by Parker Riggs
“Is there anything we can do?” Rocky hoped she’d gotten a good grip on Fernando.
“Yes,” she said suddenly. “There is something you can do.” She looked from Rocky to Rose and back again. “You can leave.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Barrington watched Rose sip her martini. “Tom Minot’s single,” she was saying, “lived with his mother before she went into assisted living a few months ago.” She was wearing a sleeveless dress the color of honey, and her diamond necklace matched that stud in her nose. He was amazed at how elegant she could look in a place that was so far from elegant. “He took over the dealership when his father died a few years ago.”
Barrington wondered how old Rose was, and if she’d ever consider dating an eccentric artist like him. He glanced at his reflection in the bar back mirror. He actually didn’t look so bad. The lines around his eyes and on his forehead appeared softer. Haven’s fresh air and quiet nights seemed to be doing him good. But he was a little lonely.
He’d spent the day at the cottage, listening to the crackle of fireworks across the lake, smelling the carbon scent of charcoal grills from the cookouts and remembering that last fourth of July he’d taken Jess to Coney Island. They’d spread a blanket under the stars, drunk wine, fed each other strawberries fresh from the market and watched the sky burst into color. He had been relieved when Rose called and asked him if he wanted to grab something to eat. Except Milly’s Tavern didn’t feel festive, not with a smattering of old men hunched over the bar. It was gloomy as hell, but Rose didn’t seem to care.
“I’m not sure what’s wrong with her.” Rose reached for another bruschetta. “I used her bathroom before I left, and she had tons of prescription bottles stuffed in the medicine cabinet.” Barrington almost laughed, imagining her rifling through someone else’s medicine cabinet. “Depression, anxiety, pain, you name it. I could barely get the door closed again.” She licked her fingers. He liked the way she ate the bruschetta. She took dainty bites of the roasted bread, then wiped her mouth with a small cocktail napkin. He had an overwhelming desire to kiss her, but he made himself down that last sip of the martini to squelch it. The sleepy bartender walked over to see if he wanted another. “I’ll take a Woodstock Pigs Ear brown ale,” he said. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking, but it was the Fourth of July, after all.
“I’ll take a chef’s salad and an iced tea.” Rose passed him her menu. “You should eat something,” she said to Barrington. “The food here is better than Table Talk.”
“I’ve been eyeing that jumbo Manny Burger on your blackboard,” Barrington told the bartender.
The man nodded and walked away unhurriedly as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Life was so slow here, so different from New York. The city seemed to be chasing itself through time. Haven seemed not to give a damn about time.
“She thought whoever broke in might have been after your paintings.” Rose reached over for another cocktail napkin, and Barrington noticed a small scar on her left shoulder. It was pitted and looked like it must have been deep. He wondered if it had anything to do with the jagged scar on her freckled cheek. “If the thief knows what your paintings are worth, that narrows it down a little, but Haven has a lot of art galleries, so our list includes half the town.”
The bartender set a large mug of brown ale in front of Barrington. White foam slopped down the side like a lazy waterfall. When he set the silverware and a salad in front of Rose, she licked her pink lips, and Barrington drank some beer to force himself to take his eyes off of her. He thought Cameron had been smart to marry her. She conveyed an alluring mix of strength and vulnerability that was irresistible, and sitting next to her, it was easy to feel less lonely. After he’d been diagnosed with cancer, he’d had a wakeup call on loneliness. It had hit him so hard he’d even questioned his career, thinking maybe he should have done something more important with his life than mess around with paint, especially have a family. He wanted a son or a daughter. A wife.
Rose dribbled dressing on her salad, and the bartender set the Manny Burger in front of Barrington. It was the size of a Frisbee and took up most of his plate. Rose handed him a knife. “You’ll want to cut that in half.” She took a tiny bite of lettuce on her fork. No wonder she was so slim. Barrington considered the burger. There was no manly way to eat it. He was going to look like a slob no matter what he did. He took the knife from her and started sawing.
