Claws for Alarm (7 page)

Nick regarded her with a cool stare, then minced over to the braided rug in front of Lacey's vanity and stretched out both forepaws, bottom in the air. He turned around twice and then plopped down, lifted his hind leg, and began grooming his privates.

Jenna burst out laughing. “He sure ain't shy.” She dragged her gaze back to me. “Anyway, like I was sayin', it'll take a miracle to help your sister, or isn't it true she's been charged with first-degree murder?”

I nodded. “Yes, it's true. She was arraigned this morning.”

“They didn't waste much time.” Jenna pushed past me into the room, walked over to the dresser, and picked up the bottle of perfume. She sprayed it into the air, then leaned forward
to catch the droplets on her skin as they fell. “I feel bad for her,” Jenna said. She walked around the room, her eyes darting to and fro, taking in every detail. “Don't get me wrong—I don't condone murder—but if anyone had it coming, Pitt did.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, even though we were quite alone. “He wasn't a very nice man.”

“Really? All the accounts I've read paint him as a wonderful humanitarian.”

Her brow arched. “You believe everything you read? That's all hype. Publicity.” She waved her hand. “Just ask anyone who took his class. He was a class A creep.”

“You sound as if you've had personal experience with him. Did you take any of his classes?”

“A few.” She nodded. “But I dropped out to pursue my real interest, sculpture. I've got loads of friends who have taken his classes, though, and trust me, none of them had a good word to say. None ever actually threatened him, though, until your sister did. I happened to be waiting for a friend in the hall outside that classroom. The door was partially open, and I heard every word, along with about a dozen other people.” I noted her gaze never met mine but rather focused on Lacey's open closet, almost as if she were taking a mental inventory. “I took a peek inside. Your sister was all red in the face, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs. I'm surprised they didn't hear her in China.”

I moved closer, intrigued by the fact Jenna was apparently a witness to Lacey's impassioned declaration. “And Pitt? How did he react to all this? It sounds pretty shocking, to say the least.”

Jenna shrugged. She'd moved over to the desk and stood, absently pulling drawers open, glancing inside, then shutting
them. I was just about to point out the rudeness of her actions when she turned to me and said, “It's not like any student never had a meltdown in one of his classes before. He just stood there with a sour expression until she was done screaming, and then he picked up the rest of the portfolios and started handing 'em out, calm as you please. I don't know what happened after that. My friend showed up so I left.” She picked up a snow globe from the desk, shook it absently, and then set it down, letting her fingers trail over the other items on the smooth surface. “I happened to be outside Pitt's office just last week—my professor's office is on the same floor—and his door was partially open. I don't know who he was talking to, but was he mad! I was sure glad I wasn't on the receiving end of that call.”

“Wow,” I said. “Was it another student?”

She shrugged. “Could have been. I really couldn't tell. I didn't want to be nosy.”

“Of course,” I murmured. “By the way, do you know Kurt Wilson?”

Her head snapped up. “Who?”

“Kurt Wilson. He's supposed to run a local gallery that showcases students' works.”

The puzzled expression cleared somewhat, and she nodded. “Oh yeah, him. Let me think. I might have seen him once or twice at a distance. But I don't believe I ever actually
met
him. My sculptures were never considered for display. Although, come to think of it, I'm not sure he ever actually met any of those students, either.”

“That seems a bit odd. Who did he make the deals through? Pitt?”

“Probably. Or maybe directly through the office. Like I
said, I was never selected, so to be honest, I've never even gone near the place.” She shrugged and glanced at her watch, then plucked at the sleeve of her sweatsuit. “Sorry, but I've got to go. I have a sculpture class in an hour, and I can't be late. I've got Professor Grant; she's just as tough as Pitt used to be, and her pet peeve is tardiness.”

She flounced out with a wave and a smile, and once her footsteps had disappeared down the hall I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “She was lying,” I murmured. “About that argument. I don't think she overheard anyone else. I think it was her. She just didn't want to admit it. I think she came here to snoop around.” I nudged Nick with the toe of my shoe. “What do you think?”

