“This will only take a few minutes.”
He lays down his torch and put his mask beside it. He jerks a thumb and leads me outside.
“Quieter out here. What’s this about? Are you doing a report? Because all that about taking tools, it isn’t true. I didn’t take a welder off premises. I don’t know who did.” He folds his arms.
“That seems clear enough. Except, it’s not why I’m here. I’ve been hired by the Church of the Spirit to look into Victoria Harkness’s death. I’m calling all the members of the congregation, but you didn’t answer your phone.”
Morganstern doesn’t say anything, just stands there, frowning, with his arms crossed.
I decide to shake his complacency. “Where were you when Victoria Harkness died?”
A multitude of micro-expressions flit across his face, like a school of minnows in a pond. His voice hoarsens. “Here, in the shop.”
“How do you know for sure? There’s been no time of death established.”
“You trying to trap me?”
“Just asking questions. How do you know when she died?”
“I don’t. But I been in the shop twelve, fourteen hours a day for the past couple of weeks. Salmon season coming up. Lots of boats to fix.”
“I see.” I give him ten seconds to elaborate, then I ask. “How did you become involved with the Church of the Spirit?” During the next few laborious minutes of conversation I’m able to elicit a few facts, that he joined the organization soon after it relocated to Astoria, after being a member of Riverside Christian for ten years. He’d been going through a rough patch, and Pastor Harkness had helped him find a job, and encouraged him to express himself creatively. She’d even gotten a real artist, Eric North, to help him get started. No one else, it seems, has ever done that.
I ask, “Do you know anyone who would want to harm her?”
He clenches his fists. “No one. I thought she just fell in the water.”
There’s a long pause, during which I study him. A lean and hungry white guy, forearms corded with wiry muscle. He’s younger than me; I guess early thirties. His faded flannel shirt is stained and frayed, his jeans the same, showing evidence of prior contact with engine oil and sparks from the welding rod. He looks strong enough to hold someone under the water.
He shows his first sign of aggression, stepping toward me. “Did someone hurt her?”
I get a waft of musky sweat. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Then why are you accusing me?” His forehead knots, and his fists tighten. “I loved her. I would have protected her. But she just laughed.” He glowers from under the fall of his bangs. “But I’d kill anyone else who’d hurt her. Are you saying that’s what happened?”
I take an involuntary step back. “Did you offer to protect her? When was this? When did you last see her?”
It’s too many questions at once. As he pauses to sort them out, an angry voice comes from the warehouse.
“Morganstern!” A burly brown man starts walking toward us. “What the hell are you doing out here? Get back to work!”
Jason looks at me with reproach before spitting on the ground and heading back inside. He dons his heavy gloves and mask and picks up his torch without speaking to the foreman, or whoever the authority figure is, who stands waiting for him to resume, hands on hips. His scowling attitude toward Jason gives me the impression that Morganstern isn’t an ideal employee. When the foreman comes toward me, probably to order me off the premises, I beat him to the punch.
“Are you in charge here? My name is Audrey Lake. I’ve been hired to investigate a crime. What can you tell me about missing tools?” A bona fide reason for being here.
He blinks, and scratches his head. “The only tools that can’t be accounted for are a welding torch and goggles.”
“When did they disappear?”
“Couple of weeks now.” He nods toward the main building. “Report’s in the office.”
I nod. “Who’s in charge of equipment?”
He straightens up. “I am.” He tops me by a good eight inches.
I ignore the loom. “How are the torches secured when not in use?”
“All the tools are kept locked in the shed. It’s unlocked when the workday begins and the men are issued the tools they need for the day’s work. I review the sign-out sheet at the end of each day. The torch was signed out, but not returned. It’s not in the shed, or anywhere I can find it.”
“Who had it last?”
The foreman’s voice is a growl. “Morganstern.”
“I see. What’s the value of a welding torch? I mean, could someone sell it or what?”
“Not that much.” The foreman snorts. “I mean, some guys will take anything. Someone probably has a home project going on and they don’t want to spring for their own welder.” He shakes his head. “Go back to the front office and talk to the owner. I gotta get back to work.”
I nod, and set off briskly for the office. But I don’t go in — instead, I circle around the building and back to the parking lot, amazed and a teensy bit smug by how far an official manner and a tailored blazer can take you. But really, I haven’t gotten much that’s useful. No indication that Morganstern is anything other than a possibly light-fingered employee. He doesn’t seem particularly smart, but it would be idiocy to sign out a piece of equipment and then just keep it, with the paper trail pointing straight to him. And even if he did take the torch, so what? Maybe he was using it to make a metal sculpture to impress her.
But. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has murdered a woman he says he loves.
My next stop is the studio of Eric North above an art supply store on Marine Drive. He’s not on Daniel’s list, but he spoke at the service so I figure he’s fair game. I knock on the door and enter at his gruff acknowledgement. Tall windows admit a cool and clear north light. Canvases populate the perimeter, some half-finished, some with only pencil sketches, some drying on their easels. The smell of mineral spirits and oil paints makes an almost physical curtain between myself and the artist.
