Loving Again: Book 2 in the Second Chance series (Crimson Romance) (13 page)

“Haven’t asked her yet but I intend to today. I wanted to see if she’d said something to you that might help us understand what went on.”

“No, she said she went to work at noon and home a little after nine. Other than that, all she said was that she’s freaked. Thinks the same thing’s happening that happened last year.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Don’t be. You’re not the one who lied to me … to us.” He started to leave the office.

Danny rose from her chair. “Wait, I’m on my way to see Liz Fairchild.” She turned to their boss. “Okay if Sam comes along? He’s the one Liz agreed to see.”

Angel nodded consent and the meeting broke up.

• • •

Sam and Danny drove separately to The Fairchild Gallery so his partner could go see Amanda afterwards. Since he wasn’t exactly on a roll that morning, he was surprised when he scored a parking space right in front of the gallery.

He waited for Danny to join him, then knocked at the gallery door. Liz Fairchild immediately answered. Before he could finish introducing himself, Liz interrupted. “Of course I know who you are. I remember what you did last year for one of my best artists. Come in.”

“This is Detective Danny Hartmann,” Sam finished the introductions. “Thanks for seeing us before you open up.”

“No problem. But I’m curious what the Portland Police Bureau thinks I can do to help them,” Liz said as she led them through the gallery. It was elegant looking, all cream-colored walls, focused light and strategically placed partial walls at interesting angles. In the front of the gallery was an exhibit of scenes from the Southwest. In the back, the works of other artists were on the walls; metal sculpture and glass pieces were displayed on pedestals. In a simple but well-designed case, jewelry and smaller objects were arranged.

Her office, on the other hand, was decorated with nothing except a calendar and a large bulletin board covered in layers of announcements, postcards, and invitations. Which suited the furnishings — a battered desk and two equally beat-up file cabinets. Accommodations for visitors consisted of a couple of folding chairs. Only the computer looked state of the art. Liz clearly didn’t waste money on anything her clients wouldn’t see.

Sam and Danny opened the folding chairs and sat while Liz poured coffee for them, coffee that thankfully matched the classy gallery and not the office if the aroma was any indication. Settling in her desk chair with her mug, Liz looked from one detective to the other and said, “So, what can I do for you this morning?”

“Danny’s the detective in charge of the Kane/Jordan case,” Sam said. “We heard you had a run-in with Eubie Kane not long before he was killed. Mind telling us what it was about?”

She sniffed. “He’s been a pain since I signed him for the gallery. His latest was trying to get out of his contract when he thought he could get into a gallery he considered a step up. I wouldn’t let him go. I’d dropped a bundle for print ads announcing a solo show for him next month. That’s what the run-in was about. He wanted out. I wouldn’t let him, not without the two months’ notice he agreed to. I was pissed at him, the little worm.”

After she took a sip of her coffee, she continued. “Sorry. I’m not as insensitive as that sounds. Not even someone who was a pain in the ass should have his life cut short like that. And Robin Jordan. I heard she was a real sweetheart.”

“Did you have trouble with him before the contract issue came up?” Danny asked.

“Oh, honey, all the time. He complained about everything.” She imitated Eubie’s whine. “The light’s not right for my glass. Do something about it. Those pedestals don’t show off my work to its best advantage. Get new ones.” She threw up her hands and returned to her normal voice. “If he wasn’t bitching about one thing, it was another.”

“If he was that much trouble, why didn’t you let him go?” Sam asked.

“Because I liked the work and it sold pretty well. I don’t have to be an artist’s best friend to represent them.”

“Okay, so you and he had it out last Monday. You gave him a note?” Danny continued.

“He wouldn’t listen when I said no, so finally I said maybe if I put it in writing he’d understand. I wrote, ‘hell no, you can’t go’ or something like that on a piece of brown paper — I was hanging a show and the floor was littered with the stuff — and gave it to him. How’d you figure out I wrote it?”

“Part of a mailing label with your name on it was on the other side,” Danny said.

