Chapter 9
When she arrived at the gallery the next morning, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Fire trucks lined the narrow street and pumping water into her gallery. She could tell they were trying desperately to keep the damage contained.
She leaned with her back against the wall of The Gold Miner. a jewelry shop and cried as her dreams went up in smoke and flames.
Peter walked up to her and stopped about three feet away, waiting until she looked up at him.
When she did, she knew he could tell that she’d been crying. Who wouldn’t seeing everything they’d worked for, for the last ten years be destroyed.
He held open his arms.
She clenched her jaw and then stepped into them with a sob.
He wrapped them around her. “I’m sorry. So very sorry.”
“I guess Horace couldn’t wait to ruin me legally.”
Miranda Jacobs, the only female sheriff’s deputy, walked up. She was blonde, blue-eyed and her face was devoid of makeup except for a deep-mauve lipstick. “Alexis. I’m so sorry.”
Alexis looked up at the woman, stepped over to her, and gave her a long hug before turning back to Peter. “Thanks. Miranda Jacobs, this is Peter Kincaid.”
The deputy’s eyes widened. She extended her hand. “The artist?”
Peter nodded and took her hand. “That would be me.”
They shook, but she didn’t release him and instead covered his hand with her left. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I’ve admired your work for years.”
He glanced at Alexis and then back at Miranda, before smiling broadly. “I’m always glad that someone has enjoyed my paintings.”
Alexis smiled. At least something good came out of the fire. Miranda probably wouldn’t have met Peter otherwise. “Miranda used to work for me Sunday and Monday, my days off.”
“Though she never really took the days off. She just worked in the office and let me handle the customers.” The deputy looked down and finally released Peter’s hand.
Peter glanced at Alexis. “Never had a vacation probably, either, huh?”
She blew out her breath. “I don’t think my vacations, or lack thereof, are what we should be discussing at this time.”
Peter sighed. “You’re correct.”
Miranda had the grace to look abashed. “You’re right.
I just came over to see how you are and to ask if you knew if Heather was working today?
” She pulled a notebook from her pocket.
“Would she have had any reason to go into the gallery so early? The investigation is just getting started, but the arson investigator told my boss, he thinks it started in the office.”
“How can they tell?” Peter looked down the street to where the gallery still smoked. “They just put it out.”
Miranda pointed over her shoulder at the gallery. “That’s just residual smoke. The investigator was in there as soon as the flames were out. They’re just watching for hot spots now.” Miranda turned toward Alexis. “You don’t think Horace did this, do you?”
“He couldn’t have, at least, not in person. I just got back from seeing him at his home,” volunteered Peter.
Alexis looked at him. “You were with Horace? What were you doing with him?” Her voice was definitely shriller than normal. How could he betray her like this? Fraternizing with the enemy.
Peter lifted an eyebrow. “Not what you’re thinking. He had his ‘associates’.” He finger-quoted, “come get me from my house. I wasn’t given a choice.”
She felt ashamed for thinking the worst of him when he’d never been anything but supportive of her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
Peter wrapped his arms around her. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.
But the timing of this leaves me with questions.
Am I Horace’s alibi for this? What if that is why he had his goons come get me?
Did they start this and pick me up afterward?
Oh, yeah, I have a lot of questions.” He kept the conversation between him and Beecher private… for now.
The deputy wrote furiously in her notebook.
She turned her gaze on Peter. “I’d say you have a lot of good questions.
Horace could have easily hired someone to do this.
Since he’s already paying Beavis and Butthead, it would make sense for them to start it before picking you up.
” Miranda shoved the notebook into her pocket as the radio on her shoulder squawked.
She answered. “Jacobs. What you got?”
“Found the starting point. Definitely arson,” said the voice on the radio. “And we found a body.”
“Roger. I’ll be there in a moment.” She turned to Alexis and squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. As soon as I know more, I’ll let you know.”
“Nice to meet you, Deputy Jacobs.” Peter held out his hand.
“Miranda is fine. I’m pleased to meet you, too. Take care of our girl, will you?”
He nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
She turned and headed back toward the burned out Victorian house that had been The Armstrong Gallery.
Alexis’s baby. Her life. She’d started it with Jim, now the last of him was gone, too.
“Oh, Peter, that body has to be Heather. She would have been in at this time. I can’t believe that Heather’s dead. She didn’t deserve this. If it started in the office, they had to know she was there. They had to.” She buried her head against his shoulder, allowing the tears to fall.
He held her close. “We’ll figure this out and see that Horace pays.”
She looked up at him. Alexis knew her eyes were red and covered with a sheen of tears. “How? You’re his airtight alibi.” She blinked and the tears rolled down her face.
“I don’t know but we will…somehow.”
Alexis leaned against him with her arms around his waist. There has to be a way to make Horace pay for Heather’s murder.
I know she was murdered. If the fire started in the office, she had to have been in there.
She always started the day looking over yesterdays receipts, if any, and making coffee.
She never left the office except to open the door for the day.
I will figure this out and I will make Horace pay for taking Heather’s life if it’s the last thing I do.
The next morning, Horace sat in his dining room with his first cup of coffee and the latest copy of The Aspen Times. The fire at The Armstrong Gallery was the cover story. He’d hated doing it and hated having all that beautiful art destroyed.
He stopped his perusal of the article. His hands began to shake. Someone was dead. Found in the remains of the gallery, in the office where the fire started.
Groaning, Horace threw the paper off the table.
He stood and paced the room. “Those morons. Why’d they have to kill her?
I liked her, and now, if they get caught, they will be facing a murder charge and won’t hesitate to implicate me.
” He ran a hand through his hair and then both hands, pushing it up and out from his head.
“I’ll be facing an accessory-to-murder charge. ”
At the sound of the doorbell, he stopped pacing and talking to himself. He straightened his hair before going to the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see Peter Kincaid standing on his porch.
“Mr. Kincaid. I thought we said all we were going to yesterday morning.”
Peter pushed into the house, past Horace, and settled on the sofa in the living room.
Horace lifted a brow. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“I know what you did, using me as an alibi, but it won’t work for your associates, and I have a feeling you know that. They started that fire before picking me up. You know it, I know it, and the sheriff’s department knows it.”
He stared at Kincaid. “You seem to have this all worked out. Would you care for a drink?” He headed to the small portable bar that was currently in the corner of the living room next to the fireplace.
“No. It’s too early to start drinking, at least for me, but you go on ahead. I’m sure you have a reason to induldge.”
“I believe I will.” He poured two fingers of bourbon into a glass. “Heather’s death was a horrible tragedy. I always liked that girl. We even dated for a while. I’ll miss the sunny smile she always graced me with regardless of what threats Alexis and I were hurling at each other.”
“I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting her, though I understand she will be greatly missed. Wait a minute.” Peter leaned forward, his eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes narrowed. “How do you know it was Heather? It wasn’t printed in the paper, I read the article.”
“I…um…it was a guess. But who else would have been there if it wasn’t Alexis? Only Heather.” Horace brought his drink to the conversation pit and sat in an armchair, facing Peter. “What do you really want here, Mr. Kincaid? I thought we finished our business yesterday morning.”
“We didn’t even get started.” Peter sat forward and rested his hands on his knees.
“I will be rebuilding The Armstrong Gallery and hosting a one-man show there as soon as it’s possible.
I figure we’ll make enough money to cover the expenses of the reconstruction.
” He frowned. “For some reason, Alexis is determined to rebuild. I’m afraid what happened this time will happen again.
What do you think, Horace? Do you think you can keep your men from committing murder and burning down her gallery again? ”
Horace lifted his glass to his mouth and looked over the top of it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My men had nothing to do with that fire. Or poor Heather’s murder.”
“Save it for the sheriff’s office. I’m sure they’ll be here to question you soon.” Peter stood. “You better get your story straight, because you know your goons will roll over on you at the first opportunity. I’ll show myself out.” He left the room.