Sandie James Mysteries Box Set

by Tessa Kelly

  The drive to Fabian Morris’s home took twenty minutes. I arrived at a historic two-story townhouse with a brick façade and an ornate porte-cochere over the entrance. The green front lawn sloped gently toward the tall hedge. I walked up the path and rang the bell.

  A middle-aged man of about fifty opened the door. He was of average height, in good shape with bronze skin, greying hair and unusual yellow eyes under thick eyebrows.

  “Well, hello there! I’m Fabian Morris, and you must be Sandra James. Please, come in.” He took my coat and hugged it to himself, looking me up and down in admiration. “Oh, my! That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing. The color, and with that complexion of yours. Just perfect!”

  I smiled, amused but also encouraged by his outpouring. “Thank you, Mr. Morris. I was hoping I wasn’t overdressed.”

  He waved his hand. “Nonsense, darling. You’ll fit right in. And, please, call me Maury. Everyone does.”

  Maury led me down the short hallway into a modern sitting room where five other people stood around drinking from wine glasses. John Edwards was among them, talking to a thin man whom Maury introduced as Jenson Ray, his partner.

  About an inch shorter than Fabian, Jenson was probably in his late thirties. He was pale, narrow-shouldered with thick auburn hair and brown eyes, and had the kind of long neck most women would kill for. Upon introductions, he leaned in close to me.

  “Darling, that dress is divine! Such gorgeous lines!” Then, in a low, conspiratorial voice, “I have a tattoo of a bookshelf on my left cheek.”

  I blinked. Jenson’s face being clear of ink art, he had to be talking about his south-located cheeks.

  “That’s... wonderful. I don’t have any tattoos, myself.”

  Was this the usual type of soiree talk I should expect tonight?

  Jenson took a sip of his white wine. “That’s all right, hon. I’ll introduce you to my guy, he does fabulous work.”

  John Edwards rescued me from this increasingly alarming conversation by handing me a champagne flute.

  “Don’t mind him,” he said in a low voice as we moved away from Maury and Jenson. “He just likes to shock newcomers. He thinks the tattoo story gives him a flair, but I’ve yet to see any proof of its existence.”

  “Is that something you really want to see proof of?” I asked, trying not to picture that particular demonstration.

  He laughed quietly. “On second thought, maybe not. Some mysteries are better kept hidden from the light of day. For now, let me introduce you to the other guests. You already know Marcel’s agent, I believe.”

  Kenneth Sheppard heartily shook my hand and complimented my dress.

  The other two guests, a management consultant Miles Harding and his wife Janet, wore outfits in matching colors and told me in bored voices what a delight it was to make my acquaintance.

  “Were they at Marcel Bright’s opening?” I asked John Edwards. I couldn’t remember seeing them at the gallery that night. Then again, I wasn’t sure I’d have remembered them if I had.

  I wasn’t sure I’d remember them after tonight.

  “The Hardings aren’t art aficionados,” John Edwards said. “Janet is one of Maury’s clients.”

  “What does Maury do?” Judging by the size of his home, it wasn’t decorating cakes at a neighborhood bakery.

  “Maury’s a plastic surgeon,” John Edwards said. “Jenson owns a health center in the city.”

  No cake decorating for those two. Unless, maybe, at a fancy cooking retreat in Bordeaux, or some such.

  I glanced across the room at Jenson talking animatedly to Maury. He was close to my age, yet much more successful. A year earlier, the thought would have stung like a disturbed wasp. Funny how priorities could change in just a few short months.

  It was rescuing Dad and solving Sonny’s murder that made me realize being with family meant more to me than career success.

  Speaking of solving murders...

  “Is Marcel Bright running late?” I asked.

  Maury appeared at my side, rolling his eyes. “Just had a call from him. He’s not coming. Says he’s got a bit of a headache and needs a lie-down.” He threw up his hands. “Such a Diva! Never mind social obligations, or that he’s still got my painting. Was supposed to bring it back tonight, but nooo! His Royal Highness needs a lie-down. In the meantime, what am I supposed to do about that?”

