Bad Reputation, A (5 page)

“Maybe you should investigate Wendall Clarke and see what he's really up to,” another woman said.

These artists were determined to paint Wendall Clarke as a cad. “I don't think he's up to anything. I think he's giving you a great opportunity,” I said. “Tell him you want everyone to be represented. Then if he says no, you'll have a legitimate reason to complain. Pamela, if you don't want to run the gallery, maybe he'd accept you as an assistant.”

They looked at each other. Bea Ricter gave a sniff. “I still don't appreciate that dead wood remark, Ginger.”

“Well, it is dead wood,” the red-haired woman said.

“That does not make me any less of an artist than someone who makes cross-eyed birds out of ping-pong balls.”

The group immediately divided into those who thought dead wood was artistic and those who sided with Ginger and her ping-pong birds. I moved away.

Pamela came to me. “Sorry about this. Ever since we heard about the gallery, emotions have been fraying. Some members of the Guild have waited for years to show their work. Many of us have been turned down by every gallery in the state. We see this gallery as our last chance.”

“Why haven't you started a little gallery of your own? It wouldn't take much to transform one of the empty stores downtown.”

“I'd thought about it, but it would take more time and money than I have, even with the support of the group. Wendall Clarke's plan is a wonderful surprise and a terrible problem.”

“It could still work out well for everybody.”

She glanced at the group. The women were now arguing about the merits of felt versus velvet. I heard Bea Ricter say, “Well, just because you had one wild night, that doesn't make you any sort of expert,” and Ginger answered, “You were just as crazy at that craft show, dancing around like some demented cancan girl. Nobody wanted to see your crocheted petticoats.”

“You'd better be quiet, Ginger, unless you want me to mention you-know-what.”

Whatever she was talking about was enough of a threat to make Ginger back off, although she attempted a final shot. “Well, there are things about you that people might be surprised to find out.”

Bea had the last word. “Not as surprised as they'd be about you.”

Ginger turned pink with embarrassment and didn't say anything else.

“I don't see how you could work with all this racket going on, Madeline,” Pamela said. “Do you want to come back this afternoon?”

“Sure. I'll check with you later.”

As I started out, Samantha Terrell called, “Wait a second, Madeline.” She followed me out the door. “I've had enough of their arguing.”

“It doesn't take much to stir up a group around here,” I said.

“Don't I know it. I thought the Garden Club would explode over all that Mantis Man business a few months back. You remember that, don't you?”

I sure did. Celosia's legendary monster had caused plenty of real and imaginary trouble. “I didn't know you were an artist.”

She laughed. “I'm not. I'm making a scrapbook for Austin. That's as close as I get to art. Pamela saves things left over from her pictures for me, scraps of paper, ribbons, buttons, things like that. I'd just stopped in to get them and got caught in the middle of that.” She swung her purse over her shoulder. “I wanted to make sure Austin isn't bothering you with all this about a Wow System. He said he'd asked Jerry to buy one.”

“Jerry would be happy to buy one. He loves all the latest gadgets.”

“I just don't want Austin to become a pest.”

“He's not. He's a great kid. We both get a kick out of him.”

She gave me an appraising look. “The two of you are really great with children. Any plans to start your own family?”

“We're thinking about it.”

“Well, I really appreciate all you've done for Austin. He loves both of you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “What's your take on Wendall Clarke and the gallery? Could the Art Guild handle running it?”

Samantha glanced back at Flair For Fashion, where the women were still arguing. “This is different from the Garden Club. Anybody can plant flowers or pull weeds, but when it comes to their art, these ladies are very passionate. The problem is some of them aren't very good.”

“But art is subjective.”

“And I don't want to be subjected to some of their stuff. Austin's kindergarten pictures are better than some of that.”

I figured Samantha might know something about all the major players in this drama. “Is Pamela serious about running the gallery? Could she do it?”

“I think she'd be perfect. She's the most levelheaded of that bunch.”

“And Wendall Clarke?”

She shrugged. “I never had any problem with him. He was a grade ahead of me in school, and the only thing I remember about him was he was a big guy who talked loud and had lots of friends.”

