by Marni Graff
Nora was intent on her notes. “Um-hmm—tape, brown paper and flat boxes we can tape up.”
“Good idea.” Simon returned with a load that he dumped on the floor, startling Nora and causing her to look up. “As long as you don’t lift anything heavy.” He held up his hand to stifle her outburst. “Enough notes. You take the tape. Where do you want to start?”
Nora reluctantly closed her notebook and cleared the table. “If I put a sticker on anything I’m taking, could you wrap or box it? Especially the artwork; you’ll know how to do that better than me. Anything without a sticker I’ll store.” She pulled a pack of colored stickers from her bag.
“Very organized,” Simon said. “I don’t suppose you have any of Lottie’s shortbread tucked away to speed the process? A man needs to keep his strength up.” Simon took down a framed vintage movie poster and a small watercolor Nora had tagged and moved them to the table.
Nora shook her head doubtfully. “I know I need to feed you to get work out of you, Simon, but I don’t have any left.” Nora’s mind turned ideas over quickly. “Lottie’s covering Val’s hours at the co-op today, and she always has some with her. We could always stop in there on the way to Bryn’s building.” She knew this would not be seen as enough of a compromise, and she was right.
“And we would go to Magdalen Road because—?” he asked, starting to wrap the poster in bubble wrap.
“Just to poke around.” Nora said this lightly and very reasonably, pushing her glasses up her nose.
Simon looked up at her. “You’re joking, right?”
Nora’s chin came up. “Not at all. I think we should talk to Bryn’s neighbors and see if anybody heard anything. And we could try to talk to that boy downstairs who found the body.”
Simon set his mouth in a straight line. “I think we should leave the detecting to the police.” He attacked the bubble-wrapped package with a roll of packing tape.
“Because they’re doing such a bang-up job,” Nora retorted, immediately regretting her annoyance with Simon. Why couldn’t he see they needed to be proactive and not sit around filling boxes? “You can stay here and pack. I can go to Magdalen Road.”
Simon’s retort was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. “Ramsey,” he said, listening hard. Nora saw his face light up and thought it must be his sister, Kate. “That’s great … yes, I have the number. How’s Darby? … I see … I’ll let Nora know … ”
Nora used the loo while Simon filled Kate in about Val’s predicament. When Nora returned he was off the phone, looking through his wallet.
“Everything okay?” she asked. “What were you to tell me?”
“Darby misses you, the little traitor. Kate had to take him to her room to sleep. But the news is—aha!” He triumphantly held up a business card. “Nigel Rumley called.”
Nora’s stomach lurched. Nigel Rumley was the publisher who’d expressed an interest in her book. She and Simon were to meet with him later in the week. If he took on her books, she could relax about finances a bit. “He called on a Sunday?” She held her breath.
“He wasn’t certain when we were coming to town, and once Kate told him we were already here, he wanted to up our meeting.”
“Oh,” Nora breathed out. “I thought you were going to say he decided not to meet us.”
“To the contrary. He wants to run up to Scotland to see his daughter in a play and asked if we’d meet him at his office today.”
“Great!” Nora said. “We’ll go see Rumley. And then we can go straight to Magdalen Road.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“‘It’s a fake,’ said the Russian leader, staring down at the small exquisite painting he held in his hands.”
— Jeffrey Archer, A Matter of Honor
10 AM
Watkins found The Artists’ Co-operative without difficulty, walking up St. Aldate’s and turning right onto High Street after Carfax Tower. Located in the undercroft of the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin, the downstairs area once had held the university’s centre for administration and ceremonial events. It drew visitors to climb the one-hundred-and-eighty-eight-foot spire-topped tower, which dated to the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Many would linger to catch their breath by visiting the co-operative downstairs.
The detective was directed by signs and the sound of the Beatles singing “Lady Madonna” to a huge rectangular room where rows of stalls ran along each wall and a center cube held twelve more stalls. Wide walkways separating the rows made browsing easy, while clerestory windows near ground level let in a surprising amount of light. Each stall established its individuality with brightly painted walls and gay displays in a visually startling jumble of color and texture. One stall displayed landscape watercolours and one was hung with the usual still-life bowls of fruit in oils on canvas, but that was the extent of traditional art forms.
The other stalls held a profusion of handmade items: blue, green, and yellow pottery, sponged and glazed; loomed shawls in soft, fluffy wool and angora; wood carvings of small animals and larger pieces designed as outdoor sculpture; tooled leather belts and soft, capacious backpacks. A display of wind chimes by the door tinkled gently in the breeze from a ceiling fan. Some were fashioned from strips of copper and steel, others from tiny metal tubes that plinked off-rhythm from the Beatles’ CD. Julie, his wife, had mentioned she’d bought gifts here last Christmas.
Watkins turned to a checkout desk next to the door, and the rather plump woman who sat behind it, tapping her foot to the insistent beat, looked up, laying aside the tray of colored beads she was sorting, her foot still in motion. The woman wore her black, wiry hair tied away from her face with a calico bandanna, emphasizing the roundness of her features. Her tight denim skirt was decorated with shiny beads sewn in a paisley pattern, and tooled leather slides on her surprisingly small feet, with neatly painted pink toenails, rapped in time to the music. Her red T-shirt was a size too small, hugging her large breasts, drawing the sergeant’s eyes to the outline of her prominent nipples.