“Remind me not to write any ransom notes, will you?” She got up from her desk and picked up the coffee carafe. Saying, “Let me freshen your coffee,” she topped up the two visitors’ mugs before emptying the remainder of the contents of the pot into her own.

“He got into it with Amanda St. Claire recently, accused her of stealing his ideas. Do you think there was any basis to that?” Sam asked.

“If anyone stole ideas, it was the other way around. Eubie was technically pretty good and people liked his work but he played it safe, did the same thing over and over. Not like Amanda who’s always pushing herself and has an
omigod
originality that attracts critical attention.”

“So, to have it for the record,” Danny said, “Where were you Tuesday between say, seven and ten pm?”

“You mean this past Tuesday night?”

Danny nodded.

“Let’s see — I had drinks with a friend. After that, I dropped by a new gallery that’s trying to stay open late most nights. Wanted to see if they were getting any foot traffic. I went home after I had dinner. I was leaving for Seattle the next morning and wanted to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Where’s home?” Danny asked.

“I live in the southwest, off Macadam Avenue.”

“After you had drinks with your friend, were you with anyone who’ll vouch for you?” Sam asked.

“No. Collins, my partner, isn’t here right now.”

Sam persisted. “You didn’t stop anyplace else on your way home?”

Liz stood up and looked out into the gallery, as if she heard a noise.

Sam repeated the question.

“Drinks, dinner, home. That’s about it.” She sat down without looking directly at either detective.

“Anything else you think we should be aware of about Eubie Kane?” Danny asked. “Any enemies? Anybody who disliked him intensely enough to want to harm him?”

“Not that I can think of. He was always playing the tortured
artiste
, which was boring and annoying, but I can’t think of anyone who truly hated him.”

“So, who found him annoying?” Danny asked.

“Most recently? Me and another gallery owner, Sophie Woods. I talked to her right after he was here that Monday, and she was steaming about how much time she wasted talking to him when he knew he couldn’t sign with her.”

They asked a few more questions before winding up the interview, thanking Liz for her time. As they walked to Sam’s truck, a young man with dark hair and a couple small Band-Aids on his face, as though he had cut himself shaving, walked past them, stopped close to the gallery and stared at them. Sam returned the stare until the man broke eye contact, knocked on the door of the gallery, and Liz let him in.

Danny stood by the driver-side door while Sam unlocked it. “She’s not telling us everything,” she said. “She skipped a step or two about what she did after she had drinks.”

Sam nodded agreement. “And she must be six feet tall and left-handed from the way she picked up that coffee pot. She could have done what it would have been hard for Amanda to do. But would Robin Jordan have let her into Bullseye? And where’s the motive? Would she kill the goose that laid the golden — or in this case, glass — egg? And fighting with Jordan that way? Killing her? I don’t see it.”

Danny didn’t seem to be paying attention to Sam’s musings. She was looking across the street. “That car over there. The guy working across the street from Bullseye that night not only saw Amanda’s Highlander, he saw Eubie Kane’s van, a beater Toyota Corolla, and what he called a classy looking silver or gray car, a BMW, he thought. That silver Beemer across the street from the gallery — wanna bet when I run the plate, it belongs to Liz?”

“She was there, too? Christ, what was going on at Bullseye, free beer night?”

“Liz strikes me as more the wine type but, other than that, I agree with you. After I see who owns that car I’ll go back and ask her one more time where she was,” Danny said, “before I go on to my next appointment.”

“If you can let me know … ” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“I’ll try, Sam. I promise.”

• • •

Liz Fairchild let Mike Benson into the gallery and locked the door before she said, “You’re not due to work today, Mike. And frankly I’m surprised you showed up at all. It’s not often a thief returns to the place he robbed.”

He handed her a fistful of bills. “I’m not a thief. I came by to give you the money for the bracelet. It was marked $95. It’s all there. I shouldn’t have taken it before I paid you but I had this hot date and wanted to give her a present. It was her birthday.”

Liz took the money. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have let you take it and pay me later. You didn’t have to steal it.”

