The Wrong Stuff (11 page)

“Getting to know my prize pupil?” Tim asked, handing Jane a glassful of what she assumed was vodka. The olives were a tip-off. She hadn't noticed his approach, but it seemed that he had been keeping an eye on her. Maybe he was afraid she would fall under the Blake Campbell spell.

“An excellent student, I think,” said Blake, standing. “I'll be at your disposal all day tomorrow.”

“Except during quiet time,” Jane said.

Jane and Tim watched Blake walk to the back of the room, touch Roxanne briefly on the shoulder, nod, then leave by the huge double doors.

“You get along with him, don't you, Tim?” Jane asked. When he nodded, she added, “because he sure left fast enough when you came up.”

“He's not running from me,” Tim said. “I was talking to Scott, who said that Mickey's been chasing him all over the place trying to get put on all the projects that Rick left. You know, now he wants to be the apple of Daddy's eye.”

“It's funny. Everybody talks about how close Rick was to Blake, how he followed him around and all, but Blake doesn't seem particularly broken up,” Jane said. “No one seems very sad.”

“Is that what you were doing with Blake? Gauging the mourning level? Looked more to me like you were establishing the old teacher-student-flirtation strategy,” said Tim, taking a large swallow of his drink. “Very clever.”

Jane nodded and took a large drink herself, nearly choking.

“Water? With olives in it? What the…?”

“I thought of it myself. Make you look like you're drinking and relaxed and all, but really you're as sharp as a tack and gathering clues,” said Tim.

“As far as sidekicks go, my friend,” said Jane, wiping her mouth with a C & L hand-embroidered cocktail napkin, “you are on thin ice.”

Tim hung his long arm around Jane's shoulder and gave her a brotherly hug. “You can't fire someone you never hired, babe. Besides, you'll see that I'm right. This is a hard-drinking, high-living crowd. You watch old Silver and Martine knock 'em back. If you look like Miss Priss, they won't trust you.”

“Now smile and eat your olives like you mean it,” Tim added.

Jane laughed and fished out her cocktail pick, which had three bleu cheese olives speared on it. She ate them all—better them than drinking the olive-flavored water—and sashayed out with Tim. She had to get back to her cabin and get prepared for her long day of study at Campbell and LaSalle. At the door, Scott stood sentinel.

“Calling it a night so soon?” he asked.

“I have a full day planned tomorrow,” said Jane. “What time does everybody get up around here?”

“We at Campbell and LaSalle,” said Scott, in a deep announcer's voice, “work as hard as we play. The workshops and studios start opening up around seven. There's a breakfast buffet laid out from five-thirty to eight. Busy little bees here at blah, blah, blah.”

“See you in the morning then,” said Jane.

When she reached the porch steps, she turned back to wave good-bye to Tim, who had decided to have yet another nightcap with Scott. The two of them had already disappeared inside.

Martine now stood there, watching Jane leave. She flashed her a smile that Jane decided could be interpreted as either playful or wicked. Then Martine reached over her left shoulder and picked up her fat, long braid with her right hand and waved it at Jane.

Wicked.

Back in her cabin, Jane tried to wait up for Claire. She reorganized her makeup case, not that there was all that much in it. She emptied out her purse and searched for items she could discard, but found herself actually looking desperately around the cabin for things to add. There was a lovely notebook, an old-fashioned light blue parchment cover, college-ruled, in the nightstand drawer, and she slipped it into the outside pocket of her bag. She would need it for note taking tomorrow. Besides, you can't have too many notepads, no matter what Belinda St. Germain says. She also took a pen and highlighter she found in the bottom drawer of the chest.

She washed her face and, studying herself in the bathroom mirror, wondered if after thirty-odd years of avoiding the issue, it might be time to do something about her eyebrows. She flossed. Twice. She found a package of emery boards in the bathroom cupboard and filed her already short, rounded nails.

She paced. Finally, she closed her eyes, just for a minute, to rest.