“Who are you?” he says, eyebrows raised. “I was expecting someone else.”
He’s extraordinarily good looking. Yeah, I know — another one. But unlike Seth Takahashi, Eric’s appeal lies in his rough untidiness, and an energy that leaps from his face and hands. His eyes are large and deep, their brown depths a place where a woman could get lost, or at the very least, get compliant. He’s dressed in paint-stained sweats, a torn t-shirt under an unbuttoned denim shirt. The cuffs are rolled up to his elbows, and his forearms flex under a light pelt of dark hair that matches the three-day stubble on his chin. His dark brows knit into a frown.
I’ve been glowered at by too many perps to let him cow me that easily. “My name is Audrey Lake. I’ve been hired by the Chandlers to investigate the death of Victoria Harkness.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“It has to do with everyone in the congregation of the Church of the Spirit.”
“Well, Audrey, I’m not a member.”
“You spoke at the service. You painted one of the pictures in the sanctuary.”
“I did those things for Victoria, not for her church.”
“Is there a difference, then?”
He scoffs. “I knew V. back when she was a little kid. I don’t associate her with spiritual salvation. She lived next door to us. She’s younger than me. I used to draw her.”
“How much younger?”
“Five years. Although she was always old for her age.”
“What does that mean?” It sounds creepy.
“It means that she was precocious, mature.” His need to define his terms is irritating. He adds a daub of color to the canvas he’s working on. “The first time I saw her, I was sketching in the back yard. Birds, flowers, that kind of thing. I heard someone calling, saying ‘hey boy’ and I looked around. I saw V. up in the tree, looking down on me. The light was behind her. She looked like — I
don’t know, like a fairy. Like an angel. That’s when I knew I wanted to paint. I couldn’t capture the light — her light — in pencil. I had to have color, a medium whose opacity I could control in order to get the effect I wanted.”
His scornful tone puts me in my place as someone too ignorant to understand painting. People like this are annoying, but they can’t seem to stop talking. Especially about themselves.
So I egg him on. “You had a pretty close relationship with her?” It’s a suggestive question, designed to elicit a reaction. He’ll want to set me straight.
Eric cracks his neck. The sound makes me wince, and he smiles. “I’d hardly call it a relationship. She was too young to be a real friend. But sometimes she would model for me.”
“What, stand there and let you draw her?”
“Nothing so formal. I’d watch her playing with dolls or Legos or digging in the dirt and sketch whatever she was doing. I learned a lot that way, about movement and grace and the human body.”
Again, my creep meter pings. “And her parents were okay with that?”
“Her parents were too busy climbing their status ladder to worry about it.”
“So, what happened to your relationship?”
“You’re not listening. Nothing happened — there was no relationship. The Harknesses moved away when I was a senior in high school. I think V. was thirteen or so. Just beginning to be a little woman. Who knows? If they’d stayed, maybe I’d have dated her in a few years. As it was, she was still like my kid sister.”
Little woman. Asshole.
For once I agree with Zoe. “Were you surprised when she came back to town?”
“Maybe she was trying to get back to her roots.”
“I wasn’t asking you why she came, only your reaction to it.”
“A lot of people move away and come back. I wasn’t expecting her, no, but it didn’t surprise me unduly either.”
“How did you reconnect?”
He shrugs, a movement that starts in his shoulders and ripples down to his wrists. Before the ‘little woman’ comment I’d have been impressed. Now I just want to pistol whip him. “She came to a show of mine. She came up and introduced herself, but I’d have remembered her without that.”
“Did she invite you to the church? Call on you later for old times sake? I’m trying to get a picture of her routine, her life, the people she knew and associated with.”
“I don’t know anything about her life. I went to a service or two, just to be friendly, but I didn’t really believe in her message.”
“Why not? It seems like she thought artistic expression was a direct message from God.”
“She didn’t have any discrimination. To her, some hunk of metal welded together, some childlike watercolor, had as much meaning as the work of a dedicated artist, someone like me who has actually gone to school, and studied abroad. It belittles everything I’ve striven to accomplish with my life.”
“I can see why you’d think that. But you donated a painting.”
“I did that as kind of a thank-you for being my muse. For old times’ sake.”
“Did you still consider her your muse?”
“Not now, obviously. I’ve moved on in the past twenty years. I don’t even see why you’re pursuing this — Daniel must be an idiot, if he’s the one who hired you. Her suicide is a tragedy, and I’m sorry about it. But I’ve got my own work to do, pictures to finish for a gallery showing in a month. So, I’ve really got to get back to work.”
Gee, so much for sorrow at the passing of his muse. “Why do you think her death is a suicide?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No official cause has been announced.” That I knew of.
“Well, what else? You’d have to be pretty stupid to walk off the end of a pier by accident.”
“Did she have a reason to commit suicide, do you think?”
“Well, her church was failing. It owed a lot of money. Her mother hated her. She couldn’t maintain a relationship. Take your pick.”
I haven’t heard about any of that. Wouldn’t Daniel have told me about financial problems, if there were any? Although he had mentioned selling some of the art. “You seem to know a lot about her life.”
“She came by to visit every now and then.”
