“Okay,” I said. “I’m ready now.”
Crenshaw opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to reconsider. He was learning not to question my ways. Smart man.
Chapter Seventeen
The Edindale Art Museum was affiliated with South-Central Illinois University, a mid-sized public research university with half a dozen colleges, including the School of Law. Coming to law school here was one of the main reasons I’d left my home state of Nebraska eleven years earlier. It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with the town and decide to stay.
Walking through the leafy campus, watching the play of light and shadows across the landscape, I felt the old familiar thrill that always comes at this time of year. When I was in school, September brought the promise of new friends and a fresh slate. Now it was the start of the fall season itself that engendered feelings of anticipation and excitement. Either way, change was in the air.
If Crenshaw felt any of it, he didn’t say. He’d seemed preoccupied on the drive over. I wondered if he was worried about all the complications that had cropped up since I came on board. Maybe I should say something, let him know he doesn’t have to pay me the full amount we agreed on. I’d figure something out.
“Your friend Farrah has been dropping by a lot.”
“What?” Where had that come from?
“At the manor.”
“Yeah, I suppose. That reminds me—she wants to sleep over tonight. She can share my room.”
He gave me a sharp glance. “A sleepover? Will she be a distraction?”
“Not for me. She’ll be a help, actually. Another pair of eyes to search the mansion.” I patted his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. She’s not going to charge you.”
If he had a comeback, he let it go. We’d arrived at our destination. The art museum was housed in a 1970s-era brick-and-glass building with a windowed front entrance at the top of a short flight of steps. Crenshaw paid the suggested donation, while I studied a Rodin-like sculpture in the vestibule. Then we took the stairs to the second floor and found our way to the director’s office. Crenshaw had called ahead, so she was expecting us.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Rawlins,” said Crenshaw, with a little bow at the waist.
“So formal,” she said with a smile. “Please—call me Mavis.” She invited us to sit in the upholstered captain’s chairs across from her desk. Her office was chock-full of artistic touches, as befitted the director of an art museum. I noticed her taste seemed to run more toward the traditional than the post-modern, with several nineteenth-century prints and a collection of reproduction Fabergé eggs. Her attire was slightly old-fashioned as well. With her polyester skirt suit, pearl necklace, and short, flat-ironed black hair, she reminded me of a schoolteacher I’d once had.
“Rudy, my security chief, will join us shortly,” she said. “Attendance is a little higher than normal this evening because of the reception downstairs.”
“Thank you for taking the time to see us,” said Crenshaw. “I didn’t realize there was an event here tonight.”
“We have a weekly concert series featuring the university jazz band. Sometimes it coincides with various college events—tonight it’s a reception for a visiting professor from Italy. You should stop by. Perry Warren is down there. I saw him earlier.”
“Perry used to be the curator here, right?” I asked.
“One of them. For many years, he curated the European art exhibit. We have four permanent exhibits: African, Asian, European, and American Folk Art.” She smiled again. “As I always say, I’d like to cover the world, but we’d need a bigger building.”
“I prefer smaller museums,” said Crenshaw. “I always run out of time when I visit the Louvre.”
I decided to jump right in with the questions I wanted to ask. “Does the museum own all the artwork here? Or do you ever display items that are on loan?”
“We own the permanent exhibits, but we always have two or three temporary exhibits. They’re often on loan from other museums.”
“Do you ever display works from private collections?”
To my surprise, she seemed to bristle at the question. “All the major museums do,” she said. “The EAM is no exception.”
Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Keli hit on a touchy subject without realizing it.” To me, he said, “I’ll explain later.”
“Um, okay.” Crenshaw never could resist a chance to show me up. He probably wasn’t even aware of how obnoxious he was. I decided to ignore it and carry on. “What I really want to know is whether the museum has ever borrowed anything from the Turnbull collection. In particular, I came across something that indicated they may have lent the museum a painting by Edward Hopper.”
