Devil's Own (9 page)

Gus smiled courteously and extended his hand. Tia smiled back politely and shook his hand. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Delaney,” Gus said.

“And you, Mr. Goodwin.” Her gaze appraised him from head to toes. “I’ve heard of your shop. Solid business foundation, trustworthy clientele, good quality merchandise, reasonable prices.”

Was a sound financial base the sole commendable aspect of his business? Gus did his best not to cringe, as he considered his shop providing a valuable community service. “Thank you” was all he said, though. The young, classy-looking woman next to Tia, probably an assistant, tapped at her iPad and murmured quietly about a meeting in twenty minutes. “If I’m keeping you….”

Tia smiled at Gus, shaking her head. “There are always meet-and-greets, so blowing one off is hardly a crime against humanity.” She gave a self-deprecating chuckle and a rebellious wink. Gus returned the gesture with a smile of his own. He quite liked this woman. “What do you think of the gallery, Mr. Goodwin?”

Gus blushed, glancing at Autumnsong at his side. “We, um, actually haven’t yet had the chance to, eh….”
See anything but the buffet table
, he finished in his head, feeling the burn in his cheeks.

Tia laughed, quirking a brow. “Oh, Kin, angling for a free lunch again?”

Autumnsong shrugged, nonchalant and mischievous at once. “Your chef makes the most excellent tiniest quiches. How could I resist?”

Waving her hand, Tia dismissed Autumnsong’s words, and then she gave Gus her undivided attention. “Would you like a tour of the gallery, Mr. Goodwin?”

Pleased at the prospect, Gus nodded eagerly. “I’d love it.”

Tia turned around, ambling toward the nearest painting. Gus followed. “What kind of art thrills you, Mr. Goodwin?”

“Please, call me Gus.” She smiled at his invitation and nodded in agreement. “I admit I have a fondness for pagan imagery, fantasy art, and nature photography. Not really much of an answer about art, I know.”

Tia snorted. “Pfft. Art is whatever moves you. Not only paintings by the masters or classical statues. Everything is art. Life especially.” She stopped in front of a provocative painting of a petite, prepubescent dark-haired girl in a pure white tutu with a bright red Popsicle in her mouth. She was looking directly at the viewer, eyes wide and innocent—but the ice pop she was sucking resembled an erect penis. “What do you think of this one?”

Gus swallowed. There was a fine line between art of children in provocative poses and pedophilic pictures. The fact that it was a painting and not a photograph was a small matter, though, considering how lifelike it was. The girl was challenging the viewer to respond emotionally, to have a reaction, positive or negative.

“It’s dangerous,” he answered carefully.

“It’s innocent too, don’t you think?” Tia nodded passively. “But do you like it? Do you hate it? What does it make you feel?”

“Slightly uncomfortable,” Gus admitted.

“Today’s society is conditioned to respond to images of children in one of two ways, either trying to suppress their reactions under suspicions of pedophilia or relishing them because they are seen as pornographic, titillating only to pedophiles.” Tia sounded like she had no personal opinion or preference, but Gus had a feeling she would react strongly if the gallery got a legal visit from the authorities threatening their free speech.

She moved to a piece on the opposite wall. This one was a photograph, probably photoshopped, of two young men standing in a cathedral, a beam of light illuminating them like a spotlight. Both men wore military uniforms, and they had guns pointed at each other’s chests, splatters of blood spreading between them as if they had already discharged their weapons. Yet they were leaning into one another in an almost vulgar display of a french kiss, their tongues clearly visible and touching.

Gus blinked a couple of times. “Disturbing imagery.”

Tia nodded, her head tilted as she inspected the picture. “Which part? The stark and bloody violence or the obscene act of male-on-male intimacy?”

“I’m gay, so not the latter.” Gus studied the art in more detail. “I can’t tell what is being glorified here, the kiss or the act of killing. A sacred space defiled?”

“Perhaps insanity is shown here in all its gory detail.” Tia gave Gus a sharp, inquisitive look. “You are Kin’s boyfriend?”

“No. No.” Gus hastened to deny any such allegation, fighting the chills making him shudder. At his side Autumnsong chuckled, as if amused by Gus’s quick response.

Tia glanced between the two men, her expression revealing nothing of her innermost thoughts. “I see. Do not be offended by my assumption, Gus. Kin parades his new men here once or twice a week.” She winked at him. “Damn. And just when I thought his taste had improved.”

