Swainer shook his head and sighed. “Your instincts aren’t good enough, Mark. We need proof.” He looked at Hayes. “What do you think?”
Hayes shrugged. “Mark’s got some legitimate doubts. I think we should consider the possibility that someone else might be involved. But everything we have so far points to Shear. I don’t think we should dismiss him as a suspect.”
“I agree,” Winward stated.
“So, what are you suggesting?” Swainer asked, looking from one detective to the other.
Winward and Hayes exchanged glances. At Hayes’s affirmative nod, Winward made their proposal.
“We need to put Shear under surveillance and spread the word of his attack and the attempted theft. If someone else is involved, maybe we can spook him into making his next move.”
“It would seem we have competition for Shear’s Rage collection.”
Michael Raymond’s muscles tensed at the sound of his father’s voice. He’d been lost in thought and was unnerved that he’d been caught off guard. Feeling his pulsating anger begin to seethe, he maintained his stance facing the rain-streaked window until his emotions could be fully mastered.
“Yes,” he replied, keeping the malice from his voice. “I was just informed by Detective Winward and his giant sidekick.”
“I know. They came to me first.”
Michael turned from his office window and let a satirical smile curve his lips. “Of course, they did.” He walked over to the executive chair behind his desk and sat down. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”
“Why?” his father asked, suspicion in his gaze. “What are you up to, Michael?”
Michael leaned back and steepled his fingers over his mint-green tie. “The Rage collection, of course. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then leave everything to me,” he avowed. “The less you know, the better off you’ll be.”
He met his father’s doubtful gaze and rose to his feet. Moving back to the window, Michael Raymond masked his contempt by turning his gaze to the brooding, morning sky.
He had grown uneasy during the exchange between Shear and his father at the restaurant. The thought of his father obtaining only part of the collection had been unthinkable. His emotions had spiraled until Shear’s blatant rejection had offered a resolve.
The thought of his father’s bungled attempt filled him with disgust. Thomas Shear was no idiot. It had been foolish to underestimate the man. Apparently, his father had relied upon Shear’s eagerness for recognition to cause him to roll over and accept whatever was offered. His inward laugh rang with disdain. Stupid move, daddy dear.
“Michael, I want to know what you’re planning, and I want to know now.”
Michael’s mind churned with loathing. As his hands began to shake, he clasped them behind his back and clenched his teeth until he was able to control his voice.
“Since your attempt at dinner the other night failed, let’s just say, I think it’s time to take a more direct approach.”
“You’d better not be planning anything illegal,” Raymond demanded. “I’ve worked too hard building our future to have it destroyed by your stupidity.”
Michael’s face paled in reaction to his father’s insult, and his insinuating threat. His body began to tremble with rage, and he had to fight to maintain his steady breathing. Keeping his malevolent stare focused on the turbulent sky, he barely managed to suppress the scorn from his voice.
“Stupidity?” He emitted a low, grinding laugh. “Father, your endearments astound me. Do you think I’ve added treasures to our stock by being stupid? You’ve never questioned my methods before. Don’t start now.”
“What are you planning, Michael?” When his son continued to stare through the window and did not answer, Raymond shook his head. “If only your mother was here, maybe she’d—”
Michael whirled. “Well, she’s not, so don’t speak to me of her.” Going back to his desk and sitting down, Michael continued, “In answer to your question, Shear’s gallery opens to the public this afternoon. I, for one, intend to be there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jonathan relaxed in Tom’s recliner with the footrest extended as Tom stepped to the front window of his den and parted the blue silk drapes. He peered up the street through the drizzling rain to the residential side street and watched the white sedan pull away as another car pulled in behind.
“Are they still out there?”
“I think they’ve just changed shifts,” Tom answered, watching the second car. “Two men in a brown Buick pulled up and the white Chevy left.”
“Are they doing anything?”