“Can I help you?” She stood, scrutinizing his warrant card as she sized him up, her foot still snapping to the beat. “I’m Charlotte Weber, and please, no spider jokes, I’ve heard them all,” she said with a giggle, shaking a handful of beads. “Call me Lottie. How can I help you?”
“I understand Valentine Rogan is one of the owners here?” Watkins asked.
“Yes, but she’s not here right now.” Lottie Weber jiggled the beads she held and swayed to the music. “There’s been a death in her family.” She stopped moving and raised her hand to her mouth. “Of course, that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m trying to get background information on Miss Rogan and her relationship to the deceased. How many of the people here knew Bryn Wallace?”
“I’ve met Bryn, of course, since she and Val were partners, and I’m Val’s partner, too, here at the co-op.” Lottie scanned the room. “Perhaps Alicia knew her, down there at the end by the silver jewelry, or Justin, with the wire sculptures.”
“And those who are not here today?” asked Watkins.
She shook her hand again, the beads making a soft clicking sound against each other. “I’m not certain. She came by sometimes to meet Val after work. Bryn had a show here a few weeks ago, so everyone saw her work but didn’t necessarily know her personally.” Lottie dropped the beads back into a bowl and reached under the counter. She brought out a red plaid tin, lined with foil and containing shortbread, the buttery sweet smell hitting the air as she opened it. “Any news about who might have killed her?” She offered him a piece, one hand rapping a beat lightly on the counter.
Watson shook his head. “Not yet.” The detective dipped into the tin. “Thanks.” The buttery confection almost melted in his mouth. “Tell me your impression of Miss Rogan’s
relationship with Bryn Wallace,” Watkins said, chewing on his shortbread.
Lottie picked up a broken corner from a cookie and ate it with gusto. “I’d say Val was totally smitten with Bryn.”
“Did you notice any change lately? Any cooling off or negative remarks about Wallace?” he asked. “This is great stuff. Thanks.”
“My trademark.” Lottie waited while he took another piece then slid the lid back on the tin. “No, I didn’t see or hear anything to indicate there were any problems at all.” She picked up a pen and tapped on the counter with it. “I need to get back to work if we’re done here.”
*
McAfee finished reading over the HOLMES report, then walked into the hall, where he ran into Watkins just coming back into the station. McAfee asked the sergeant about the co-operative and Lottie Weber.
“Bit of a Mexican jumping bean, that one, but an excellent baker,” Watkins said.
He described speaking with Justin and Alicia; neither artist had more than a nodding acquaintance with Bryn Wallace, although both spoke highly of her photographs. Watkins showed McAfee the listing he’d come away with of the other members of the co-op. “I’ll go divvy up the work between the team members.”
McAfee nodded. DI Barnes was still out, and McAfee felt at odds. He stopped at the computer desk and leafed through the printouts of background checks that had been compiled. Detective work was often such a grind, routine interviews conducted for any bit of information, slim leads followed up in hopes of a break in the case. Nothing much here, he thought, flipping through and scanning pages. Then a name and an alias caught his eye, and he smiled in satisfaction. Today’s gold star was staring him right in the face.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Unlike most people, Konrad Vost had a personality that was clearly defined: above all he was precise in what he did and correct in what he said.”
— John Hawkes, The Passion Artist
12:30 PM
Declan drove away from the Belcher studio through the narrow, twisting streets of Oxford, scores of one-way roads causing him to take a circuitous route to reach Exeter College. It would have been faster to walk. More than once he had to slow down for yet another American tourist stepping off the curb after looking the wrong way. But he supposed if he were to travel to America he would have the same difficulty, so perhaps he should be more generous in his criticism.
Thinking of America brought Nora Tierney to mind. He speculated about what she had done this morning. Probably commiserated with her friend Val Rogan about the horrid inspector who’d kept her in gaol overnight.
He liked her spirit and the way she wasn’t letting her pregnancy keep her on the sidelines, that spark of what he had to call impudence, which he usually found annoying. He’d watched her fight to stay in control and remain courteous at her interview. It distracted him to think of her. Why was he thinking of her? It wasn’t natural to be attracted to a pregnant woman, yet Nora Tierney seemed to be popping up in his thoughts often lately. How could that be? It was tough enough for him to have any kind of female relationship at all. This was ridiculous. He must really be losing it.
Parking on Turl Street, using his dash card again, Declan stepped over the high sill of Exeter’s thick door and back into another era. The cobblestone walk was uneven, the rounded stones high and easy to stumble over, their edges smoothed from foot traffic since rebuilding in Victorian times. He knew from years of living in town that a portion of the undercroft of the college’s great dining hall dated from 1314. Declan wondered if Nora Tierney would enjoy a personal tour of Exeter, and if she did, if she would leave her illustrator behind. He doubted Ramsey was the father of her child, although there was something proprietary in the way the artist treated Nora. Yet during her interview, Nora had described their relationship as “friends working collaboratively.”
