Claws for Alarm (18 page)

She cut me off again with a brisk wave. “Nick's a cute name for a cat. I like it when the pets have human names. Personally I hate it when someone has a sheepdog named Fluffy or a cat named Percy—
Purr
cy, get it?” She laughed at her own very bad joke. “Now, a few things you should know.” She started walking down the graveled path toward one of the buildings, leaving Ollie and me no choice but to follow her. “All the apartments have high ceilings and oversized windows. Ceiling fans in every bedroom; some living rooms have 'em, too. We've got spacious closets, a big walk-in one in the bedroom. There's high-speed Internet and cable TV. First-floor apartments have patios; second and third, balconies. Sorry, right now I have nothing on the first floor, but you probably wouldn't want that anyway. I might even have a furnished apartment, if that's what you're interested in . . .”

I cut her off before she could segue into another extended description. “It sounds lovely, really, but I'm not interested in renting an apartment. And we're not a couple.”

“You're not together?”

“We—ah—work together.”

“Oh.” It was hard to tell if she was relieved or surprised. Her finger came up, jabbed the air scant inches from Ollie's nose. “She said she's not interested, but what about you? You in the market for an apartment?”

“Not really, no. Actually, we're looking for someone who lives in this complex.”

Her hands fisted at her hips. “Well, goodness. Why didn't you say so in the first place? Who'd you want to see?”

I wanted to scream out,
Because you didn't give me a chance
, but instead I bit down hard on my lower lip and held out the piece of paper. “Taft Michaels? Building number 1675?”

“Oh.” She gave me a cursory once-over. Apparently my deep coral prairie skirt, low-heeled sandals, and black gauze top passed muster, because she gave a little nod of approval. “Hm, you don't look like one of his usual models. They wear the skimpiest outfits.”

“One of his usual models? I'm sorry, I was under the impression Taft is a model himself.”

Both her perfectly arched brows rose. “He is indeed, but he's also a struggling
artiste
! And a rather brilliant one, if you ask me.” She waved her hand dramatically. “He studies at the school and he also paints. Lots of different things—portraits, still life—you name it, he does it. He's not bad, either. Kinda cagey about his work, though. I brought a potential renter into his apartment one day—I knew he wasn't home, and I wanted to show off how he'd done his balcony—and my God, I thought he was going to take my head off. I practically had to swear on a stack of Bibles that
I hadn't brought the girl anywhere else but to the balcony and out.” She leaned forward. “He had a painting up on the easel in the living room, though, and it was impossible not to look at it. It was excellent—a half-clothed woman—and so real you thought she'd doff the robe and walk straight off the canvas. Honest, his work is on a par with many I've seen hanging in museums.”

Ollie raised a brow. “He's that good?”

She leaned in to us and said in a confidential tone, “That boy's got serious talent. He's going to make something of himself someday, mark my words.”

I looked significantly at Ollie. “That's very interesting. I didn't realize he had that much talent. He mentioned to me he'd dropped out of his art class.”

“Yes, it was too expensive. A real shame, if you ask me. Talent like that should be nurtured, not discouraged.” She leaned in close to me, as if she were afraid someone might overhear. “He was particularly talented when it came to painting people, portraits, nudes. They looked like they could all jump off the canvas. I found it fascinating, since Taft is such an antisocial type of guy. He didn't seem to have any male friends. I saw one guy come over once—a real arty type, long hair, dark glasses—but he delivered a package, so I assumed he was some sort of business acquaintance. Now the ladies—well, there's another story entirely. He had two girls who used to come over regularly. One I know he met at the art school.”

“Ah, I think I know the one you mean. Black hair, blue eyes, about my height, perfect figure?”

