To the Grave (27 page)

“I … I don't think so.”

“Yes, you do. Maybe you didn't admit it to yourself, but you felt it just like I did.”

“Even if he did think you were the murderer, he has to know better now.”

“Maybe,” James said slowly. “Maybe.”

2

Bridget Fenmore walked toward a woman wandering aimlessly around the gallery. Normally she would have ignored a “looky-loo,” but Bridget knew a Burberry leather coat when she saw one. And wasn't the woman carrying a Prada handbag?

Bridget tempered her desire to rush toward the woman. Instead, she walked sedately and tried not to look at the clothes. “Hello. Welcome to the gallery. May I show you anything in particular?”

“No, thank you.”

Up close, Bridget saw that the woman was middle-aged and had a bored, blue-eyed gaze. Her makeup, though, was perfection. “Right here on the first floor we have the Arcos exhibit. It's extremely popular.”

“I've seen it. Not my style.”

“What style do you like?”

“Something pretty.” The woman gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I don't know about particular styles. I just know what I like.”

“On the second floor we have a room devoted to the work of Guy Nordine, the father of the gallery owner. He was a brilliant artist. His style is quite different from that of Arcos. Perhaps you'd enjoy looking at his paintings.”

“Ummm, I've looked at them, too. We just had the house redecorated and I don't think any of them would look good with my new furniture.”

What a shame, Bridget thought. The woman obviously had money—a new Mercedes was parked in front of the gallery and Bridget was certain the car belonged to her—but she had no knowledge or appreciation of art. “I'll just let you look around by yourself then. You might see something that you think would look well with your new furniture.”

“Yes. Thank you.” The woman was obviously relieved not to have an “art expert” tagging along with her. “That would be fine. Actually, I don't know much about art, but this is a really pretty place. I'd like to just study the lines and … well, the style of the building. I might get some ideas for doing a little house renovation.”

“What a brilliant idea!” You numbskull, Bridget thought. You want your house to look like an art museum? “Spend all the time you like. If you'd like to ask about any of the … architecture, I'll be glad to answer as best I can. And I have fresh coffee and hot water brewing for tea. If you'd care for any, just let me know.”

“Well, aren't you sweet?” The woman smiled, showing crow's-feet and nasal-labial folds. “I'll be sure to tell my husband how nice you are.” She frowned, showing a badly wrinkled forehead. “Well, maybe I won't tell him about you. You're too young and pretty.”

“Oh, thank you.” Bridget had perfected her diffident look as well as a slight blush. “I'm sure your husband wouldn't trade you for anyone, though. Enjoy your trip to the gallery.”

Well, Ken would be proud of that performance, Bridget thought as she headed back toward a long table where she'd been pretending to organize pamphlets for the last hour. She was alone for the time being. Dana had suddenly decided she was crazy about her kid and had spent the last three days with her in the hospital, and Ken had gone out to lunch with the potential buyer of two above-average paintings. In terms of price, they weren't close to the Arcos paintings, but two would bring a nice profit.

Glancing around for visitors she'd not already approached, Bridget noticed a man who must have quietly entered while she was talking to the well-dressed airhead, as she now thought of the woman staring in befuddlement at an excellent piece of modern art. He was tall and lean, wearing a charcoal-colored suit and full-length black coat, both of which fit him so perfectly that Bridget guessed they'd been custom-made. He was looking at
Mardi Gras Lady,
and even at a distance, Bridget could see he scrutinized the painting with the discerning gaze of an expert. Art galleries were familiar to this man, Bridget decided as she walked toward him at a leisurely pace. She wanted to impress him, which wouldn't happen if she pounced on him like an eager salesperson.

When she neared him, she came to a near stop, waited a beat, and then said, “Hello, sir,” in the warm yet professional voice Ken had taught her. “I'm Bridget Fenmore, manager of the gallery. Welcome.”

He glanced at her and blinked rapidly three times, looking startled. Then he made a visible effort to regain his composure. “How do you do, Ms. Fenmore?” he said somewhat stiffly in a low, heavy voice. “John … Jones.”

