by Mary Coley
“Right, Pizza and one beer. You’re such a downer, Mandy. What does a guy have to look forward to, anyway?”
Mandy opened Will’s green golf umbrella and stepped out from under the portico. Her shoes made sucking sounds on the pavement as she trudged away from Mike and toward the first gallery on her list. A car roared past and threw a wave of water from the rushing stream beside the curb.
She was crazy for getting out in this unseasonably chill wind and relentless rain, all for the sake of a painting Jenna had asked her to forget. Didn’t the calendar say it was August?
Someone had painted Jenna. Seeing the painting had broken down her friend’s usually calm composure and air of reserve. Mandy had to see it.
She was curious about more than the painting. It could be a clue to the past her friend guarded so closely. Mandy knew a little about Jenna’s college experiences, her fast romance with Sean, her struggles with an eating disorder, and her constant need to exercise. But she didn’t know anything about how Jenna’s parents had died or her life before that tragic event. Jenna had never even hinted at what had happened or how she had managed to continue life alone afterwards.
Thirty minutes later and several blocks away, Mandy was halfway through her gallery list when Mike called. She’d crossed a street with a half-dozen other umbrella-holding pedestrians when her phone played the OU Fight Song. She answered as the fourth “Boomer Sooner” blared.
“Find it?” she asked.
“No. And I guess you haven’t either. It’s wet out here. I think this warrants more than a pizza and one beer, Mandy.”
“Find the painting, okay?” She stepped closer to the building to get out of the pounding rain. “How many more galleries on your list?”
“Two, and I’m getting closer to Arnie’s. How ’bout you?”
“I’m coming up on my next to last one. There’s no reason Jenna would be walking down this street unless she was on her way to that old building. What is that, anyway?” Mandy had noticed the three-story gray brick building as soon as she turned the corner. The shrubs in front were dead, and sick-looking vines clung to the façade.
“Old building? You mean the funeral parlor? There’s an art gallery by Paducka’s?”
“Hold on. Funeral parlor, a.k.a. embalming service? Creepy. Yes, there’s a gallery on this street. Yolanda’s Art.” Mandy peered at the storefronts as she walked past. “Cool buildings, but on the rundown side. Is this a historic district?”
“Probably too many buildings have been demolished for the area to qualify in its entirety. But who knows? I’m not a history buff. Bring on NASCAR if you want to entertain me, babe.”
“So that’s why women flock to spend their weekends with you, kneeling at your feet,” she quipped, irritated.
“Hey, I’m keeping that spot open for you, love.”
Mandy huffed. She’d fallen into his trap again, encouraged him to flirt with her. He needed to stop before Will got wind of it.
She studied the old funeral parlor at the end of the street, its limestone walls glistened in the rain. Tall windows stared like the vacant eyes of a giant spider, the glass panes reflecting racing gray clouds. Shivering, she turned to the front display window of the next gallery on her list. “Mike. Oh, wow.” Chills raced down her back, and her hands and face felt icy despite the warm, humid air. Suddenly she understood Jenna’s emotional response to the painting.
“What?”
“You have to see this.” She gave him the address.
The gallery door opened.
“Help you with something?”
The woman in the doorway had the reddest hair Mandy had ever seen. Lucille-Ball-red, clown-nose-red, not-natural-red. A quarter inch-wide black line extended across her eyelids near her stubby upper and lower lashes.
“Um. Just looking.” Mandy returned her focus to the painting. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
“You like that one?”
“The...lady in the glass...crypt?”
“Yeah, that one.” Red chomped her gum. “Sweet, huh?”
“If you’re a sadist.” Mandy peered down the sidewalk and spotted Mike crossing the street at the corner.
“I got an interested party, ya know.” Red put one hand on her hip and squeezed the other one into the pocket of her faded skin-tight jeans.
Mike jogged up, breathing hard. “Whew. Okay, let’s see this painting of Jenna.”
Mandy glanced at the woman in the doorway. Red’s eyes were black holes. She stepped backwards into the shadows of the shop’s interior.
