The Sinister Touch (4 page)

But other canvases were devoted to the integral play of light and color, drawing the eye with disarming ease. Guinevere liked them and found herself stepping closer to one that was predominantly yellow in an effort to read the tiny price tag.

“A thousand dollars!” She gasped. “Mason, if you sell a few of these, you won’t have to eat free crackers for a couple of months.”

Mason turned his head to glance at the canvas behind her. “I know,” he said, not without a certain hopeful satisfaction.

“I’m glad to see the gallery owner had the sense to put decent prices on the paintings,” Carla murmured as she accepted her glass of champagne. “It’s important to keep the values high right from the start.”

Guinevere looked at her. “I had no idea you were such an authority on the sale of art.”

“I’m not. It’s just common sense. Show me some of the other paintings, Mason.” Carla smiled brilliantly, and Mason took her arm with a kind of stunned enthusiasm.

Guinevere found herself standing alone by the champagne table. She picked up a cracker that had a piece of smoked salmon stuck into a dab of cream cheese and wondered what Zac was doing. He’d told her earlier that he had another of his late-afternoon meetings scheduled with Elizabeth Gallinger. Perhaps they were even now discussing babies.

For the first time Guinevere wondered just how much appeal the subject would have for Zac. He’d never expressed any interest in a family life, but maybe the prospect looked more appealing to him than she’d realized. After all, he was thirty-six years old, and he’d spent a lot of time knocking around the world. Maybe he’d suddenly realized he’d missed having a family. His past had been violent at times and strangely rootless. She knew his coworkers in the international security firm for which he’d once worked had called him the Glacier because of the slow but painstakingly thorough way he went about doing a job. The nickname Glacier, she had decided, could also have referred to the coldly lethal capacity he had for dealing with certain kinds of situations. Guinevere had twice seen Zac when he was on the hunt. It was a chilling vision.

But babies? Diapers? Day care? Strollers? Guinevere couldn’t imagine Zac suddenly becoming fascinated with fatherhood. Unless, of course, the potential mother was the main draw. Guinevere chewed her lower lip and thought about Elizabeth Gallinger.

When she was sick of the thought of Queen Elizabeth, she picked up her champagne glass and went to study a painting of Elliott Bay at sunset. Telling herself she would not let her imagination run wild on the subject of Zac and babies, Guinevere concentrated on wishing she’d had the sense to wear something artsy such as Carla had worn. As it was, Guinevere was very aware of the fact that she was the only one in the room wearing a skirted suit and proper pumps.

“Not bad if you like sunsets,” announced a masculine voice from just behind Guinevere’s left shoulder. “A little trite in some respects, but this is one of his earlier works. Mason has changed a lot during the past couple of years, and it shows in his painting, don’t you think?”

Guinevere turned to face the short, wiry young man who was eyeing the painting behind her. Something about his features reminded her of a ferret. “I’ve just met him recently. I don’t know much about his earlier work.”

The man smiled with an air of superiority. “I see. You’re new on the scene around here?”

“If you mean new on the art scene, the answer is yes. I’m Guinevere Jones.”

“Henry Thorpe.” He waited impatiently for some sign of recognition, and when it didn’t come, he frowned. “I’ve had a couple of showings here myself, but I guess if you’re new in the art world, you wouldn’t have known about them.”

“I see.” One of Mason’s freeloading fellow artists, Guinevere decided. There was a certain nervous energy about Henry Thorpe that she found curious, almost unnatural. It was as if he were operating at a higher internal speed than most of the others in the room. Perhaps Henry Thorpe indulged in other substances besides free champagne. Anything for the sake of art.

“You don’t look like you’re here for the free food,” Thorpe announced, scanning her neat suit. “So I assume you’re a potential buyer?”

“I’m very interested in Mason’s work,” Guinevere said politely.

“Yeah, so are a few of the others,” Thorpe said slightly grudgingly. “I guess it’s the superficial accessibility of the stuff. People who don’t know much about art like it because they think they can understand it.”

Detecting more than a small measure of professional jealousy, Guinevere deliberately turned back to study the painting of the bay. But Henry Thorpe edged closer.