“Hopper?” She laughed as if the idea was preposterous. “Oh, my. I wish!”
“This would have been almost twenty years ago, I think. Maybe a little less.”
“Oh, well, I haven’t been here that long. We have records, of course, but it might take a while to locate the right one—especially without an exact date. You see, I’m short-staffed at the moment, and my archivist is on an extended medical leave.”
Crenshaw gave me an inquisitive look. “This reference you mentioned. Was it in the journal whose whereabouts are currently unknown?”
“You got it.”
“And you think this painting is important for some reason?”
“I do. I think.”
Mavis followed our exchange like a tennis fan. “You know, Perry would be the one to ask. He’s been a friend of the Turnbulls for ages. And he started working as a full-time advisor for the foundation, oh, probably eighteen to twenty years ago.”
“Yes. I should ask him.” I didn’t say that Elaine already had, to no avail.
“Speaking of the Turnbull collection,” said Mavis, “I’m sure you know the art world is chomping at the bit, just waiting for the auction gates to open, so to speak. Perry tells me the heiress likely won’t be coming forward.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Crenshaw. “Ms. Milanni here has a stellar reputation for bringing people in, as it were. We may meet the heiress yet.”
At that, I took a quick peek at my phone. Still no word from Wes. I was beginning to think his beginner’s luck had run out.
“Of course,” Crenshaw continued, “Miss Turnbull may very well wish to liquidate the estate—in which case everything will wind up on the auction block anyway.”
“Well, I hope it does. I would rather the art be sold at auction than through a private deal. It seems fairer that way.” Mavis smiled ruefully. “I’m biased, of course. It might be more beneficial to the estate if Perry can negotiate a private deal.”
“Mavis,” I said, “did you know Elaine Turnbull?”
“Oh, yes. We crossed paths many times. She was a lovely lady. I’ll be at the gala on Friday. Such a fitting tribute.” She glanced at the doorway. “Ah, here’s Rudy.”
Mavis introduced us to Rudy Canyon, the museum’s head of security. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion and a soft-spoken manner. Mavis stood up and walked around her desk. “Rudy, you can use my office to talk to Crenshaw. I need to put in an appearance at the reception. Keli, if Crenshaw doesn’t mind, you should come along with me. There are cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. It’s quite nice.”
“I’d love to.”
I left Crenshaw to discuss security matters with Rudy and walked with Mavis down to the courtyard. Strains of jazz mixed with muted conversation as guests mingled on the brick and grass terrace. Strings of lights hung from slender trees, giving the place a romantic ambiance.
“I hope I didn’t sound derisive of private collectors,” Mavis said, as she handed me a glass of wine from a passing waiter. “Many of them are our greatest patrons. We couldn’t survive without them.”
“It’s a whole new world to me,” I admitted. “I didn’t realize there’s such an important cadre of collectors right here in Edindale.”
“Oh, wealthy
people everywhere like to own rare, beautiful things. But yes, we are lucky to have such generous families here—like the Turnbulls, the Harrisons, and the Betzes.”
“What do you know about Suzanne Turnbull, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not much. I see her at community functions now and then. I know Perry was close to her husband, Jim. When Jim took over management of the family collections following his father’s death, he brought Perry on full-time. That’s when Perry left his job here. I believe he and Jim partnered up to expand the collection.”
“So, Suzanne isn’t involved with the foundation? And she’s not a patron herself?”
“Oh, no. I’m not sure she has the means herself. Not to tell tales, but it’s my understanding that Jim and Suzanne were never independently wealthy. Harold Turnbull didn’t believe in trust funds. That’s why Suzanne moved back in with Elaine after Jim passed away.”
Mavis beckoned a waiter to refresh my glass of wine, then excused herself to make the rounds. I stood on the edge of the crowd, not far from the jazz band. As I listened to the music and sipped my wine, I thought about Suzanne’s odd reaction whenever I’d brought up the family’s art collection. Maybe she was resentful because her father-in-law spent so much money on his artwork instead of providing a nest egg for his son. Or perhaps she really had no interest in it at all.