When she opened her eyes again, something almost like light was peeking in through the shuttered front window of her cabin. It was very early morning light, but it irrevocably signaled the break of day, and she knew she had missed her chance to meet with Claire Oh.

Claire would not come out of hiding during the day, would not risk being seen at Campbell and LaSalle. For all their talk about isolation and creative space and private workspaces, Jane had seen copies of the major newspapers in the library in the lodge. She had overheard Annie ask at the dinner table if anyone else had heard more about Horace Cutler, the dealer who had been murdered in Chicago. And, she had added, hadn't he had work done at Campbell and LaSalle?

If anyone had read the papers, they had to have seen Claire's name mentioned. Jane was pretty certain that she wasn't supposed to be leaving town, let alone crossing state lines to sneak around and use up lipsticks to write secret messages. Jane hadn't been a detective long, but she was quite certain that Claire's behavior, if made public, would be frowned upon by law-enforcement officers.

It was only 5:30
A.M.
, but she would be able to get a bite to eat and check out the library in the barn. She pulled on the same dark jeans she had worn the day before, knowing Tim would mention it, but she was at the mercy of her six-item packing challenge. She was beginning to have some doubts about some of Belinda's manifestos, but she owed it to Nick to try and discipline herself into a decluttered world. She also owed Nick and Charley a phone call, but it was too early. She'd try to get them before Charley's speech or panel or symposium or whatever he was at the museum for—she really should know this stuff. And, she promised herself, after she finished her business here, she would.

Too early to call Bruce Oh, too, since it was an hour earlier in Illinois. She would phone him right after breakfast, though. Perhaps Claire had driven the two and a half hours to Michigan last night to leave Jane the message, then returned home. Actually, with no traffic and what would most likely be Claire's disdain for speed limits—after all, a moving violation paled with being a suspect in a murder case—she could have made it to Campbell and LaSalle and back in less than four hours. She also could have told Jane over the phone in less than four minutes that she believed Rick Moore had been murdered. What was Claire's reason for contacting Jane via lipstick and mirror? Because she didn't want to alarm her husband? She was already a suspect in another murder, plus he was the least alarmable person Jane knew. More likely she didn't want to
inform
her husband.

Of course, Jane thought as she investigated the breakfast buffet, delighted to see that she had the huge great room all to herself, she was assuming that it was Claire who had sent her the message. Her lipstick had been functional when she'd left the cabin, and when she and Tim had arrived in the great hall, they were the last residents of Campbell and LaSalle to show up. The first thing Jane had done when they entered was take roll. Now, after helping herself to slabs of multigrain toast that she smeared with freshly ground nut butter and homemade strawberry jam, she walked over to the table and re-created last night's gathering.

Glen LaSalle and Blake Campbell had been up front talking to Martine before the service began. Roxanne was part of that group, too. She and Tim met Scott near the door. Mickey was fixing a drink and had gone to sit by Annie after talking to Blake. Geoff and Jake were already seated by the time Tim and Jane had sat down in the last row. Everyone had been in front of them except Scott, who was off to the side. No one had left before Jane went out to make her phone call and wander the grounds.

Jane was sitting in a high-backed chair with her back to the buffet table and the kitchen door. She heard someone come out and add a platter to the table, but did not turn. Kitchen staff? She would have to find out how many people worked in service here. She had seen Cheryl, the head chef, and she thought she had heard two other names mentioned as kitchen apprentices. The appetizers and dinner had followed so quickly after the memorial, though, it would be hard to believe that anyone cooking or serving could have taken a break from the kitchen during the Martine extravaganza.

Jane brought her plate back to the dish cart and placed it on the lower shelf as a small, hand-printed card instructed. She helped herself to coffee and took her seat, settling in just as she heard two people enter through the side door that led to Roxanne's office.

