Bad Reputation, A (10 page)

“Come sit down, Flora. We'll find out who did this.”

Her voice caught on her sobs. “I thought it would be me. These were Wendall's friends. I know they weren't happy with him, but he knew them. He went to school with them. I'm the stranger. Why didn't they kill me instead?”

I led her into the living room, and we sat down together on the sofa. “We're not certain it was someone who knew Wendall.” Although I thought the odds were good it was.

The chief got out a notepad. “When did your husband leave the house this evening, Mrs. Clarke?”

“A little after eight.”

“Did he say where he was going? Was he meeting someone?”

“He said he was going to the gallery, that's all. He usually likes me to go with him, but he said I didn't need to come this time, and he'd be right back.” When she realized Wendall would never be right back, she collapsed into tears.

The chief waited until she was able to speak again, his small blue eyes showing sympathy. “What happened after the meeting this afternoon? Did anyone say anything to him that you might have perceived as a threat?”

“N-no, they were all making appointments with Sasha, and they seemed glad to do it.”

“I have to ask where you've been all evening.”

She gulped back more tears. “I've been here by myself. You have to believe I would never hurt my husband.”

“It's a question I have to ask.”

“There's no one who can vouch for me. I haven't got a single friend in this town. Madeline's the only one who's been kind to me. Madeline.” She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “I want you to find out who killed Wendall.”

I could tell the chief wasn't happy. “The police will handle this investigation, Mrs. Clarke.”

“I want all the help I can possibly get. I can afford it. Madeline, will you take the job?”

I ignored the chief's glare. “Of course.”

He tried to talk Flora out of it, but she stayed firm. Finally he agreed as long as I promised not to get in the way. Flora wanted to see Wendall, and Jerry and I went along to support her. Afterward, I asked if there was a relative or friend she could call who could stay with her, or if she'd care to come to my house for the night.

She caught both my hands in hers. “I'll be fine, Madeline, thank you so much. I'm going to call my sister. She lives near Parkland and can be here in about twenty minutes.”

“I'll be glad to stay with you until she gets here.”

“No, no. You've done more than enough for me. I'll talk with you tomorrow. I want to be alone for a little while.”

***

“Well,” Jerry said as we got into the car, “what was that about not enough work for you in Celosia?”

“I'd better be careful what I wish for.” My hands began to tremble, and Jerry took the keys.

“Let me drive.”

We switched places, and I sat back into the passenger's seat and fumbled with my belt. “It's like Nell said, Wendall was big and full of life, and for someone to murder him like that…” I didn't know what else to say. I finally got my seat belt fastened, and we started for home.

Jerry gave me a few minutes. “So what do you think, Mac?”

Time to think like an investigator. Don't think about Wendall's lifeless body. Think about how you can solve this. “The wood is from Bea Ricter's frames, but Wendall was a tall man, and Bea's very short. She would've had to jump up to hit him on the forehead. Same thing with Flora. But Larissa's tall enough and angry enough to have done it.”

“He just stood there and let her do it?”

“I suppose if she took him by surprise, and he didn't see it coming.”

“What about Flora?”

“You heard her. She doesn't have an alibi, and she knew Wendall was going to the gallery. Wendall left for the gallery around eight o'clock and told Flora he'd be right back. Nell met us there at eight-thirty, right before we found him, so whoever killed him worked quickly.”

“My money's on Larissa, then. Motive and opportunity and her car at the scene of the crime.”

“I'll talk to her tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” Jerry said. “Even when she's not a suspect, she looks capable of murder.”

But since opening my agency, I'd found out anyone was
capable
of murder. It was the people who actually went through with their plans you had to stop, and that's what I was determined to do.

Chapter Eleven

I didn't sleep very well. I dreamed I saw Wendall lying at the gallery door and all the members of the Art Guild stood around his body, laughing and pointing. Then they pointed at each other, exclaiming, “You did it! You did it!” until the chorus of shrill voices woke me. I shivered and snuggled closer to Jerry, who made his half-asleep grumbling sound and put his arm around me. The dream slid into a pageant where Honor Perkins was crowned Queen of the Con Artists, and I snatched the crown off her head and ran so fast she couldn't catch me. Satisfied, I managed a few more hours' rest before morning.

At breakfast, I thanked Jerry for holding off on another verse of “Camp Lakenwood.”

He handed me my coffee. “From all that thrashing around last night, I didn't figure you'd be in the mood.”

“Thrashing's all done. I'm ready to get started on this case.”

Cast members of
Oklahoma
called Jerry and asked if he could meet them at the theater to work on their songs. He also had a job interview today, but said he could catch a ride to Southern Foods, so I dropped him off at the Baker Auditorium. Before going to Larissa's, I stopped by the crime scene. The gallery was closed, encircled with yellow police tape. I knew the police would've gone over the backyard and gathered every scrap of evidence, but I wanted to have a look for myself.

There were large footprints in the dirt and the sparse grass was flattened where Wendall's body had fallen. The trash bags were still where Nell had left them. I could see the prints of her shoes and mine and Jerry's and some other prints that may or may not have been Larissa's. The rest of the yard was grass out to a fence of faded boards. This yard was bare. I figured any stray pieces of trash had been picked up by the crime scene team.