“No. They’re just sitting there.” As he rubbed the back of his neck to ease the tension, his broad shoulders flexed beneath his dark blue, long-sleeved T-shirt. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid. There are a dozen homes and businesses along this street. Those men could be there for any number of reasons.”
Jonathan looked skeptical. “You can’t honestly believe that after what happened here last night.”
Tom gave a harsh laugh. He turned from the window with a bitter grin, letting the drape fall back into place. “Isn’t it great? My gallery opens in two hours and I have an unmarked police car parked in front of the house.”
“They’re not right in front of the house, Tom. In fact, I doubt if anyone will even notice.”
“We noticed.”
Jonathan shrugged. “Only because we halfway expected it. Especially after Winward mentioned using the collection as bait.” Mischief glinted in his eyes. “If anyone asks, you can always tell them they came with the motion detectors you had added to your security system this morning.”
“Yeah, right.”
Swirling the ice cubes in his glass, Jonathan cracked a smile at the sarcasm in Tom’s voice. He watched his friend’s preoccupied pacing and pursed his lips in thought.
“You need to get back into regular workouts again. A rough and tumble sparring match would help with that tension you’re dragging around. Besides that, you don’t want to get rusty, lose your edge.”
“Trust me,” Tom said, “last night drove that lesson home. I need to get my head out of all the shit it’s mired in and get my focus back. If it hadn’t been for my training and fast reflexes, that guy would’ve bashed my brains out. And if I’d been in top form, I might’ve subdued and held him for Winward. Then maybe we would know who we’re dealing with by now. It was stupid of me to go running blindly into a dark room knowing someone had broken in and could still be there.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. Besides, you’re the only one who can keep up with me properly. The guys I’ve been dealing with are pansies. I hardly break a sweat before they’re lying prone on the mat.”
Tom chuckled. “Right,” he drawled. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll be kicking your ass before long, then you’ll be the one lying prone on the mat.”
“You can try,” Jonathan replied with a mean grin.
Tom smirked, resuming his pacing. Jonathan’s expression turned pensive before he said, “You and Kelly seem pretty tight.”
“I’m in love with her,” Tom said straight out. “She’s the one.”
Jonathan’s grin nearly split his face. “Blindsided you, didn’t it?”
Tom guffawed and nodded. “Right upside the head. Knocked me flat on my ass.”
Jonathan’s chuckle turned into a gleeful snicker. “Now you know what it feels like. I hope you know I expect an apology for all of the ribbing I endured over my mourned bachelorhood.”
Tom grinned. “I guess you’re entitled. I’ve had a lot of fun at your expense.”
Jonathan’s smile dimmed. “Is she coming today?”
Tom’s vanished altogether. “I hope not. I talked to her on the phone this morning. I told her I didn’t want her here. I’m supposed to go to her place later on.”
“And she just meekly accepted that?”
Tom grimaced. “Hardly. I had to
threaten to go over there and lock her in the bathroom.”
“That was considerate of you. She would at least have a place to pee.”
Tom grinned and shook his head in wonderment. “I don’t know where she finds the courage. The things that have happened to her in this house have been devastating, and yet, I can’t keep her away. She’s amazing.”
“She’s in love.”
“Yeah well, she shouldn’t be,” Tom said with a rueful smile. “Look where it’s gotten her.”
Jonathan collapsed the footrest, rose to his feet, and strolled to the bar. “She’s strong-willed, Tom,” he said, ice cubes clinking as he filled his glass. “You need her now and she knows it. If I were you, I’d be counting my blessings.”
“What about Marsha? Do you count your blessings?”
“Every day,” Jonathan stated, helping himself to Tom’s cranberry juice and a splash of vodka.
“I was a little surprised to see her last night,” Tom said, taking another peek out the window.
“Why? Did you really expect her to stay away after Winward’s visit?”
“No, of course not,” he said, turning from the window. “I guess I was just hoping you’d gloss things over. Leave out a few of the more damaging details.”
