Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Mandy
Barrie leaves after a heart-to-heart. She must see how exhausted I am.
My shoulders are slumped, my eyes heavy.
Just talking about Todd, and more than that, viewing my paintings, has drained every ounce of energy from my body.
The paintings remain where they stand, witnesses to a past I can barely look at now.
It’s hard to see my previous work, these pieces I poured my soul into, remembering how much I loved creating them, how excited I was back then.
My fingers had tingled with possibility every time I picked up a brush.
Not anymore.
Well, that’s not true.
They’re under tarps now, but my series of night sky paintings have that spark lit inside me again. My hands itch to hold a brush, to create something new. I haven’t felt this surge of creativity in five years.
It’s late. The clock on the wall ticks steadily in the quiet shed.
My body feels heavy, each limb weighted with exhaustion.
I feel heavy right down to my bones. Too much to process.
The events of the night swirling in my mind.
The beat-up couch and old quilt I put in here look more inviting than the walk back to the house.
The familiar scent of paint and canvas surrounds me as I curl up in a ball and clutch the quilt around me.
Swirling thoughts of the upcoming event I have to plan mix with scenes from the gala we just held--the champagne, Eugene’s paintings, his body on the pavement.
A sort of despair settles over me, pressing down. How am I going to survive this? Those are the heavy thoughts that I drown in as my eyes close and I sink into the nothingness of sleep.
When I wake it’s because I’m cold, my skin prickling with goosebumps.
It might be summer, but the morning air holds a chill that seeps through the quilt.
I push it off and stumble back to the house, my feet dragging with each step.
Coffee. I need coffee before I can face anything else.
And then maybe a hot bath, and then more sleep.
Though somewhere in there I should check my email, because there’s sure to be an emergency board meeting.
The coffee is done brewing, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. Just the scent of the roasted beans is a comfort, promising warmth and clarity. I slump in a chair, my fingers wrapping around the hot mug as I check new emails on my phone.
Yes, there is a meeting.
There’s a separate email from Diana. The subject reads: the police want to talk. I haven’t even opened it. I haven’t even taken a sip of coffee when there’s a knock at the door that makes me jump, nearly spilling the hot liquid.
“It’s the police. We just have a few questions.”
This early?
Geez. I look at the time. It’s eight o’clock. Oh, guess it’s not too early. Well, it’s too early for me, especially after last night. My head still feels fuzzy with exhaustion.
It’s the police, as in Officer Pete. His familiar face peers at me through the screen door, his expression serious but not unkind.
He’s well meaning. He’s a good cop, but I’d rather not do this now.
I answer the door, clutching my cup of coffee like a shield.
It’s hard to pretend to be awake and cheerful when I can feel my uncombed hair sticking up and last night’s makeup smudged under my eyes.
“Good morning, Mandy.” I nod, not really up to speech yet. The coffee hasn’t kicked in. “Could you meet me at the station for a few questions?”
“Right now?” I gesture at myself, at my disheveled appearance. My unwashed face, dark circles under my eyes, wrinkled clothes from sleeping in the shed. Nothing about me says I’m up for this.
He nods, his badge catching the morning light. “Best time. While the evening and the memories are still fresh. We’d appreciate it.”
I can’t tell if he means this is optional or not. His tone is friendly but firm. “Let me change and I’ll be on down.”
“Alright. Really appreciate it. See you soon.” Then he smiles this weird, awkward smile, because, after all, it is kind of a unique situation. For me, anyway. Two deaths at gallery events isn’t exactly normal small-town happenings.
I go through the motions, dressing, brushing my teeth, and filling a to-go mug of coffee. My hands shake slightly as I screw on the lid. I throw on a light sweatshirt as it’s still chilly, or maybe it’s because I’m over-tired. Or maybe it’s the nerves settling in my stomach.
I’m not unfamiliar with the station. When I worked for Scott at Lakeside Detective, I had to ask for information here plenty of times.
Still, it feels different walking in as someone being questioned.
My footsteps echo on the linoleum floor as I make my way inside.
The cop behind the desk barely glances up, just waves me on, and all too soon I’m sitting across from Officer Pete in a small room with bare walls, clutching my thermos like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
He settles into his chair. Looking down at his papers spread across the metal desk, he lifts his head, his gaze directly on me. “I chatted with most of the board and staff last night after the event. You left pretty quickly.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Or maybe an accusation?
I can’t tell. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making everything feel harsh and exposed.
It’s not like I can tell him I received the most shocking, upsetting piece of information that sent me running so I could be alone.
To hear that story, we’d need a few hours. It’s none of his business anyway.
I simply say, “I was tired,” and take another sip of coffee.
His eyebrow tugs upward as he studies my face. “Someone died during an event where you work.”
“And there were plenty of people and board members to handle it. There was nothing I could do.” I set my thermos down on the desk, the metal making a soft thunk.