“You’d never guess it from that sweet little painting of sunset on the water, but ol’ Mason wasn’t exactly a sweet character when he did that picture. He was running pretty wild a couple of years ago. Hung out with a weird crowd.”

Guinevere frowned. “Mr. Thorpe, I’m really not interested in hearing this.”

“If you want to buy a painting from a guy who used to run around with witches, that’s your business. But personally I—”

“Witches!” Astonished, Guinevere swung around to confront Henry Thorpe. Memories of a black pentagram flashed into her head. “Witches? What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Thorpe?”

Sensing that he may have blundered socially, Thorpe tried to back off. “Oh, well, it was no big deal. You know how it is. People sometimes get mixed up in strange things, and Adair was pretty strung out a couple of years ago. Had a bad time with his family back East, and I think he tried to forget his problems by getting involved in something really off-the-wall. But that’s all over now. I mean, it’s not like he would have painted hidden symbols of the occult into these canvases or anything. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“What doesn’t she have to worry about, Thorpe?” drawled Mason Adair as he came up behind the smaller man. Carla was still firmly tucked into his grasp.

“Nothing, Mason,” Thorpe assured him hastily. “Just talking about some of your paintings. Not a bad crowd tonight. Any buyers?”

“Most people seem to be here for the same reason you are,” Mason said, assuring him smoothly. “The free champagne.”

Thorpe risked a cynical smile. “You can’t hold that against us, friend. You’ve been known to hit a few showings for the free food yourself. Excuse me.” With a nod for both women Henry Thorpe slipped back into the crowd.

Mason watched him go with a wry expression. “He’s right, you know. I have made a few meals off a showing like this. Can’t blame the others for turning up tonight. I just hope they don’t elbow all the potential buyers aside in their lunge for the food.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Carla said with a certain satisfaction as she watched the gallery owner hang a
SOLD
sign on a painting across the room.

Mason followed her gaze and whistled silently. “Jesus. Theresa put a price of fifteen hundred on that sucker.”

Guinevere grinned. “Congratulations. You’re going to have something to celebrate when this is all over.” And then, remembering the comment Thorpe had made about Mason’s past, she couldn’t resist adding, “Your family will be excited.” The reaction was immediate and grim. Mason’s expression of dazed pleasure vanished beneath cold, hard lines.

“My family,” he said far too calmly, “can go to hell. That’s where they sent me.” Then he saw the concern on Carla’s face and made an obvious effort to shake his suddenly savage mood. “Hey, forget it. It’s no big deal. My family and I don’t exactly communicate these days. My old man wrote me off the day I made it clear I was going to make a career in art instead of law. That’s old history. Let’s get some more champagne.”

Several more
SOLD
signs went up before the evening ended. A certain subdued excitement had infected the crowd. Theresa, the gallery owner, was bubbling over with heady enthusiasm as she darted about, answering questions. By the time he and Guinevere had put Carla into a cab to send her back to her Capitol Hill apartment, Mason’s mood was euphoric. He stood on the sidewalk until the cab was out of sight and then started walking Guinevere back to her apartment building. It was nearly midnight and the streets were empty.

“Hey, it went okay, didn’t it?” Mason said for what must have been the fiftieth time. “It really went okay.”

“It went better than okay,” Guinevere said, assuring him. “You heard Theresa. She’s ecstatic. You’re all set, Mason.”

“Are you kidding? This is just the beginning. There’s no such thing as being all set in this business. Every new painting gets judged against all the others you’ve done. But at least I’ve proven I can sell. Dad never thought I would get this far, you know.”

“Didn’t he?”

“Hell, no, he—” Mason broke off abruptly. “Forget it. I don’t want to talk about him. Not tonight.”

“How about witches, Mason?” Guinevere asked gently. “Want to talk about them?”

He stopped short and stared at her under a street lamp. “Witches! You mean that stupid pentagram business?”

“Mason, that man, Henry Thorpe, said something about your once having been involved in some kind of occult group. And that damage to your painting last night looked pretty vicious. If there’s any possibility of a connection, don’t you think you ought to tell the police?”

