An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9) (9 page)

CHAPTER
22

The Bickerton Gallery occupied a
two-story building on Tremont, a narrow street lined with Aspen trees a few
blocks from the center of town. Originally built as the warehouse and offices
for a small freight company, the expansive space was ideal for displaying
paintings, photography and sculptures.

When I opened the door and stepped
inside that afternoon, I immediately detected a trace of pungent cologne. It
reminded me of something my father once wore, a robust blend of cardamom,
lemon, musk and fir. I glanced around the room at the large canvases hanging on
the stark white walls. Although they depicted a wide array of scenes, some with
people and some without, the collection was nearly identical in tone and
palette to the image Dina had shared with me at Pia’s. They featured bold,
brash colors, dismembered bodies and jarring images of violence and mayhem.

“Aren’t they magnificent?”

I felt my heart lurch at the sound
of the man’s voice. I hadn’t heard footsteps, a door opening or any other
telltale signs that I wasn’t alone in the gallery. But when I whirled around, I
saw him instantly: a short, slender man wearing a red plaid jacket, white shirt
and faded jeans. He had a long, gauzy gray scarf looped around his neck and he
was wearing scuffed black motorcycle boots.

“It’s new work by one of our
favorite local artists,” he said, walking toward me with one hand outstretched.
“I’m Oscar King. Welcome to Bickerton Gallery.”

“Thank you,” I said, noticing that
his knuckles were red and bruised. “I’m Kate Reed.”

He quickly pulled away the hand,
shrugging nonchalantly and concealing it in a pocket.

“Looks worse than it is,” he said.
“My employee skipped his shift the other morning, so I had to open a bunch of
crates in a hurry. I ended up doing a real number on my hands.”

I nodded. “Good people are hard to
find.”

“Tell me about it,” he griped. “The
kid’s dad owns the sporting goods store in town. He works there part of the
time and is supposed to help me out a few hours a week.”

“Oh, Marty Garfunkel’s son?”

Oscar scowled. “Kid’s not quite as
responsible as Marty. Didn’t show up for work the other day.”

“The imprudence of youth,” I said.

“I suppose.” He squinted and leaned
closer. “Hey, are you from that pie place?”

“That’s me,” I said. “Sky High
Pies.”

“I thought your name sounded
familiar,” Oscar continued, his voice suddenly lighter and more easygoing. “I
come in for Saturday lunch every so often with friends. We usually make pigs of
ourselves with the Mountain Mud Pie. I think I had two and a half slices the
last time we were there.”

I felt a warm bubble of something
sweet deep inside. His demeanor had been slightly gruff and menacing when he
first greeted me, but it was now warm and gracious.

“Are you in the market for
something new?” he asked.

“That depends,” I said. “What do
you have for a twenty?”

His right eye twitched. “Twenty
thousand?” he said. “Is that the top end of your range?”

I resisted the urge to throw back
my head and howl. Instead, I politely informed him that I wasn’t shopping for
art.

“Oh, really?” he said, sounding
strangely pleased. “What can I help you with then?”

“I have some questions about Vito
Marclay.”

“Questions?” The instant he heard
the name, Oscar’s mood flipped back to the ill-omened side of the street and
his nostrils flared slightly. “What kind of questions?”

“Easy ones,” I said, still
maintaining a light, feathery tone.

“Are you another journalist?” he
asked.

I shook my head. “No, I’m not. Has
someone else been asking about Mr. Marclay?”

“Some guy called a couple of
times,” he explained. “Said he was writing a magazine story about Vito. Wanted
to know if I could give him the names of a few of Vito’s local friends so he
could give readers a well-rounded portrait of the guy.”

“And did you?” I asked.

He scowled. “Do I look that
gullible? I know that debt collectors use fibs like that all the time to try
and locate somebody who doesn’t want to be found.”

“Is that the case with Mr.
Marclay?”

“Huh?”

“Is he trying not to be found?” I
said.

“Why are you asking about him?”
Oscar said warily. “Sure you’re not a reporter?”

I shook my head. “I just discovered
that Mr. Marclay moved to town late last year. I was curious to know more about
his decision to come to Crescent Creek.”

The man’s expression remained
fixed: suspicious gaze, faint sneer and a silent layer of haughty indifference.

“Oh, gosh,” I said, adding a dash
of hayseed twang to my voice. “That probably came out wrong. You see, I also
came to Crescent Creek from a large city, and I don’t really know anyone else
who’s made the transition. When my friend Pia…” I let the name linger for a
moment to see how he’d react. “…you know, Pia Lincoln, the amazing caterer?
Well, when she told me that Mr. Marclay gave up the glitz and glamour of New
York City for a dull, slow-motion pace, it made me want to look him up and
invite him to Sky High for lunch so we can—”

“Excuse the interruption,” Oscar
said, “but I don’t really understand what you’re getting at.”

