The Art of Love and Murder (5 page)

At least ten years her junior, probably in her early thirties, and with three-inch heels she stood nearly as tall as Lacy. Her black pencil skirt, topped with a form-fitting, green silk tank, ended above her knee.

“Yes, and you’re Justine Watts?”

Ms. Watts offered a nod and a limp-touch handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“This is a lovely gallery, Ms. Watts.” Lacy glanced at a series of watercolors to her left then to a sculpture of metal and ceramic.

“Call me Justine, and I’ll call you Lacy, if that’s all right with you.” She smiled genuinely enough while her hazel eyes scrutinized.

“Of course.”

“So.” She turned to the counter. “Let’s see what you have, shall we?”

“Like I told you on the phone, I’m not sure who the artist is and hope you might have some idea.” She opened her khaki bag.

Justine stood, her hands folded on the counter and an unreadable expression on her face, as Lacy removed the drawings, the half-carved wolf and snapshots of the treasure chest. She took the sculpture from the tissue paper first, setting the block side down on the glass top.

A flicker of interest sparked in the gallery owner’s eyes. She lifted one hand, her delicate fingers poised above the wolf. “May I?”

“Please.”

She pulled a pair of thin, white gloves from under the counter. After slipping them on, she studied the carving, turned the block over in her hand. Her fingertips traced the ears and down the neck to where the carving met the block, the back buried beneath the surface. She set the wood down without comment.

“The photos are of a chest that held the sketches, carving and other mementos,” Lacy said. “It’s signed with my mother’s name on the underside. Still, I think it resembles the wolf carving although not as detailed.”

Justine glanced at the photos but didn’t pick them up. “And the drawings?”

She spread the sheets on the glass top, with the unfinished wolf sculpture drawing on top. “You can see these are signed M slash KM. I tried to do some research, but came up blank.”

Saying nothing, the young woman studied the first couple of drawings in silence then slipped off her gloves, showing no interest in seeing all of them. “Let me check something.”

Lacy rolled the drawings and tied them as Justine pulled a cloth-covered binder from under the counter. Inside, photos sheathed in plastic shared space with written material. She repacked her bag and waited while Justine flipped pages.

“Here it is.” Justine turned the binder toward her. “These are photographs of sculptures this studio has exhibited. I think you’ll see a resemblance.”

A photograph of an eagle immediately drew her attention when she recognized it as one of the drawings. She stared, engrossed in the realism but more taken by the first valuable information in her search. The eagle’s wings spread at least eighteen inches across, and his head tilted as if having eyed something on the ground below. He may have been only five feet off the ground, but the sculpture gave the impression of the creature soaring high above the earth. The date below the photograph read June 6, 2003.

“One of the sketches is of this eagle. Who’s the artist?”

“She, or he, went by the name of Muuyaw. The name is always carved on the bottom of the sculptures.”

“Why do you say she or he?”

“No one knows. Muuyaw was a very private artist, stayed out of the spotlight so that no one knew who she or he was. This is cumbersome. I’ll just say she. Personally, I think there is something feminine about her work and...” Justine hesitated, her nostrils twitched as she continued. “That’s my educated guess.”

“Muuyaw.” The name rolled off Lacy’s tongue with the excitement of accomplishment that comes with the first clue obtained in a treasure hunt. “Doesn’t the name reveal the gender?”

“No. It’s the Hopi word for moon.”

Lacy started. “Hopi?”

“Yes, why?”

“The carving and drawings were left to me by my mother who was Hopi.”

“Oh, that’s right. You told me she died when you were quite young.”

“But if these drawings are Muuyaw’s, why didn’t she sign them with her name?” Lacy mused, not expecting an answer from Justine. She fingered the roll of sketches and stared at the gallery photographs. “You did say she signed with her full name of Muuyaw and not initials?”

“As far as I know.”

Lacy contemplated the facing page and a smaller, more complicated sculpture. Three buffalo huddled together. Sadness washed over her as she looked at the magnificent beasts who, by their stance and eyes, spoke of defeat. “My God.”

“Yes, this one is very disquieting, isn’t it?”

“Where are these sculptures now?”

“No one knows. They were stolen from the exhibition and never recovered. This all took place before I purchased the gallery.”