Gus actually laughed at that. “Sorry to disappoint, but I have a boyfriend.” He didn’t add that he wouldn’t have chosen Autumnsong even if he had been the last man on earth.

“Monogamous relationships are so terribly bourgeois, but good for you.” Tia walked on, passing several pictures and statues on her way to the entrance. A distinguished-looking man in a business suit was waiting there, and it seemed he was Tia’s destination. “If you’ll forgive me, Gus, I have a meeting. I hope you visit here again soon so we may finish our talk.” She stopped just long enough to shake Gus’s hand, and then she was off.

Autumnsong came to stand next to Gus, leaning closer to whisper conspiratorially and more than a little smugly, “Aren’t you glad we came here, Gus? I knew you and Tia would like each other.”

Gus was loath to admit to any such thing. Well, at least he hadn’t intended to do anything of the sort. “She’s quite a character.”

“That she is.”

Autumnsong sauntered to a wall by the entrance to study a beautiful oil painting of a dark-haired young man who was blowing a kiss over his shoulder at the viewer. His dark eyes were so unfathomably deep Gus felt like he was drowning in their depths. Yet there were two elements of debasement in this work of art: first, the man was pissing against a clean whitewashed wall, and second, there was a crude carving on his arm, a pentagram standing on its tip, a symbol of Satanism. Blood was dripping from the open wound, and Gus shivered.

“You like this one?” Autumnsong asked in an innocent tone Gus in no way trusted for a moment.

“No.” Every reaction Gus got from the picture was negative. “It’s arresting, but kind of horrible too.”

“A slap in the face of convention.” Autumnsong scoffed loudly. “Still, one of Tia’s finest works.”

Shocked, Gus turned to face Autumnsong, who was gazing at the picture blankly. “Tia Delaney painted this?”

“Yes.” Autumnsong wasn’t looking at Gus, but he was smiling in that devilish way that made Gus goose bumpy all over, expecting nasty surprises. “The model is her son.” Shrugging, Autumnsong walked away to look around the rest of the gallery, popping finger food in his mouth the whole time.

Gus stayed behind, giving the painting a look with fresh eyes. Yes, there was a potent resemblance in the poignant eyes that reminded Gus of Tia. A strength of character emanated from the model as if he were real, staring back at Gus from some unnamed darkness, with knowledge of hidden mysteries man was not meant to learn about.

Shivering, Gus exhaled and walked off, his thoughts in a restless jumble.

I miss you, Niall
.

A
LL
THE
way to Medina, Hughes grumbled inaudibly in the car, and Niall could only tell a few words here and there. The case had just gotten a hundred times worse. Publicity alone would ensure the police department was going to be labeled as an idiot for not accurately identifying the deceased. Not that the identity of Florian Talbot as the deceased had even been confirmed to the press yet. Still, Hughes’s reaction was understandable, so Niall let him quietly simmer away.

It wasn’t like Niall himself was any better off. He missed Gus. His boyfriend’s sharp eye and natural exuberance would have been a welcome light in the heart of darkness they were about to enter, unbidden.

Still, he shrugged the uneasy feeling away since he couldn’t do anything about it now.

Hughes whistled low. “This place must’ve cost a fortune.”

Niall grunted his assent. The mansion in Medina, on the waterfront, was a huge, three-story building with two wings. It resembled those old-fashioned manor houses of the Old World, and the lawn and associated park were immaculately trimmed. Vines grew high, half covering the walls, but the large windows of the house were curtained, blocking the view inside.

Side by side, they walked to the front door.

Scant seconds after they rang the doorbell, an exotic-looking brunette in a dark red cocktail dress—with a frilly apron below the waist—opened the door. “Yes?” Her voice was deep for a woman, and in any other circumstances it would have been seductive. Her skin tone was also darker than Caucasian, a more milk chocolate tone, giving her a vibrant luster.

Hughes flashed his badge. “Hughes, SPD. This is my colleague, Valentine. And you are?”

“Nola Dubois, the housekeeper.” She stepped aside on her high heels to let the men inside. “May I ask with whom do you wish to speak? The family members are, um, a bit scattered around the estate.”

“You are family too, aren’t you, Ms. Dubois?” Niall countered quickly.

One thin eyebrow lifted quizzically. “Distant cousin. Impoverished. Familiar story, I’m sure, so no need to hash it out. Again… who do you wish to meet?”

“Everyone,” Hughes replied, mostly in a dissatisfied grunt.