I didn't want to cross the police tape at the gallery's back door, so I walked around to the other side of the fence. A small parking lot backed up to the rear entrances of a shoe store and a gift shop. Beside piles of cardboard boxes there were large plastic trash cans and a few broken and discarded display racks. The trash cans were empty. The murderer could have easily parked his or her car in this lot, gone around the fence, killed Wendall, and driven away. But how did the murderer know Wendall would come to the back of the gallery around eight o'clock—unless he or she called him?

I went into the gift shop and asked the owner if she had seen any strange cars in the back lot yesterday evening.

“There was just one,” she said. “I left a little after six yesterday, and there was my car and Jan's and a dark blue Honda. I figured it was someone at the gallery.”

“Jan runs the shoe store?”

“Yes, Jan and I usually walk out together. Celosia's pretty safe, but no sense taking any chances. It's kind of isolated back there. And just this morning I heard that somebody attacked Wendall Clarke on the other side of the fence. That doesn't make me feel very good.”

“You're right to be cautious. Did you see anyone get in the Honda?”

“No.”

“Had you noticed any strange cars this week?”

She thought for a few moments. “I guess that was the only one. Some people asked us if they could park there yesterday afternoon when they had that big meeting at the gallery. Of course we said yes. But when Jan and I are gone, anybody could come around and park there.”

I thanked her for her help and started out when something caught my eye. On the counter next to the cash register was a glass dish filled with odds and ends, a pair of sunglasses, a key ring, some small toys, a child's sock, and a gold button.

“Is this your lost and found department?” I asked.

“Yes, I find things everywhere.”

“I lost a button just like this off my jacket. Do you mind if I take it and see if it's the same one?”

She handed the button to me. “No problem. I found it out back yesterday when I left.”

“Thank you very much.” I put the button in my pocket. It wasn't off my jacket, but I bet any amount of money it was off Flora's fancy pink suit jacket. And why would she be wandering around a back parking lot? And who was driving the dark blue Honda?

***

Larissa Norton's house was almost as elegant as Wendall Clarke's in River Ridge, but Larissa's was located on a quiet shady street closer to town.

She did not want to speak to me. She stood in her front doorway, arms folded. At first, I thought her arms were gripped tight out of anger. A closer look revealed she was trying to keep from shaking.

“I don't know why you're here, Madeline.”

“Nell and I saw you leave the gallery last night. I want to hear your side of the story.”

“No, you don't. Like everyone else in this town, you think I killed Wendall.”

I didn't miss that her voice caught on his name. “Did you?”

I thought her face couldn't get any stonier, but it did. “You can't talk to me like this! You have no idea what it's like. Why are you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?”

“Believe it or not, I want to help you.” She made a disbelieving sound. “Do you want to go to jail? Do you want to be accused of killing your ex-husband and spend the rest of your life in jail, or possibly get the death penalty?”

“No!”

“Then if you didn't kill Wendall, why not tell me exactly what happened?” She didn't answer, and for a moment, I thought she was going to go back into her house. “Larissa, I didn't grow up in Celosia. I didn't go to Celosia High. I don't have any preconceived notions about you or your relationship with Wendall. I've been hired to find out who murdered him, and if you have information that will help bring that person to justice, then why not tell me?”

She stared at me as if I didn't understand what had happened. “He's dead, Madeline. Wendall's dead! You don't know what that means.”

“That's why I'm talking to you. I want to know what it means. You're obviously very upset, and I sympathize. At one time, he was your husband. You must have loved him very much.”

She took a deep breath and calmed down. “Yes. Yes, I did. At one time.”

“Then would you please help me find his killer?”

She still kept her arms folded tight. “Wendall called me and said he wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“I don't know! I found him lying on the ground.”

“Did he specifically want to meet you in the back of the gallery?”

“He said come around to the back. He wanted to talk in private. You'd better believe I wanted to talk to him! I wanted to know the real reason he decided to come back to Celosia. Opening an art gallery was a flimsy excuse. He could have his gallery anywhere. He had to know how much it would hurt me to see him with Flora. I couldn't believe he hated me so.” She shuddered. “I could tell he was dead. I couldn't comprehend that. I suppose I was in shock. I didn't want to be there with him. That must have been when you saw me leave.”

“Did you see anyone else? Another car? Did you hear anything?”

“No, all I wanted to do was get away. And of course the police found my fingerprints on that piece of wood. I'd taken those stupid pictures apart.”

“Bea Ricter's pictures? When was this?”

“Earlier that day. After the meeting, four-thirty, maybe. Do you know she had the nerve to approach me at the afternoon meeting and ask me what I thought about Wendall's new wife? You heard how she was in the meeting. So when everyone was gone, I accidentally on purpose knocked over the stack of junk she'd hauled into the gallery and broke her frames.”

“You destroyed another artist's work.”

“You can't call Bea Ricter an artist. She's an idiot. She doesn't deserve to have anything in any gallery.”

“You're mad at the whole world, aren't you?”

She took another breath. “I suppose it looks that way.”