“Ask anyone anything, Sergeant. Don't be surprised if no one saw Rick during those afternoon hours, though. Most people are in their cabins or studios during the afternoon. And no one's cabin looks out at the parking lot. In fact…” Roxanne broke off her sentence, and although Jane couldn't see Murkel, she assumed he nodded at her to continue, because she cleared her throat and went on.

“Rick Moore had a pickup truck that he parked on an old access road in the woods about a quarter mile from his cabin. He didn't even use the parking area or the main driveway in and out of here. Not only would no one have seen him leave, no one would have even heard him if he'd left for Chicago during quiet hours.”

Jane wasn't sure how long it would be before they realized she was sitting there, and when they did, she didn't want to appear like she was eavesdropping. Out of habit she had picked up a newspaper by the front door and carried it with her to the table. Neither she nor Charley liked to speak before several cups of coffee, and neither found it rude to read at the breakfast table. Jane lowered her head and lost herself in the classifieds of the
South Haven Daily.
Not a great ruse, but the best she could do. She quickly circled a few of the garage sale ads so it would look like she had been studying the paper for some time.

“So Moore could have left between three and four, made it to Chicago, and returned sometime that night? No one missed him at dinner?”

“Rick wasn't very sociable. He often ate in his cabin or worked through dinner.”

“We have a positive ID on him and his truck, and we'll get the rest of the crime-scene test results later this afternoon. Puts a different light on what happened here yesterday, that's for sure,” said Murkel.

“I don't really see that,” said Roxanne. “And I'm sorry, but you'll need a warrant to go through his things. We're a retreat, ofsorts, and…” Jane couldn't hear the end of Roxanne's sentence.

Murkel said something as he walked toward the front door, but Jane couldn't hear him either. Geoff and Jake must have walked in as he walked out. Jane heard Roxanne greet them and say she'd be back in a minute. That gave Jane the break she needed to stand and refill her coffee. She nodded to the two men filling their plates with fritattas and slices of bacon, not knowing from the night before who was who. They had been introduced as Geoff and Jake, and both had nodded at exactly the same time. Jane hadn't had time to ask the sorting-out questions before Martine had begun chanting.

Roxanne reentered the room through her office, and Scott came in through the front door. Jane was certain during all the good mornings that Roxanne had no idea that Jane had overheard the earlier conversation with Murkel. Scott sat next to Jane and suggested she try one of the muffins with her coffee, something about Michigan blueberries. Roxanne asked them to excuse a moment of morning noise while she hammered a small nail into the wall by the kitchen.

Scott smiled, watching her rehang the twig-framed bulletin board that displayed the day's menu. “Better not let Blake catch you,” he said.

“That's why I'm doing it this early. He'll never know.”

“Roxanne's the only one who gets away with using regular nails around here,” Scott said, by way of explanation. Geoff and Jake were oblivious to both the hammering and the conversation. They only had eyes for their fritattas and a drawing of a vanity they had placed between them and seemed to be studying and making occasional marks on between bites.

“Blake doesn't want anyone tempted by contemporary tools,” she said, sitting on the other side of the table with her cup of coffee.

“Or with modern glues, brushes, anything,” added Scott. “Amazing we're allowed to eat with forks.”

Roxanne smiled. “When he's not around, I replace some of those square hand-cut nails with big round-headed modern ones so the hanging wire on the boards won't slide off. I feel sneaky doing it, but those twig frames are fragile. A mirror broke in one of the cabins last week, too, slid right off the
authentic
nail.”

“Was it Rick's?” Jane asked.

Roxanne looked startled. “Yes, how did you know that?”

“I was just thinking about seven years' bad luck,” said Jane.

“A bit of an understatement, isn't it? Death being the ultimate bad luck and all,” said Scott.

“I suppose a picture hanger would be out of the question,” said Jane.

“Bite your tongue,” said Scott. “Roxanne's the real fixer around here; she just doesn't get any of the credit.”