I gazed around the courtyard, wondering if I’d see any familiar faces. I didn’t recognize anyone, but my eyes did fall upon a striking figure near the bar. At first, he was surrounded by a group of people, but as soon as they dispersed, I got a good look at him: slim build; tailored, expensive-looking suit; smooth, almost glossy black hair; full lips set in a mildly cocky smirk. And the most eye-catching feature—a thick and trendy Garibaldi beard. He also wore mirrored sunglasses, which gave him a sheen of celebrity. If this was who I thought it was, it was obvious why Suzanne was smitten. Farrah would be, too.
As I studied the man, I gradually became aware that he hadn’t turned away in several seconds. Because of the sunglasses, I couldn’t see his eyes. Was it possible he was staring at me the whole time I was staring at him?
As if reading my mind, his smile broadened and he lifted his martini glass. I glanced quickly to the left and right, but there was no mistake. He was looking right at me. A slow blush warmed my face. When Perry walked by, I jumped at the excuse to turn away.
“Perry! Hi!”
“Hello, Keli. How nice to see you. Did you come here for that tour I promised you?”
“I’ll have to take a rain check on that. I’m just enjoying the music while I wait for Crenshaw.”
“I see. Well, better enjoy the nice weather, too, while we can. It will be cold before we know it.”
“Yeah. Say, Perry, who is that man over by the bar?”
He turned to look. “Do you mean the older gentleman in the bow tie? That’s Winston Betz.”
“No, I’m talking about the young guy with the beard.” I tried to spot him again, but he was gone. “I guess he left.”
“Ah, you must mean Xavier. He does stand out in a crowd.” For some reason, I thought Perry sounded slightly annoyed by this.
“Oh, right. The guy who called for you,” I said. “He’s a new collector in town, isn’t he? Is he interested in the Turnbull collection?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve been talking to him about just that.”
So, Suzanne was wrong. The question was, had she lied? Or was she really just oblivious to matters pertaining to the art collection her late husband had managed? Either way, I ought to find out more about Xavier Charleston. After all, he was one of the last guests to leave Elaine’s home the night she died.
At last, Crenshaw came over. He nodded at Perry. To me, he said, “Shall we go?”
I showed him my wineglass. “Don’t you want to have a drink? Listen to some music?”
He checked his watch. “I think I should get back to the manor and tell Celia to expect another guest for dinner. That is, assuming Farrah will be joining us for our evening meal?”
I cocked my head, ready to tease him for being so uptight. Then I shrugged. “That’s probably a good idea.”
We said good-bye to Perry, who said he’d be leaving shortly, and left the museum. The light was fading fast as we made our way across campus. Students and staff all seemed to be in a hurry, anxious to get inside before the sun disappeared entirely. The temperature was already starting to drop.
When we reached the visitor parking lot, Crenshaw strode up to his car, then froze, keys held aloft. “Do I have a flat?” he asked.
I ran to the rear of the car and saw exactly what I expected—two slashed tires.
I don’t know why it should have affected me so badly, but for some reason I started to shake uncontrollably. And I didn’t stop until Farrah arrived in answer to my call and shuffled me off to her apartment.
Chapter Eighteen
“I almost wish I didn’t have to go back there.” I clutched a mug of hot, black tea with both hands, as if it were a life preserver. “That place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“So, don’t go back,” said Farrah, ever the loyal friend. “Stay here tonight.”
“I can’t. I left Josie there!”
“We’ll go get her then, and your stuff, too.”
I sipped my tea and sank further into Farrah’s sofa. It was a tempting idea. I didn’t feel safe at the manor, and no one there was giving me a straight story.
On the other hand, no one’s tires had been slashed at the manor. And all the unsolved mysteries there were driving me crazy. I felt sure I could uncover the answers if only I kept looking.