John Jones my ass, Bridget thought. The guy needed acting lessons, but if he wanted to be anonymous that was fine with her. She smiled prettily. “I see that you're looking at
Mardi Gras Lady.
It's by Nicolai Arcos. Unfortunately, Mr. Arcos … died this week.”

“Yes, I heard about his death,” Jones returned slowly.

“Such a tragedy. He had so much talent.”

“Really?”

The man's question and harsh tone took Bridget by surprise. She looked at his dark eyes, surrounded by deep wrinkles and staring piercingly into hers, the horizontal lines in his strong forehead beneath thick, silver-touched black hair brushed to the side, the creases running deeply from his aquiline nose to his narrow, hard-lipped mouth.

“Was his death a tragedy? Of course. I knew him. I liked him.” Bridget felt stumbling and foolish. She was also lying. She had not liked Nicolai Arcos, but she certainly would never admit to it. “And
I
thought he was talented.” A bit of spirit bridled in her. “So did a great many art critics.”

“Well-respected critics?”

“Yes. J. Philip Ransworth, for instance.”

“I've never heard of J. Philip Ransworth.”

“Oh. Well, he's famous.” At least Ken had told her Ransworth was famous. “He wrote a glowing review of the Arcos exhibit.”

Bridget tried to dazzle John Jones with a smile. The man merely gave her a forbearing look. Oh God, where was Ken? He would know how to handle
Mr
.
Jones,
she thought, suddenly furious with the handsome Ken Nordine whom she'd been kissing passionately just last night. No matter what their personal relationship, though, he should be here. After all, this was his damned art gallery. Nevertheless, today she was in charge and she mustn't let this strange visitor know he was making her feel a fool. “But beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she blurted lamely.

John Jones laughed. The sound was rusty, as if he didn't laugh often. “Forgive me, Ms. Fenmore. I've made you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all.”

“Oh yes, I have. Please overlook my bad manners.”

“Your manners are—”

“Often unfortunate. My wife has told me so a hundred times.”

Bridget glanced at his hands clasped loosely just below his waist. They were pale, with veins showing prominently through soft, thin skin. He wore a simple platinum wedding band on one of his long, well-manicured fingers and she saw a platinum Rolex watch showing beneath a sleeve. He had a smooth grace that hinted at excellent coordination, but he also tended to move a bit stiffly. Bridget was trying to guess whether he was around fifty-nine or sixty when he quickly turned and looked at her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Do you like to dance, Ms. Fenmore?”

“Dance? Yes.”

“Have you ever been to a ball?”

“Well, no, I don't think so.”

“Wouldn't you remember?”

“Well, sure. I mean, of course I would. And no, unfortunately I've never been to a ball.” Or anything resembling a ball, Bridget thought. She couldn't ballroom-dance, but suddenly she was filled with regret, for both her lack of classic dance skills and the fact that she'd never been to anything fancier than a Christmas dance in a Holiday Inn.

“That is too bad. I can just picture you doing the quadrille.”

“Oh, thank you!” Bridget glowed, although she had no idea what a quadrille looked like.

“And if I say so myself, about a hundred years ago I was quite good at the tango. If I were younger, we could tango together.” He seemed to drift away, his eyes growing dreamy. “I used to have a beautiful tango partner. My God … how I miss her.”

Bridget imagined Jones's partner as his lover. The deepening of his voice, the saddening of his expression, almost made Bridget ask if the girl was dead. Then Bridget caught herself and said merely, “I'm sorry that you miss her.”

“Yes, I miss her every day and every night.” John Jones turned his gaze back to the painting. “You greatly resemble the subject of this portrait.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Do you think
she
is beautiful?” Bridget hesitated, suddenly feeling as if the remark was a challenge. Her palms had begun to sweat. She wished she could escape John Jones, but she couldn't do so now without seeming rude. Finally, she decided not to let his odd manner frighten her. “I think she's beautiful,” she said stoutly.