Marlene shook her head. “Oh heck no. Just the opposite. Real pale colored hair—almost white—and hazel eyes. Tiny
frame, but well built, you know, kind of like Marilyn Monroe. She's only been here a few times. Goodness, the last time she was lugging a box bigger than her. But the other one, another blonde, more on the golden side, real sexy, that chickie was practically living here for a while.” She leaned in and said in a low tone, “Personally, I think he's in for trouble with that one. I saw a wedding ring on her finger. But”—she raised both hands—“it's none of my business, really. I just notice things. Why, I've seen things around this complex that would set your hair on end. I really should write a book one day. Do you know there's a man in number 2025—”

I cut her off before she could recount any more escapades. “To tell you the truth, we came here to pick up a still life from Taft. It's, ah, a gift for my sister's anniversary party tomorrow, and he said it would be ready today. So if you can just tell me which building he lives in—”

“Oh, isn't that nice. What a thoughtful gift. She'll love it, I'm sure. But he's not home right now.”

Disappointment arrowed through me. “He's not? But he's not at the school today, so I just assumed—”

Her finger wagged to and fro under my nose. “See, that's the problem when you assume. I know he's not at the school today. This is his day at Sip 'n Slip. He usually bartends most nights, but Tuesdays he works the morning and early afternoon shift—helps out with the cooking and waitstaff.” She glanced at her watch. “It's not far from here. If you leave now, you might be able to speak to him before his shift ends.” She shrugged her shoulders apologetically. “If he wasn't such a stickler about it I'd let you into his place so you could get your painting, but I don't need another scene,
no sir.” She clasped her hands dramatically in front of her. “If I did that, why, he'd be
very
upset. Very.”

“No problem.” I whipped a card out of my purse and scribbled my phone number on it. “If I should miss him, though, could you give him this and ask him to call me?”

She glanced at the card before shoving it into her pocket. “Sure enough, Ms. St. Clair. Gee, that name sure does sound familiar. Any relation to the Pacific Grove St. Clairs?”

“Distant,” I answered. “Very, very distant.”

Once we were out of Marlene's earshot, I let out the giant breath I'd been holding. “It seems as if our boy Tate might be involved more than we think. I wonder if he could be the one producing the forged paintings.”

“Well, I greatly doubt bartending is the ‘golden opportunity' he couldn't pass up. I've known quite a few bartenders in my day. They couldn't have covered their rent if it weren't for the tips, most of which went unreported to Uncle Sam, unless I miss my guess. It's what they call ‘under the table' income. Even still, I doubt it would be enough to afford the rent on that place.”

I nodded. “I wonder if the man she described could have been that Professor Foxworthy. He's an ‘arty type' with long hair and dark glasses.”

Ollie shrugged. “To be honest, guys that fit that description are a dime a dozen.”

“True, and, as far as I know, he's got no ties to the gallery. I admit I'm far more interested in her descriptions of Taft's lady friends. One is Giselle, no doubt, and the other . . . it sounded like Jenna Whitt, to a tee.”

“The girl you think wanted to snoop around your sister's
room. Hm.” Ollie mused. “Wonder what that connection could be?”

I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “I'd sure like to know what was in the box she said Jenna brought over. I'll bet anything it didn't contain art supplies.”

“Well, maybe now is the right time to get some answers.”

We climbed in the SUV and I programmed the GPS for directions to the pub, which fortunately wasn't far away. We arrived at our destination in a little less than fifteen minutes, and I parked across the street from a low-slung black and red clapboard building in the business district of Pacific Grove. The gold lettering on the Sip 'n Slip sign was eye-catching set against the stark black background, but I thought there was an unnecessary amount of clutter and posters in the wide picture window that detracted from its overall appearance.

We got out and I locked the car, and we walked across the street. It took a minute for my eyes to make the adjustment from bright sunlight to dim interior, and once they did, I took a quick look around. The bar was a wide affair that took up the entire right side of the room, extending from far back to right next to the wide window. If the shelves overflowing with bottles behind it were any indication, it was well stocked. Two men in battered jeans and wrinkled T-shirts sat hunched over the bar near the window, deep in conversation, half-full mugs of beer in front of them. They looked up as I entered, gave me a once-over, and then resumed talking as if I weren't there. I wasn't sure if I'd just been insulted or not.