Mason muttered something that sounded quite disgusted. “Thorpe. God knows what he was running on tonight. He hasn’t been able to paint decently for almost a year, and it’s eating him alive. What did he tell you about witches?”

“Nothing much. Just that for a while a couple of years ago you’d been mixed up with some sort of odd group.”

Mason shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Yeah, it was odd, all right. But it wasn’t dangerous. Bunch of folks sitting around playing games with stuff they learned out of old books. For a while it was just a friendly group that met to get a little high on some homegrown agricultural products and have a few laughs. An excuse to party. A couple of the members started taking things too seriously, though, and I got out. So did almost everyone else. The partying was getting in the way of my painting.”

Guinevere frowned, considering. “You don’t think there’s any possibility of a connection between what happened last night and that group?”

Mason shook his head impatiently and resumed walking. “Not likely. Most of the people I knew who were part of the crowd have long since dropped out. Like I said, it was just an excuse to party. I haven’t seen any of the original group for months.”

“Where did you do all this, er, partying?”

“One of the members, a guy named Sandwick, had inherited an old house. Mostly we used it. Had a spooky old basement that was soundproof. Neighbors couldn’t hear us if we got too loud, not that the neighbors would have cared. It wasn’t exactly a high-class area.”

“Where was it located?”

“Near Capitol Hill.” Mason sounded totally uninterested. “Let’s talk about something more to the point.”

“Such as?”

“Such as your sister, Carla.”

Guinevere smiled. “As I told you, she’s an organizer. She used to be an executive secretary, but lately she’s been working for me.”

“Is she free?”

“No, actually, she can be quite expensive,” Guinevere remarked, remembering certain incidents from her sister’s recent past.

“Come on, Gwen, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“All right. She’s not involved with anyone special at the moment. Does that answer your question?”

“It does.”

“There’s just one other thing, Mason,” Guinevere went on slowly. “Please excuse the big-sister spiel, but I’m afraid it comes with the territory. I
am
her big sister and I don’t want her hurt. She went through a bad experience a few months back. She’s over it now, but I wouldn’t want anyone undoing all the progress she’s made.” Carla’s “progress” had cost a bundle in therapy, Valium prescriptions, and patience. It had also led directly to Guinevere’s first meeting with Zachariah Justis. That first encounter had been very unnerving. It had taught her right from the start that Zac could be quite ruthless.

Mason grinned. “You do sound like a big sister. But don’t worry. I’ll take good care of Carla. If she’ll let me.”

“Be prepared to be organized.”

“I can’t wait.” Mason stopped in front of Guinevere’s security door. “Here we are. I’ll walk you up the stairs like a good Boy Scout. I really appreciate you and Carla coming to the gallery tonight. I was not exactly cool and calm ahead of time, and it was good to know there were going to be some friends there.”

“It was a very successful evening, Mason. You should be proud of yourself.” Guinevere dug her key out of her shoulder bag as she climbed the second flight of stairs.

“
Relieved
is the word, I think.” He waited, lounging against the wall, while she slipped the key into her lock. “Well, good night, Gwen, and thanks again for showing up tonight.” Mason straightened and turned to start down the stairs.

“There seems to be something wrong with the door.” Guinevere pushed tentatively against it. “I was sure I left it locked. I always lock it.”

Mason paused, glancing curiously back over his shoulder. “Anything wrong?”

Guinevere shoved open the door and stood looking into the living room. “Nothing you can do anything about, Mason. Good night.” She closed the door very gently in his face and turned to confront Zac.

Zac put down the glass of tequila he had been holding and leaned his head back in the chair where he had been sitting for the past two long hours. The expression in his ghost-gray eyes made Guinevere think again of glaciers.

“I think,” Zac said in a voice that showed all the rough edges, “that we have a communication gap here.” He got up out of the chair and came forward with grim deliberation. “You and I are supposed to be having an affair. That, for your information, implies exclusivity. What the hell do you mean by coming in at midnight with that goddamned artist?”

