Chapter 57
VERNON
Loose ends never surprised Vernon, but they didn’t reflect well on him either. Especially not in a high-profile case like the DeYoung murder. That was why he kept thinking about the Marigold Cottages: Who better to tidy up loose ends than a pack of loose cannons?
The evidence had looked watertight. The grieving widow had immediately and decisively pointed her finger at CJ Moore. Then a second eyewitness emerged, along with a bag of cash and that incriminating laptop search history.
Watertight … until CJ Moore moved into the Marigold Cottages.
That made Vernon uneasy. He nurtured a furtive, unprofessional admiration for the Marigold mob. At the very least, for their ability to stumble upon bizarre events. If they were involved, there might be more to this.
So he visited the Cottages again, to check that he hadn’t missed anything that could cast a shadow on his closure rate.
He knocked on CJ Moore’s door, following up after she’d posted bail—though mostly using her as an excuse.
He wasn’t disappointed when nobody answered; he just crossed the courtyard toward Anthony Lambert’s studio apartment.
Vernon figured he understood Anthony. Was he an ex-con with the expressive range of a brick wall?
Sure, but while Anthony only cared about protecting his neighbors, those same neighbors had changed him.
Softened him with community spirit, with a sense of caring and responsibility.
Halfway to the apartment, Vernon heard voices behind Ocean’s cottage. Huh. He wandered toward the high, sun-bleached wooden fence that bordered her outdoor art studio. An awning covered a quarter of the area, across from the shed where she must’ve kept her finished paintings and art material.
Vernon unfastened the latch. When the gate swung open, the first thing he saw was Anthony sitting on a stool, one foot on the lower slat, his forearms crossed on his raised knee. Also, he was bare-ass naked, the sun shining on him like a spotlight.
Anthony glanced briefly at Vernon, then looked forward again. Not even a flicker of an expression, which made Vernon give a snort of amusement.
Ocean stood in front of Anthony, looking about half his size. She wore a white smock covered with a rainbow of paint smears, and didn’t seem to notice Vernon. She dug her hands into a plastic bag of clay and plopped a slab on the wheeled platform in front of her.
“Ocean,” Anthony said.
She blinked at him, then stiffened in surprise when she noticed Vernon. “You don’t knock?”
“C’mon, Ocean, we’re old friends by now.”
“You’re half right,” she said.
He acknowledged that with a smile. “I’ll accept surprisingly youthful acquaintances.”
“Can we help you?” Ocean asked, though he detected a slight smile of her own.
“Nah, I’m just passing through. What’re you sculpting Anthony for?”
“Art.”
“Right. Yeah, that follows.”
“Let’s take a break,” she told Anthony.
Anthony wrapped himself in a cotton robe that reached the top of his thighs and stretched meatily, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.
“I’m looking for CJ Moore,” Vernon said. “Any idea where I might find her?”
“Nope,” Ocean said.
“I hear you went out.”
“A few times, yeah.”
“I’m sorry about, uh—” He gestured toward the courtyard. “The whole arrest thing. Didn’t know you were dating.”
Ocean eyed him warily. “Why are you being so friendly?”
“This is my natural state, Ocean. Also, we are acquainted. You didn’t kill anyone, I know that, and you aren’t aiding and abetting either. So I’m hoping you’ll tell me how on earth another murder suspect moved into the Marigold Cottages.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, because Mrs. B is like—what’s that quote?—‘While there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element, I am of it.’”
“You happen to have that memorized?”
She finally smiled. “My mother painted it on my bedroom wall as a kid. My father painted, ‘If I can’t dance, it’s not my revolution.’”
“I had Charlie Brown wallpaper,” Vernon told her. “How about you, Anthony?”
“I didn’t have wallpaper.”
“Uh-huh,” Vernon said. “So is there anything either of you want to tell me about CJ Moore?”
Ocean wiped her hands on her apron again. “I’m sorry to tell you she’s exactly what she looks like. I know that doesn’t help, but she’s one of the good ones, Detective. She loved Frank. She devoted her entire adult life to him. There just isn’t more to her than that. I like her.”
“Fair enough.” Vernon sidestepped the studio clutter toward Ocean’s sculpture platform. As he got closer, the mound of gritty brown clay resolved into shapes. Its surface was choppy, roughed by one of her tools, but the planes and curves of a man’s back emerged from the chaos.
“Damn, you’re good,” he said.
Ocean spritzed the clay with a spray bottle. “I didn’t take you for an art lover.”
“No, but I can appreciate skill.” He touched a dab of gritty clay on the corner of the platform.
“From where I’m sitting, the investigation looks done.
But you and your friends have a gift for un-finishing things.
So ask around, would you? See what Lily-Ann Novak knows, what Mrs. B feels in her bones.
You’re the only one here with any common sense. ”
She tilted her head in surprise. “Me?”
“You’d make a good cop.”
“Jesus, Enible.”
“Talk about a low blow,” Anthony added.
That made Vernon laugh. “Just ask around, would you?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“Break’s over,” Ocean said. “You can let yourself out, Detective.”
“You’re not going to ask me to model?” he said.
Her gaze sharpened on him as she seemed to consider the suggestion.
“Okay, okay!” he said, heading for the gate. “I’m going!”