Stolen. The artist’s work held value for someone. “Do you know anything about the artist?” The date noted below the photograph matched the eagle exhibition. The buffalo sculpture continued to hold her interest. “Anything at all?” She’d love to see the real thing. How sad it had vanished.

“No, sorry. Other than she was local and guarded her identity. She’s assumed to be dead since there’s been no new work from her in decades. What little I know comes from one of our patrons who is a collector of Muuyaw’s work.”

“Could I have the name and number of the patron?”

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible.” The gallery director stood with her hands clasped at her waist, a polite, yet smug smile on her face. “His collection is very private, as is he.”

“I thought perhaps he could shed more light on my mother for me. She may have had close ties with the artist.” If seeing his collection presented an obstacle, perhaps she could appeal to the personal angle in her research.

“I’m really sorry. I can tell him about the drawings. If he wants to speak to you, he could contact you. Where did you say you were staying?”

Lacy sighed. “Grand View Hotel. Room two one eight.” Disappointment clouded the excitement of finding a connection to the sketches. Perhaps Justine would draw the collector out to speak with her. “Please tell him I’m discreet and only looking for information. I’m sure he’d like to see these sketches.”

“Will you be in town long?”

“At least for the weekend. I’m going to speak to some others who knew my mother and might be able to identify these sketches for sure.”

Silence followed her words, and their gazes fell to the picture of the buffalo.

The phone in the next room rang. “I’ll leave you to enjoy. Nice meeting you, Lacy.” Justine offered her limp handshake. “Good luck.”

She murmured a thank you, barely taking her eyes from the photograph of the buffalo. Somehow these sculptures had a connection to her mother. The initials, M slash KM, on the corner of each drawing could be a clue. One of the M’s could stand for Muuyaw. Maybe her mother had made the drawings, copying Muuyaw’s sculptures. KM could be Kaya Mockta. If that were the case, her mother’s artistic ability matched Muuyaw’s skill as a sculptor. That didn’t explain the half-carved wolf and matching drawing. Could it be Muuyaw’s work...or her mother’s?

Maybe her next stop would shed more light.

She closed the book, retraced her steps out of the gallery and paused in the bright sunlight. Time to call her daughter.

“Hey, Mom. How’s the research going?”

Her daughter’s enthusiastic voice immediately perked up Lacy. “Lots of mystery, and I’m not sure why.”

“It wouldn’t be a mystery if you knew, would it?”

“Oh, August.” She chuckled. “Listen, kiddo, I want you to do a little research for me. Do some Googling and see what you can find out about a sculptor called Muuyaw. M-U-U-Y-A-W. Hopi for moon.”

“Got it. Is she our sketch artist?”

“Not sure, but she’s somehow connected to Kaya. Let’s see what you find out.”

“Are you having fun, Mom?”

Her daughter’s teasing tone harkened to a few lectures over the last couple of years.

“Yes, I am, smarty. I’m glad you got me involved in this.”

August chuckled. “And I’m glad you’re glad. You haven’t been having much fun, what with Dad’s death and Grandma’s illness for the last year. All you do is work. How many times have I told you, you needed a break?”

“I happen to love the Lacy Latte.” Her protest sounded weak. “I love you, August.”

“Love you, too, Mom. I’ll call if I come up with anything on Muuyaw.”

She tucked away the phone, took a deep breath and peered above the museum to the peaks before setting a brisk pace back to her car.

The beauty and fresh air of this little mountain city energized her, but the task her daughter had challenged her to might have more to do with the vibrancy surging through her of late.

The early morning crispness had melted from the air and the sun blazed the top of her head and shoulders by the time her BMW, parked beside the Grand View, came into view.

She released the latches on the convertible top. Soon after Conrad’s fall from the mountain, she’d bought the sports car, the café and thrown herself into the Lacy Latte. The following year, she’d been hit with the accidental discovery of Conrad’s extracurricular activities at the same time her mother’s health rapidly declined. She’d bottled up her depression and became totally consumed with caring for her mother and running a business. August was right about that.

Car top stowed, she settled into her seat. The numbness she’d been living with for the past three years struck her. She’d entered cryopreservation the day Conrad died, and yesterday she thawed. Her life now had purpose with the promise of discoveries to come.

