Chapter 15
" I can't believe I let you talk me into this. This is extortion," Chelsea said, trying to get comfortable in the desk chair. The antique wooden seat creaked ominously beneath her as she shifted, searching for a position that wouldn't leave her back in knots by lunchtime.
Jacqui Hutchins, owner of the Captiva Island Art Gallery, glanced up from arranging a display of handblown glass sculptures, her dark hair falling in a curtain across one shoulder. "It's not extortion. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"It's slave labor," Chelsea countered, eyeing the ancient computer on the desk with suspicion. "Does this thing even connect to the internet, or do I need to send messages by carrier pigeon?"
"It works perfectly fine," Jacqui said, stepping back to assess the arrangement of cobalt and amber glass pieces catching the morning light. "And you're being paid, which, by definition, makes it not slavery."
"Minimum wage to man a desk when I could be painting?" Chelsea sniffed. "That's practically indentured servitude."
Jacqui straightened, placing her hands on her hips.
At thirty-two, she was nearly twenty-five years Chelsea's junior, but her no-nonsense demeanor could make even the most stubborn islander back down.
"Let's be honest, Chelsea. We both know you're not here for the money or the stimulating environment of art sales. "
Chelsea's protest died on her lips. “Busted.”
"You're here," Jacqui continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper despite the empty gallery, "because this place shares a wall with Linda St. James's office, and you're hoping to eavesdrop on her love life."
Chelsea had the grace to look mildly ashamed—but only mildly. "That's a gross oversimplification of a complex situation."
"Is it though?" Jacqui's eyebrow arched skeptically.
"Fine," Chelsea huffed, abandoning the pretense.
"But you have to admit, Linda St. James wearing lipstick and perfume is a development of island-wide significance.
The woman has worn the same beige linen shift every day for fifteen years.
Now suddenly she's in floral dresses with actual waistlines! "
The corner of Jacqui's mouth twitched. "It is...unexpected."
"It's seismic," Chelsea insisted, warming to her subject. "Linda has terrorized business owners, tourists, and perfectly innocent inn proprietors with her 'journalistic standards' for decades. If Byron Jameson has somehow melted the ice queen's heart, I need details. For posterity."
"For gossip," Jacqui corrected.
"For science," Chelsea countered primly. "The anthropological study of mating rituals among the island's indigenous characters."
Jacqui couldn't suppress her laugh any longer.
"You're ridiculous. And you're lucky I actually do need weekend help.
" She glanced at her watch. "Linda usually comes downstairs and heads across to RC Otters at eight-thirty sharp.
It's nearly that now. I'll be in the back room cataloging new inventory if you need anything—or if you hear any breaking news about honey-flavored romance. "
"Honey-flavored—oh!" Chelsea's eyes widened in delight. "Because he's a beekeeper. That's good. I'm using that."
"Please don't," Jacqui groaned, already heading toward the back room.
Left alone, Chelsea did a quick assessment of her surveillance capabilities.
The gallery occupied a charming single-story structure with large windows facing Andy Rosse Lane.
Linda's newspaper office and attached apartment were in the building next door, separated only by a narrow garden path and, more importantly, a surprisingly thin wall that ran the length of the gallery's eastern side.
Chelsea had discovered this architectural quirk the year earlier, when Jacqui first rented the space.
While helping her protégée arrange paintings, Chelsea had clearly heard Linda's voice through the wall, lecturing some poor soul about proper comma usage.
At the time, it had seemed merely inconvenient. Now, it was strategic gold.
She was just considering whether she could reasonably press her ear directly to the wall without looking completely deranged when the gallery's front door swung open. The little bell overhead jingled cheerfully, announcing the day's first visitor.
Chelsea prepared her most welcoming smile—which froze halfway when she saw who it was.
Byron Jameson filled the doorway, his impressive height forcing him to duck slightly beneath the frame.
His white beard, neatly trimmed and gleaming in the morning light, gave him the jolly appearance that had made him Captiva's unofficial Santa Claus for years.
Today, however, there was nothing jolly about his expression. He looked distinctly...nervous.
"Morning, Chelsea," he said, his deep voice oddly hesitant. "Didn't expect to see you here. Jacqui around?"
"Just cataloging inventory. Can I help you with something?"