Beside her, Mike choked. “Whoa. It is Jenna.”
~ Chapter 3 ~
Mike
“Man, she’s in a freakin’ box. Suffocating.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in the painting. Jenna was beautiful, but this artist had painted her like an imprisoned goddess. Silvery hair, flawless face, and an ooh-la-la body in a barely-there dress.
He sensed the woman lingering in the doorway and looked at her. “You work here?” She was older than she looked. Hair dyed; makeup too thick.
“Yeah.” Her gum popped as she chomped.
An acidic taste filled his mouth. She was the opposite of the amazing Jenna. He could tolerate talking to the ugly woman if he didn’t have to look at her. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Who painted this?” Mike sought the artist’s signature on the dark canvas as he turned on the phone’s camera.
“No photos. Gallery policy. You’re breaking the law. I’ll call the cops.” She stepped back into the dim interior of the gallery.
He tucked his phone back into his jacket pocket. “But it’s for sale? How much?” Everything has a price, and this painting was worth buying. Then, he could look at Jenna’s beautiful face every day. He wasn’t the only man who wanted such an opportunity, apparently. “Hey, I have questions.”
The doorway was empty. As he started toward it, the woman reappeared on the threshold. “The painting’s been sold,” she announced. The front door swung shut.
Mike leaped for the door, shoved it open and barreled inside. “Tell me who painted it. And who bought it.”
The woman scurried to the front window, shoved aside the drapes and grabbed the painting off its easel.
He stepped further into the room, choking at a putrid smell which permeated the gallery.
“Who’s the artist?” Mike squinted in the dim interior as he maneuvered around display tables of small paintings and jewelry to get to the window. With one hand, he squeezed his nostrils closed, but the odor was inescapable.
The woman clasped the painting against her chest as he neared the front window. Mike grabbed the picture frame. She pulled it away, but he snatched it again and wrenched it from her before darting across the room to a lamp.
Mike held the painting under the light, scanning for the painter’s signature. A sloppily written name was barely legible in the purple-black background of the top left corner. He squinted. “Does that say Cha Har?” He shifted the painting closer to the lamp’s bulb.
The red-haired woman glared. “Give me that, or I’ll call the police.” She seized the picture and hurried toward the rear of the gallery.
“I need the artist’s information. I want him to paint another picture of someone in a glass box. Like Mandy here.” Mike’s footsteps thundered on the wood floor as he followed the red-haired woman.
“Shhh.” Mandy shushed him from the front of the gallery.
He was breaking a cardinal rule of investigation: giving out too much information. Now the woman knew Mandy’s first name, and she knew that both knew Jenna, the woman the artist had painted. He didn’t care. He wanted the painting.
“I’d like to contact Cha Har, the artist. I need an address, phone number, or maybe a website?” No artist would place something in a gallery, probably on consignment, and not leave contact information.
The woman’s lip curled. “The shop is closed. Leave.” She snatched a worn umbrella from a stand full of them and jabbed the tip at h
im. “Now.”
Mike lifted his hands. “Okay. You don’t need to poke me. You’re driving away a potential customer. And you’re unlikely to have many more until you get rid of that horrible smell.”
The woman shrugged. “The dog got sprayed by a skunk. Then he got wet in the rain. You need to go.”
Behind the desk, something thumped the floor. Mike peered around the furniture. A large curly-haired dog lay with its head on its paws.
“Come on.” Mandy grabbed his jacket and urged him toward the door. He avoided paintings on tables and others stacked against the walls as she hustled him across the gallery.
“I’m coming.” As he moved, he watched the woman behind them and the umbrella spike she brandished. He stumbled over the doorsill.
The red-haired woman slammed the door. Latches clicked into place.
Mike glanced at the gallery window. The spotlights went dark.
The falling rain had lightened into a mist, but gray clouds still rolled across the sky.
“What do you think about that painting?” Mandy walked away from the gallery.