“Sounds like she confided in you.” I amble among the easels, looking at the pictures. See views of the river, women in various poses, street scenes.
“What can I say? Women often unburden themselves to me.”
Okay, I really don’t like him. His looks have definitely lost their power.
“Sounds like you were willing to do her favors.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She asked you to help mentor a young artist, Jason Morganstern.”
He snorts. “Jason isn’t an artist, he’s an idiot. But since you ask, yes, I did help him some, tried to get him to think of imagining a particular sculptural form as a goal to work for, rather than just sticking parts of things together.”
“I thought you were a painter, not a sculptor.”
“I’m a man of broad horizons. As it happens, I’ve been branching out a little, and trying new forms of expression.”
Ye gods. “One more question then. How would you feel if Daniel Chandler sold some of the artwork, including your piece, to pay the church’s bills?”
“He can’t do that. It’s not why I gave V. the picture.”
“Well, he seems to think he can.”
I feel smug and satisfied as I leave the studio, having succeeded in pissing him off.
To complete my day of tree-shaking, I stop by the Portway to talk to Claire, let her know what I have been up to, and get her to weigh in with ideas and suspicions. The bell on the door announces my entrance, and Claire comes out of the back. Breakfast was a long time ago, so I order a root beer and basket of fries, and lean my elbows on the bar.
“So Claire,” I begin, “level with me. Who do you think killed Victoria Harkness?”
She flinches, and doesn’t look at me. “Is it a done deal? I mean, do we know for sure she was murdered?” She twists the bar cloth in her hands.
I hesitate. The cops haven’t been forthcoming with any conclusions, but I know. “That’s the assumption I’m working on, until we learn differently. Unless you think she killed herself.”
“No. I don’t.” Claire leans forward and puts her face in her hands.
“Are you sure? Has it ever come up in any of her sermons? Did she ever talk about it with you? I understand her childhood was less than ideal.” I sip my soda and munch a couple of fries. I’m reaching for that conclusion, but based on Daniel’s description of her book and my own experience with her mother, it’s not much of a stretch.
“She believed that trauma could be processed and healed through art. I don’t think she would take her own life. It would devastate her congregation. And believe me, that would matter to her.”
“Okay, not suicide.” Although it was interesting that self-harm had been North’s first assumption. “But it also seems to be a strange sort of accident for someone to have.”
Claire raises her head. “If it’s not an accident, I won’t waste your time saying no one would have wanted to hurt her, because someone obviously did.”
Bravo, I think.
“That being said, I don’t have much in the way of ideas. The only person I know who has a visible problem with her is that preacher, Takahashi.”
“Do you know him at all?”
“I’ve talked to him, briefly. He was upset with Pastor Harkness for stealing one of his sheep.”
“Is it that big of a deal? I mean, people switch churches all the time. I would think.”
She nods. “Churches are like any institution, they can get stale. Victoria’s message was fresh and exciting. It resonated with people.”
“I agree.” I eat some more fries. The salty starchy goodness is extremely satisfying. “What about the lost sheep, Jason Morganstern?
”
“What about him?”
“I don’t know. He seemed a little…belligerent…at the vigil. He’s not very friendly in general.”
“He’s been with the church a couple of years, almost since we came here. I think Pastor Harkness helped him find a job. He was a little smitten with her, but so are most of the guys.” Claire frowns. “You know, she had a real gift, a real message. I think it bothered her when her followers were…attracted to her, you know? At least, that’s the feeling I got.”
“We should all have that problem.”
“I know, right?”
“Did he ever seem threatening?”
“Jason?” Claire frowns as she wipes down the taps. “I wouldn’t have said so, but then I only have ever seen him in the context of the congregation. He might have tried to contact her privately. Daniel might know.”
“When I talked to him, he indicated he had offered Victoria protection. Do you know what from?”
“Protection? I can’t imagine why. I mean, protection from him, maybe, but —“
“Why do you say that? I thought he wasn’t threatening.”
“Not threatening, but he was kind of persistent. Look, Audrey, I’m not privy to all of Pastor Harkness’s personal life. But she worked closely with Daniel and so I got to know her, too. She mentioned that Jason kept asking her out. To repay her for her kindness, he said. But she didn’t want repayment; as far as she was concerned, helping people was all part of the job. She laughed about it, but she had a hard time discouraging him.”
Jason had those anger flashes while talking to me, and moments of aggression. How would he have handled it if Victoria had rejected him? Lots of guys can’t stand that. It enrages them, and they have to get back at the woman, sometimes by killing her. I’ve seen it happen.
And speaking of men: “What about Eric North?”
“He knew her from when she lived here before. Did you see that nice painting he gave to the church? He obviously thought highly of Pastor Harkness.”
I finish my snack and drain the last of my root beer. I’m not sure what all to tell Claire, and truthfully, I’m not sure what the result of my tree-shaking is. I’ve learned some things, have some leads, but no evidence or smoking gun. Still, part of this maneuver is a waiting game. The fruit doesn’t always fall right away.
A Memory of Murder: An Audrey Lake Investigation (Audrey Lake Investigations Book 1) Page 12