My cell phone rang, and I snatched it up, hoping it would be Wes. Instead, it was Detective Rhinehardt, finally getting back to me. There was so much I wanted to tell him, the words burst out of me like water from a fire hose.
“Whoa, hold on a minute,” said Rhinehardt, when he could get a word in edgewise. “Did you say someone’s following you around, vandalizing your car, and watching you sleep?”
“Not my car—my friends’ cars. Someone is toying with me. And something’s going on at the manor. Weird sounds, lights, secrets. I don’t know if it’s related to the tire-slashing stalker, but there’s definitely something up at that place. And I really think Mrs. Turnbull was murdered!”
“Where are you right now, Keli?”
“I’m at Farrah’s place.”
“Don’t leave. I’ll be right there.”
True to his word, Rhinehardt arrived in less than ten minutes. That was one of the advantages of living in a small town—traffic rarely held people up. He declined Farrah’s offer of coffee, tea, or beer and got right to the point.
“Start from the beginning, nice and slow, and tell me everything.”
I told him everything—minus any witchy workings, of course. As soon as I finished, he made a call to the station to let them know about the thread connecting all the tire-slashing incidents—namely, me. Then he leaned forward and looked me directly in the eye.
“You’re a level-headed gal, Keli. I know you have good instincts—I’ve seen it time and again. Do you really think Elaine Turnbull was murdered?”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Yes. One hundred percent. I found one of her diaries—which, unfortunately, is now missing. But she mentioned feeling unsafe. I don’t think she trusted the people around her.”
He leaned back and bit his lip, a rare display of emotion for the stoic officer. “We’re going to have an uphill battle proving it. We’ve got no murder weapon, no obvious motive, no body—anymore—and a houseful of people with alibis.”
“A houseful of people who are lying,” interjected Farrah.
“Crenshaw told me a little about the alibis,” I said. “Do you mind going over them with me?”
Rhinehardt looked from me to Farrah and then down at his notebook. “Well,” he finally said, “there’s not technically an open investigation. So, I suppose there’s no harm. To be hone
st, I’d like a reason to dig further. Maybe you can help.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” said Farrah.
I almost giggled at that, more from sheer nerves than anything else. Rhinehardt only raised his eyebrows a smidge. He rifled through his notebook until he found the page he was looking for.
“On the evening of Saturday, September first, beginning at six-thirty or so, twelve people gathered for dinner at Turnbull Manor. Eight were outside guests and four were residents of the manor: Elaine Turnbull, Suzanne Turnbull, Perry Warren, and Ray Amberly.”
“Ray is the nurse, right?” interrupted Farrah.
“More like a companion,” said Rhinehardt.
“Who were the outside guests?” I asked.
“Let’s see. Winston Betz was there. And there were three couples: a Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster—they’re trustees of the museum; Mavis Rawlins, the museum director, and her husband, William; and Bruce Stevens and Mary Chaser, an unmarried couple.”
“I know Bruce,” I commented. “Or Wes does, anyway. He owns a gallery that promotes local photographers.”
“That’s right. In fact, all three couples, as well as another of the guests, Xavier Charleston, went to an opening at the gallery right after dinner.”
“Twelve people for dinner,” I murmured. “That would have been a tight fit around the table.”
“Actually, make that thirteen,” said Rhinehardt, checking his notebook. “I forgot that Elaine had invited her groundskeeper to join them for some reason. Ernesto Cruz. I think she was trying to help him out by introducing him to some of the other guests. However, he left early to meet a couple friends at a local bar. The friends vouched for him.”
“Of course, they did,” said Farrah. “That’s what friends do. What about the bartender or any other patrons? Can anyone else provide an alibi besides the friends?” She hopped up and began pacing her living room.
The detective wrinkled his brow. “I haven’t got that far.”
“There was a catering company there too, wasn’t there?” I asked, as I reached for my purse. I’d belatedly realized I ought to be taking notes. I found a pen and paper and jotted down the guests’ names.
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