String of Lies (15 page)
And come to her craft shop to buy their wool.
After the woman exited the store amidst happy promises to bring back her finished sweater to show, Jo called over to Carrie. “It’s all set.”
Carrie replaced a knitting magazine, one of several her recent customer had paged through, and headed over. “Zarnik’s going to see you?”
“Two o’clock. He assumes I’m in the market for an expensive, original painting.”
“And how do you suppose he got that idea?”
“Beats me.” Jo shrugged and grinned. “All I said is that I had this big, empty space on my wall in need of something beautiful and unique. I didn’t mention the many other big, empty spaces in my house that were in need of, oh, say, a decent chair to sit on, or a carpet to cover, or even certain empty shelves in my pantry.”
“No use bombarding the man with details, right?”
“No use at all. But I still have a problem. Since Zarnik didn’t seem to recognize my name, he hopefully thinks I’m someone with money to spare rather than the struggling owner of a craft shop. But I don’t have anything to wear that will prolong that assumption when I go see him. No designer rags whatsoever are hanging in my closet.”
“Then why not just go with rags? Do the Bohemian look that says, ‘I’m so rich I don’t have to bother dressing the part.’ ”
“Ah, good idea! Raggedy jeans, a few interesting layers on top, maybe scarves wrapped artistically. Plus those beaded necklaces and earrings I’ve been making lately for the workshops—they look a lot more expensive than they are. Oh! And I’ll carry one of Sylvia’s bags. I have a gorgeous one I kept aside for Ina Mae’s birthday present to her daughter-in-law. She won’t mind if I borrow it for a few minutes in my effort to clear Xavier.”
At mention of Sylvia and Xavier, Carrie’s face grew solemn. “I spoke to Sylvia this morning. The police want Xavier to come in again today for more questioning. I advised her to contact the public defender’s office. I’m certain Xavier would qualify, financially.”
Jo nodded. “That’s good advice. I hope they follow it. Loralee said she’d get her church group to help them out in the food department.” Jo stood up from her desk. “That leaves it up to me to find a strong reason for the police to look elsewhere.”
She looked at Carrie worriedly. “I hope I can do it.”
Jo knocked on the door of Sebastian Zarnik’s studio. She had left Carrie to mind the shop after making numerous promises to be very careful, and made a quick stop at the house to assemble her “wealthy, but not flaunting it” outfit. She wasn’t sure that what she had come up with would convince Zarnik, even with the piled-on costume jewelry, and only hoped he would be more interested in showing his art than in spotting holes—literally—in her costume.
Zarnik opened the door, and Jo found herself facing an incredibly attractive, thirty-something man. Although on consideration his features were actually unremarkable—average nose and mouth, high cheekboned face on a slim, six-foot frame—she realized his eyes made all the difference. Deep blue and thick lashed, they had focused on Jo’s face as if it were precisely what he had longed to see all day. Possibly all his life. Jo understood Mallory Holt’s attraction to him. The man was magnetizing.
“Mrs. McAllister?” he asked.
“Yes.” Jo tore her eyes away from his hypnotic ones and glanced at his studio beyond. “Thank you for letting me come on such short notice.”
“My pleasure.” He seized her hand and drew her in.
Jo entered an artist’s studio similar to the many she had been in, filled with canvases, paint, and paint-stained work-tables, along with the debris of everyday living. She had never yet met an artist who cared about ridding his work space of food containers, empty tubes of paint, or just plain dirt and dust. It brought back strong memories of her life with Mike, though his debris had been pieces of metal rather than paint. She had protested often enough in those days when the accumulation got to the “wading” level. But living alone now in Abbotsville, she felt her much tidier home had the uncomfortable feel of emptiness, of the kind no mere things could fill.
Jo stopped short in front of an abstract painting that, in its shape and predominance of black and gray, reminded her of one of Mike’s metal sculptures. She drew in a quick breath.
Zarnik mistook her reaction for admiration and moved closely next to her to gaze at it. “I call this one
Conundrum
. It’s done in acrylics, which I’ve taken to lately. I find they give me more freedom of expression.”
Conundrum
. It’s done in acrylics, which I’ve taken to lately. I find they give me more freedom of expression.”