  With the face of a sufferer, he pointed to an empty spot on the wall between two other paintings.

  I wasn't sure who was being more of a Diva, Marcel Bright or Maury, but my ears pricked up.

  “He borrowed a painting from you?”

  “Well. It was one of his originally.” Maury’s chin jerked, acknowledging a triviality. “But I own it now. Bought it from a collector from France. It was supposed to be part of the showing at the AGER, but Marcel pulled it at the last minute. I think it really upset him that I bought it. He acted like he didn’t like the painting. Took it last week, said he wanted to verify something. Wouldn't explain what it was he wanted to do with it. He likes to be mysterious, you know. Never should’ve let him borrow it.”

  “What do you think he wanted to verify?” I asked.

  Maury shrugged. “Who knows? I can tell you he looked upset at seeing it on my wall, though. Wanted to know when and how I’d bought it. Like suddenly it’s a crime to buy art!”

  I nodded, doing my best to look sympathetic to his “plight” while I pumped him for information. It might be important. A clue. Could it have anything to do with why Marcel sent Josh to the AGER the night Dan Cobbs was murdered?

  “What else did he say?” I asked. “Do you remember?”

  Before Maury could answer, Jenson appeared at his side, his left eye twitching. “Never mind if he said anything about a painting. What was Marcel doing at your place without me here?”

  Fabian swallowed visibly. “I didn't invite him over, honey. I swear to you. He stopped by unannounced last Wednesday. I couldn’t tell him not to come in. Could I?”

  “Yeah, right!” Jenson sniffed. “Wish I could believe that. I always knew you liked him. Could’ve waited till I was out of the picture before you made your move! Do you know how this makes me feel?”

  Maury looked truly miserable as he put his hands together in supplication. “Please, honey, calm down. What would I want with that preening buffoon? You know it’s just you in my life. There’s no one else.”

  The room stilled. Quietly, John Edwards lay his hand on my elbow and moved me back a step. Just in time. The next moment, Jenson's palm connected with Maury’s cheek in a loud slap.

  While Maury reeled, Jenson whirled round on his heels. Seemingly out of nowhere, a maid appeared with Jenson’s coat. He snatched it from her hands, but not before I’d seen the Fratelli Agosti label on the inside collar.

  Head held high, Jenson stormed out of the sitting room. It was impressive the way even his back looked offended as he made his exit. The front door slammed shut behind him.

  White in the face, Maury handed the maid his wine glass. “It’s all right, Gina. I’ll get my own coat.” With a polite smile, he made a tiny bow of the head to us. “Please, excuse me.” Then he, too, was gone.

  I turned to John Edwards. “When you invited me to a soiree the other night, I had no idea I’d be in for such entertainment. I’d ask if the spat was my fault, but from the way the maid was ready with that coat I take it this sort of thing happens pretty often.”

  He laughed softly. “It’s more or less routine with those two. Fabian Morris and Jenson Ray, the power couple of New York’s art world. Don’t think they’d ever last as long as they have without those spats. They’ve been together for ten years, even though Maury is fifteen years Jenson’s senior.”

  I nodded, a little awed. It was hard to imagine being with anyone for that long.

  “Then they must have other interests, besides fighting, that keep them together.”

  He shrugged. “There’s art collecting, of course. And competit
ive dog grooming. Personally, I think it’s the drama above all that keeps them together.”

  He put his wine down and picked up the small tray of canapes, offering me first choice. “They’ll probably be a while, so we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”

  We sat in the corner on plush red armchairs. As I nibbled on an avocado and prawn crostini, I allowed my eyes to linger on my companion. Distinguished features, refined manners, intelligent eyes. The more I studied him, the less likely suspect he seemed. But what did I really know about John Edwards?

  “Are you married?” I asked.