“I know you probably won't believe me,” I said, “but my first husband and I went through some rocky times before we decided to call it quits. It wasn't easy, and I still wonder about what I did wrong. But you can't let this eat you up.”

She gave me a curious look. “You've been divorced?”

“Yes.”

“Someone left you? I find that hard to believe.”

“Bill decided to marry someone else.”

“Quietly? Discreetly?”

“Yes. We came to an amicable agreement.”

“At least your husband didn't have the gall to flaunt his new relationship. I found out the hard way.” She held out her hands. “I'd always been ashamed of my large hands. But they were perfect for reaching difficult chords and playing intricate runs, so I told myself to stop being foolish about them.” Suddenly, words rushed out. “Then one day, I found a box in Wendall's desk. Inside was the most beautiful pair of white lace gloves. For several wonderful moments, I thought they were a surprise gift for me, until I realized they were too small for these ugly fingers of mine. That started my suspicions. Why would he buy lace gloves? He didn't have any young nieces or cousins to give them to. So that night, I followed him. He drove to another part of town and a young blonde came out of her house and got in his car.” She paused and tightened her lips as if holding back a curse or possibly a sob. “I followed them to a motel. I didn't need to see anything else. The next day I confronted him. He confessed to the affair. I divorced him as fast as I could and took him for every penny I was entitled to. But I didn't really want his money. It was never about his money.”

“Did you know who Flora was?”

“I'd never seen her before. I found out who she was, and I let her husband know what she was doing. She was married to Stan Bailey then, and he acted as if he didn't care what she did. He wanted to get rid of her. He knew what kind of woman she was.” She fixed me with anguished eyes. “I hated Wendall for cheating on me. I hated him for bringing that woman to town and parading her around like some sort of prize. I hated him for setting up that gallery and making everyone love him. But I didn't kill him. Yes, I panicked and I ran, but only because I knew what would happen. I knew I'd be accused of his murder.”

“And it happened anyway.”

“Somebody knew they could get away with murder because I'd be the perfect suspect, the scorned ex-wife with a grudge.”

But somebody else might have a grudge, I thought.

***

Bea's house was huddled in the woods outside of town, a small dreary structure incongruously shaped like a Swiss chalet. Her car was a sad-looking gray Volkswagen Beetle. Pieces of wood lay scattered on the front yard and stacked in heaps beside the house. Bea also had a herd of fake deer and a wishing well. One interesting feature was that the well and all the bushes were circled with bricks. I took a closer look. Most of the bricks were wedged in the dirt. I could tell they hadn't been moved in a long time. But in a row of bricks surrounding a boxwood it looked as if one brick had been removed and the others rearranged to fill the hole. The bricks were old with smooth edges. I'd have to ask Chief Brenner if I could have a look at the brick that had smashed the gallery window.

Something sparkled from a pile of leaves. I reached down and picked up a plastic bag filled with bits of silver. I shook a few out into my hand. The pieces were little ornate circles, the kind of spacers used in making bracelets and necklaces. Did Bea make jewelry, too? I put the bag in my pocket and went up the few steps to the house. A jumble of wind chimes on the porch made it hazardous to reach the front door. Bea opened the door on my first knock. She glared at me suspiciously.

“What do you want?” She stepped out on the narrow porch and shut the door behind her. “You get off my property right now.”

“Okay,” I said. “I was just admiring all your bricks.”

Bea's little eyes darted for just a second to the bricks lining her bushes. “And what the hell's so special about my bricks?”

“I think one of them smashed the gallery window.”

“And you think I threw it?”

“Possibly the same person took their anger a step further and killed Wendall. Whoever it was used a piece of one of your picture frames.”

She was so furious, I thought she might pick up a piece of wood and smack me. “You've got two seconds to explain what you're talking about.”

“Imagine for a minute, if you can, that I'm on your side. Tell me why it wasn't you.”

She hadn't expected that and took a moment to readjust her thinking. “Chief Brenner's already talked to me. I came by the gallery and left some of my work for that Sasha woman to see. I can't help it if a crazy person tore up the frame and killed Wendall Clarke.”

“But you were angry with him.”

“Damn right! Everybody in town's angry with him.”

“Even though he built this wonderful gallery and was giving everyone an opportunity to show their work?”

“By hiring some woman from Parkland who isn't even an American? Sasha? All that about making an appointment and everyone would have a turn? That's just bull. That was just his way of trying to smooth things over.”

I guess Bea thought Sasha was Russian. Following that line of reasoning, I'd be French. “You made an appointment, didn't you? If you thought you didn't have a chance, why bother?”

Bea fixed me with her fierce little eyes. “I was willing to play Wendall's game. So why would I kill him? As much as I hated it, he was going to give me that show. I was going to make it happen. But I wasn't going to murder anybody.”

“When did you drop off your work?”

“I brought it with me to the afternoon meeting. Sasha said she'd get back to me. Where is she, by the way? Did she go back to Parkland? Maybe she did it. Maybe she wanted the gallery for herself.”

I doubted that Sasha Gregory wanted the Celosia Gallery when she could return to the more prestigious gallery in Parkland. “I'll ask her.”