Art's Blood

by Vicki Lane

  His face hardened. “So there I was. I’d brought this screaming infant into the house and suddenly our pleasant lifestyle was shot to hell. Rose never actually…what’s the term?…bonded with the new baby; as a matter of fact, she avoided him as much as possible. And then there were Miss Lily and Reba— they were actively opposed to the idea of a second child. You can’t imagine how strong-willed those two women are.”

  Peterson looked at her, reading the disapproval in her face. “You have to understand; this…situation was upsetting Rose. I did what I had to: made ample provision for the boy and his mother but never tried to see them. Rose asked that I make that promise. My lawyer knows where they are and takes care of the financial side. But I kept my promise to Rose, even after—” He broke off, as though the words she died stuck in his throat.

  “But Kimmie. You set up a second household with her— in spite of all this love for Rose.”

  “Kimmie was…well, at first she was just an…an outlet, a convenience. I couldn’t make love to Rose anymore but I found I had no trouble at all screwing my sweet little secretary. And I needed that, to feel like I was still a man. The second house and all that…well, things just escalated and I found myself caring about Kimmie too. She was just an ordinary girl from a trailer park outside of Asheville. When I was with her I could sit around in my undershirt and drink beer and watch TV. With Rose, almost every night was a social occasion and I always had to take care so that the son of the migrant worker didn’t show through the fancy façade I’d created.”

  “Then it was convenient for you when Rose was killed.”

  Peterson stiffened and glared at her. “You need to understand this. I loved Rose more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I still love her. When she died…When she died I blamed myself.”

  “Why was that?” A heartless question but she had to know.

  “In my early years I sailed pretty close to the wind, and some of my…associates were…I guess you could say, on the wrong side of the law. I knew there were those who probably thought they got a raw deal when I went legitimate, and I knew there was a chance they might try to get back at me through my family…. There was a state-of-the-art alarm system; I thought she’d be safe…that no one could get in, but they did, right into that room of hers that was like a saint’s shrine, all white and gold and silk and lace.”

  He buried his face in his hands.

  * * *

  “It’s the strangest story, Phillip. They paid this woman to have a second child for them and then when they got him—‘took delivery of him’ might be the appropriate term— they kept him a few weeks and then just sent him back— like returning a pair of shoes that didn’t fit. The baby was disrupting their lifestyle, for god’s sake!”

  They were having dinner at Phillip’s rented house in Weaverville. He had purchased several ready-to-microwave side dishes from a local eatery and had, with a minimal amount of fanfare, produced barbecued chicken from the grill on his deck.

  “So what was the problem?” He filled her glass with wine and offered the dish of Chinese-style green beans. “What was this ‘minor injury’ that put the baby in the hospital?”

  “Peterson didn’t say— I don’t know if he ever found out…he says he never saw the child again. He just told me that he had paid the mother a substantial sum for, how did he put it? ‘undertaking the second pregnancy’ and that he had, over the years, made sure that the child was adequately supported. And he said that Lily may have paid the mother something for taking the child back. Something about Lily not wanting Kyra to have competition in the form of an adopted brother. And he couldn’t tell Lily the truth about Kyra because he had promised Rose. To this day, only he and the natural mother know the truth— and the lawyer and the doctor who were involved, I guess.”

  Phillip sipped his wine and considered. “The kid they sent back is probably better off not being part of that crazy bunch. They are one hell of a strange family. First Kyra wants to tie Boz’s death to her mother’s murder— and blame both on her father. Now she’s done a three-sixty. When I got home this afternoon there was a message from her on the voice mail. You gotta hear this.” He tapped in the appropriate numbers on his phone and handed the instrument to Elizabeth.

  Kyra’s voice sounded in her ear, almost a whisper but unmistakable: Phillip, I think maybe I’ve been wrong about my father…. We’ve gotten closer these past few days, you know, really talked and I think…I don’t know; I’m all confused…. I’ve hated him and been afraid of him for so long but now I don’t know…. What if I’ve been wrong all these years and wasted time hating him…hating the wrong person?