  “Divorced.” He leaned back comfortably and crossed his legs. “Two years now, but my ex-wife and I are on excellent terms. We have three great kids and I get to see them quite often. We even spend some holidays together. This, for instance, was taken last Christmas.”

  He took out a wallet-sized photograph and showed it to me. He was standing behind a velvet settee next to a tall, attractive woman. Two adorable boys and a girl sat on the settee, the girl leaning against an older gentleman with gray hair and piercing blue eyes. My gaze fixed on the man. Hadn’t I seen him somewhere before?

  “Is that your father?” I asked.

  Mr. Edwards nodded. “Passed away soon after that photo was taken.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He sighed. “He lived a good life and didn’t accumulate a lot of regrets. Which is probably the closest any of us can get to happiness.”

  “But he had a few,” I said, gazing at the picture. The old man’s eyes held a hint of sadness, like a ghostly presence hovering in the depth of a mirror.

  John nodded slowly as I handed him back the picture. “He had one, yes. It was to do with family ties. Old rifts, that sort of thing. He kept saying he’d rectify things before the end. Unfortunately, he died before he did.”

  The front door opened and Maury entered hand in hand with Jenson.

  “Looks like they made up,” I whispered.

  John Edwards smirked. “I’ll check to see if hell has frozen over when they don’t.”

  Maury looked around, beaming as if nothing happened. “Not to worry, everyone. The trouble’s been kicked out of paradise. More wine?”

  I glanced at the time. It was half-past ten. “Oh, no. I should be getting home.”

  “Of course.” John put down his glass. “I’ll make my excuses to the host.”

  Did he think he needed to leave just because I was leaving? This wasn’t a date.

  “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I can see myself out.”

  His expression turned to surprise. “Of course I’ll see you out. I invited you this evening. It would be boorish not to.”

  We thanked Maury and Jenson for the lovely evening, omitting to mention that they played absentee hosts for half of it, and made our way to the door. I casually passed my hand over the cashmere Fratelli Agosti coat hanging in the hallway. It had all its buttons and labels, and it didn’t appear as though any of them had recently been torn off or replaced.

  Outside, the air turned chillier. John wound his scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat. “My car is just around the corner. Can I drop you off at your house?”

  I shook my head. The man had a three and a half hour drive back to Boston, and he was offering to drop me off. Again, like a date.

  “I’ll get myself home,” I said, feeling the flush coming into my cheeks. “Really, it’s no trouble at all.”

  He frowned. “It’s not safe this time of night. At least, let me call you a cab.”

  He waited with me for the Uber, then gave me a light peck on the cheek and wished me a good night. To my relief, nothing in his manner suggested romantic intentions. Only polite deference.

  As the cab drove away, I looked back at him walking towards the corner to his car and smiled.

  Old school manners. I could get used to them.

  As I settled in the seat, my thoughts turned back to the evening, cataloging everything I’d seen and heard.

  Marcel Bright’s absence, Maury’s unreturned painting, Jenson’s coat and his apparent jealousy of the artist.

  John Edwards’s family photo.

  While some things remained a mystery, others were certainly becoming much clearer.

  A buoyant, hopeful feeling bubbled in my chest. Marcel Bright hadn’t made an appearance, but it was by no means a wasted evening.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning, I called Kenneth Sheppard, Marcel’s agent.

  “Yes, Miss James?” He sounded surprised, but recovered quickly. “It was pleasant to see you again last night. Too bad we didn’t get a chance to talk much.”

  I didn’t point out that he’d been too absorbed in conversation with the Hardings about the stock market to bother with me. Instead, I got to the point.

  “Mr. Sheppard, I hope my question doesn’t sound inappropriate, but I called because I hoped to talk to you about Marcel Bright.”

  There was a short pause on the other end, then his voice came through with a hint of an edge in it.

  “What is it you want to know?”

  I bit my lip, hoping he wouldn’t hang up on me. If the client was involved in criminal activities, how likely was it that his agent knew about it? Could he have been involved as well? The thought had occurred to me before. Now it took on the appearance of a banner, flashing neon lights for my attention, warning me to proceed with extreme caution.