“I’ve just had a crazy idea.” Rose quit eating and looked at Barrington. She looked at him for so long he thought she might finally admit her undying love for him. “Do you think you could paint The Peacemaker again?”
Barrington ran a hand through his hair, which probably only made it stick up higher. Good thing Marcie wasn’t around. She would have badgered him about getting a haircut. “Recreate The Peacemaker?” He looked at Rose. Her green eyes had a spark to them he hadn’t seen since he’d met her, and he wanted to say Yes! I’ll do anything you want! But holy Christ, that painting was his masterpiece. He couldn’t just willy-nilly recreate it. “I don’t know.”
“We can throw a party,” Rose said happily, “and display the copy.” Suddenly she looked like an excited little girl. She speared her hardboiled egg with relish. “If the person who murdered Hal and broke into Solitude was after one of your paintings, and then they heard you’d been reunited with The Peacemaker, they’d definitely come by. Only this time the police will be waiting!” She looked like a seven-year-old who had just been told Santa stopped by.
“Unless Jess shows up,” he said. “She’ll know it’s not real if she still has the original.”
Rose laughed. “Wouldn’t it be great if she showed up at the unveiling of the painting she stole?”
Barrington looked down at his giant hamburger. He felt sick every time he thought about Jess stealing that painting. The first time she’d seen it, she’d actually kneeled in front of it as though she’d seen God, and when he’d started to speak, she’d said, “Shhh, don’t.” For a long time they’d just studied it together in silence. It had been raining outside, and he remembered thinking that low silver light was actually perfect with it. She’d cried when he said he was selling it. “Maybe she’ll show up,” he said now.
“She’s been using an alias for a long time,” Rose said. “I doubt she’ll give up her anonymity for this.”
Barrington took a long slug of beer. “But maybe she would,” he said. Jess. She was the only reason he’d ever be able to make a copy of The Peacemaker. In fact, the idea was a little thrilling. It was starting to grow on him. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s set the trap and see who takes the bait.”
“You could use Cameron’s studio,” Rose said excitedly. “How long will it take you?”
“Five days, a week maybe, I don’t know.” Barrington watched a short muscular guy in leather flip-flops and paint-stained jeans come up behind Rose. Rose was about to pick up her iced tea when he grabbed her by the shoulders. Barrington wasn’t sure how it happened, but before he knew it she’d jabbed her elbow into the man, and with a swift chopping motion of her other hand, she sliced him so hard across the neck he stumbled backward, holding his throat, trying to catch his breath.
“Damn it, Rose,” he wheezed when he could finally talk. “I think you broke my larynx.”
The sleepy bartender’s eyes were wide now. He was staring at Rose as if he was afraid of her.
“Parker, you idiot!” Rose smoothed her dress, and Barrington saw she was blinking fast, as if she’d just been woken up.
“Why are you so sensitive?” the guy asked. “I was fooling around, for God’s sake.”
Rose looked as if she might take a swing at him again. “I don’t like being sneaked up on, and I really don’t like men who put their hands on a woman without asking.” She sat back down.
Parker’s smile faded. “Right, okay, broken record time.” He rubbed his throat. He came up to the bar and threw a few peanuts in his mouth. “So, is it true?”
&
nbsp; Rose raised her iced tea. All her childlike wonder about The Peacemaker idea was gone. She just looked like a serious woman who needed a drink. “Is what true?”
“Amber got arrested for identity theft?” Parker sat down on the high stool next to her and adjusted his glasses. “Because I can’t believe it.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice, as though whoever was waiting for him might overhear. “I’m in shock.”
“The FBI’s questioning her,” Rose said curtly. “That’s all I can tell you.” She turned to Barrington. “Sorry to be so rude, but Parker’s mother never taught him his manners. Barrington Bigelow, this is Parker Prescott, owner of Le Bourget, another art gallery in town.”
“I’m a big fan.” Parker put out his hand. “I sell your prints at my gallery.” His complexion was tan except where his glasses protected the skin, those square A La Mode glasses Barrington hated.