  I really need to talk to you about things, Phillip…. GeeGee…she’s been so strange recently…either she’s just staring out the window or she’s writing in this little journal she has. And the way she looks at me sometimes…

  Really, please call me; I have to talk to you. Please, Phillip…And there’s another thing: right before Kimmie got so sick, she ate some of this special soup GeeGee sent her. Kimmie’s the only one who had any…. I saved the jar it was in.

  The message ended.

  “Do you think that Kyra has maybe lost touch with reality here?” Elizabeth asked Phillip. “I mean, really, that frail old lady whose driver carried her up the steps to my house…”

  Phillip was looking at her expectantly but he said nothing.

  “Okay, so that doesn’t mean she’s helpless; she could have Buckley doing the dirty work. But what would be the point? She’s evidently accepted the situation with Kimmie till now—”

  “Till now.” Phillip nodded in agreement. “But then Kimmie got pregnant. And that pregnancy meant that Kyra was no longer the sole heir to Peterson’s fortune— some of which had come to him through Rose.”

  “Are you saying that Mrs. Gordon was trying to kill Kimmie to protect Kyra? I don’t know, Phillip….”

  “Neither do I. But I’m sure as hell going to suggest to Hank that somebody take a look at that soup Kyra’s saved.”

  Elizabeth helped Hawkins clear the table and sat on a kitchen stool, sipping her coffee as he loaded the dishwasher. Her thoughts tumbled in confusion. “There’re just too many loose ends. What about Boz? Who do you think is responsible for his death?”

  Phillip gave the countertop a final swipe with a sponge and put out his hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  * * *

  They strolled along the footpaths that wound around Lake Louise, a pretty man-made body of water near Phillip’s rented cottage. The cool of the evening attracted many to the little park: dedicated joggers, stretching elaborately before beginning their humorless rounds; children, running and shrieking with savage delight at their twilight games; elderly couples, sitting on benches, chatting in quiet tones or silently enjoying the various people and pursuits that swirled around them.

  Phillip broke their silence. “You asked who I think murdered Boz. Hank tells me that the Asheville PD is just about ready to make an arrest. Like I said, it’s Travis’s old daddy. Evidently he’s not as bad off healthwise, as Travis led us to think. He’s the one behind the meth lab and, if he didn’t put the bullet in Boz’s head, he could have ordered it done. He’s got three tough, bad old boys working for him—”

  “Travis? Is he one of them? The drug dealers?”

  “Hank said they don’t think so. Evidently Daddy tried to keep Travis clear of the wrong side of the business. And Travis turns out to have a rock-solid alibi for the time of death.”

  Elizabeth mulled this over as they approached a bench where a middle-aged couple was locked in a passionate embrace.

  “Boz was such a big guy; it seems like he would have put up a fight— there would have been signs of a struggle. Did your friend— did Hank have any information about the autopsy?”

  “The autopsy showed a very high blood alcohol count; Boz had probably passed out before he was shot. And this is weird: there were traces of Rope— Rohypnol.”

 
; “What’s that?”

  “It’s what they call a date-rape drug; makes a person submissive and easy to manipulate. It’s illegal but pretty available on the street. Hank figures Boz left the museum and went drinking with his meth lab buddies— the three bad old boys I mentioned. They’re the type who’d have access to Rope and they probably thought it’d be funny to use it on Boz.”

  “So the three bad old boys could have shot him and put him in the car. But Phillip, that doesn’t make sense! Why wouldn’t they have gotten rid of his body? Leaving it in the crusher just calls attention to the junkyard.”

  “Yeah, that didn’t seem right to me either. But Hank says the prevailing theory is that Daddy was trying to kill two birds with one stone— get rid of Boz, who’d been talking too much, and pin the murder on Rafiq, thereby getting him out of the way too. It can’t have been convenient having Rafiq around when they were distributing meth.”