  “Before the exhibit opening at the AGER, did you notice Mr. Bright acting strangely in any way?”

  Another pause. I pictured Kenneth frowning at the phone. Wondering why I asked, or stalling, giving himself time to come up with a plausible answer. Either way, talking to Mr. Sheppard required a lot of waiting.

  “Strange?” Kenneth murmured finally. “How do you mean?”

  Stalling, then. The last time I checked, the word “strange” didn’t require additional explanation. But if Mr. Sheppard was covering for his client, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

  I shrugged, forgetting he couldn’t see me. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in his behavior?”

  He made a low humming sound in his throat. Then surprised me with the answer.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I did. Marcel was acting unusually erratic, I’d say even stranger than usual. I was starting to get seriously worried about him at one point. But why do you ask? Has my client said or done anything wrong? It’s not unusual for artists to act erratic, you know. Surely, he’s not a suspect in the murder?”

  “Oh, no. Of course not,” I assured him, frantically searching for a plausible excuse for why I was asking. Something I probably should’ve done before calling.

  “It’s more that I’m trying to get a fuller picture of the events,” I said. “What exactly happened prior to the murder? The more we know, the better our chances of catching the real killer.”

  Good job, Sandie. A pathetic explanation that wouldn’t fool anyone.

  From the way Mr. Sheppard said “Uh-huh”, it was clear he agreed with me.

  Just end the conversation.

  Mumbling, I thanked Mr. Sheppard for his time and hurried to get off the phone. A moment later, it pinged with a text message from Valeria.

  ‘F. was supposed to be here two hours ago. Jeff is furious. She coming in or what?’

  So Felisha wasn’t at the bakery. Skipping out on work again.

  She was home the night before. Though I hadn’t seen her when I got in, her jacket hung on its usual peg in the hallway and there were the remains of a freshly-made chicken and vegetable stir-fry in the fridge. When I didn’t see her in the morning, I assumed she’d finally pulled herself together and went to work.

  If she wasn’t at the bakery, there was only one other place she could be.

  I dressed in a hurry, bid a hasty goodbye to the still sleeping cats, and headed out.

  Just as I thought, I saw Felisha through the window of Stones and Beads, the only person there at this early hour, besides t
he owner. They sat at opposite ends of the work table, their heads bent low over their projects. The bell over the front door gave a loud jingle as I came in, making them look up in surprise.

  The owner smiled at me before returning her attention to the intricate-looking necklace she was working on. Felisha scowled.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’d like to ask you the same question.” I pulled up a chair opposite her. “Aren’t you going to work today?”

  She shook her head, her mouth turning downward in a spoiled-kid expression. “I don’t want to see him.”

  It took everything I had not to slap her on the back of the head. I clasped my hands in my lap and stayed glued to the chair.

  “Did he call you?”

  “Twice last night. I didn’t pick up.”

  She took the four pieces of wire on her stand and started twisting them into a complicated braid that would serve as the base for a new creation.

  “You can’t keep not showing up for work,” I pointed out. “That’s not the right solution. You know how Jeff is, and even Kathy’s patience has a limit. You’re going to lose your job, Felisha.”

  Her mouth grew even tighter. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not going.”

  Don’t hit your friends. Don’t hit your friends.

  I squeezed my fingers together until they hurt. “You knew when you started dating that it might not work out. He did something bad, and he hurt you. Stop hiding. Talk to him, confront him about it. Give him a chance to explain.”

  “Explain what?” Her nostrils flared. “He cheated on me, Sandie! Why should he get a chance to explain anything?”

  I leaned forward for one last desperate stab at changing her mind. “Fine, don’t talk to him then. But quit hiding out in here. It’s too childish. And stop blaming me for what happened. I didn’t tell you right away because I was worried about how you’d react. And with good reason, as it turns out.”

  She kept her eyes down, staring at her project like it was a bomb waiting to go off with the wrong movement.