“Believe me, I tried. But you know Marsha. She saw right through it. I told her as much as I thought was my place to tell. The rest I said she’d have to get from you.”
“Great. Thanks a lot.”
Jonathan raised his glass in salute. His lips curled in a smile. “She was outraged when I told her you were a suspect. You can do no wrong, you know that, don’t you?”
“That’s not a very professional stance.”
“On the contrary. She knows you better than you think. Hell, she knows me better than I think, and I don’t think I like it much. Living with a psychologist can be a pain in the ass.”
“I’ll bet. What about the rest of it?”
“You mean the haunting?”
Tom nodded.
“To tell you the truth, she wasn’t all that surprised.” Jonathan shrugged. “She’s always had a spooky sort of intuitiveness. She knew something wasn’t right the day we helped you move in.”
“What do you mean?”
“While you were with the carpet guys, Marsha and I had a look around. When we reached the attic stairs, she refused to go up. Something about it really scared her. I’m telling you, man, her reaction gave me the willies.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tom asked in surprise, watching as Jonathan returned to the recliner with his drink and raised his feet.
“And what?” Jonathan asked, crossing his ankles. “Burst your bubble? I don’t think so. Besides, just because there are aspects of the paranormal she doesn’t question, that was before you and I were believers.”
“Yeah, well, I’d better not hear the suggestion of a séance,” Tom joked, going to the bar for a drink of his own then rejecting the idea. “Just the thought of it gives me the creeps.”
Jonathan’s grin widened. “Don’t worry. I’ve already nipped that one in the bud.”
Tom smiled with amusement. “Not exactly your conventional psychologist, is she?”
“Maybe that’s what makes her so good at what she does,” Jonathan said. “By the way, I called Russ this morning to fill him in on what happened last night. He was in a meeting, so I left a message for him to call here.”
“Fine.” Tom looked at his watch. “Are you going to be here for a while?”
“I’d planned to be,” Jonathan answered, eyeing Tom with suspicion. “I’m supposed to meet Marsha here. Why?”
Tom snatched up his leather jacket and put it on.
“Where are you going?”
“To do something I should’ve done a long time ago. I’m going to pay Merideth Chandler a visit.”
Jonathan set his glass on the sandstone coaster beside him and started to rise. “I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t,” Tom replied, heading for the door. “You’ve got to meet Marsha. Besides, someone has to be here when Carson calls.”
“But—”
Tom stopped in the doorway and looked back. “You’re not afraid to stay in the house alone, are you?”
Jonathan looked like a worried fish as he opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, then straightened his spine. “Hell no. You’re spooky old house don’t scare me.”
Tom grinned. “Glad to hear it,” he said, chuckling as he left.
Tom was marveled by Merideth Chandler’s prestigious Roswell home as he pulled into the long, circular driveway. The house was secluded on several acres and could barely be seen from the road because of the trees and shrubs surrounding the property, even though most of the trees were leafless. Impressive white marble columns stretched to the second floor, supporting a spacious portico. A multitude of tall windows lined the front of the house. Their appearance gave him the impression of guarding sentinels, peering through the gray drizzle over spacious lawns, in search of visiting intruders, like him. Taking a deep breath, he faced the beveled mahogany door and pressed the lighted doorbell. Its haunting cadence echoed within the huge red brick structure.
The door was opened by a tall, thin man of about sixty with critically trimmed gray hair. He wore the stereotypical black and white butler uniform, complete with tails and a black bow tie, all pristine and crisply pressed.
“May I help you?” he asked, regarding Tom with an imperious, bored expression.
“Yes. My name’s Thomas Shear. I’m here to see Mrs. Chandler.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Chandler is presently unavailable.”
“Please. I’ve called several times and left messages. It’s imperative that I speak with her.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
The butler took a step back in dismissal. As the door began to close, Tom pressed his palm against it.
“Please, wait.” He pulled an envelope from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Will you at least give her this?” he asked, holding it up for the man to see. “It’s very important.”
