Art's Blood (39 page)

“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.”

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 brother? 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.

She started at the top, in her small herb and salad garden, tidy with its rectangular box beds. The dew had dried on the herbs and she began by trimming the golden oregano, the sage, the marjoram, and thyme. These would be tied into small bundles to hang in a darkened upstairs room to dry. The beds where the fall lettuce was growing showed a light dusting of green— tiny weeds waiting for her to turn her back so that they could overpower the lettuce.
Oh, no you don’t,
she thought and turned to get her light hoe, which she had left hanging from the latticework of the little arbor a few days back.

The arbor was almost hidden by an exuberant display of hyacinth beans: big green leaves that showed a tint of violet veins in the sunlight, lavender blossoms, and long, heavy-podded, glossy purple beans. She fumbled through the lush growth and discovered that the hoe’s handle was wrapped about with the quick-growing tendrils of the prolific vine.

Here in early fall it seemed that nature’s bounty was rampant. At any time a frost could destroy most of the garden, but till then each plant seemed hell-bent on producing and reproducing. Below the herb garden in the long rock-walled tiers were pumpkins gleaming yellow, orange, and red amid cascading vines, cucumbers sprawling fatly on their trellises, and a block of Indian corn, drying where it stood. Volunteer Thai basil with its compelling, almost fetid, odor ran amok amid the old broccoli plants, which, though their heavy green crowns had long since been cut, were sending out myriad side shoots.

Elizabeth picked and hoed and trimmed till, weary with the heavy heat of the day, she sought the shade. From her perch on a big rock under a willow tree, she surveyed the garden, mentally assessing how much was left to be done.
Trim back the asparagus ferns and strawberry runners; pick the rest of the basil and Italian parsley to make pesto; get the last of the sweet corn.
Beautiful and productive though it all was, somewhere a part of her longed for frost and the end of garden work for a few months.

Above the late-bearing golden raspberries, two swallow-tailed butterflies, one black, one yellow, were spiraling around each other. Their once beautiful wings were ragged and dull— the price of survival through summer’s perils and pleasures. The pair seemed unaware of their fragile state. Up and up they fluttered— mating? fighting? playing? It was difficult to say.

Elizabeth watched in openmouthed absorption— her busy thoughts almost silenced. Almost, but not quite.
I have a real feeling that’s a metaphor for something or other but I’m not going to go there. They’re just two butterflies. I will
not
bring my English major’s sensibilities into this.

Time for lunch. She stood, stretched, and tried not to think of Phillip Hawkins and herself as she climbed the hill back to the house.

T
HE HEAT WAS EVEN MORE OPPRESSIVE AFTER
lunch— the sullen, dead air that often precedes a storm. Elizabeth showered and spent a little time catching up with bills and correspondence. Then, remembering that she was almost out of dog food, she made a quick list and set out for the grocery store.

Birdie was sweeping her front porch as Elizabeth went by, and they exchanged friendly waves.
I need to go for a visit soon; who knows…if Lily Gordon could die so suddenly…and Birdie’s in her eighties…

She neared the bridge and glanced over at the little green house where Franklin Ferman lived. A pale blue Fairlane was parked in the drive and a small but vigorous-looking woman was pegging out wet garments on the clotheslines that stretched across the porch. She waved cheerfully when she saw Elizabeth’s car and then disappeared back into the little house.

All right! Dorothy’s on the case! She’ll clean up that place, even if she does talk his ears off.
Elizabeth grinned to think of the solitary old man in the company of the energetic and loquacious Dorothy.
Maybe he’ll hide in Loretty’s roomtill Dorothy finishes. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to strip him down and scrub him along with the kitchen floor.

The thought of Loretty’s quilts reminded her that she needed to stop by the library and decide where the quilts would be hung. She had collected two dozen so far and was not sure if there would be space to hang them all.
If I have to show some folded and laid on tables, I’ll do that. It’s going to be so gorgeous to see them all displayed.