Nick blinked twice.

I nodded. “Yep, I feel the same way. Well, one good thing. Now we know for certain there were quite a few others who didn't have Pitt at the top of their hit parade. If I want to clear Lacey, I'm going to have to get into the nitty-gritty of PI work and get some answers on my own.” I reached in my pocket, whipped out my cell, and punched in a number.

“Hey, Ollie,” I said when the PI answered. “Remember when you said you'd be glad to help me? Well, I could sure use your advice. It's been a while since I've done this.

“I need to go undercover.”

T
he naked guy climbed down from the rounded platform, plucked up a fluffy terrycloth robe, and headed for a table in the far corner of the large room on which a large coffee urn and a huge platter of donuts rested.

“Take ten, everyone,” the tall, gray-haired woman standing in the front of the room said. Her gaze drifted to the doorway where I stood and then back to the ten students now milling around the refreshment table. She thrust her hands into the pocket of the blue smock she wore over her dress and walked over to me. “I am Professor Wilhelmina Pace. And you are—”

“Abigail St. Clair.” I extended my hand to the woman. She stared at it, then removed hers from the smock and gripped mine tightly. I winced as I extracted my hand from her iron grip. “I'm a potential student. I've always liked to
dabble with drawing and painting, and this school was very highly recommended.”

“Dabble, eh?” Professor Pace raised one eyebrow. “Being a successful artist requires a bit more than dabbling. It requires concentration, dedication.”

I swallowed. “Exactly. I'd like to learn, and, as my dear, departed grandmother used to say, ‘Why not learn from the best?'”

She actually laughed. “Your grandmother sounds very wise. It's true, and you couldn't have chosen a finer school. The Pitt Institute is one of the premier art institutes in the state of California.” Her gaze drifted back toward the refreshment table. The handsome model was chatting with several of the female students, a donut clutched in one hand. “Taft,” she called out. “Watch the sweets.” She rubbed at her stomach area with one hand. Taft's gaze narrowed and he deliberately turned his back.

Professor Pace turned to me and whispered, “A handsome boy but headstrong! We don't like our models to be sticks, but we don't like them too zaftig, either. We like them proportioned.” She made an outline of an hourglass figure with her hands.

I shifted the brochures and folder the woman in the admissions office had thrust upon me and nodded toward the group. “He looks like a model. He's so handsome. Is he a student as well?”

She cast another wary glance his way, and I saw a muscle clench in her jaw. “He has a certain talent. I'm not certain I'd refer to it as art.” Her cell phone rang just then, and she reached into her pocket for it, moving a few steps away from
me. She flipped it open, listened for a few minutes, then called out, “Ten more minutes. Then we will begin again.”

She moved out into the hall, speaking earnestly into her phone, and the students began to slowly drift back toward their easels. All, I noted, save Taft, who'd plucked another donut from the tray, this one a Boston crème, and lounged against the back wall, chewing and staring out into space. I shifted my gaze to the window just beyond the table and sucked in my breath. Nick was perched on the outside sill, and his paw moved impatiently back and forth against the glass, as if beckoning me to come closer to where Taft Michaels stood.

My brainstorm session with Ollie paid off big-time. Since visiting the school as myself was out of the question (I mean, they'd arrested my sister for the founder's murder. Who would tell me anything?), Ollie suggested I pose as a prospective—and wealthy—student interested in the pursuit of art. It was a plan I wasn't totally averse to. I'd played out lots of similar scenarios back in the day in Chicago, with not half-bad results, if I had to say so myself, and I'd mentally slapped myself more than once that I hadn't thought of doing this first. Ollie even went on the Internet and looked up the names of several wealthy heiresses in the California area who might be so inclined to pursue such a project. Abigail St. Clair was the closest to my age, and while upon a close inspection we probably wouldn't pass for twins, we both had the same build and coloring. I'd picked up a burner phone at Wal-Mart, and I gave that number as my contact information. With any degree of luck, they wouldn't do any in-depth checking and find out that the real Abigail St. Clair was incommunicado this week, having gone off to some
retreat in Switzerland. I had my fingers crossed that they wouldn't start any sort of thorough background check until I actually agreed to sign up, and that I might actually learn something useful today.