The man remained silent as he studied Tom with keen, assessing blue-gray eyes. “Very well,” he said, taking the envelope from Tom’s hand.
She watched the sleek, black car receded into the distance as the butler’s soft knock pulled her away from the window. Releasing the curtain, she turned and called admittance.
“Was it the same young man?” she asked, watching as he laid Tom’s envelope on the table beside her chair.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s been very adamant about speaking with you.”
“Thank you, Peter. That will be all.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She watched his silent retreat before picking up the envelope. She withdrew the note and her breath quickened as she read.
I know your husband was innocent. Please. I need your help.
Thomas Shear
“Thomas Shear,” she whispered as a tear slid down her cheek.
“We’ve got visitors,” Tom announced, turning from the den window.
Jonathan looked hopeful. “Marsha?”
“No. Don’t worry. She’ll show up.”
“Who is it?” Jonathan asked, following Tom downstairs. Lit candles cradled in sconces along the foyer walls were giving off their vanilla scent while soft, bluesy instrumental music drifted throughout the gallery rooms.
Tom’s grin broadened as he crossed the foyer. “Jason Stafford. And it looks like he’s brought the entire student art committee with him.”
Tom opened the door and Jonathan’s eyes danced with amusement as Jason bounded in.
“Hey, Mr. Shear. I bet you’re surprised to see us.” He gave Tom’s hand an enthusiastic shake. “We thought you might need a little support, this being your first day and all.”
“Thanks, Jason. I can use all the support I can get.” A smile played along Tom’s lips as the young man surveyed his surroundings in awe.
“No problem. I think
you know everyone . . .” Jason said, his voice trailing off as he turned in the direction of the Ice gallery.
Tom instructed the students where to hang their coats and stepped back as the group dispersed in different directions. Pursing his lips, he exhaled a deep breath as he watched Mary Ann Cooper hurrying in pursuit of Jason.
“Am I ready for this?” he asked.
Jonathan grinned. “Do you have a choice?”
The doorbell chimed and both men were startled to see Russ Carson standing on the threshold. His dark expression gave warning of his mood.
“Gentlemen, we need to have a talk.”
Tom cast a glance at the students mingling through his gallery. “Now?”
“Now.”
Tom curbed his irritation. “Very well. Jonathan, will you escort Mr. Carson up to my study while I excuse myself from my guests?”
“Certainly.”
Jonathan led Carson upstairs as Tom went in search of Jason. He entered the gallery of Ice and his lips twitched when he saw him standing with a captivated Mary Ann while explaining his own unique impression of the painting before them.
“Excuse me. I hate to intrude, Jason, but I need to ask a favor.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Shear.”
“I’m going upstairs to take care of some unexpected business. I need you to keep an eye on things down here while I’m gone.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.”
“Uh, Mr. Shear?” Jason said as Tom began turning away. “I just wanted to tell you, I’m really impressed with what you’ve done here. This whole place is awesome.” The young man’s smile was sheepish. “It kinda gives a man hope for his own artistic future. You know what I mean?”
A subtle grin curved Tom’s lips. “Yeah, I know what you mean. And thanks.”
Tom gave the younger man an appreciative pat on the shoulder, then turned and made his way upstairs. As he entered his study, he saw Carson standing at the window between forest green drapes, staring out with his stiff back facing the room. The silence was almost palpable as he looked at Jonathan and received a noncommittal shrug before closing the door.
The room was furnished so business could be conducted in stylish comfort. Three of Tom’s paintings hung on the walls. The first was of his grandfather’s farm in autumn at sunset. The second was an abstract with the same autumnal colors that reminded the observer of fallen leaves carpeting the ground. The third, also an abstract, showed an old farmer in blue overalls with his thumbs hooked inside the loops, leaning toward a young boy with raven hair. Even though their features were blurred, one could still see humor in the old man and adoration in the boy as he stood with his face tilted upward.
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 23