Chapter 17 #2
Alarms go off in my head. My muscles tense as protective instincts kick in. I should have been here at six. “Okay, well then, I want to hear everything about your trip to the police station.”
She deflates before my eyes, shoulders sagging. “I don’t think it’s good.”
I grab the few groceries from my car, and we go inside. The kitchen is small but neat, morning light streaming through the window above the sink. “Hope you don’t mind if I make myself at home in your kitchen.”
“There’s not much to work with in the fridge.”
“I’ll make do.” That’s why I arrived at 8:30 and not 8:00. The familiar motions of cooking ground me—cracking eggs, the sizzle as they hit the pan, the sharp bite of freshly ground pepper.
At the bottom of the stairs, she stops and turns. “Seymour?”
I stop whisking eggs and look at her, taking in her tired eyes, the way she clutches the bannister like it’s holding her up.
“They think it might be murder.”
My hand stills on the whisk. The kitchen goes quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. “I figured as much.”
The kitchen is usually my calm place. I relax, get lost in the cooking, but this time is different. My thoughts are on overdrive, fast and furious as I dice vegetables with mechanical precision. The knife hits the cutting board with rhythmic thuds that match my racing pulse.
They think it might be murder.
I’m not completely surprised. The chances are slim of two artists dying in the same place, but why bring Mandy down to the station and not the rest of us? Did it make her look guilty by making a quick exit?
The stairs creak as she returns, and it can’t be soon enough when she comes down, her hair still wet and dark, wearing sweatpants and a huge sweatshirt that makes her look smaller, more vulnerable. She notices my look, catches me studying her.
She smirks, a flash of her usual spirit returning. “Not use to eating breakfast with a woman willing to wear sweatpants with you?”
I laugh, the sound surprising even me. The tension in the room lightens slightly.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed with a woman, and the laugh was genuine.
Usually, it’s a forced bark or a small fake laugh, because she’s trying to be funny.
It’s hard for anyone to be funny when trying too hard.
“Actually, no. I usually eat breakfast in a tuxedo and the women wear slinky dresses.” It’s her turn to laugh and my heart flips in my chest at the sound. I keep going as I flip the veggie omelet, watching cheese melt and bubble. “And omelets? Forget it. We drink mimosas and eat caviar.”
I pour coffee into two mugs, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. Steam rises in delicate curls as I set them on the table and sit across from her. Now, I’m serious. No more joking. “What happened at the station?”
She sighs and wraps her hands around the mug like she’s trying to soak up every ounce of warmth. Her fingers look pale against the dark ceramic. The last thing I want to do is put her through another inquisition, so I give her time.
Finally, she says, “He asked about the gallery and everyone I work with, mostly the board. If we all got along or had disagreements.”
A frown line appears between her eyes and I want to reach across the table and smooth it away with my thumb.
I didn’t hear all the conversation the police had with the other board members, but I’m sure it was the basic: what was the order of events?
What did you notice? Anything suspicious stick out?
Those kinds of questions. Sounds like what they did with Mandy was intimidation.
I serve up the omelets while she continues, sliding the plates onto the table with care. The eggs are perfectly folded, steam rising with the scent of fresh herbs. It’s a struggle to contain my growing fury at Officer Pete as I watch her pick at her food.
She continues, her voice quiet but steady.
“He implied that because the gallery was struggling, we might be willing to kill for the attention and business it would bring to the gallery. That’s just ridiculous.
” She squinches up her face, fork pausing midair.
“Doesn’t he realize we couldn’t base a business on that?
Yeah, let’s keep killing artists for business.
Well, soon no artists would be willing to show because they might die.
It’s ridiculous, and I wanted to tell him that but didn’t. ”
“What else?” I ask softly, because I can tell there’s more. Her hesitation speaks volumes.
She focuses on the omelet I made, cutting it open to let the steam escape and cool off.
The yellow eggs contrast with the bright vegetables inside, but she seems more interested in pushing the food around than eating it.
She takes another sip of coffee. I stand and refill our mugs, the pot scraping against the warmer.
Something else is worrying her. Not that what she’s shared so far isn’t worth hiring a lawyer over. It is. I’ll be talking to Harris today.
When she talks, her voice is so low I barely hear the words. “Repeat that?” I demand, my knuckles white around my coffee mug.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, face pale, obvious stress over what she’s about to say. In that moment, she’s making herself vulnerable to me, and I swear, I would move mountains for her. The morning light catches the blue in her hair, making them shimmer.
“He made it personal,” she repeats, fingers fidgeting with her napkin. “He talked about artist envy.” Her voice catches and she stops talking, the words hanging heavy in the air between us.
She doesn’t need to finish it out. I can imagine. “So because successful artists come through, you can’t handle they’re more successful or more famous, so you slip them some poison?”
“Something like that.”
I see it. It’s brief. It’s a flicker of pain across her face, like a shadow passing over the sun.
I’ve never seen it on her face, and I know there’s a lot more to Mandy Farnsworth.
The well runs deep, and just like me, she has something hurtful in her past. I want to know everything.
I want to hear it all. I want to feel anger and sadness with her.
I want to hold her and comfort her, and somewhere in the past few days, my rules have been thrown out the window.
“And,”—she bites her bottom lip, teeth leaving small indentations—“I lied to him.”
Okay, there can be worse things than lying to a cop. Depends on how big the lie and if you get caught. I’ve dealt with lies. “What was it?”
“He wanted to know if I’d had any problems with Eugene or...Darren.”
The kitchen seems to grow smaller, more intimate as she speaks.
She doesn’t need to say anymore. I remember the look on Darren’s face as he kept having Mandy pose his painting so he could study her backside.
He was a complete perv, and I told him in the parking lot that if he ever looked that way again at her again, he’d never hold another art show in the area.
He’d be lucky to sell a painting. My words could easily be taken as a threat.
“Well,” I say, measuring my words carefully, “If you lied, then I’ll be lying, too, because I pretty much threatened Darren in the parking lot that day.”
“What?” she gasps, fork clattering against her plate.
“He was ogling you like you were a rare tropical bird or a piece of steak to be eaten. So I’ll have to lie, too.
” Or, I’ll take the blame. I’ll make sure the weight of the investigation is off Mandy and on me.
I desperately want to ask about her Silvano copies.
The last thing she needs is the cops poking around in her art studio-slash-shed.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Oh yes, I did.” It’s time to refocus. She’s barely eating, her omelet growing cold. I’m about to do something that breaks all the rules. I move beside her and hold out my hand, palm up. “Come with me.”
She looks up at me, questioning, uncertainty written in the slight furrow of her brow.
“Trust me?” I ask. The question feels weighty, significant.
She takes my hand, her fingers sliding against mine, and warmth zings through my body.
I lead her over to the couch, the fabric worn but soft beneath us as I take a seat.
“Come here.” I beckon her to sit on my lap.
Hesitantly, she does, her weight settling against me.
She snuggles up to me and I put my arms around her and hold her.
I just hold her. Her hair tickles my chin, still damp from her shower.
And it’s the best damn thing I’ve ever felt in my life.
I don’t know all of Mandy’s secrets, but in that moment, I don’t care. If she’s selling forgeries, then I trust there’s a good reason. If she’s just learning, then that’s fine, too. The paintings are amazing, and Mandy is an artist on the cusp of a breakthrough. I can tell.
We just need to get through this.
We can’t do anything until the deaths have been declared a natural death or...murder.