“What I’m what?” I asked, feigning
confusion.

He scoffed. “What you’re getting
at. This is an art gallery, Miss Reed. And we—”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to
be a nuisance. I was just curious about Mr. Marclay and his decision to live in
Crescent Creek.”

“I could take your number,” he said
coldly. “Or if you have a card?”

He held out one pale hand. I slowly
reached into my purse, found the sterling silver case that I used to carry my
Sky High cards and removed one.

“Thank you,” I said, giving him the
card. “I’d love to hear from Mr. Marclay so we can get together and talk about
the culture shock of moving from a big city to this little bit of nowhere.”

“Of course,” he said, taking a step
toward the front of the gallery. “I’ll make sure he gets your number.”

I followed behind, glancing at a
few of the paintings. One canvas in particular caught my eye. It was a stylized
portrait of a woman like the cubist works by Pablo Picasso, with a series of
shaded geometric shapes representing her face, breasts, torso and limbs.
Slender gold eyeglasses were perched on her nose and an unlit cigarette, wedged
between her angular lips, was adorned with a stylized thunderbird just beneath
the filter. Three words were stenciled at the bottom of the canvas in chunky
black letters:
LOVE IN FLAMES
.

“Have you seen Mr. Marclay
recently?” I asked as we neared the door.

Oscar shook his head. “Sometime
last week,” he said. “Vito came by to check on some personal matters that I’ve
been helping him with.”

“And what about Phil Bickerton and
his partner?”

His eyes tapered into a cold, hard
glare. “What about them?” he asked.

“Have you seen either of them
lately?”

Oscar smiled. “As a matter of fact,
Mr. Bickerton and his partner are both in town this week.”

“Would it be possible to talk to
either of them for a few moments?” I asked. “I could meet them here or we could
do it by phone.”

The man sighed. “I’m afraid that
won’t be possible. Mr. Bickerton is extremely busy this week.”

“I see. How about the other
partner? Is he busy, too?”

Oscar scowled. “Yes,” he said. “Mr.
Bickerton’s partner is also busy. She’s in town on a pressing business concern,
and there’s no time for trivial matters.”

I let the barb fly on by. Although
I’d never met Oscar King before, I knew he had a reputation for being arrogant
and ill-mannered. I also knew he was very interested in concluding our
conversation as quickly as possible.

“One more thing,” I said as he
opened the door. “If Mr. Bickerton happens to change his mind, do you think—”

“I highly doubt that will be the
case,” King said. “His schedule is jam-packed with client events, meetings and
a black tie dinner up in Boulder tomorrow evening.”

“How nice for him,” I said. “If he
needs a plus-one, tell him I don’t have any plans at the moment, okay?”

CHAPTER
23

After finishing the conversation
with Oscar King, I went outside, got in the car and called Trent while I was
still parked in front of the gallery.

“This better be good, Katie,” he
said after a muttered greeting. “I just reheated my crispy tacos from last
night in the microwave.”

I winced at the thought of the
greasy leftovers.

“Should I call back later?” I
offered.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m good. I
accidentally put them on the highest setting for twice as long, so they need to
cool a little bit anyway.”

After more than a dozen years of
friendship, I knew that Trent could be sarcastic, short-tempered and impatient.
But I also knew that he was one of the most dedicated law enforcement officers
that I’d ever met. The occasional disconcerting remark or boorish comment was
definitely the exception rather than the rule. Besides, I knew all of his
buttons along with how often and how firmly to push them.

“You’ve been eating a lot of
Mexican lately,” I said. “Did you know that all of those chimichangas, gorditas
and taquitos can be fairly fattening? You might want to try black bean soup or taco
salad every so often.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath on
his end.

“What was that?” he asked.

“It’s the fat and sodium,” I said.
“And the lard in the refried beans.”

He moaned softly. “I
love
refried beans, Katie.”

“I know, big guy. I feel your
pain.”

“Well, okay,” he said. “Now that
you’ve totally ruined my appetite, what’s up? Did you call to ask me a question
or share some info?”

“Maybe both.”

I waited to see if Trent would ask
for clarification, but I heard the sound of him blowing on what I imagined was the
first bite of reheated crispy tacos.

“I stopped at the art gallery that
Phil Bickerton owns,” I began.

“Uh-hmmm,” Trent mumbled.

