Chapter 19 #2
I let out an awkward laugh and feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “So, Stephen...” Another fake laugh escapes me. My palms grow damp. Might as well be honest. “I’m just realizing that I don’t know that much about you outside of the gallery.”
He chuckles, offering me a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “That’s not a problem. There isn’t much to share. I’m a bachelor, content with my life. I like to water ski in the summer and ski in the winter. I’ve always had a passion for the arts.”
“Have you been in the area long?” Who knows? Maybe he’s left a trail of dead bodies in other states or countries.
“I’m a lifelong New Englander.” He gestures at the art around us. “Wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.”
Hmm. There goes that theory. “What else do you like to do?”
“Exactly what I’m doing now.” He shifts his weight, relaxing as he talks.
He keeps talking, telling me about his adventures traveling through Vermont and New Hampshire, visiting breweries and galleries. His voice rises with enthusiasm as he describes all the unique places he can find.
Across the room, Seymour catches my eye and motions to move it along, his expression growing impatient. My window is shortening. Just asking vague questions is not going to get me anywhere.
“So!” I blurt, my voice too loud in the quiet gallery. Stephen stops talking mid-sentence and gives me his attention. “What do you think about the recent issues at the gallery?”
“You mean the fact we’ve had two murders and we’re all suspects?
” His voice drops lower, his expression growing serious.
He doesn’t expect an answer, but keeps talking.
“I think it’s horrifying. I think there’s something about all of this that’s missing from the puzzle.
Something that ties the artists together and ties them to our gallery.
” He shrugs. “I don’t know what it is, but I hope the police figure it out.
Until then, I’m not ashamed to say we should use the publicity to our advantage. ”
“Right.” Not that I know how to do that. Can you imagine running a family fun event, which is my dream—after artists were murdered? “Have you talked with Officer Pete yet?”
He nods, and something in his expression changes, grows more guarded. “A couple of days ago.” He pauses, shifting. “He had a lot of questions about you, in particular.”
I let out a squeak, then take a couple of quick breaths. The room suddenly feels too warm. “Oh?” Like as in, give me all the details right this second!
Stephen shifts again, his gaze sliding away from mine. “I believe you had some issues with Darren, right?”
If you want to see the expression of complete and utter astonishment, look at my face right now. No one knows about that except Julie, my coworker, and Seymour. At least, that’s what I thought. The blood drains from my face so quickly I feel lightheaded.
He obviously expects an explanation. “Pfft.” And no, I didn’t mean to practically spit all over his shirt. I wave and laugh, the sound high and nervous. Nothing about this is remotely funny. “It was nothing.”
“Well, unfortunately, I mentioned it to the police.” His voice is gentle, almost apologetic. “I’m sure if it’s nothing, it won’t be a problem.”
Holy grilled cheese.
It happened. My worst nightmare.
Officer Pete will know I lied, and he’s going to drag me down to the station again. The reality of that hits me hard. My heart pounds against my ribs. The edges of my vision blur slightly, and I have to focus on taking slow, steady breaths.
My tombstone will read: Lied to the police and died in prison.
Fine. I’m getting carried away. Do you blame me?
Stephen continues to talk, clueless of the effect his words had on me, but somewhere inside me is the reason for this whole drive up here. If I’m going to get caught in this lie, I want to walk away with something. A clue.
“I heard a rumor.” My voice comes out louder than I meant it to be, echoing slightly in the gallery space. I’m struggling to finish this conversation without panicking, my heart still racing.
“What’s that?” Stephen asks, seemingly oblivious to my mounting anxiety.
“I heard you were interested in turning the gallery into a restaurant.”
Honestly, I didn’t mean it to come out as an accusation. That’s a weak motive, too. Just as weak as mine.
His mouth drops open and his eyes widen, briefly, before his features smooth back into careful neutrality.
He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Oh, it’s nothing.
Just a passing thought. Just in case.” His eyes study my face, searching.
“I mean, it’s not looking good for the gallery. Right?” He pauses to let that sink in.
I know this. I know the gallery is barely surviving. Now with these murders? We’re like the Titanic heading toward the iceberg. Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe we already hit the iceberg. My stomach twists at the thought.
He adds, his voice low and serious, “Everything rests on the Silvano event. If that even works. That will reveal if the public is forgiving of the murders. It will show if we can continue to make a go of this venture.” He pats me on the back, the gesture oddly patronizing.
“Nice chatting, Mandy.” Then he turns and walks away.
I stand frozen in place. I learned a lot, but nothing close to what I wanted to learn.
My legs feel weak, like they might give out at any moment.
The chatter and noises around me fade into a distant hum.
The sudden need to sit down overcomes me, and I stumble, my ankle turning slightly, almost falling, to a nearby bench.
Eventually, I realize Seymour joined me on the bench, his thigh pressing against mine. Now, Mandy. Now! Tell him. My throat tightens at the thought.
But where do I start? That he’s about to be dating a jailbird? Am I his girlfriend? I don’t know, because we never talk about it. The questions swirl in my mind, making me dizzy.
“Hey,” he says, softly. His shoulder bumps mine gently.
He doesn’t need to say anything. The one word says a lot. Like, did you learn anything? And what’s wrong? And possibly, what are your deepest secrets you’ve been hiding from me?
But can a person really tell that sort of thing?
Possibly. He hasn’t spilled his hurtful past either. And there’s something that makes him live by all the silly rules when it comes to women. Forcing Harris to practically chaperone us. The poor guy.
“That didn’t go as planned.” That’s what I say, because I can’t say all the things. My voice comes out rough, slightly shaky.
He takes my hand, his thumb running over my knuckles. “Let’s get out of here.”
We’re out and the breeze hits my face, cool and fresh against my heated skin, already making me feel better, a little less like I’m already behind bars. We’re at his car when the rumble of an engine draws our attention. Stephen pulls up in his convertible, the engine purring.
“Mandy,” he calls out, leaning out his window slightly.
Both Seymour and I walk over to him, gravel crunching under our feet.
“I forgot to mention that there’s an art consultant Diana works with on a regular basis, when scouting artists to bring into the gallery. His name is Jack. You might want to talk to him.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Maybe he knows something more about these artists.”
A guy named Jack?
I’ve never heard of him.