“Nice to meet you,” Barrington said.
“I heard you were in town.” Parker pumped Barrington’s hand. “I saw your show at the Museum of Fine Arts this past spring. It was fantastic. All of Haven is dying to meet you.” After years of people telling him they loved his work, Barrington knew he shouldn’t get tongue-tied from compliments, but he never knew what to say.
“We’re all out on the deck if you’d like to join us.” He gestured toward a side door Barrington hadn’t noticed before. A deck? Barrington wondered why Rose hadn’t led him to the deck, but it dawned on him that besides Rocky and Emily, Rose was a one-woman show. Maybe she felt a little left out in this homegrown, wholesome crowd. Just like him. “I was actually wondering if you’d mind dropping by and signing some prints,” Parker said, “a kind of one-night spectacular.” He put his hands up as though framing a lit marquee. “People come by, meet the artist, you sign prints.” He smiled. “That kind of thing.”
“I’m afraid I can’t promise anything,” Barrington said, “but I’ll call my agent.”
“We’re near Rashid’s on Patrick Henry Street. We always try to merge with Rose here but …”
“Merging would be like …” Rose said.
“I know, I know, like oil and water,” Parker gave her a half smirk. “Look.” He lowered his voice. “If you talk to Amber,” he glanced around the dining room, and Barrington wondered vaguely if he was married and he’d had an affair with Amber. Parker looked back, his confident eyes now worried and puppy-like. “Give her my …” he hesitated, “give her my best.”
“I probably won’t be talking to Amber.” Rose pushed her salad aside.
“Oh, okay,” Parker stood up. “Well, have a blast, you two.” He smiled again. “Rose probably won’t come out and join us, but if you’d like to come out and have a drink, feel free.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and passed a card to Barrington. “And let me know about that little signing party.” He winked and did a little kick with his leg before swinging through the side door. Barrington saw a bunch of people drinking around an outside bar, and he heard laughter. Then the door swung shut, and it was as if none of it existed.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what the hell was that all about?” Barrington asked.
Without missing a beat Rose said, “Parker doesn’t understand boundaries.” She fiddled with her empty glass. “I’ve warned him before …” Her voice trailed off. There was a mystery about Rose. Who was she really? Barrington wondered. He could see her in the mirror, the soft lines around her eyes, the way her beautiful mouth dipped as though she were about to tell a sad, sad story that only she knew. She’d seemed to be making it clear without saying a word that she wasn’t interested in anything beyond friendship, but even her confidence as a friend seemed out of reach, she was so guarded. Rose jiggled the ice in her glass. “Anyway,” she said, “we have a plan.” She smiled at Barrington, and that childlike quality came back. “I love our plan.”
Barrington felt a lift in him, that same kind of lift he felt after his first drink. He’d made her happy, and that was a lot. He glanced up at the television over the bar. Local news had interrupted the televised Boston Pops concert on the Boston Common. He couldn’t hear what the reporter was saying, but the car on the screen was surrounded by yellow tape, and it brought back memories of the night he’d found Hal. Then Rocky came into view, standing beside an old Buick. “Hey,” he said to Rose. “Look who’s on TV.”
Rose looked up and squinted at the television. “Oh, my God,” she said. “I could be wrong, but I think that might be Hal’s car.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
In Minot Auto’s sunlit showroom a salesman was making a pitch to a young couple checking out a BMW. Rocky couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought a new car. He thought it might have been that red Datsun F10 with the black vinyl seats that burned his butt the summer of ‘79. Through the finance office’s glass partition, he saw Brenda Jackson swivel her chair in his direction and smile at him through the glass partition. He’d heard through the grapevine she’d been promoted to finance manager a while ago, after that domestic trouble with Roy had passed.
Rocky had been out to her place on Haven’s Pass a number of times after Roy Jackson lost his job at Northshire Paper Mill and started drinking heavily. He’d broken Brenda’s arm and threatened to kill the children, until finally Brenda had pressed charges and gotten a restraining order. An elegant African-American, a real minority in Haven, she was no shrinking violet, and Rocky remembered telling her how much he admired her.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she said to Rocky when he poked his head in her office. “Shopping for a car?”
