Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mandy
The couple weeks before the event is pure torture.
Oh, let me list the ways. My hands shake every time I pick up the phone.
Each call to finalize details for the Silvano event sends acid churning in my stomach.
I’ve seen more of Todd than I ever wanted to again.
My body physically recoils whenever he appears at the gallery.
He’s checking in, micromanaging, hovering over my shoulder as I work.
The way he leans in close, pretending to study my event planning notes, makes my skin crawl.
He’s doing it on purpose, I’m sure of it. Either to rub it in or to make sure I’m following through since I’m the planner. He’s afraid I’ll sabotage his event. Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind more than once.
Then, there’s Seymour.
I wouldn’t say he’s ghosted me. That wouldn’t be true.
But it’s different. We’ve had a board meeting, and he’s been polite and professional, his eyes never quite meeting mine across the table.
He’s stopped by the gallery. Again, distant.
Like he’s built a wall of glass between us.
I can see him, but can’t reach him. He’s closed himself off to me.
We’ve texted, a few times. He’s not one to text a lot or.
..maybe it’s me. Maybe what started off with a burst of passion and excitement has faded into nothing more than polite exchanges about gallery business.
So why does my heart constrict whenever I see his name pop up on my phone?
So why do I miss him? Why do I want to be talking through all of this with him?
Ugh.
It’s the end of the week. I push open the door to Beachside Java, the warm scent of coffee and freshly baked muffins wrapping around me.
I’m feeling unsettled, but I’m not sure why.
Or, I should say, which is the most likely suspect—it could be Todd and the event, it could be Seymour, or it could be that I feel we’re missing something.
It’s the calm before the storm.
As soon as I enter and order a coffee, it’s like Barrie knew I was arriving, which is impossible because I decided ten minutes ago.
“Mandy!” She motions back to the office, her eyes bright with concern. “Coffee for me, too, Jamie.”
He smiles from behind the counter, already reaching for two cups. “Coming right up.”
I juggle the hot cups and follow Barrie into the back room. The office is small but cozy, with its worn leather chair. She closes the door and takes one of the cups, curling her legs underneath her on the chair.
“Okay, do I need to beat anyone up for you, because I will.” She blows on her coffee, her eyes never leaving my face. “Does someone need to receive some nasty texts? I’ll do it. I’m really good at passive-aggressive emojis.”
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. It feels good. Cathartic. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “No, that’s okay. I just need to get through this event.”
She studies me, her head tilted. It’s not pity I see in her expression, it’s something closer to compassion, mixed with a fierce protectiveness. “I can’t believe you are doing this for that jerk.”
And she doesn’t even know the half of it. I shudder thinking back on the way he played with my hair and his comments, my fingers unconsciously rubbing my arm where he touched me.
“Spill it.”
I can’t get anything past Barrie. My hands wrap around the warm coffee cup, seeking comfort.
It’s not that I don’t want to tell her about my failed date with Seymour or how my heart feels trampled on whenever I think of him, but it’s still a private pain I’m not ready to share.
Anyway, right now, there are more important things.
It’s unnerving me that Officer Pete hasn’t called me in for questioning again.
Like he’s the spider weaving the web around me, waiting for me to fall into some sort of trap.
“I’m worried,” I say, my voice quiet in the small space. “Has your research turned up anything?”
Barrie tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. “No. We’re not talking about that yet. I texted Scott and when he arrives we can talk about the investigation. There’s something else bothering you. I want to know what it is.”
I sigh, my fingers tracing the rim of my coffee cup.
A part of me wants to protect Seymour. I’ve seen a side to him no one else sees.
The tender way he held me after the questioning, how protective he was that night at his boathouse.
Everyone else, especially Scott, sees him as cold and heartless. I don’t want to prove them right.
I don’t want to hear I told you so.
“You know,” Barrie says, softly, reaching across to touch my arm. “I know what it’s like to see the side of a man that not everyone else sees. Miles was considered the biggest grump out there. We didn’t get to where we are without some rough grumpy patches.”
“Yeah, I know.” It’s easy for her because she worked through those patches. Now they’re married and living happily ever after. I take a long sip of coffee, letting the warmth spread through me.