  “So, if that takes care of Boz and if Kyra was responsible for the corncrib incident…what about the fire that destroyed the house?”

  Phillip didn’t answer at first. They walked on, side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally. Finally he spoke. “Elizabeth, it’s like I said before— the obvious suspect—”

  “— is the first one at the scene. And that would fit in with what happened at the corncrib.” Elizabeth stared out at the little lake where a fountain hurled a jet of water high in the air. “She’s really disturbed, Phillip. Will she be charged with arson?”

  “Hold on now; nothing’s been proved and no charges have been brought. As a matter of fact, our Mr. Peterson has fully reimbursed the owners of the house— there wasn’t any insurance, evidently— and made a big donation to the volunteer fire departments that were involved. And—now this is hush-hush, Sherlock— Peterson has promised the authorities that right after her show opens, Kyra is voluntarily going back to the funny farm.”

  CHAPTER 29

  REVELATIONS

  (WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28)

  LILY GORDON, ASHEVILLE ARTS PATRON, DEAD AT 91. Even on the computer monitor, the headline screamed. Elizabeth scrolled down the article that detailed the particulars of the old woman’s long life: her Boston background, her involvement with the Appalachian Women’s Crafts Center, her marriage, family, and her many charities. The cause of death was listed as heart failure.

  * * *

  Elizabeth had been on her way to work in the garden when Phillip called with the news, saying that he was on his way to Asheville for a class but thought she’d want to know that Lily Gordon had died in her sleep Tuesday morning. “And don’t bother getting out your magnifying glass for this one, Sherlock— I talked to Hank as soon as I heard— I wondered if there might be some funny business because of the tie-in with Kyra and her father, but it seems Mrs. Gordon had been on heart meds for years and her doctor signed off on the death certificate, no problem. Evidently she’d been failing in the past weeks. So you can relax and get back to your garden.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth finished reading the article on the computer screen, noting the brief mention of Lily’s children and her only grandchild Rose, all of whom had “predeceased” their seemingly indomitable mother and grandmother.

  The house was quiet. On the previous day Willow had received a mysterious phone call and had announced that “a friend” had arranged for her and Aidan to stay elsewhere. They had left within the hour, with many thanks and blessings from Willow and a somewhat reluctant goodbye from Aidan. “Tell Laurel I’ll be in touch,” he had said. Ben and Julio had gone into Asheville on farm business and Elizabeth was alone. She had the feeling, indistinct but real, that Lily Gordon’s death was somehow significant and that there was something more to come. Lily Gordon— a bit of an enigma. I wonder…I wonder…

  She hunted through the scraps of paper stuffed in the back of her Rolodex— yes, the Peterson number was there, scribbled on the back of a piece of junk mail.

  She waited till nine to make the call— her training from childhood had drilled into her that this was the earliest one could make calls except in an emergency. The polite voice that answered hesitated, then asked for her name. Eventually Kimmie came on the line. Her voice was weak and a little subdued but she seemed happy to be speaking with Elizabeth.

  “Yes, Kyra’s still here with us. Well, at night anyway. She leaves early every morning and spends the day at her studio getting ready for the show. Yes, GeeGee’s death is hard on Kyra, though I think we all feel it was a blessing that she was taken while she still had her mind— she had a real horror of becoming senile. Marvin and Kyra had been talking just the other day about how GeeGee was going downhill, seemed to be sort of losing touch.” There was a nervous laugh. “Listen to me calling her GeeGee. If she was here instead of at the funeral home, she’d probably rise up and knock me over the head with that gold-headed cane of hers. I only saw her occasionally and I sure never dared to call her anything but Mrs. Gordon.

  “Even Reba, that housekeeper of hers, terrifies me. When I went with Marvin to the house before they…before they took Mrs. Gordon away, I thought Reba was going to slam the door in my face. I know Mrs. Gordon’s death was a blow to her— everyone’s always saying how devoted Reba is, but still…”

  “What about you, Kimmie? How are you doing?”