Chapter Three

“I’m not an errant wife coming home late after a night on the town,” Guinevere managed to say in a surprisingly even voice. She wasn’t feeling at all even inside. She’d never seen Zac in quite this mood. There had been times when he’d been annoyed with her, and she’d seen him concerned and had been around him when his temper grew a little short. But she’d never seen such blatant anger and outrage.

“No, you’re not an errant wife, are you? You’re a bored mistress coming in after a night on the town.”

Guinevere’s head came up with a snap. Furiously she tossed her shoulder bag down onto a black leather chair. “Don’t you dare call me your
mistress
, Zac. A mistress, for your information, is a kept woman. And you don’t keep me, Zac Justis. Lately you haven’t even kept me company!”

“So you decided to go out and find someone else to keep you company?”

“It’s none of your business what I did tonight.” She was moving farther and farther out on the thinnest possible ice, but her own anger was in full sail. “You have no right to yell at me like this.”

“No right? You come home at midnight with that naked artist in tow, and you tell me I don’t have any right to yell?”

“He wasn’t naked.”

“How long would it have taken him to get naked after you invited him into your apartment?”

“I didn’t invite him in, not that it would have made any difference. Mason walked me home after his gallery showing tonight. He invited Carla and me to attend. Since I didn’t have anything else to do tonight and since he’s a very nice person, I decided to accept the invitation. I had a couple of glasses of free champagne and half-a-dozen salmon canapés. I resisted the impulse to buy one of his paintings. Primarily because I couldn’t afford one. That, Zac, is the sum total of my wild night on the town. Mason and I left the gallery about fifteen minutes ago, and I can produce witnesses if necessary. Is there anything else you’d like to know?” Summoning up a courage she wasn’t sure she actually felt, Guinevere walked right past Zac, flung herself down onto the black sofa, and glared across the room at the egg-yolk-yellow floor-to-ceiling bookcase. She refused to glance at Zac, who was watching her the way a predator watches its prey.

“Yes, goddammit, there are a few other things I’d like to know. Were you planning on inviting him in for a nightcap? What’s his view of the evening’s entertainment? Is it as charmingly innocent as yours?”

Guinevere swung her gaze from the bookcase to Zac’s glittering gray eyes. “Mason is falling rapidly for my sister. A typical male reaction around Carla. She’s about all he talked about on the way back here this evening. Now, if we’re going to discuss innocent evenings, why don’t we dissect yours? How long did the after-work session with Elizabeth Gallinger go? Did you find it necessary to conclude your business over dinner and a few drinks? Did you go to her place or yours after that?”

Zac ran a hand through his dark hair, his expression turning frustrated. “My meeting with Elizabeth was all business.”

“Really? No more chitchat about babies and biological clocks?” His eyes narrowed quickly, and Guinevere knew she’d struck gold. “Oh, I see. The subject did arise, then? Before or after you gave her your analysis of Gallinger’s security needs?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I left Elizabeth several hours ago, went home, and started trying to call you. I thought you might be in the mood for a late dinner. When you failed to answer your phone for over two hours, I finally decided to come over here and make sure everything was all right.”

Guinevere couldn’t stand the way he was starting to pace back and forth in front of her. The movement reminded her too much of a stalking cat waiting to pounce. Uneasily she kicked off her pumps and got to her feet. She walked past him, ignoring his glare, went into the kitchen, and turned on the light. The mini blinds were raised, and she could see that Mason hadn’t yet let himself into his apartment. The studio window was still dark. Guinevere reached for the teakettle. She didn’t feel like waiting for the new coffeepot to crank through its elegant ritual. Zac appeared in the kitchen doorway as she switched on the burner.

For a long moment they looked at each other without saying a word. With a woman’s instinct Guinevere knew that some of Zac’s initial fury had cooled.

“Everything was just fine, Zac. There was absolutely no need for you to be concerned. We don’t have to account to each other for every moment, do we? We’re having an affair. We’re not married. The simple truth is that Carla and I spent a pleasant evening at the gallery. Mason walked me home afterward. That’s all there was to it.” She kept her tone quiet and remote.

He was silent for a moment. “I discussed business with Elizabeth and then went home and started calling you. That’s all there was to my wild evening, too.”