Roxanne covered her eyes and bent her head. “We at Campbell and LaSalle do not
do
picture hangers, dear,” she whispered, sounding exactly like Glen LaSalle.

As if the imitation invoked the man, Glen walked in with Martine and Blake. Roxanne picked up the nails she had taken out of her pocket to illustrate her small chore and stood to greet them and, Jane was sure, inform them that Murkel had found out something about Rick Moore that might make for some C & L unpleasantness. Jane noticed that Roxanne had missed two nails, one new and the old square one she had removed, and Jane quickly picked them up and put them into her bag. It was the least she could do for her since Roxanne had showed enough trust to confide her handyman/woman secret to Jane.

She could return them later to Roxanne and find a way to learn we-at-Campbell-and-LaSalle information that might be more pertinent to Jane's investigation. Roxanne had told Jane that she kept the books and ran the business, so she must know about pieces checked in and have access to all the billing records. With Roxanne's help, Jane could find out exactly what happened to the Westman chest when it was in residence at Campbell and LaSalle.

Jane put on her best lost-in-artistic-thought face and nodded to Blake, Glen, and Martine, who were serving themselves at the buffet.

“Good luck on your mission,” said Blake.

Jane was startled for just a moment. She then remembered her story about Tim's research assignment and nodded. He flashed her one of his dazzling smiles, and Jane was grateful for her experience with good-looking people. A less prepared woman, she knew, could be totally corrupted by those perfect teeth and warm brown eyes and that tumble of gray-flecked brown hair. Even with her experience and the steel armor woven while sitting through hundreds of commercial casting sessions, Jane felt a bit woozy.

When she reached the barn, she decided to look around the work areas before climbing up to the library. Like a three-ring circus, it seemed that there were three distinct staging areas. Each area had a full array of tools and brushes hanging from a rack above a workbench. Looking up, Jane saw a curtain–rodlike device, similar to the track that runs around patient areas in hospital emergency rooms to afford patients a modicum of privacy. Apparently, furniture projects were afforded privacy here at Campbell and LaSalle. More than once Tim had referred to it as a kind of clinic for valuable antiques. This workspace expanded the thought.

Jane smiled, picturing Blake in a white medical coat, soft paintbrush hung around his neck like a stethoscope, questioning a chest of drawers. “And how about your middle drawer, dear? Has it been sticking? A little painful opening the top one?” Picturing Blake at all made her feel slightly guilty, and she decided it was time to call Charley. She dialed her husband's cell phone as she climbed the open stairs to the gallery library that ran around three sides of the barn. At the north end the gallery expanded into a wider loft area with plenty of room for three leather club chairs and a few worktables with green-shaded library lamps. Jane listened to the ringing phone as she took out volumes on Westman and Early American restoration. She wasn't even sure she knew what to look for.

“Hi, Charley,” she said at the beep. “I'm in the most stunning little library here at Campbell and LaSalle. You'd love this place. I hope you and Nick are having fun. I haven't gotten a chance to reorganize the house yet, but my purse is…,” Jane began, then remembered that she hadn't decluttered her purse either. “Charley, I forgot to ask what your speech was about, so call me when you get a chance, I want to hear all about it. I…” She stopped when she heard the time's-up click.

This time she had asked about Charley's speech but hadn't left enough time to say I love you. What was it with her and phone messages? She admired those who could concisely get their message across and end the communication gracefully. She always said something like well…um…okay then. At any moment she sounded like she was going to break into la-di-da, la-di-da, like Diane Keaton playing
Annie Hall.
Or worse yet, she said thank you at the end of the message even if someone had asked her for a favor that she was agreeing to do. Okay then…well…thank you. Why oh why did she feel in control and intelligent when she had a notebook and pen in her hand and become a blithering idiot when faced with a cell phone or a Palm Pilot? Maybe St. Belinda had some insight into that in the chapter titled “Ending the Paper Trail.” Jane would skip ahead and read that one next, if she could remember where she had put the book.