“What do you know about Oscar
King?”

“Not much,” Trent admitted. “But
I’ve heard he’s a tool.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

“It’s the best I can do, Katie.
Like I said, I don’t know much about the guy. I’m not exactly an art lover.
I’ve been in that gallery maybe three times for different fundraisers.”

“Well, his hands are in pretty bad
shape,” I said. “Like maybe he’s been in a fight lately.”

“Okay,” Trent said. “What are you
getting at?”

“Maybe Oscar had something to do
with whatever happened at Vito’s,” I suggested.

Trent scoffed. “Because his
knuckles are banged up?”

“Exactly. I mean, consider the
evidence. Oscar’s got a reputation as a hothead. There was a lot of blood at
Vito’s. Pia alluded to some kind of trouble brewing at the art gallery.”

“Circumstantial,” Trent muttered.
“We can’t accuse Oscar King of kidnapping someone based on a couple of bruised
knuckles.”

I knew he was right, but that
wasn’t my point. I was simply trying to gather information by following the
obvious connection between Vito Marclay and the art gallery. Since Oscar King
ran the operation for the absentee owners, it seemed like the guy’s injured
hands were at least worth a conversation with someone from the CCPD.

“Maybe Dina could stop by and have
a chat with Oscar,” I suggested.

“A chat based on what?” Trent said.
“Your hunch?”

“Yeah. Don’t you think it’s worth a
few minutes of her time?”

“Possibly,” Trent said, crunching
contentedly on the other end of the line. “Was that it?”

“No, I also learned a couple of
interesting things from Oscar King,” I answered. “First, he told me that Phil
Bickerton is in town for a few days to meet with Vito Marclay about something
hush-hush.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but it might be
something.”

“Everything
is
something,” Trent
said. “You just never know if it’s
that
kind of something or not. What
else did he tell you?”

“Oscar also said there’s a
journalist in town from New York snooping into something controversial from
Marclay’s past. I guess the guy has been calling the gallery repeatedly to get
an official comment from Phil Bickerton.”

“What kind of something
controversial?”

“I haven’t got that yet,” I said.
“But I’ll keep snooping on my own.”

“As long as you don’t cross the
line,” Trent said before I heard another loud
crunch
,
crunch
,
crunch
.

“Pretty tasty?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Your leftover tacos?” I said. “Are
they pretty tasty?”

“Alright, alright,” he groused.
“I’ll wait until we’re done talking.”

“Thank you, Deputy Chief Walsh,” I
said brightly. “I appreciate the courtesy.”

“Yeah, no doubt. What else did you
learn from Oscar King?”

“That was it,” I said. “Bickerton
is in town to meet with Marclay. And a journalist is working on a story about
Vito and something controversial.”

“Maybe it’s the crap he calls art,”
Trent said.

“Excuse me?”

“What for?” He chuckled in his
usual robust way. “I’m the one eating the spicy beans.”

His laugh was loud and bouncy, like
a toddler leaping around the room after consuming too much sugar.

“I wondered how long it would take
for you to go there,” I said.

“Go where?” He laughed again. “You
mean joking about flatulence? I’m just trying to keep you from being all
serious and everything, Katie.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “But I
don’t need the help. I’ve got things on an even keel.”

“Good for you,” he said. “Well, I
suppose I should stop yakking and get some real work done.”

“I’m getting ready to drive down to
the airport in Denver,” I said. “If I learn anything helpful, you’ll be the
first to know.”

“Why the airport?” he asked.

“You probably know this already,” I
began, “but the Aston Martin that was at both Vito Marclay’s and Pia’s house is
a lease vehicle from Luxury by Kenton. I did some research earlier and learned
that’s a car rental agency at Denver International. It’s like Hertz or Avis for
millionaires.”

“Well, look at you,” Trent said.
“Never miss a beat. Never leave a stone unturned. And you never fail to
impress.”

“What was that last part?”

Trent chuckled. “You never fail to
impress,” he said again. “And I mean that, Katie. I know you sort of lend a
hand now and then to help us out, and I appreciate the fact that you do it
without violating my trust.”

In a few brief moments, the tone of
his voice had changed from goofy and jocular to somber and earnest.

“You feeling okay, Trent?”

He grunted. “Heck, yeah. Why do you
ask?”

“Because the last part of what you
said sounded vaguely like a compliment.”

“Uh…” He hesitated. “Well, yeah,
Katie. That’s because it was.”

“Thanks, big guy. I appreciate the
kind words.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Me,
too. Now, unless you have something more, I’d like to be left alone with my
crispy tacos before they get cold.”