Two long steps and he’d caught up with her. “Can’t say I blame Jenna for freaking out about that bizarre painting.” His heartbeat quickened as he remembered the terrified look on the woman’s face—Jenna—imprisoned in the glass crypt. Nice.
Mandy pushed the walk signal button at the corner streetlight.
“We’re headed to Arnie’s, right? A pizza and a beer. One beer.” Mike shook the rain drops off his umbrella and twisted it closed. He wanted more than one beer. He wanted a pitcher. And he wanted that painting. If he couldn’t have it right now, he’d have to settle for spending an hour with Mandy.
Could be good.
Sun rays streamed beneath the clouds, turning the glistening world golden. Steam rose from the sidewalk.
Mike slipped off his raincoat and folded it over his arm. August in Oklahoma. The last place on earth he’d be now, if the choice had been his to make.
“Weird painting,” he muttered out loud to Mandy. “No doubt that was Jenna in that crypt, screaming. She makes a beautiful blonde. Must have iced her blood.” He glanced at Mandy. “You know Jenna pretty well, don’t you? You guys do lunch, have weekend spa dates? What else did she say about that painting?”
“She wouldn’t talk about it. Wouldn’t even tell me what was happening in the picture. Only that it was her.”
They stepped through the doorway of the tiny establishment into Arnie’s air conditioning. The smells of garlic bread and bubbling tomato sauce floated on the air. Mike’s mouth watered. He’d skipped lunch and kept working to maintain his dedicated employee persona. Six months with the firm. What an assignment. What a charade.
Not much longer.
He waited with Mandy in the entry as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. and then moved to an empty booth by the front window.
Mike slid in and grabbed the beer menu. “Call Jenna and tell her you’ve seen the picture. Ask her the story behind it. Otherwise, she won’t bring it up again.”
“She’ll be upset we searched for it. And especially upset that I told you.” Mandy ran a finger over the smooth highly varnished tabletop.
“Don’t tell her. She gets upset, it’s your job that’s lost. Keep my name out of this, okay?” Mike closed the menu and tucked it behind the salt and pepper. The next 24 hours were going to be interesting.
Mandy looked up. “She’s not going to fire either of us over a painting. And besides, Allen Germaine’s the boss. She’s just the newly promoted CFO. Did you know she has a back exit to her office?”
“A back door.” Mike stroked his chin. “So, when we think she’s in there working away, she might not even be in the building. Wish I had a back door.” He knew about the door. He’d even picked it open to get into her office—although he hadn’t found what he was looking for.
A waitress walked up to their booth.
“Killian’s,” Mandy told her.
“Harp,” Mike said. “No, make that a Snakebite. And the Special Pizza, hold the anchovies.” The waitress hurried away, and he checked out her athletic legs and curvy bottom. Might be worth pursuing another time.
“I had no idea there was a back door until today.” Mandy closed the menu. “Jenna admitted she left that way. The storm hit; she found the painting. Why was she on that street in the first place? Where was she going? The places I saw are not the kind of shops she frequents. That big mortuary down at the end...an old apartment building or hotel on the other side of the street...”
Mike took a long draw from the beer the waitress deposited in front of him. “Probably half-rented and the other rooms reserved for day use. So where was she going on her errand?”
He already knew. And he’d known what gallery the painting had been in as soon as she’d told him about Paducka’s Funeral Parlor. He had a good idea what was going on in both buildings. He’d played along, trying to make the most of a stormy stroll through the Arts District.
Mandy shrugged. “Why was she there? It’s not her kind of neighborhood.”
“So, was she there to visit the hotel, or the mortuary? What do you think?” He was interested in Mandy’s thoughts, although they were irrelevant to the situation. He wanted to engage her, make her feel comfortable, maybe even make her fall for him. That wouldn’t be so bad.
Mandy shrugged. “Neither. I don’t know. And it bothers me that suddenly the picture was sold, and the shop closed. Do you think another buyer was inside, waiting for us to leave?” Mandy sipped her beer. “Did you notice how many paintings were in that place? They were stacked everywhere. I wish we’d had time to find more paintings by the same artist.”