I moved over to the table and selected a chocolate donut. Taft turned as I approached and gave me the benefit of a full grill smile that revealed a set of perfect white teeth with dimples at either corner of his lips. I decided his Facebook picture didn't do him justice. He was even more strikingly handsome in person, with or without clothes.

“Well, hello,” he said, letting his sea blue eyes rove over me in a none-too-subtle once-over. “You're a new face.”

I gave him my best rich heiress haughty smile. “Actually, this is the face I've always had.”

He laughed. “Touché. What I meant was, you're a new face here. Let's see. You're a bit too well dressed to be a student, and Pace is falling all over herself with you, which means the front office told her to play nice, so that can mean only one thing . . . You've got money, am I right?” He wagged his finger in the air.

I extended my hand. “Abigail St. Clair. And yes, you could say I've got a bit of money. I'm thinking of spending some to study art here.”

“Abigail St. Clair. Your name oozes wealth,” he chuckled. “So you want to study art, huh? What's the matter, bored with the society set?”

I lifted my chin. “Not at all. It's just something I've always wanted to do, so I decided, why not?”

“Why not indeed?” He looked me up and down once more and then thrust his hand forward. “I'm Taft Michaels. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” I returned his smile, certain his renewed interest was more in Abigail's bank account than anything else. “So, what can you tell me about the school? Besides the obvious fact it's one of the best in the country.”

“And one of the toughest. We've got an eighty percent dropout rate.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. The professors are all good—top-of-the-line—but they're tough, just as tough as the founder of this school. Thaddeus Pitt was a notorious perfectionist.”

“Was? Has he changed?”

He stared at me. “You haven't heard? Wow. You must be one of the few people on the planet who don't know.” He leaned in closer and dropped his voice. “Pitt was murdered a couple of days ago. Killed right here in the school—in his own office.” He made a jabbing motion with his hand to his chest. “Stabbed right through the heart by one of his own students, no less.”

I put my hand up against my mouth, gasped, and widened my eyes, hoping I'd conveyed a proper amount of shock. “Really? How awful?”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “Pitt had a way of pushing people's buttons, driving them beyond their limits.” He leaned in closer. “Trust me. There aren't too many shedding tears over his demise, teachers or students.” He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder toward the doorway, then snagged another donut from the tray, this one a cinnamon glaze, and wolfed it down in three bites. He brushed crumbs from the edge of his lip and tossed me an apologetic glance. “Sorry. I skipped breakfast, and with my schedule today, lunch is a remote possibility at best.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Murder is so—so drastic, though. Are they absolutely certain this girl did it?”

“Let's put it this way. She threatened to kill him in class, and a few hours later, he turns up dead. Not only that, they caught her standing over the body with the murder weapon. Not too bright. If it had been me, I'd have chosen a much more subtle method.” He scrunched up his lips in an expression of distaste. “Stabbing's so messy. I'd have used poison. You'd be surprised how many poisons there are that don't show up in an autopsy, you know, that make it seem like a heart attack. Take arsenic, for instance. It causes severe gastric distress, vomiting, and diarrhea with blood. If you give the victim a big enough dose, the autopsy will only find an inflamed stomach—maybe a trace of arsenic in the digestive tract, but that's not the norm. If it's given out over time you can only find it in the victim's hair, nails, or urine, if one would think to check. It's classic, really.

“Then there's succinylcholine. That's one not normally tested for in toxicology screens. It's a strong muscle relaxant that paralyzes the respiratory muscles. An autopsy would show the victim died of a heart attack.

“And let's not forget aconite, the ‘Queen of Poisons.' It can be detected only by sophisticated toxicology analysis using equipment that's not always available to local forensic labs. The perfect poison for murder, according to experts.”