“Nah.” He leaned against the door jamb. “Just stopping by. How’re things at home these days?”
Gold flecks seemed to flash in her brown eyes. “Roy’s not a problem anymore, thanks to Rose Chandler.”
Rocky felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What did Rose do?”
Brenda shrugged. “All I can tell you is after he tried to break that restraining order, Rose had a chat with him, and he took off like a scared rabbit. His sister told me he moved back to their mama’s house in North Carolina. She says he’s afraid of me, but I think it’s Rose he’s scared of. And that’s fine. He doesn’t harass us anymore, the girls are safe. That’s all I care about.” Brenda cocked her head and folded her arms. “But you didn’t come to check up on my home life, did you, Rocky?”
“Actually, I was hoping to catch Tom,” he said. “Is he around?”
She straightened some papers on her desk. “Tom’s off in Montreal again, meeting with one of our affiliates.” She gave a curt smile that told him Tom was gone more than he was in the office. “Anything I can help you with?”
Rocky dug into his front pocket and took out a photograph of Nicky the Knife. The man’s dark probing eyes and skeletal face weren’t easy to forget. “Ever seen this guy?” He placed the photo on her desk. “He’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
Brenda wasn’t smiling anymore. “Sure, I recognize him. His name’s Darrell Green.” She pushed the photo back at Rocky and crossed her legs. She was wearing a short skirt and had nice legs.
Rocky looked away to the framed photograph on her desk. Twin girls, around ten years old and wearing matching flowered dresses, grinned back at him. “He comes in every once in a while, picks a model and asks Tom to take him for a test drive.”
“Do you know where they go?”
The gold in her dark eyes seemed to dance. “I assume on those long stretches of pavement we Haven-ites call roads.”
Touché, Rocky thought. He could almost hear her thinking, You got any more stupid questions? “He ever bought a car?”
“Nope.”
“You think that’s strange?”
She shrugged. “Some people like to take their time buying a car. It’s a big purchase.”
“Green ever talk to anyone else while he’s here?”
“He only ever talks to Tom.” She looked at her polished nails. They were long and painted bright red. “Honestly, n
o one else wants to talk to the man.” She shifted in her chair, smoothed her skirt over her legs. “Look, you should know, Tom’s sick of Green,” Brenda said. “He’s nothing but a waste of time.”
“So why keep talking to him?”
“At Minot Auto,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “we don’t turn someone away just because he can’t make up his mind or because he’s creepy.” She glanced at Rocky. “I knew Mr. Green was bad news the first time I saw him. He’s got dead eyes, like Roy had dead eyes when he was drinking. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, unfortunately I do,” Rocky said. “You ever see Green give anything to Tom?”
Her eyes widened. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, a briefcase, a package of some sort, maybe he brought him lunch,” Rocky suggested. He had no idea how Nicky might be hiding the stolen paintings.
Brenda stared at him. He had the feeling she wanted to tell him something. He waited patiently until she was ready. He was a pro at being patient. She glanced at Rocky, and then she looked out at the endless cars on the auto lot. “The first time Mr. Green came into the dealership,” she said quietly, “Tom gave him a key.”
“Tom gave Green a key?”
“Yes.”
“A car key?”
“It was just a key. I don’t know what it was for.” She glanced at the photo of her children on the desk.
“You got anything else you want to tell me?”
She folded her hands on the desk. “It’s probably no big deal, but a couple months ago the girls and I took the dog for a walk near the lake, and I saw Tom on the beach at Solitude, talking to Mr. Green. I couldn’t hear them because they were too far away, but Tom had told me he wanted to rent the cottage, so I assumed they were talking about that.” Her hands were motionless, but he saw her lower lip tremble. “I heard about that murder, how the artist who’s renting Solitude found the body.” She paused. “Tom’s not in any trouble, is he?”