Jo had heard that phrase many times before and it still meant little to her. She had decided, though, to play the art novice with Zarnik and challenge nothing, so she merely nodded and smiled.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Zarnik asked. “I have a very pleasant Merlot, or, if you prefer, a chilled bottle of Chablis.”
“Merlot would be nice, thank you.” Jo followed him to a small kitchen area and watched as he opened the Merlot and filled two glasses he had sitting there. She spotted a large, open box of tools on the floor beside some wooden frames and rolled canvas. “You stretch your own canvas,” she asked, then instantly kicked herself for asking something that sounded art knowledgeable.
“Always.” He handed her a glass.
Jo took a sip. “That’s quite a collection of tools. It must be a complicated operation,” she said, hoping to cover her misstep.
Zarnik smiled. “They’re not all for my work. My landlord is unreliable on things like maintenance. I’ve gradually acquired tools for calking leaky windows as well as replacing a faucet or two.”
Jo grinned. “I’ll bet he’s reliable on collecting the rent, though!”
Zarnik laughed. “You’d collect on that bet.” He clinked his wineglass against hers. “To landlords!”
“To landlords!” Jo drank her wine, her thoughts flying to the Caribbean where her landlord might be, sipping his own wine and possibly counting his money from the sale of her building. To landlords, indeed!
“Do you have an image of the kind of painting you want?” Zarnik asked, leading her back to the first painting. “For that space of yours?”
“I’m trying to branch out,” Jo said. “To move beyond the pretty picture that everyone chooses because the colors match their couch. I want something that will make me
think
every time I look at it.” She shrugged and smiled, she hoped ingenuously. “That’s my starting point, anyway.”
think
every time I look at it.” She shrugged and smiled, she hoped ingenuously. “That’s my starting point, anyway.”
“A very good starting point, I’d say.” Zarnik turned a spellbinding look at her.
Jo dragged her gaze toward the black and gray canvas, examined it for a moment, then moved on to a more colorful piece. Zarnik followed closely enough that she could feel his breath near her ear. She made positive-sounding murmurs toward the colorful painting then continued down the line of several pieces, placed on easels or leaning against the wall.
“I’m planning a show, soon,” he said. “Most of these will be packed up and shipped off before long, so you’ve come at a fortunate time.”
“A show?” Jo said. “How exciting. Where?”
“The final arrangements are still being worked out, but it will probably be in Philadelphia.” He mentioned a gallery Jo had heard of. She was impressed and wondered how this had come about. Zarnik’s work was good, but to her mind not that good. Was the gallery owner a woman? she wondered. Someone who perhaps had been mesmerized by Zarnik’s persona?
Zarnik offered the explanation himself. “Mrs. Lucy Kunkle, our mayor’s wife, has bought one or two of my paintings. She has connections in Philadelphia.”
Ah, Mallory’s Aunt Lucy. Jo pictured Lucy twisting an arm of one of her connections, with Mallory in turn twisting her aunt’s arm. “How wonderful of her to be so supportive.”
“Yes, well, you know how it goes. The success of the local talent in turn reflects well on the town.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Jo sidestepped to a canvas that was covered in swirls of reds and yellows. “Lucy Kunkle is related to Parker Holt, isn’t she? That man who was murdered recently?”
Zarnik stiffened a bit but nodded. “I believe she was. Did you know him?”
“By reputation only. Did you?”
“I’ve met his wife.”
“Yes, Mallory. What a tragedy. It’s all everyone is talking about lately. I understand she was with her aunt when it happened.”
“Possibly.” Zarnik gestured to the red and yellow canvas. “I haven’t titled this one yet. If you’re interested in it, perhaps you can suggest a title for it.”
Jo tilted her head at the painting. “With those strong colors spinning about, I might call it
Turmoil
.”
Turmoil
.”
“Turmoil. Not bad. Would
Turmoil
fit your needs? Does it make you think?”
Turmoil
fit your needs? Does it make you think?”