“Larissa Norton?”

“A very proud girl. Stuck-up, as we used to say. Her family was poor, and I think she was ashamed of that.”

“How about Flora? Had you met her before?”

“No. I don't know a thing about her.” Her cell phone jangled. “Oh, excuse me, Madeline. That'll be my husband wondering where I am. I'm supposed to meet him for lunch.”

Time for me to investigate.

Chapter Six

I took a short walk down the street to the site of the new gallery, which had been vacant ever since Jerry and I moved to town. It was an unremarkable building, one story, smooth and gray, with double glass doors and all glass along the front, one window proclaiming Arrow Insurance in black and gold letters. Workmen were already hammering and painting, moving out leftover shelving and boxes, cleaning the wide front windows, and sweeping up dust. One of the workers was our handywoman, Nell Brenner. She stopped what she was doing and came to the door.

“Come in and have a look, Madeline. See what you think.”

I admired the space inside, the high ceilings, and smooth wooden floor. “Perfect.”

Nell wiped her large hands on her ever-present overalls and tucked a stray strand of short blond hair under her baseball cap. “I know it's causing all kinds of ruckus with the Art Guild, but it's good business for me. Wendall's offered a bonus if we get done by Friday.”

This was Tuesday. “That soon?”

“Well, the place is in great shape. Just needs cleaning, some paint. Turn the water and electricity back on and you can put all the art in you like. And let me show you this.” I followed her to the back of the store. “Here's an office. The insurance company left all the furniture and filing cabinets. There's even an intercom system if people want to use it, a two-way mirror to keep an eye on the store, a mini-fridge I guess nobody wanted, even one of those old adding machines. Once everything's clean, Wendall can move on in.”

I checked out the mirror, which gave a good view of the main room. “He's not likely to stay in Celosia, is he?”

“Nah. He's got business elsewhere. And he sure don't need to hang around here, not with that new wife of his on his arm.”

“I've noticed the reaction.”

“I guess it's to be expected. Everyone knows Wendall left Larissa Norton to marry another woman. But Larissa didn't do herself any favors. Wendall's always been very ambitious. Larissa didn't understand that. He wanted to give her everything, and for some reason, she didn't want him to.”

“That sounds odd.”

“Only thing I can figure is since Larissa was so poor growing up, she felt like he was wasting his money.” One of the workmen came up to ask her a question about the color of the walls. “Yeah, everything along that wall is cream,” she told him. “The ones up here are pale willow and off-white.” She turned back to me. “You might have a case pretty soon. I hear the ladies of the Art Guild are ready to kill each other.”

Nell manages to hear everything that's happening in town. “The big issue is dead wood versus ping-pong balls. I'm keeping out of it.”

“Just put everybody's stuff in here. Plenty of room.”

“That was my suggestion, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen.” Saying that reminded me of Wendall telling Bea “That's not going to happen.”

“Nell, what's the deal with Wendall and Bea Ricter? She tore into him at his reception and told him he needed to do the right thing.”

“Can't say as I recall anything in particular. Bea was always one of those intense social climbers, always jealous of anyone's success. Married some rich fella from Raleigh and moved there for a while, but the marriage didn't work out, so she and her son came back here.”

“She has a son?” I envisioned a round, angry little boy.

“Yeah, but he's grown, lives somewhere else. Visits her every now and then. From what I hear, Bea didn't get much out of the divorce. That could make her cranky.” Nell picked up her can of paint and paintbrush. “Gotta get back to work. Whenever the Guild declares a truce, the walls will be ready.”

***

While Nell returned to supervising the remodeling, I walked back to my car and called Jerry to see if he had any leads on Honor Perkins.

“No,” he said. “I called that number several times and got the same recording. I also called my pal who's a real lawyer, and he said we would've received more than just a plain letter. I promise you this is a scam, Mac. When you get home, let's drive to Millersberg and find this Denby Forest.”

Something I definitely wanted to do. “All right. You're on your own for lunch. I've been invited to the Clarkes'.”

“Tell Baby Flo hello from me.”