Mike leaned back in the booth. Mandy was rambling. He needed to get her back on track. “Hey. You and Jenna are buds. Give her a call and ask questions. Do it.” He suspected Jenna wouldn’t answer her phone this time. And he suspected Jenna would claim not to know the artist.
“Okay, okay.” She dug in her purse for her cell phone, pushed it on and glanced around the room as she held the phone to her ear. “No answer. And her voice mail message didn’t play.”
“Okay. Call again, later. Want to play a game of pool while the pizza cooks? Table’s open.”
They scooted out of the booth.
Without warning, something slammed into the front window, breaking it and sending shards of glass inward. The blast knocked them to the floor.
~ Chapter 4 ~
Mandy
Mandy covered her head as window glass shards pelted down. The waitress dropped a tray of beer-filled glasses. Liquid splashed Mandy’s pants and shoes.
Mike groaned.
She glanced at him on the floor next to her. Blood dripped down his left cheek from a cut under his eye. “You’re hurt. We need to get out of here.” Mandy reached for her raincoat in the booth and grabbed Mike’s arm before rushing for the front door with a dozen other patrons.
Outside, turmoil erupted. People scattered. Sirens wailed in the distance. Seconds later, a fire truck rumbled past and turned left a block away. A crowd was gathering at the corner.
Mike grabbed her hand and jogged that direction. Behind them, someone screamed.
A second boom shook the plate glass windows in the storefronts. They covered their heads as shattered glass pelted the sidewalk. A second fire truck rounded the corner, horn blaring. Smoke drifted past.
At the corner, police were stringing a line from a stoplight pole to the door of a corner shop, limiting access to the growing crowd. Down the block, flames licked at the front of a building, and shot from broken windows. Firemen dragged hoses from the fire trucks, hooked them to hydrants and pulled the flattened hoses across the street to aim at the blaze. The hoses filled and water gushed toward the building.
The art gallery was on fire.
Boom! Shock waves slammed into them. Mike grabbed Mandy’s arm and pulled her close.
A second explosion rent the air.
Mandy tur
ned. A man vaulted through Arnie’s doorway, jacket ablaze. He dove to the sidewalk and rolled. Smoke billowed from the windows.
Sirens blasted. A police car screeched up to the curb.
Mike pulled her across the street and into an alley a half-block away. She pried his fingers off her arm and rubbed at the soon-to-be bruises.
He grabbed her shoulders. “Someone blew up the art gallery. We were there. Someone blew up Arnie’s. We were just there. What are you not telling me about this painting of Jenna?” Blood dribbled down his cheek.
“It was a painting—you saw it.” Another police car roared past them, siren screaming. “This has nothing to do with the painting or us. This is crazy.”
Mike loosened his grip on her shoulders. “Convince me of that, would you?”
Something whimpered in the alley behind them. Mandy scanned the shadows where a shape huddled near a trash dumpster. She darted toward it as a car with a noisy motor inched past the alleyway.
“It’s that dog from the gallery.” Mandy knelt beside the animal as the car drew even again with the alley entrance.
Something whizzed through the air between her and Mike.
Mandy curled into a tight fetal position beside the dog. As a child, she’d gone target shooting with her dad. She knew what a gunshot sounded like.
Motor idling, the car waited at the end of the alley.
Head low, she clamped her hands against the back of her skull. She squeezed her eyes closed. She wished she’d had a chance to tell Will she loved him.
Minutes passed. Mandy’s mind raced, she remembered good times with Will, and with Jenna. Would her life end here?
The engine chugged away from the alley entrance. She lifted her head. Mike lay curled a few yards away.
Mandy crawled toward him. “Mike! Get up. We’ve got to get out of here!”
He didn’t move. Blood trailed down his face and onto the sidewalk.
“Mike!” Mandy leaned over and felt his breath on her cheek. When she laid her head on his chest, his heart thumped.