“Yes, but maybe not the right kind of thoughts. I’m not sure I need more turmoil right now, painted or not. Probably,” she said with a smile, “something called
Resolution
would be a better choice.” Jo moved over to a gentler piece, full of softly floating greens and blues. “This one brings to mind a day on the bay. Or maybe a field of grass blowing in the wind, with bluebells.” She checked its title, which was
Aquarius
. “Oh.”
Resolution
would be a better choice.” Jo moved over to a gentler piece, full of softly floating greens and blues. “This one brings to mind a day on the bay. Or maybe a field of grass blowing in the wind, with bluebells.” She checked its title, which was
Aquarius
. “Oh.”
“The thing about abstract art is that it can be anything you want it to be. Or nothing. It can be just paint. Or it can be beauty.” Zarnik focused on her again with those eyes of his. Jo struggled to stay cool.
For that purpose, as well as to keep the subject on her murder investigation, Jo turned away, saying, “No, now that I think about it, I was wrong about where Mallory was when it happened. She came
back
from an afternoon spent with her aunt, but she was actually at her club’s committee meeting when it happened. To Parker, I mean.”
back
from an afternoon spent with her aunt, but she was actually at her club’s committee meeting when it happened. To Parker, I mean.”
“You may be right. I couldn’t say.”
“I only know because the police have been questioning just about everyone as to where they were that afternoon.”
“Is that so?” Zarnik’s smile was beginning to fade.
“Yes. Of course, it can’t possibly help them. I mean, how many of us can say we were at a certain place and have friends or whatever to back us up with ‘Yes, she was there. I saw her’?” Jo twirled the fringed end of the scarf she had tied as a sash about her waist. “Mallory, fortunately, had a whole committee of friends to verify where she was. I, on the other hand, was alone at the critical time, just as I’m positive half the people in town were.
“You,” Jo continued, “were probably here, alone, working on your art. Am I right?”
Zarnik gave a small smile. “How did you guess?”
“It just proves my point,” Jo said. “Alibis don’t mean a thing. So it’s a waste of time for the police to check for them. What they really need to look for is motive.”
“Isn’t that exactly what they’re doing?” Zarnik said. “That handyman, I mean.”
“Did he have a motive?” Jo asked. “I didn’t see anything in the paper about a motive. What was it?”
Zarnik’s thick eyelashes suddenly flickered. He must have realized that he had heard about Xavier’s motive through Mallory Holt, but he clearly didn’t want to admit this to Jo. “I might be wrong. I thought I’d heard someone say he had a connection to Holt, but I can’t remember now what it was. Well, enough about this sordid subject. Have you seen anything displayed here that catches your interest? If not, perhaps we could discuss commissioning a work?”
Zarnik had just wriggled off her hook and put Jo onto his own. Commission a painting? How would she get out of that? Jo spotted a painting on the other side of the room and pretended sudden ecstasy.
“Oh, isn’t that one fantastic!” she exclaimed, rushing over to it. The canvas was filled with squiggly lines of bright colors, intersecting each other in a maze of spirals. “I love it!” she cried.
Zarnik’s smile returned. “I experimented with using a paint spray gun for this. I think it turned out well.”
Jo gushed for several minutes, spouting words she rarely used such as “fabulous,” “bewitching,” and her least favorite for its meaninglessness, “creative.” Zarnik expounded on the difficulties he had run into with the process and what precisely had been in his mind during the painting’s development, then eased smoothly into its cost. Jo suppressed a cough and managed to nod cooly as though price were too coarse a topic to discuss. She continued on for a few more minutes, changing her perspectives on the painting often by backing up and moving from side to side, then finally announced, “As much as I love it, I’m just going to have to sleep on it before I make my decision.”
“I understand completely,” Zarnik assured her. “But I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. As I said, the show will be coming up, plus one or two people have expressed interest in the piece.”
“Then I definitely won’t take long.” Jo thanked him profusely for his time and eased her way to the door.
Zarnik took her hand and fixed his incredible gaze on her one last time left, and Jo found herself holding her breath until the door finally closed behind her. She exhaled, pulled herself together, and headed toward her old Toyota, which she had carefully parked around the corner and out of sight. If she had learned anything at all at this meeting, she decided, it was that Zarnik was an amazing flirt. If Mallory Holt planned her future around him, Jo wished her luck for the challenge it would be.
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