Dove in the Window (15 page)

“Um-hm,” Emory said. “While you stew, I think I see a slackening in the action around my own fair lady. We’ll compare notes later.” He patted my back and maneuvered through the crowd toward an unsuspecting Elvia with the same determination I’d seen in bulls heading toward unsuspecting heifers.

Tired of the noise and warring smells of women’s perfumes, I slipped through a back doorway to the small room behind the gallery where Roland kept his true working office as well as paintings and sculptures waiting to be unwrapped, logged in, and priced. I wandered around, looking at the labels on the boxes, trying to kill time before going back into the crowd. I flipped through some matted but unframed pictures lying against the wall. Some were duplicates of Shelby’s show prints except for her missing signature. The alarmed back door was open, and I stuck my head through it into the alley to inhale a breath of fresh air. Greer was leaning against the back wall of the brick building, a lighted cigarette in her fingers. At the end of the alley, through the open door of Sweet Dreams Coffee House, a sweet, mournful blues melody floated down to us.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said, stepping out into the brightly lit alley. She dropped the cigarette on the ground and mashed it with her coffee-colored boot. The smoke she blew out mingled with the cloud caused by the cold night air.

“I quit ten years ago, so I had to bum this off the bartender. Boy, it sure doesn’t relax me like it used to.”

I leaned next to her against the wall. “Feeling a bit overwhelmed?”

“Absolutely. I mean, I’m thrilled as can be, you know that. There’s actually art reporters here from both the
San Francisco Chroraicle
and the
L.A. Times.
And at least three-fourths of my works have acquired that blessed little red ‘sold’ sticker. Roland’s a genius, no doubt about it. It’s just that after all these years, it’s almost a letdown, you know? And there’s the thing with Shelby.” Greer shook her head, her beaded earrings catching in her hair.

“I know.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“No, and I’m not likely to. Like I told you this afternoon, it’s not really Gabe’s investigation.”

“Don’t he and the sheriff communicate?”

I shrugged. “Some, but Gabe has enough city crime to worry about. I’m sure he’ll keep up on it, but it’s not a priority in the sense that it’s not his department’s responsibility to clear it.”

She gave a small chuckle. “My, my, you are learning the rhetoric of the political wife, aren’t you?”

I grimaced. “That did sound kinda pompous, didn’t it? But I’m here to tell you, this thing has me as spooked as a colt on a windy night. Especially since it happened at our ranch.”

“I can imagine. I guess that gives you quite the incentive to get involved ... again, Miss Marple.”

I leaned over and pushed her gently. “Nancy Drew, thank you very much. Or Trixie Belden. Or even Kinsey Millhone. But Miss Marple? Please, I’m not that old. And I’m not going to answer that on the grounds it might get me in trouble with a certain law enforcement official. Besides, I’m too busy this week to play detective. You should know that.”

“You and me both,” she said, sighing. “This week, I’ve agreed to teach four workshops, judge an art show, give three talks on women in the arts, and be interviewed by some writer from the
L.A. Times.
Not to mention that Roland wants me to get started on my next series since this one is sold out. This clutching for fame business sure keeps you from doing what it is you really want to do.” She gave a mocking smile. “Then again, it’s part of the creative arts game these days, right?”

“Just glad it’s your game, not mine. By the way,” I said as we both started back inside, “you’re familiar with the western art world. What do you know about the photographer Isaac Lyons?”

“Honey, he goes beyond western art into just plain
art.
I know he did a book recently on western landscapes and that the West has become his latest interest. I also hear he’s a man who really loves the ladies. Did a book on female nudes a few years back that made the bestseller list. Got named in a paternity suit once, but it proved to be a false claim. Not bad for a seventy-nine-year-old man.”

“He’s seventy-nine?”

“There about. Why the interest in old randy Isaac?”

“I just met him.”

“Here? Tonight? Isaac Lyons is at my gallery opening!” Her face flushed pink. “I have to get back in there and meet him. I can’t believe it! Isaac Lyons at my gallery opening.” She dashed through the doorway and went into the small bathroom next to Roland’s office to check her hair.

“I can’t believe you didn’t see him,” I said, following her. “He’s pretty hard to miss.”