Byron shifted his weight, clutching a small paper bag that Chelsea hadn't initially noticed. "Just had a quick question about...art."
"Art," Chelsea repeated flatly. In the twenty years she'd known Byron Jameson, he had never once asked about art. Fishing, yes. Weather patterns, absolutely. The best place to source wood for beehive construction, frequently. But not art.
"Yes, art," Byron confirmed, the tips of his ears reddening above his beard. "Specifically, what kind of art a woman might appreciate. As a gift."
Chelsea nearly fell out of her uncomfortable chair. This was better than she could have imagined. Byron Jameson, buying art for a woman? There was only one woman on the island who had recently caught his attention.
"Well," Chelsea said, struggling to keep her voice casual, "that would depend on the woman. Everyone has different tastes."
"Right, of course." Byron nodded, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "I suppose I'm wondering what Linda might—" He caught himself, eyes widening slightly. "That is, what someone like Linda might...not that I'm specifically asking about Linda St. James. Just someone similar. Hypothetically."
Chelsea bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. "Hypothetically."
"Exactly," Byron said, relief evident in his voice. "Hypothetically speaking, what might a woman who appreciates...traditional values and journalistic integrity...like in terms of wall art?"
Chelsea considered the question with all the seriousness it deserved, which was considerable given that this was the most entertaining development to hit Captiva since the great pelican invasion of 2019.
"Well," she said thoughtfully, "I find that women of a certain...traditional mindset often appreciate landscapes. Something that captures the natural beauty of a place that's special to them."
Byron's expression brightened. "That makes sense. Linda—I mean, a woman like I described—might appreciate a painting of the island."
"Perhaps of a specific place on the island," Chelsea suggested innocently. "A place that might hold particular meaning."
Byron's gaze drifted to the window, toward Powell Water Sports directly across the street.
"I see you've given this some thought," Byron said, his focus returning to Chelsea.
"I'm an artist," she replied smoothly. "Considering the emotional impact of images is what I do."
“I suppose something with water,” he said, although barely audible.
Just then, the sound of a door slamming came through the wall, followed by the distinctive click of Linda St. James's sensible heels on hardwood. Byron's head jerked toward the sound like a hunting dog catching a scent.
"That would be our neighbor going for coffee at RC Otters," Chelsea said, unable to resist. "Punctual as always."
Byron's hand tightened on the paper bag he was carrying. "Maybe I should come back later, when Jacqui's not so busy."
"Nonsense," Chelsea declared, rising from her chair. "Let me get her for you. I'm sure she'd be delighted to help you select the perfect...hypothetical gift."
Before Byron could protest, Chelsea hurried toward the back room, a smile spreading across her face that would have alarmed anyone who knew her well. This was going to be the most entertaining workday she'd had in years.
By mid-morning, the gallery had seen a steady stream of tourists and a few serious collectors examining Jacqui's carefully curated collection.
Chelsea had settled into her role with surprising ease, discovering that she actually enjoyed chatting with visitors about the various artists represented in the space.
But her attention remained divided, one ear constantly attuned to the sounds coming through the shared wall with Linda's office.
So far, she'd heard several phone calls (all business-related), the coffee maker gurgling twice, and what sounded like Linda rehearsing the opening paragraphs of an editorial about proper dog-walking etiquette on the beach.
Fascinating stuff, truly.
Byron had left an hour earlier, after a lengthy consultation with Jacqui that had resulted in the purchase of a small watercolor depicting the view from Andy Rosse Lane toward the bay, with The Bubble Room in the left corner of the painting.
Chelsea had to admit it was a thoughtful choice—subtle enough not to overwhelm Linda's minimalist aesthetic, yet personal enough to convey genuine sentiment.
"Don't you have actual work to do?" Jacqui asked, returning to the front desk after showing a customer the finer points of a ceramic installation. "Paintings to paint? Natural settings to capture in watercolor?"
"I'm on a sabbatical," Chelsea replied airily. "Gathering life experiences to inform my next creative phase."
"Eavesdropping, you mean."
"Observing human behavior in its natural habitat."
Jacqui rolled her eyes and giggled. "Well, while you're observing, could you please update the inventory spreadsheet? We sold three pieces yesterday that haven't been logged yet."