“I didn’t steal it. You’ve been paid for it. You were on the phone when I left, remember? I didn’t have a chance to ask you. And I had to get home to change.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said. Before she could say anything else, there was a knock on the door. Liz turned yelling, “We’re not open until … ” but stopped, mid-sentence, when she saw Danny Hartmann. “God, now what?” she muttered as she walked to open the door.

“What else can I do for you, Detective Hartmann?” Liz said when she let the officer back in. As the two women faced off in the middle of the gallery, Mike Benson disappeared out the front door. Neither woman paid attention.

“It’s about your car over there,” Hartmann said.

“It’s legally parked, isn’t it?”

“I don’t do parking enforcement. I’m interested in whether you and your car were at Bullseye on Tuesday night.”

“No, that’s not the gallery I went to.”

“I’m not talking about their gallery on Everett. I meant the Resource Center in the southeast.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Around the time Eubie Kane and Robin Jordan were killed, a man across the street from Bullseye saw a silver car parked out front that sounds a lot like yours.”

“You think I killed them?”

“Not necessarily. But if you were there, you might have seen something that will help us figure out who did.”

“I told you, I had drinks with a friend, went to a gallery over on the eastside, had dinner at Doug Fir, then I went home.”

“You were at a gallery and a restaurant on the eastside, where Bullseye is? You didn’t say that before. You were there — when? For how long?”

“It’s not real clear. Maybe about seven, eight. For an hour or more, I’d guess.”

“Which puts you driving home about nine. You could have been the Beemer owner who swung by Bullseye.”

“I don’t remember doing that. But then, I’d had several drinks.”

“You sure that’s the answer you want to give me?”

Liz didn’t respond for a moment. “I’ll call you if I remember anything else.”

“You do that.” Hartmann handed Liz a business card. “Here. For when your memory improves. I hope that happens soon.” She was on the sidewalk before Liz could respond.

While Sam was doing all he could to figure out who had murdered two people, Amanda was paralyzed by anxiety. Her conscience told her she should tell Sam about the letters left when her studio was ransacked — but that was exactly what the note said would put Sam in danger. She couldn’t have that. So, she ignored the voice and tried to work it out by herself.

In the end all she could do was a little office business and a bit of work on her propane torch. Moving stringers through the flame and watching drops of molten glass fall onto the table in perfectly rounded pieces was soothing. Or inhaling propane fumes was. She wasn’t sure which and didn’t really care, as long as it worked.

Then Felicia called and said the Resource Center had been cleared to reopen. Amanda shut off her torch, shook off her torpor, went to Bullseye and dropped a small fortune on sheet glass, hopeful that having supplies to get back to work with would get her out of her slump.

When Danny Hartmann arrived at her studio, she was unpacking and storing her precious cargo. They had an awkward conversation. Amanda tried to explain why she omitted — her word — her presence at Bullseye that night, saying she didn’t think she’d seen anything worth reporting.

From the number of times and the variety of ways the question was asked about why she lied — Hartmann’s word — Amanda knew Sam’s partner didn’t believe her. She tried to explain how frightened she was because of the similarities between what had happened last year and this latest horrible event, but she didn’t think Hartmann was convinced.

Amanda didn’t have the nerve to ask — or maybe didn’t want to find out — if Sam knew she’d been there.

After Hartmann left, Amanda considered going home and hiding herself under the quilt on her bed. Instead, she buried herself in work, her lethargy gone with the need to clear her mind of what happened. She finished storing her purchases, cleaned out kilns, scraped shelves and painted them with kiln-wash so she could fire glass on them, and readied the bins of ruined work for trash pickup. It was long after dark when she finished her tasks, but for the first time in days she felt like she’d gotten real work done.

As soon as she had the last trashcan out on the sidewalk, she locked up the back door, shut off the lights in her work area, and walked toward the front of the studio. The only illumination came from the three glory holes. Normally she found the glow of the molten glass comforting. But tonight, something was off.

Mid-studio, she stopped and looked around, trying to figure it out. Everything looked normal. Nothing was out of place.

Wait. That sound. Was it wind against the metal building? No. There wasn’t any wind. A neighbor putting out trash? The sound hadn’t come from the direction of the street.