“I took my contacts out because they were causing my eyes to turn a very unattractive shade of vermillion. Everyone except the people right in front of me are a big blur.”

“Just look for the gargantuan white-headed blur and you’ll have found him.” It didn’t seem the appropriate time to tell her that I thought he was a jerk who was scoping out my grandmother in a most inappropriate way. Photographing nudes? He’d better not even think it.

If possible, the crowd had become even more tightly packed in the last half hour. The hum of human voices sounded like a convoy of tractors. The two bartenders looked frazzled though their crystal tip jar overflowed with bills, the generosity of the guests being enhanced by the neverending flow of medium-grade wine and champagne. I was searching the crowd for Gabe with the intention of convincing him to sneak away with me when I saw Dove and her new friend head my way.

“Honeybun, I want you to meet someone.” Her voice cut through the noisy crowd like a hot knife through butter. With her arm intertwined in his, she pulled him toward me. He towered over her five-foot frame, smiling like a huge, cream-fed cat.

“Isaac, this is my granddaughter, Benni Harper. She runs the folk art museum I was telling you about. Her name should be Ortiz ‘cause she’s married to our chief of police, and he’s the nicest young man you could ever want to meet, but she’s balky as an old milk cow and wants to be Miss Liberated-Woman-of-the-World. Makes addressing Christmas cards a big pain in the butt, in my opinion. Benni, say hello to Mr. Isaac Lyons. He takes pictures for a living and he’s wanting to take some out at the ranch. I’ve invited him to stay awhile, though for the life of me I still can’t imagine what anyone would want with pictures of our old ranch. I told him about Shelby, poor little child, that she was taking pictures of our place, too, and what happened to her. I said there might be some sorta bad luck swirling about our land, but he says that don’t bother him at all, so I said you’re welcome to stay as long as you clean up after yourself.”

He smiled down at me, his dark eyes sharp and amused. “How do you do, Ms. Benni Harper, Liberated-Woman-of-the-World.” He held out a huge cool hand.

“Mr. Lyons.” I gave it a short, irritated shake as Dove continued to chatter about his visit, which, apparently, was starting tonight.

“Call me Isaac, please,” he murmured.

“We’re going to blow this joint and get some coffee and real food,” Dove said. “I’ll tell your daddy on my way out that Isaac will fetch me home.”

“But—” I started, but before I could protest further, she kissed me on the cheek and was leading Isaac toward the door. More than one set of irritated society-matron eyes followed them.

That was more than I could take. She’d just met the guy, for cryin‘ out loud. She wasn’t going anyplace with that man without me. I started to push my way through the crowd after them when I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder and pull me up as short as a roped calf.

“Whoa, there, Calamity Jane.” My husband’s voice rumbled in my ear. “I know that look, and whoever it is you’re heading for, forget it. I don’t want to have to arrest my own wife for assault and battery.”

“Let me go,” I said, pulling against his grip. “Do you know who that is? Do you know his reputation? Dang it, Gabe, let me go.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the gallery’s empty back room. The party noise dropped to a soft buzz when he firmly closed the door.

“What in the world are you talking about?” he asked.

I jerked my hand out of his. “Isaac Lyons, the photographer. He’s a playboy. He takes pictures of naked women. And he just left with my grandmother. He’s talked her into letting him stay at the ranch. We have to do something.”

Gabe grinned. “I’ve seen his photographs. He’s good. Dove and Isaac Lyons. Bet he’s in for a wild time.”

I glared at Gabe. “This isn’t funny. I think he’s up to something.”

“Benni, what could he be up to? He’s a famous photographer who’s taken a shine to your grandmother. He probably wants to photograph her.”

“That’s
what I’m afraid of.”

“It’s art, Benni,” he said, ruffling my hair.

I slapped at his hand. “You think so? Maybe I should offer him my services, then.”

He lifted my chin and kissed me on the lips. “Over my dead body,
querida.
Your fair limbs are strictly for my perusal.”

“Hey, you two, no making out in the back room,” Parker said, walking into the room. “You do have the right idea, though. Hide from the maddening crowds. Mispronunciation intended.” She sat down on a folding chair and heaved a big sigh. “I’m bushed, and this week’s festivities haven’t even started yet. Have you had a chance to talk to Greer?”