Nola shrugged, gesturing for the men to go where they wished. But Niall stopped in front of her. “Since you’re here, why don’t we start with you?” He used his most charming smile and amiable voice.

But Nola didn’t seem impressed. “If you wish.”

Niall exchanged looks with Hughes, who stepped up, taking out his notebook and pen from his pocket. “You found the body, is that right?”

“Yes.”

Niall suppressed an annoyed sigh. It seemed Nola was going to provide as little useful information as possible. “Where?”

“He was lying in his other bedroom, the one he used when he slept alone, which was infrequently.” Nola didn’t sound broken up about it. “There was a commotion upstairs earlier, during the night, and his wife rushed out, frantic. Florian appeared mere moments later at the top of the stairs and laughed. Then the police arrived. They spoke to us, inspected the room, and left. Things settled down after that, but when I knocked on Florian’s private bedroom door midafternoon—he had missed both breakfast and lunch by then—he didn’t answer. The door was locked from the inside. Oswald broke down the door. I walked in first. Florian lay on the floor in his black silk robe, facedown, his head smashed in by a broken lamp. There were pieces everywhere.”

Niall listened carefully. Nola’s tone never wavered to upset or mournful. It was as if she was relaying someone else’s witness statement. “Did you try to revive him?”

Nola shook her head, rolling her eyes. “He was in full rigor, stiff as a board, so no.”

“Who went into the room besides you?” Hughes asked.

Nola looked pensive. “Oswald came to the threshold, but no further.”

“No one else?”

“Everyone stayed outside in the hallway.”

“Was everyone present?”

Nola frowned. “I wasn’t paying enough attention to take full attendance.”

“Walk us through your activities last night, Ms. Dubois,” Hughes put forward, but by no means was it a request.

“I went to bed around ten. I watched the evening news while drinking an herbal tea. I woke up to the noise from upstairs, the screaming.”

“Your bedroom is downstairs?” Niall clarified.

“Yes. I’m the only one with a ground-floor room.”

“As you came out, did you see anyone?”

Nola cocked her head to the side, as if puzzled, her long brown curls shifting like a veil. “Do you mean strangers? No. Angelina Talbot ran down the stairs, making frightened mewling sounds, it was quite distasteful.” Niall tried not to bristle and remained quiet. “Then Florian appeared at the top of the stairs, like I said, and laughed.”

“There were other people there?” Hughes asked.

“Ida and Ella were getting it on by the landing, and I think I saw Titus standing there in the shadows too, as usual, the perv.” Nola scoffed loudly, her nose wrinkling. “I’m pretty sure Oswald came out of his bedroom to see what was going on as well, since I saw his back on the other end of the landing.”

“Anyone else?”

“The house would have to be falling down for anything to rouse Millicent from her slumber, Henrietta takes sleeping pills, and Ivan wasn’t home last night. And please don’t ask me where he was. I’m not his keeper.”

“After that, where did Florian go?”

Nola seemed contemplative. “People were talking on the landing. I heard chattering. Soon after that the police came, did their thing, and left. I went back to bed. I woke up late, around ten, because of all that hubbub, and had late breakfast an hour later. Millicent was the only one there, having brunch. No one else was around. The house was as still as a tomb. I instructed the staff—they don’t live here in the mansion—to clean up while I supervised. I had late lunch around two with Millicent, Henrietta, and Oswald. Ella breezed through, nibbled on some cheese bread, and was gone again. Farrah and Goddard dine in private, as she tends to him every hour of every day, so I didn’t see them. They are very devoted to each other. Anyway, then Millicent asked if Florian had eaten anything, and I told her I hadn’t seen him all day. She told me to wake him up. I believe she was certain he was hungover or still asleep. I went to Florian’s bedroom, the door was locked, and he didn’t answer when I called. I got concerned, called Oswald, and he broke down the door…. Well, you know the rest.” She glanced impatiently toward a dim hallway, most likely the kitchen. “I need to get back to work. Anything else?”

“Where is everyone?” Hughes asked.

Nola sighed, pursing her full lips in obvious dismay. “Millicent and Oswald are in the study with the family attorney. Ella is in the garden. I have no idea where Titus is—the disgusting little weasel. Farrah and Goddard are in their suite, I think. Ivan is… who knows where, Ida is by the indoor pool, and Henrietta is in the sunroom, knitting, embroidering, some such.” Pivoting on her heels, Nola walked away, not waiting for permission to leave.