***

The house Wendall and Flora were renting in River Ridge was huge and modern with an oddly slanted roof that made the house look as if it might take off and fly away. Inside, the rooms looked cold and formal, but there was nothing cold or formal about Flora Clarke's welcome when she answered the door.

“I'm so glad you could come! Wendall has business in Parkland, so it's just the two of us. I thought we'd eat out on the deck, if you don't mind. It's such a beautiful fall afternoon.”

The deck overlooked a wooded area filled with bright yellow trees. A lunch of fruit salad, chicken salad croissants, and iced tea had been set on an elegant wrought-iron table. “This looks delicious.”

“Please, sit down. I hope you like everything.”

I slipped into one of the floral-patterned chairs. “I'm sure I will.”

Flora was wearing a dress in soft fall colors and a light gold sweater. A distinctive bracelet made of gold and bright yellow leaves dangled from her wrist. She sat across from me and spread her napkin in her lap. This was my first chance to have a good look at her. She was a beautiful woman, her face further enhanced by an expertly applied layer of makeup, including subtle pink rouge and matching lip gloss. A soft gray eye shadow complemented her blue eyes, which appeared to be larger, thanks to eyeliner and thick false eyelashes. And if I wasn't mistaken, all that golden hair was not her own.

“Have you seen the gallery?” she asked. “It's going to be a wonderful place.”

“I stopped by just a little while ago. Looks like it'll be ready in no time.”

“Wendall went to Parkland to interview a potential curator. He wants to find the perfect person.”

“Has he considered hiring someone from Celosia?”

“You know, I told him that might be a good idea, but he didn't agree. I thought it might help things.” She sighed. “Madeline, I haven't known you very long, but I feel as if I can confide in you.”

“I'll be happy to listen.”

Once again, she played with a curl of the golden hair. “It's like this. I didn't set out to ruin anyone's marriage. Wendall and I fell in love at first sight. It just happened. We couldn't help it. He was so unhappy because Larissa never understood his big plans. As for my ex-husband, he had no ambition whatsoever, and whenever I got him to try something, it always fell apart. I'm sorry Larissa is still so angry, but Wendall and I were meant to be together.”

“Sometimes these things happen, Flora.”

“He wants to give this town something grand and important. I think that a beautiful new art gallery would be just the thing.”

To make the town forgive him? “I hope people will appreciate it.”

“Oh, I think an art gallery is a splendid idea,” she said. “People need the arts, you know. Well, of course you know. You're an artist. But were you really Miss Parkland?”

“Yes, I was.”

“You didn't want to continue?”

“I entered Miss Parkland because I wanted to and I needed the money, but from the time I was very small, it was all my mother's idea.”

“People always said I should be in pageants, but I was much too shy to be on stage.”

“Being in a pageant will take care of your shyness, believe me.” I liked Flora, but there was something forced in her friendliness, as if she were trying too hard to be agreeable. She'd make a great pageant girl. No, that wasn't fair. She was new in town and had been thrust into an unpleasant situation.

She took a sip of tea. “But you're really a detective, Madeline. Have you solved any mysteries?”

“When I first moved to town, I helped solve the murder of a Miss Celosia Pageant contestant.”

“Murder at a pageant? That must have been very strange.”

“It was a
Twilight Zone
moment. But having pageant experience came in handy.” And one of those handy experiences was the ability to tell a fake smile from a real one, and I wanted to believe Flora's was real. “Then not long after that, a director wanted to use my house for the set of a monster movie, and someone killed him.”

“And you solved that mystery?”

“Yes, and next, an unpopular teacher was found dead at the elementary school, and it turned out she had been murdered. I didn't think I'd find much work in Celosia, but every now and then somebody goes wild.”

She gave a little laugh. “Well, if you find me murdered, you'll know who done it. Larissa Norton.”

I sincerely hoped not.

“Besides Larissa, did Wendall ever tell you anything about Bea Ricter? She seemed very upset at the reception. Do you have any idea what she meant by telling him to do the right thing?”

Again she toyed with the curl of hair. “I'm not sure what's going on there. He is doing the right thing by opening this gallery. Maybe she's afraid he won't let her show her work.”