“Yes,” I said. “She’s nervous as a barn cat, but holding up fine. Are you ready for your demonstration and talk on women in the western arts tomorrow?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, grimacing. “Trying to explain to people why and how I create is so hard for me. I know how important promotion is these days, but I wish I could just paint and not have to also be a ‘character’ to sell my work.”

“Speaking of characters, did you manage to meet Isaac Lyons?”

“I hovered at the edge of a group of his admirers and listened to him. He’s quite a fascinating man with some very definite ideas about what art is and isn’t. He was using Shelby’s photographs as an example of how artists should put themselves in their art, that each photograph should not only be a story of the subject, but a story of the artist and that if you really studied an artist’s lifetime of work, it should reveal the true personality of the artist.”

“Too bad Shelby’s lifetime was cut so short,” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice soft. “Yes, it was.”

I turned to Gabe. “You think we could sneak out without making too much of a dent in the crowd?”

He slipped a warm hand underneath my hair and squeezed my neck. “I think there’s a good chance they won’t even notice we’re gone.”

“Go over the wall, kids,” Parker said. “If anyone asks, I never saw you escape.”

We slipped through the back door into the alley and walked past the bluesy sounds still coming from Sweet Dreams. “I’m glad that Greer’s having her time in the sun,” I said, tucking my arm through Gabe’s, “but Shelby’s death put a damper on the night for me.” He just murmured in agreement.

“Gabe, what do you think happened?” I asked when we reached the truck.

He opened the passenger door, his hand resting on the small of my back. “I don’t want to speculate with so little to go on.”

“But you must have an opinion, a feeling of some kind.”

“What I feel is irrelevant.”

“Not to me. I want to know what you think.”

He walked around the front of the truck and climbed in. “Are you going to nag me all night until I answer this?” he asked.

“Probably.”

“I suspected as much. Look, this is just speculation, but in the interest of marital harmony and my nervous condition ...”

“You don’t have a nervous condition.”

“I’m developing one at a rapid rate being married to you. I’ll just say it looks like she was in a fight with someone who pushed her. She unfortunately fell and hit her head on a rock in a freak accident and died. The person panicked and ran. When he or she gets caught, the charge will most likely be manslaughter. I don’t really think it was planned. Does that make you feel any better?”

“But how in the world will they find out who did it?”

“Tedious footwork by detectives. Most likely they’ll just keep questioning people and rereading people’s statements until something jumps out at an investigator or someone feels guilty and confesses.”

“Does that happen very often?”

“Not often enough, but it happens. Now, can we get something to eat? I’m starving.”

“Let’s go to Liddie’s. Nadine’s been complaining she hasn’t seen you in weeks.”

But when we drove past, I changed my mind. There in a window seat, glowing under one of Liddie’s yellow globe lights, sat Dove and Isaac. He held her hand across the table. Her head was thrown back in silent laughter.

“Forget Liddie’s,” I grumbled. “Let’s get pizza.”

Gabe chuckled under his breath.

“You wouldn’t think this was so funny if it was your mother Isaac Lyons was seducing.”

His smile was bright against his dark skin. “My mother is too sensible to be seduced by someone like him.”

I opened my mouth to snap an answer, then closed it. Having had more years under the marriage belt than my high-and-mighty husband, I knew that it was treading on shaky ground when spouses started comparing maternal personality quirks.

Unsmiling, I looked directly into his amused eyes. “So tell me why Isaac Lyons would be interested in my grandmother.”

His smile faded at my serious question. “Why shouldn’t he be? She’s a fascinating woman with an interesting life. Not to mention a whole lot of fun and nice to look at. Also, there’s something about you Ramsey women that’s just somehow irresistible.” He smiled again. “I should know.”

I reluctantly conceded a half smile, still not comforted, but warmed by his audacious flattery. “You know, we’ve switched places. Usually you’re the suspicious one.”

“They say the longer people have been married, the more alike they become.”

“Oh, dear Lord, help me,” I said.

“Amen to that,” he replied.

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