “Hello. My name is Thomas Shear. I believe we spoke earlier this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.” The voice was cool and emotionless.
“I need to speak to Mrs. Chandler. Is she in?”
“Yes, she’s in, sir. But I don’t believe she’s receiving calls.”
“Would you mind asking her, please? I wouldn’t be bothering her if it wasn’t important.” Tom heard the man pause with indecision.
“Hold the line, please.”
“Thank you.” Tom heard a soft thump followed by silence and waited with building impatience.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mrs. Chandler is unable to take your call.”
Tom’s heart leapt at the man’s abrupt reply. He expelled a sigh of frustration.
“Would you please tell Mrs. Chandler it’s imperative that I speak with her and to expect another call from me tomorrow?”
“I’ll make sure she receives your message.”
“Thank you.”
Tom hung up before the disconnecting click. With a deep sigh, he stood up and put on his leather jacket. He switched on one of the table lamps flanking the sofa, then headed for the door.
“I’m not giving up, Mrs. Chandler,” he promised under his breath. “You’ll be hearing from me again. And again and again if necessary.” He descended the back stairs, flipped on the light over the stove as he passed through the kitchen, set the alarm, and closed the back door behind him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The drive was excruciating. As
he made his way up Shallowford Road toward Roswell, his mind whirled with the familiar faces that had stared down at him from the walls of the Shear Gallery. The Shear Gallery. Now, that was a point to ponder. He couldn’t believe it. They were all there. Every damned, last one of them. Even she was there. The scent of her perfume, along with the sound of her voice, had almost been his undoing. How could this happen?
He thought he had covered his tracks. Chandler had been the perfect scapegoat. He had given the police enough evidence against Theodore Chandler to leave no doubt and the case had been closed.
Damn Thomas Shear and his insufferable paintings. Does he realize the extent of damage those paintings are going to cause? If he doesn’t now, he soon will. The man’s harder to read than a closed book, but anyone could see he’s not stupid. He’s given a detective like Mark Winward everything he needs to re-open the investigation. Why else would Shear be forced to consult with lawyers?
The thought of Winward brought a sneer to his lips. He was like a cur sniffing out a bitch in heat during the investigation. He’d searched every cesspool in the city for the one responsible.
But he didn’t find me, did he? His thoughts were taunting. And he won’t either. Thanks to Thomas Shear.
His quiet chuckle grew until it became almost maniacal in the confines of the car. The slamming of his brakes and blare of his horn as another vehicle brashly pulled out in front of him severed his laughter like a razor.
“Stupid bitch,” he yelled, but of course the slanderous curse went unheard as the other car sped away.
“Women,” he muttered as if tasting something foul. “They’re all bitches. Every last one of them.
“They all look so innocent when they’re little girls,” he sneered, bringing his car back up to speed. “Cunning, manipulating, backstabbing, evil little girls that grow up to be cunning, manipulating, backstabbing, evil bitches! They make you love them then throw you away like garbage when something better comes along. They’re nothing but boils on the ass of the world. Swollen, runny, disgusting boils. They should all be terminated at birth. Every last slutting one of them.” Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I started terminating a long time ago. And thanks to lucky Mr. Shear, it won’t be long until I can continue the satisfying process.”
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 16