“I don’t like being called your mistress.”

“I’m sorry. Lately I’ve been feeling”—he paused—“possessive.” His gaze was steady. “What should I call you?”

“The name is Gwen. You don’t have to use any other labels.” She turned away to reach for a couple of mugs and saw the light come on across the street in Mason’s apartment. There was no sense adding new fuel to a fire that was starting to die out, Guinevere decided. Catching sight of Mason through the kitchen window would probably not set well with Zac. Out of sight, out of mind. She put the mugs down on the counter and went to lower the blinds. Her hand was on the cord when an abrupt movement in the studio caught her eye.

“Zac!”

He was at her side instantly. “What is it?”

“Zac, there’s someone in Mason’s studio. Oh, my God, look!”

Mason had sauntered into the high-ceilinged room, automatically turning on the lights. A dark, hooded figure, who had apparently been inside the apartment when Mason opened his door, dashed across the floor, hand upraised. From their vantage point Guinevere and Zac could make out Mason’s startled reaction, and then the hooded figure was upon him.

“Call 911.” Zac was already on his way out of the kitchen, heading for the front door.

Guinevere reached for the phone, punching in the short emergency code. With her eyes riveted to the drama taking place across the street, she quickly gave the address and situation to the person on the other end of the line. “Just hurry, will you?” she snapped when the dispatcher patiently asked for her name and address as well as that of the victim’s.

Guinevere slammed down the receiver and leaned forward, staring out the window. She could see Mason’s crumpled body on the floor. The hooded figure was straightening slowly. Some instinct must have warned him that he was being watched. Turning, the man glanced out of the studio window. For a taut moment his gaze locked with Guinevere’s.

She couldn’t see much, Guinevere realized as she frantically tried to take mental notes. The hood fell forward around his face, hiding almost all of the details one was supposed to recall in this sort of situation. Besides, she was too far away to make out such things as the color of his eyes. But she could see the heavy line of the jaw, and there was a certain sense of bulkiness under the old shirt and pants he wore. A heavy man. She was almost positive she wouldn’t be able to identify the man if she ever saw him again, though. Frantically she tried to find some unique feature. The hood, itself, was the oddest part about him. It was shaped like a cut-off monk’s cowl. It shadowed his face and fell into a short cape around his shoulders.

As they stood facing each other through the windows, it occurred to Guinevere that the cowled man had as good a view of her as she had of him. Belatedly she reached out and turned off her kitchen light.

But the man in Mason’s apartment was already swinging around in alarm. He must have heard Zac’s footsteps on the stairs. Or perhaps seeing Guinevere had jerked him into action. Whatever the trigger, it sent him running out of the apartment.

Helplessly Guinevere watched as Mason’s attacker fled. With any luck he might run into Zac on the stairs, she thought. But a few seconds later Zac burst through the door and went straight to Mason’s prone figure. There was no sign that Zac and the cowled man had tangled.

Guinevere raced across the kitchen and out her front door. At the last minute she remembered she wasn’t wearing any shoes. As she grabbed a pair of sandals out of the closet, she heard the first police sirens in the distance. She shoved her feet into the sandals and hitched up the narrow skirt of her suit. Then she was running down the two flights of stairs to the street. Out on the sidewalk she dashed toward the entrance to Mason’s building. The security door was propped open with a copy of the Seattle Yellow Pages that belonged on the shelf beneath the pay phone in the small lobby. Zac’s work, Guinevere assumed. Perhaps to make access quicker for the cops. She wondered how he’d gotten inside the security entrance so quickly. But Zac had a way of doing things like that.

She flew up the stairs to the second floor and glanced down the old, linoleum-lined hall. Mason’s building hadn’t been as expensively renovated as hers. In fact, it looked to be in what was probably a sadly original condition. The dim halls and shaky banister on the staircase made the place look a little like a cheap hotel. At the opposite end of the hallway there was a faded exit sign, indicating a fire escape. If Zac hadn’t met the escaping attacker on the staircase, it was probably because the man had used the other exit.

The door standing open at the end of the hall had to be the one to Mason’s apartment. Guinevere rounded the corner just as the sirens whined into silence outside the building.