“He also told her, ‘That's not going to happen.'”

“He said she was still angry about something that happened a long time ago. He knew not everyone in Celosia would welcome him back. Sometimes when you're that popular, you have a lot of people who are jealous.” Flora picked up a croissant and took a dainty bite. “There comes a time when you have to let things go.”

That was true, but I sensed there was more to this than some petty high school envy. “Did he mention what that something was?”

“Well, now, that's the odd thing, Madeline. Bea's angry at him, but she won't tell him why. I think they need to sit down and straighten things out.”

Well, it was usually sex or money. “Did they have a relationship at one time?”

“I don't know. That doesn't seem likely, does it?”

“Does he owe her money?”

“I don't know that, either.” Her hand went back to her hair. Maybe she was afraid it was going to fall off. “I'm just glad we're not planning on living here. Why don't we talk about something else?”

***

I spent a pleasant hour and a half with Flora and promised to visit again. Before I went back to Pamela's shop, I stopped by Celosia High School, located out near the highway. The school looked new—a sprawl of light-pink brick buildings with shiny green roofs connected by covered walkways. The parking lot was as large as the football field. I found a visitor's spot, parked, and went into the office where I was given a visitor's badge and directed to the media center. There a helpful student showed me the yearbooks from the years Wendall, Larissa, Pamela, and Bea had gone to Celosia High.

Wendall looked the same, only darker. A long list of accomplishments was under his name. Larissa and Pamela had been very attractive. Teenage Larissa's hair was down past her shoulders, and her eyes were soulful. Young Pamela's hair still misbehaved, but in a different style. However, the high school version of Bea was a revelation. Her hair was long and curly, and her eyes crinkled as she smiled. Her picture practically glowed. She looked young and radiant and ready to face the world. So maybe there had been some sort of relationship with Wendall. Maybe he broke her heart. That kind of pain could last a lifetime.

All three women had been in the same clubs; all three were on the soccer team. I looked for the picture of the team in the athletics section of the yearbook. There they stood, side by side on the field: Larissa, Pamela, and Bea. At one time, they must have been friends.

What happened?

***

I drove back to Pamela's shop, where I spent a not-so-pleasant hour and a half digging through another file cabinet. When my eyes began to cross, I went home. It was not quite time for Denisha to be out of school. Jerry was waiting for me on the porch. He wanted to go to Millersberg right away, but I told him I'd like to wait and give Denisha the good news about Austin and Kennedy.

“Then we'll go to Millersberg. We can stop back by Baxter's for supper.”

Jerry agreed. “All right, but I want to take care of this problem as soon as possible.”

“Any idea what caused this problem? Sounds like you and Honor have a history.”

“Just a history of cons, that's all.”

“Look me in the eye and say that.”

He did. “Just a history of cons, that's all.” He looked exactly the same.

“I can never tell when you're lying.”

“Okay, now I'm going to tell a lie.” He kept his gaze right on me. “I really don't like Baxter's barbecue.”

“You sound the same.”

“That's the whole idea. Keep eye contact and speak in a neutral tone. But I promise, Honor and I were only friends and partners in a few schemes.”

“And one of those schemes went south and she's blaming you? Any idea which one?”

“I think I know, and it was sort of my fault. You don't want the details, do you?”

I really didn't. “Maybe later. What have you been doing today?”

“Taking charge of my own destiny.”

“That could mean a lot of things.”

“Job-hunting.”

“Great! Any luck?”

“I've set up a couple of interviews for later in the week, one with Tecknilabs, and one with Southern Foods. Both are sales positions. I don't have any experience with sales, but it can't be that much different from running cons. You're trying to get people to buy something you make them believe they can't live without.”

“I can see where that might work for you.”

“I've also been practicing. You can have a private concert while you wait for Denisha.”

I sat on the porch while he played selections from
Oklahoma
, occasionally putting his own spin on the tunes, so I heard “Oh, What A Beautiful Morning” reggae style, and “Kansas City” as a slow blues. Around three-thirty, Denisha rode up on her bike, hopped up the porch steps, and plopped into a rocking chair.