****

Professor Myles Sheffield closed the door on this semester’s hope. It didn’t make sense to drag it out until the last day of classes. The young lady didn’t have what he needed and probably never would. This semester’s crop had been the most pitiful selection in twenty years. Still, he’d had to try. She’d caught his attention immediately three months ago—beautiful, flirtatious with a reckless edge, and when he’d seen her sketches, her skill had been obvious. But the predictability and the mechanical technique she used lacked passion, as did her performance beneath the covers. Or on his desk.

He stared at the blinking light on his phone, not really seeing it. The gnawing at his insides, the ugly beast of dissatisfaction had awakened. Another summer to get through before the next semester, the next possibility of finding that rare talent. Another summer. His volunteer teaching at the high school summer program would help the time pass, occupy his mind. And Justine could occupy his body.

He punched the button and put the message on speaker.

“Myles, darling, give me a call at the gallery. I’ve just seen something you’ll find interesting. You should call me as soon as possible.” The woman’s voice matched her curvy and seductive hips.

He dialed the gallery number.

“Uptown Gallery,” she cooed.

“You drive me crazy, Mrs. Watts, with the simplest of words.” He used the title he normally reserved for the bedroom, spiking the excitement of illicitness.

“Why, Myles, what’s gotten into you? Too many young co-eds prancing through the office without reward?”

Her remark brought a smile to his face. Justine knew she shared him and accepted the arrangement. Of course, he shared her with a husband who left her alone, conveniently, often enough.

“I’ve finished my morning office schedule, and I don’t have any classes today.” He lifted the receiver, took it off speaker, to bring her nearer. “Close the gallery. Come over, and I’ll make you lunch.”

“If only I could. I’m alone today and have some tentative showings.”

“Tonight?” He tapped a pencil, the eraser end thudding against the telephone.

“Yes, tonight.”

“Now, what was it you said? You’ve seen something interesting?”

“A woman came in with a half-carved wolf and some sketches that I’m almost certain are by Muuyaw.”

His hand stilled.

“Myles, darling? Are you there?”

“What do you mean you’re almost certain?”

“Rather than signed, they were initialed with M slash KM. But the style was pure Muuyaw, and one of the sketches was of the eagle stolen from the gallery eight years ago.”

“The eagle.” The statement rasped, no more than a murmur. His mind drifted for a moment, a vision of the eagle as clear as if it perched on his desk in front of him.

“And like I said, she also has a half-carved wolf, quite small, still quite Muuyaw.”

Three breaths before he could answer. “Who is this woman?”

“She’s up from the valley for the weekend. Her name is Lacy Dahl. Evidently, she found them with some things left to her.”

“Left to her?” Did he have to wring the information out of her? His throat had parched and impatience bore down. “By whom?”

“I’m not sure of the details, Myles. I hardly thought it relevant where she got them, but only that she has them.”

“You thought? And why would you be the judge of that, Justine?”

“Myles—”

“What more did she tell you?” He resumed tapping the pencil against the phone, now in rapid-fire staccato.

“I...I don’t think anything more...”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, she did say her mother had been Hopi and died when she was quite young.”

His breath caught on an inhale. The pencil dropped, and he stared at his hand, the blood draining away as his limbs turned cold.

“Do you know her?”

“No.” His swift reply nearly cut her off. “Did you tell her to contact me?”

“I really didn’t know if you would want her to, so I told her I’d contact you and get back to her.”

Young co-eds in his class were one thing. But a woman, especially one connected to a passion far more alluring than sex...Justine would never send such a delicious enticement his way.

“How very thoughtful of you, Justine.” Sarcasm dripped from his lips.

“I was merely being thoughtful of your privacy.” She affected a hurt tone and sighed deeply.

He needed time to think, and she had no idea of the implications. “Of course I appreciate your caution, sweetness. You’re perfectly right to be so.” Thank God, Justine possessed a certain amount of jealousy. He didn’t want to—no couldn’t—see Kaya’s daughter. Dread prickled his skin, weighed heavy on his shoulders. But the sketches... “For something of Muuyaw’s to turn up after all this time...” His breathing hissed against the mouthpiece.