“Zac! Is he all right?”

Zac was crouching beside Mason. He didn’t look up. “He’ll live. Whoever it was got him on the side of the head, but the blow must have been deflected. He’s groggy but not unconscious. Did you see any sign of whoever it was who did this, Gwen? I didn’t pass him on the stairs.”

“I think he must have used the fire escape. I got a brief glimpse of him through my window while I was dialing 911.”

Zac did glance up at that, pinning her with grim eyes. “Did he see you?”

“I . . . I think so, but he must have heard you about that time and dashed out of the room. He was wearing a weird hood, Zac. It was very strange.” Guinevere broke off as footsteps echoed on the old stairs.

“I’ll handle this,” Zac said, getting to his feet.

Guinevere nodded obediently. Zac was good at this sort of thing, too.

On the floor Mason groaned and opened his eyes. “Hell of a way to celebrate my first show.”

***

It was a long time later before Guinevere found herself alone with Zac back in her apartment. She was tense and troubled. Zac sprawled on the sofa, eyeing her as she stalked back and forth in front of him.

“I don’t understand it, Zac. Why didn’t Mason tell the police about that incident with his painting last night? Damn it, he told me he’d filed a complaint. Or at least he implied he was going to file one. But tonight he didn’t mention it. Instead he acted as if he’d just been unlucky enough to walk in on a routine burglary this evening. He didn’t try to relate the two incidents.”

“I didn’t hear you rushing to fill in the missing pieces,” Zac observed quietly. “You didn’t say a word about that pentagram or the canvas slashing, either.”

Guinevere threw up her hands in frustration. “Because I could see Mason looking at me, practically begging me to keep my mouth shut.” She turned to glance at Zac accusingly. “And you went right along with Mason’s limited version of the story, too. Why?”

Zac shrugged. “The same reason you did, I suppose. It was pretty damn obvious Adair didn’t want to link last night’s incident with tonight’s, and even more obvious that he’d never mentioned the slashed canvas to the authorities. I could see him watching me as I talked to the cops, and I knew he wanted me to say as little as possible.”

“So you did.”

“I told them what I’d seen through your window tonight, which wasn’t much. Hell, I didn’t even get a look at the guy. He was long gone by the time I reached Adair’s apartment.”

“But you knew about the pentagram and the slashing,” Guinevere reminded him.

“All right, so I decided to respect Adair’s wishes and keep quiet about it. I’m used to dealing with clients who prefer not to involve the cops. I guess it’s getting to be second nature to abide by the client’s wishes.”

That much was the truth, Guinevere thought. Many of Zac’s business clients had no desire to see their company’s name dragged through the newspapers or to have any association at all with criminal activity, even though they were the victims. That’s why they hired discreet security firms such as Free Enterprise Security, Inc. Precisely so that such unpleasant matters would be handled
discreetly
.

“Are you saying Mason is now a client?” Guinevere asked brightly.

Zac glared at her. “No, I am not saying that. I merely made the point that I’m used to working for people who don’t want the police involved. Out of habit I respected Adair’s wishes tonight. That’s all there is to it.”

Guinevere sighed and sank down onto the opposite end of the sofa. “I wonder what this is all about, Zac.”

“Beats the hell out of me.” One arm draped along the back of the cushion, he continued to watch her closely. “But whatever it is, I don’t want you involved. I’ve told you that before, Gwen. I mean it.”

“Zac, Mason’s a friend.”

“I thought he was just a ship passing in the night.”

“Well, it’s more a case of a permanently anchored ship. With a porthole that looks straight into my porthole.”

“I’ve been aware of that for some time,” Zac drawled. There was a short silence. “I heard him tell the cops that he’d been to the show at the Midnight Light gallery tonight with you and Carla.”

“So?”

Zac exhaled heavily. “I shouldn’t have chewed on you earlier this evening.”

“Is that an apology?”

“Yeah.”

Guinevere risked a small smile. “I shall treasure it always.”

“You do that. I don’t apologize very often.”

“I know.”

There was another short pause before Zac said promptingly, “Well? Don’t I get one, too?”