I swallowed. “If you don't mind me saying so, you seem particularly well versed on the subject.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he gave me a slow, lazy smile. “What can I say? People talk about different things, and I listen. I'm like a sponge.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Hey, enough of that doom and gloom, right?
After the next set I've got a pretty long break. If you'd like, I could take you down to the exhibition hall and show you around.”

“That's very kind of you, but I'd hate to be a bother.”

“No bother at all.” He gave me a saucy wink. “It'd be my pleasure.”

“I'll think about it,” I said. “By the way, I understand there's a local gallery that sometimes showcases the works of the students.”

He nodded. “Yep. The Wilson Galleries. Nice place.”

“You've been there?”

He chuckled. “Once or twice.”

“Ever meet the owner?”

Taft's eyes narrowed at my question, but he was spared from answering as Professor Pace reentered the studio, her sharp gaze focusing on Taft and me huddled together near the refreshment table. She clapped her hands together and boomed out, “Okay, break's over. Time to resume.” She tossed a pointed look our way. “That includes you, Taft.”

He reached out and his fingers closed over mine, gave them a quick squeeze. “The Dragon Lady speaketh. Listen, I'll be here another hour. Stop back, if you're interested, and I'll give you that tour.”

He ambled back to the platform, doffed his robe, and leaned on the stool, posing in all his naked glory. He did have a ripping bod, but there was just something about him that seemed off, aside from his unnatural fascination with poison. I tamped down a shudder, set my coffee cup on the table, and hurried out of the studio. As far as I was concerned, Taft Michaels bore a further look, but right now I was more interested in seeing the inside of Pitt's office.

As Ollie so succinctly put it, “Nothing can give up a clue like the actual scene of the crime.” I hurried down the corridor and paused, trying to get my bearings. The door to my left was half open, and the placard off to the left read in big, bold letters:
PROFESSOR ARMAND FOXWORTHY—PORTRAITS AND SCULPTURE
. I glanced casually inside. Six students were grouped around easels, listening to a man I assumed to be said professor speak in the front of the class. Foxworthy was a middle-aged man trying to appear about twenty years younger. He wore his graying hair long and clipped in a ponytail down his back, secured by an expensive-looking black onyx clip. He was bare chested beneath a brown jacket that looked as if it had seen far, far better days. His jeans were well worn and had holes at the knees. A pair of heavily tinted wire-rimmed glasses were pushed up on his beak-shaped nose, masking his eye area. I wondered how he could see, because the lighting in the room wasn't the best. I glanced over at the far wall, which consisted of two long shelves holding various pieces of sculpture and several paintings hanging next to the shelves: all of naked women, or rather, all of
the same
naked woman.

And then, suddenly, she was there, standing right in the room. She'd entered through a door in the back, wearing the same white robe as Taft Michaels had. She lazily ascended the platform to the right and shrugged off the robe. There she stood under the spotlight in nothing but her birthday suit, and there was no hint, no expression, no indication of self-consciousness whatsoever. Although if I'd had a body half as good as hers, I might not be averse to showing it off, either. Her body was firm, her muscles were taut, her breasts high and in proportion to her frame. She was tall—my
height, maybe an inch taller—and she had long, coltish legs that seemed to go on forever.

I raised my eyes to her face and was struck by her classically beautiful features: wide, beautiful blue eyes; lips full and fleshy, arranged in a sexy pout; thick dark hair that cascaded across her slim shoulders and down her back like a waterfall. A niggling sense of familiarity struck me as I stared at her. I was certain I'd seen this girl before, but just where eluded me.

Possibly if she'd been clothed, I might have remembered.

I started to turn away when I saw a familiar figure enter the studio through a side door. Jenna Whitt. She marched right over to Foxworthy, whispered something in his ear. His lips tugged downward, as if he weren't pleased. Then he got up and followed her out the back door. But that wasn't the only interesting thing. The model onstage had turned her head slightly and was watching their every move. It was curious, but right now I had bigger fish to fry. I turned and started down the long hall. A young girl, portfolio tucked under one arm, passed me, and I reached out, touched her on the arm.