I need to give him something. “Maybe you don’t know this, but the gallery is struggling financially.
It’s been a stressful month or so. Also, I’m an artist. Social events drain my energy. ”
“Hmm.” He jots down notes on his pad of paper, like he’s a detective from the fifties. The scratch of his pen against paper fills the silence. “Tell me what you know about the artist, Eugene.”
Let’s see, where should I start? I want to say that he’s a puffed-up, entitled artist who thought going just by his first name would bring him fame and fortune.
That he’s borderline successful. Instead, I force my face into what I hope is a neutral expression and say, “He’s generous.
Was very generous with us last night, helping us to raise funds for the gallery.
He loves the arts. He’s passionate about his painting. ”
Officer Pete leans forward in his chair. “Tell me about your fellow board members,” he orders. It’s not a question.
Something rears up inside me. A voice echoes in my mind to be careful. The room suddenly feels smaller. “What kind of information are you looking for?”
“Is there any tension between all of you? Disagreements. That sort of thing. Any anger issues?” His pen hovers over the notepad, ready to record my response.
Now the alarm bells are ringing in my head. The coffee in my stomach turns sour. Is he suggesting that Eugene was killed? The thought makes my palms sweat against the smooth surface of my thermos.
He must read the question on my face because he leans forward, his chair creaking. “Now that there have been two deaths, there will be an investigation. Don’t you think it’s strange that two artists have died at the gallery?”
Of course, I do. The thought has been nagging at me since last night. “Yes, I thought it odd, but heart attacks happen. I thought they were heart attacks.” My voice sounds small in the confined space.
He leans forward, his elbows on the desk. “Did you know there’s a poison with symptoms that present like a heart attack, but is untraceable?”
The fluorescent lights seem to buzz louder. “Sorry, not up on my poisons.” I sip from my coffee, but the extra heat isn’t helping. My body grows warmer under his scrutiny, my shirt sticking to my back.
“But back to my previous question. Do the board members get along? Have there been any recent problems?”
I shrug, trying to appear casual while my heart thuds against my ribs.
There are small things, like the fact that Stephen wants to buy the gallery and open a restaurant.
That bugs me. But mentioning that just makes us both look bad.
Not guilty of murder, though. “There might be disagreements, but we work them out.”
“What kind of disagreements?” His pen scratches against the paper.
Now the sweat prickles on my skin, especially at the back of my neck. That will just make me look nervous or...guilty. “I mean, small things, like the hours we’re open or which artist to invite. Nothing that would lead to murder.”
He purposefully doesn’t respond right away, his silence filling the room, and it works, because I ramble.
“Well, you know what I mean. Nothing that made us mad. We’re always polite and civil.” I wrap my hands around my thermos, needing something solid to hold onto.
“Whose idea was it to bring in Eugene?”
“It…it was mine.” Does that make me appear guilty?
“Hmm.” He leans back. His chair squeaks against the linoleum floor. “Murder is horrific. But people are drawn to it. Fascinated by it. Just look at the true crime podcasts and shows. It’s almost a business. Just how desperate is the gallery for business?”
The heat shoots up into my face, burning my cheeks. Sweat breaking out everywhere under my clothes. What he’s suggesting is absolutely ridiculous. It’s just mean. I press my lips together, refusing to respond.
“I also hear artists can be pretty passionate about their work. Almost obsessive. It must be hard to see successful artists come through. You’re an artist. Have you held a show?”
Within two seconds, the heat in my body runs cold, my face draining of color. I force out an answer, my voice barely above a whisper. “I paint landscapes and do well enough, thank you.”
“Are you the jealous type? Jealous of Eugene?”
What he doesn’t say is jealous enough to murder? I blurt, “Have you seen his paintings?”
I surprise him. His eyebrows lift slightly. Talking bad about another artist, or implying that he doesn’t deserve success. Does that make me look guilty? Somehow give me more motive? “I mean, his style is not even close to my style. There’s nothing to compare.”
He’s jotting down more notes, probably adding me to a list of suspects. My stomach churns. “This is ridiculous, Officer Pete.”
“Is it, Mandy? There’s nothing ridiculous about a possible murder. What about Darren? Were you ever alone with him? Have a problem with him?”
I panic. My heart hammers against my ribs. Darren was a skeeze ball. And Seymour had a small confrontation with him. “I didn’t have a problem with him.”
I lied. I completely lied. The guilt settles heavy in my chest, making it hard to breathe.
What if Seymour tells him about what happened?
That Darren acted inappropriately with me?
Now, I’m thinking that Officer Pete can read all of this just by looking at me.
Like he’s going to drill down further until I break and spill the truth.
“Well,” he says, shuffling his papers. “Just a few more questions, though. Just basic ones.”
Great. Here it comes.