He stopped at the porter’s desk to show his warrant card and was directed across the quad to Ted Wheeler’s rooms. Wheeler had been less than thrilled when Declan had phoned to arrange to see him, dismay evident in his voice. Declan had said little to the don, only that he needed help with questions regarding a recent incident. On the phone, the don had not asked “what incident,” which had been surprising in itself, as though he had expected Declan’s call. Wheeler had immediately suggested meeting at the college, and Declan didn’t know whether this was because he didn’t want Declan to see his home or because he wanted to keep knowledge of the interview from his wife. At this point, it didn’t matter; he could insist on seeing Wheeler’s home down the road if it proved necessary. Better to take his measure of the man first.
The trees in the Fellows’ Garden were filled out and leafy, the flowers blowsy with late blooms as Declan made his way around the sacrosanct piece of green lawn, admiring the dominant chapel as he turned into the correct stairwell. Even at the height of summer, students clustered around the quad, taking special classes or tutoring.
In answer to Declan’s knock, Ted Wheeler called out, “Come in.” The don looked up from his desk, standing when he saw the detective. At first Declan was reminded of a lean monk out of his robes, for Ted’s hair was thinning in a pattern reminiscent of a Franciscan. The habit the don had of clasping his hands in front of him added to the impression.
Wheeler looked at Declan’s warrant card as the detective introduced himself, the don’s bald pate glowing red with embarrassment which spread to the tips of his ears. Interesting, Declan thought, although from experience he knew many people disliked the police on general principle, a form of discrimination he’d found persisted across class lines.
“Might we sit down, sir?” Declan pointed to chairs set in front of Wheeler’s large desk.
“Of course, where are my manners,” the man said, almost physically gathering his wits about him. “Please, do sit, and tell me how I can help you.”
“I understand you knew Bronwyn Wallace?” Declan dove right in.
There was no mistaking the redness now, though Wheeler’s face took on a sorrowful look. “The poor girl. I read about her killing in the papers yesterday. A true tragedy.”
“How did you become acquainted with Miss Wallace?”
Wheeler’s answer was quick. “My daughter married recently, and we used the Belcher studio. I’m certain you already know Miss Wallace was his assistant.”
“I see. So your relationship was purely professional?” He smiled pleasantly, trying to put the man at ease.
“Of course. I’m probably old enough to be her father.” Wheeler laughed nervously, overlooking his use of the present tense.
Declan nodded again, looking around the large room, which was filled with bookshelves crowded in a pleasing jumble. The large window overlooked a huge chestnut tree that let in dappled light. “Did she ever visit you here?”
There was a perceptible pause before Wheeler answered. “She delivered the wedding proofs here. Later she picked up our selections, because the college is closer to the studio than our home, and I was the last one to make my choices. I still hadn’t decided when she came the second time. Very difficult when the photographs were all remarkably well done.”
A good answer, Declan thought, but instinct and perception told him there was an unspoken layer. “Can you tell me if you wrote this note and what it’s about?” He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and withdrew a copy of the note Wheeler had sent, handing it over for the man’s inspection.
For a moment he thought the don was going to faint as the blood rapidly left his face, and he swayed forward. Wheeler stared stupidly at the paper in his hand, making a great effort to compose himself. “Yes, I wrote the note. I was extraordinarily pleased with the work and Miss Wallace’s service. It’s a simple thank you.” His voice quavered.
Declan took the copy back. “Rather effusive, no? Even for an English lecturer
?”
He consulted the note and read out loud: “ … I owe you much more than mere words serve … acutely aware of that … will make certain to never let you forget me.” Declan raised one eyebrow in question and sat back to wait for an explanation. A heavy silence pervaded the room.
A range of emotions flitted across Wheeler’s face, mainly fear. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants leg and swallowed dryly. His eyes took on a hunted look, his nostrils dilating.
Declan kept quiet. Most people had difficulty with long stretches of silence.
Finally Wheeler drew in a deep breath, and Declan saw his look change to one of resignation. “I repeat, it is a thank you note for someone I held in deep regard.” His voice held a note of firmness.
Declan didn’t buy it. He slapped the paper against his thigh. “You know, I got the impression when I read this that you might be trying to blackmail Miss Wallace.”
“Blackmail? How absurd!” Although his voice was indignant, Wheeler clenched his hands together to steady them. “About what?”
Declan leaned closer to the man. “You tell me, Professor.”
A brisk knock at the door was followed by a young man entering the room, a bulging backpack over his shoulder. He stopped sheepishly when he saw the two men. “Sorry, sir. The porter said you were in today, and I’ve a question about my essay.” He turned to go.
“No need to leave. I was just going.” Declan rose, tucking the note back into his pocket. “Thank you for your help, Dr. Wheeler.” Declan’s gaze locked on Wheeler’s eyes as he handed over his card. “You can reach me at this number if you think of anything else—important. I assume you know not to leave Oxford.”