The floor was clean and seemed to be divided between timber and tiles. There were brown leatherette stools flanking the bar, and to its left, a green and brown bench seating area
that appeared to be in good condition. In the midst of the bench seating was a fireplace encased in nice yellow brick. A solid fuel stove added more charm. The walls were painted green and white, and I could hear Irish music playing softly in the background. A flat-screen TV turned on to a game show played right above the bar area, and near a door that I assumed led to restrooms were a gaming machine, a dart board, and a cigarette machine. A jukebox was at the rear of the room near another door, which I assumed led to the kitchen area. That was confirmed a moment later when it opened and Taft himself, carrying a tray on which rested two orders of French fries, emerged. He walked over to the two men, set the fries in front of them. While he did that I slid onto a stool at the other end of the bar, and Ollie settled himself near the other two men. Taft finished with them, and Ollie ordered a Sam Adams. Taft set a frosty mug in front of him, then turned in my direction. His eyes widened a bit as he saw me, but I caught no flicker of recognition in them as he approached, a wide smile on his face.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “What's your pleasure, miss? We've got some nice Guinness on tap today, and Michelob Light as well.”

“Good afternoon, Taft,” I answered. “I think I'll just have coffee for now.”

“Coming right up.” He moved over to a large pot on the back counter, filled a mug, and set it in front of me with a small pitcher of milk and a few sugar packets.

I poured some milk in, took a sip. “Mmm . . . good and hot. Thank you, Taft.”

He leaned across the bar, elbows up, cupping his chin. “Have we met somewhere? You seem to know me . . . and you do
seem so familiar.” He stood back a bit and squinted at me. Then his expression cleared and he gave me one of his dazzling smiles. “Of course—now I remember. You were at the school. Abigail St. Clair, am I right? I never forget a pretty face.”

Or a thick checkbook
, I thought. “We did meet at the school, but I'm afraid my name isn't Abigail St. Clair.”

His eyes clouded, and one corner of his lips tugged downward. “No? But I could swear—”

“It's the name I gave, but it's not my real name. I felt it best at the time not to divulge my real identity.”

He barked out a laugh, but the look he shot me was a wary one. “Your real identity? I'm sorry, I don't understand.”

“My name's Nora Charles. I'm Lacey's sister. With everything going on, I'm sure you can understand why I chose not to disclose my identity.”

He reached underneath the counter, pulled out a rag, and started wiping down the bar. “Of course. It's not pleasant, having a sibling accused of murder—particularly when the chances are excellent that she's guilty.”

I leaned forward to rest my elbows on the bar's smooth surface. “I think we both know that's not true.”

His head jerked up, and his eyes narrowed into slits. “Now how would I know that?”

“You don't have to play dumb with me, Taft. I know you lied about the night of the murder.”

“I beg your pardon? If anyone's lying here, it's you. I'm not the one hiding behind an assumed name.”

I ignored his remark and continued, “You know, I've got a sort of sixth sense—I can tell when someone's not being honest.”

“Can you now?” His lips clamped into a thin line. “Well, you've got it wrong this time. I've got nothing to say.”

“Don't you?” I slammed my fist down on the bar with enough force that the two guys at the other end paused in their conversation to look up. “You said that you were with Giselle Pitt at that fund-raiser the evening Pitt was killed, but that's not true. Giselle left for a short time and went to the school.”

His brows shot skyward, and he shot a quick glance toward the other patrons, who were regarding us curiously. “Not so loud,” he hissed. “No one needs to know what we're discussing, do they? Besides, where'd you get an idea like that?”

I leaned closer to him and dropped my voice a bit. “A parking ticket was issued at ten thirty-seven to a red Mercedes with the license plate
TRPHYWF
. We both know who that plate belongs to, so why don't you drop the pretense and just admit you lied for her.”

He stared at me, then let out a mirthless chuckle. “Lady, you've got it all wrong.”

“Impossible,” I bristled. “I've got the facts to back this up. You're trapped, Taft. All you can do now is blow her alibi right out of the water. She wasn't at that party; she was at her husband's office. Tell me—did she kill Julia, too?”