He looked at Bridget again. “Do you know who she was?”

“I don't know if she really existed or if she was merely imaginary.” Ken had instructed Bridget to say this and she never failed to follow his instructions about the matter. “She does look like someone I've seen, but it's hard to tell with the mask she's wearing.”

“Holding,” Jones corrected, looking at the gold-trimmed white mask. “It's a handheld half mask mounted to a gold stick. Attractively stylized. And the black pentagram around the right eye is … striking.”

“Yes, the mask she's
holding
is lovely. But the star on the mask—you called it a pentagram. Doesn't that have something to do with witchcraft?”

“There is a small difference between the five-pointed star and the pentagram. The pentagram has lines through the middle. If you look very closely, you can see the lines on this mask.”

Bridget stood on tiptoe, squinted, and for the first time saw thread-thin lines painted in a brown so dark it was hardly discernible from the surrounding black. “I see them!”

“I knew you would. So the ‘star' is really a ‘pentagram' and a symbol of Wicca.” He paused. “Do you still like the lady's mask, even if the star is really a pentagram?”

“I'm just crazy about that mask.” Bridget could have kicked herself for her exuberant language. Nerves had turned her into a not-too-smart babbling adolescent, she thought, and she was glad Ken hadn't heard her. Maybe Mr. Jones hadn't been listening. She rushed on, “Anyway, whether or not she's real or imaginary, the Mardi Gras Lady is beautiful.”

“Yes.” John Jones's eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to the painting. “Ahhh, the fan.”

“The fan she's holding? It's beautiful, too. Unusual. Maybe it would have been better if it hadn't been unfurled—we've had mixed reactions to the erotic painting on it—but I like it.”

He nodded. “It's exquisite.”

“Yes. There's a difference between trash and erotica. Some people can't tell the difference.”

John Jones looked at her and lifted one heavy salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Obviously, you can.”

“Well, I'm trained. But even if I weren't … well, the true artist and the sensitive viewer can tell the difference between the merely lascivious and the artfully sensuous.”

Bridget was proud of that statement until John Jones looked at her with his faintly amused, superior expression again. Her discomfort with the decorous Mr. Jones and her anger with Ken grew. Jones kept staring at her, obviously waiting for her to say something else. “I wonder if such fans really exist?”

“They do. I've seen them.” His gaze gentled. “Do you like this portrait, Ms. Fenmore?”

“I like the painting,” Bridget said carefully. “Portrait” implied the painting was that of a real person. “I think it's … magnificent.”

“I'm sure the lady did, too.”

“If she really existed.”

John Jones's expression grew half-humorous, half-sad. “I think she did.” He looked back at
Mardi Gras Lady.
“Oh yes, I think this woman—this vision of a woman—did exist.”

3

“Hope I didn't miss lunch.”

James looked away from the television as Eric walked into the room.

“Yes, you've missed lunch by at least an hour and you should thank your lucky stars you did. I thought my mother was the only person in the world who could make bad Jell-O, but I was wrong. This place has her beat hands down.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. You should taste Marissa's.” Eric sat down on the vinyl-covered chair near the window, glanced up at the television, and started laughing. “Please don't tell me that in less than twenty-four hours in here you're already watching soap operas.”

“The television remote is broken.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It
is.
I was just ready to call for a nurse—”

Eric picked up the remote and flipped off the television. “Guess you don't need to bother anyone now, although I probably interrupted a heart-wrenching moment.”

“I
was
going to vote for you for sheriff,” James said coolly. “I'm already reconsidering.”

“That's a shame. It was just my luck to have a murder spree break out two weeks before the election.”

“Don't think that hasn't crossed my mind, and believe it or not, I feel responsible for the spot I've put you in,” James said, his voice a tad less cool. “I know you're not here campaigning, though. Is this a condolence call, Chief Deputy Montgomery?”

“Partly. How do you feel?”

“Not great.”

“I'm not surprised. From what the doctor told me, you won't be up to par for two or three months.”