She squeezes my hand. “Whenever you’re ready to talk about it. I’m here.”
“Thanks.” Now, I don’t want to stay in this place, thinking about him. The ache in my chest is too fresh. “What about your research?”
“Hold on a second.” She glances at her phone screen. “He should be here any second.”
Then there’s a knock at the office door. “It’s Scott.”
Barrie calls for him to come on in, and I straighten in my chair, trying to appear more put-together than I feel. Scott also has the annoying habit of seeing through me. He pulls the chair around from behind the desk, and sits, leaning into it.
“Talk to me,” he says, his eyes moving between Barrie and me.
Wow. He doesn’t even comment on my mood. Not sure if this is a good or bad sign. My fingers drum nervously against my coffee cup as I wait for Barrie to speak.
“Okay.” Barrie taps on her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“I’ve scoured the internet. There’s not a lot in common between Darren and Eugene, outside of the obvious.
They were killed in the same fashion at the same place.
They’re artists. They had families that supported the arts, to the point of being somewhat serious collectors. ”
“We’re missing something,” Scott says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The cops are missing something, or they aren’t sharing all the intel with me.” The chair squeaks as he shifts his weight.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother. Scott is good at what he does, but technically they don’t have to share anything with him. I agree with him though. It’s like we’re looking through a window on a foggy day. Important details are hidden from view.
“Wait a second.” Barrie’s fingers fly across her phone screen, her eyes widening. “I can’t believe it. I missed this link before or I never searched with these terms.” She skims the article, her breath catching.
“What?” Scott asks, leaning forward impatiently.
“Hold on.” She swipes with her finger, continuing to read. Her face grows more serious with each passing second. “Get this. Four years ago, there was a triple murder at an art gallery in Ohio. All three were artists of varying levels of skill and fame.”
The office grows quiet as she continues to read the story.
It lines up with eery similarity. At first, there was no investigation, because it was blamed on a cardiac event.
After the second one there was an investigation.
Then, after the third, the gallery closed.
My hands grow cold despite the warm coffee cup between them.
“Did anyone get convicted?” Scott asks, his voice tight with tension.
Barrie shakes her head, her dark hair swaying with the movement. “It’s an unsolved case.”
“Who was the owner?” Not that I think Diana had anything to do with it, but right now, it seems to be my head on the chopping block.
“A John Walters.” She turns her phone around to show us. “Look familiar?”
I lean forward to study the image. A younger man with fair hair and a goatee stares back at me, his appearance smart and polished. “Nope. Never seen him.”
“Hmm.” Scott swivels in the chair, then leans forward, causing another round of squeaks. “Maybe the next time you see Diana, casually bring up these murders. Maybe she knows the owner. Isn’t art a small world?”
“Kind of. It depends.” I set my coffee down, my stomach too unsettled to finish it. “I’ll see her this afternoon at the gallery. I’ll see what I can do. She’s not always in a talkative mood.”
“Have the police questioned you again?” Scott asks, his eyes sharp with concern.
“No!” I flash him a scared, frustrated look—fear and frustration warring in my chest. “But they’re asking others about me. It’s weird.”
“Yeah, I agree.” Scott purses his lips, then says, “It is weird. They’re not really sharing anything. Only what can be read in the newspaper.”
“I’ll keep digging,” Barrie says, her fingers already moving across her phone screen again. She glances up at me. “Hey, do you need any help with this next event? Need any ideas?”
“I got it covered. Doing the best I can with low budget.” My voice comes out flatter than I intended. The weight of everything—the investigation, Todd, Seymour—pressing down on my shoulders.
In other words, I’m doing what I normally do. I can’t pull from my savings to pay for extravagant caterers. Plus, there’s a part of me that refuses to put any kind of luxurious attention onto Todd. I just can’t. It’s hard enough.
The gallery is quiet when I arrive thirty minutes later, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Julie stands behind the welcome desk, thumbing through one of the many art books we have for sale.
“Hey, there,” I say, not even trying to be cheery. We’re both in this together, struggling artists hoping to keep our jobs. We don’t need to explain down moods.
She points upstairs toward the staff room. “Meeting happening up there.”