  “I’m feeling better; you know, Kyra’s brought me some tea she got at a natural pharmacy. I believe it’s really helped— it’s supposed to be good for female complaints. But I still have to rest a lot— I won’t be going to painting class tomorrow. Will you explain to Daphne? I just hate missing her class but I don’t have any choice.”

  They talked for several minutes and then Elizabeth heard a man speaking in the background. Kimmie excused herself and evidently put her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece, but her words were still intelligible. “It’s Elizabeth, my friend from painting. You know, the one Kyra was staying with—”

  A pause and an urgent mumble of words. Then Kimmie was back. “Marvin wants to talk to you, Elizabeth. I’ll say goodbye now but please call tomorrow and tell me what you all did in class.”

  The telephone switched hands and Elizabeth could hear Marvin Peterson telling his wife that he would take the phone to another room and send the maid with her breakfast tray. There was a sound of muffled footsteps, the click of a door, and then the voice of Marvin Peterson was in her ear.

  He wasted no time on small talk. “Mrs. Goodweather, I appreciate your concern for Kyra and for my wife but I have to repeat what I told you before— I want your nephew to stay away from Kyra. She doesn’t need any…distractions at the moment. Her great-grandmother’s death has been traumatic for her and I’m afraid that it’s brought back memories of that terrible time with Rose— God knows it has for me.”

  There was a pause as he cleared his throat. Then he went on. “Unfortunately, there’s another thing exacerbating the situation. Somehow Kyra has found out about her adoption. I don’t know how long she’s known— it was after Miss Lily’s death. Kyra broke down and asked me to tell her who she was.”

  Another pause as he collected himself. “It almost killed me, seeing her standing there looking like a little lost soul. ‘GeeGee’s gone,’ she said ‘and I don’t know who I am.’ She said something about how she hadn’t wanted me for a father for a long time but now she did— and suddenly I realized how stupid this whole thing had been. I told her the truth— that she was mine, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. And then I told her about her brother and the mistake I made years ago in letting him go. I swore to undo that mistake, as far as possible. I told her I’d spend whatever it took to get him back— I have a call in to my attorney. All these years I’ve never allowed myself to know where my son is— it’s all handled through the trust fund. But I think that he and his mother must still be in the area, from things my attorney has said.”

  Marvin Peterson choked, blew his nose, and continued. “Kyra just stared at me with those big green eyes and said, ‘A bro
ther? I have a brother?’ I hugged her and promised that he’d be waiting when she finished her stay at the clinic in Massachusetts.

  “So I hope you see, Mrs. Goodweather,” now he was pleading, urgent and sincere, “my little girl has got a lot to think about and sort out right now. She really doesn’t need a…romantic complication like your nephew.”

  Elizabeth struggled to assimilate this new information. There were so many questions but…“Mr. Peterson, Kyra told my…my friend that Kimmie got sick after eating some soup Mrs. Gordon had sent her. Has anything been done…an analysis—”

  “I’m having it looked into privately. If Kyra is right— well, the old lady’s dead and I’d just as soon not have a scandal. I suppose it’s possible Miss Lily didn’t want to see Kyra supplanted by another heir. But, as I keep telling you, Kyra is not completely reliable just now. We need to get her back into therapy and back onto her medication. If it weren’t for that damn show of hers— but I promised she could wait till after it opened. The doctor says she needs to go through with it— how’d he put it?—‘to bring closure to The 3 and to give birth to the new Kyra.’ ”

  * * *

  The call to the Petersons provided Elizabeth ample material to think on as she went about her work in the garden. The weather was still sultry— the air hanging heavy and breathless. Internet weather radar had shown a hurricane churning its way up from the Gulf of Mexico. Rain would be welcome but there was much to be done in the garden— the last tomatoes to be picked, herbs to be harvested, and general cleanup to make it ready for its long winter rest.