Tumbling Blocks (32 page)

“Go,” I said, laughing. “You’ve earned it.” He bounded through the brush, his tail high, going after a rabbit he and I both knew he’d never catch, but thrilled for the chase, for the chance to just be a dog. He needed to get out to the ranch as much as I did. I looked up at the darkening sky and called after him. “Don’t be gone too long. It looks like it’s going to rain buckets.”

I glanced over at May’s cottage. Her car wasn’t parked in front, and it appeared as if no one was home. When she returned, she probably wouldn’t be alarmed. She knew my purple truck and would think I was here at Constance’s request.

I went up to the porch, slippery from the damp air, and set the file down on a small wicker table.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” I called out. “Here, Lionel.” What an odd name for a cat. Was it because the cat sort of looked like a lion? No, that’s not right. He looked more like a tiger. Did Pinky know someone named Lionel?

Then it hit me.

I remembered what I just reread in Abe Adam’s biography.

Lionel Bachman was the collector who discovered Abe Adam ten years ago. It was too much of a coincidence that a cat that Pinky owned, one that was apparently painted into one of Abe Adam Finch’s paintings, also had the somewhat uncommon name of the man who discovered Abe Adam Finch ten years ago. Either something connected Pinky, Lionel Bachman and Abe Adam Finch, or I was so eager to find something other than Gabe and his mother to think about that I was connecting dots that didn’t exist.

I opened the file on the table and scanned it. I was right.

I was sitting on the top porch step, staring at the photo of the painting, when I heard my name called.

I looked up in surprise and saw Bobbie Everette strolling toward me, wearing old jeans and a mustard-brown Carhartt barn jacket, a shotgun strapped casually on her back.

I closed the file. “What’re you doing here?” I called.

She licked her lips and smiled tentatively. “Maybe I could ask you the same thing.”

I glanced behind her, wondering if she was alone. “I’m just checking on things for Constance.”

“Did she lose her cat?” Her eyes pierced mine.

“Why do you ask?”

“Heard you calling one. Your voice carries.”

“Pinky has . . . had a cat. I was worried about it being alone out here.”

“Isn’t the housekeeper, Mary, taking care of things?”

“Her name is May. Yes, but she’s allergic to cats and had to leave it outside.” That was a complete lie, but I wasn’t going to tell Bobbie why I was really here.

“What have you got there?” She pointed at the file under my hand.

“Nothing.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Have you heard anything about who is interested in this property?”

I shook my head no. “Constance might know more about that than me. I don’t even know Pinky’s family.”

Bobbie studied me, her face expressionless. A breeze picked up, blowing a tornado of leaves around her legs.

“I have to go find my dog,” I said, standing up. I picked up the file, held it close to my chest. “You know I’m on your side in preserving what is left of San Celina County’s open space. I hope whoever buys this property goes in with you and Pete on the easement.”

She gave me a curt nod. “Me too.” She turned and walked into the tangle of pine and oak trees. I watched her until she was out of sight. Lionel picked that moment to dart from his hiding place under a hedge and head around the side of the house.

I set the file down on the top step and ran around the side of the house in time to see the cat disappear through a kitty door at the kitchen entrance. I tried the door. Unlocked. That wasn’t good. I’d have to remind May that there was some very valuable artwork in this house, and she’d have to be more careful about locking up. I went inside, hopefully to find Lionel and assuage my curiosity about him. Then I’d lock up, whistle for Scout and get back to town. I’d wasted enough of my day on the wild kitty chase.

Lionel was inside the kitchen standing by his empty bowl. May must let him stay inside the house here, rather than with her. Should I feed him or let her? I decided not to interfere. She would feed him when she got home. Home sounded good right now. Who cared if Pinky, Abe Adam and Lionel had a relationship? It had nothing to do with me or the folk art museum.

I left through the kitchen door, locking it behind me, and walked around the house, calling Scout’s name.

“Well,” a voice said as I rounded the corner. “I guess you’re smarter than I thought.”

CHAPTER 14

N
OLA FINCH STOOD ON THE FRONT PORCH, MY FILE with the photo and articles about her uncle open in her hands.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

In that moment, I knew that she knew about her uncle and Pinky.

She carefully took each porch step until she was eye level with me.

“I saw you studying the painting last night. So, what do you plan on doing now?”

“About what?” What did she think I was going to do, run to the newspaper and tell them that Pinky and her uncle had some sort of relationship? The truth was, no one cared.

“Please, spare me the innocent act. That’s the reason you’re here, to expose us and make me a laughingstock.”

I stared at her, confused. My brain was trying to wrap itself around her words and what they meant. Why would
she
be a laughingstock?

Then, like a jolt from a cattle prod, it hit me.

“It’s you,” I said, remembering her own frustrated career in art. “You’re Abe Adam Finch.” I’d read about this, mainstream artists who masquerade as outsider artists when their own work is not spectacular or special enough to make it in the art world.

Her smooth face gave an almost imperceptible flinch, a flash of pain. “Not just me.”

Then I finally got it. “You and Pinky Edmondson?” This was getting more and more bizarre. “You both were Abe Adam?”

“It was ridiculously easy.”

“I still don’t get it,” I said, realizing now that perhaps Constance, as crazy as it seemed, might have been right about Pinky’s death being a homicide. If that was true, then the person who likely did it was standing right next to me, looking as normal as my next-door neighbor.

My survival instinct told me to keep her talking until I could figure out what was going on and, even more important, how to extricate myself from the situation. “The first Abe Adam Finch painting was discovered ten years ago. You two have been—?”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “We’ve been carrying on the charade for ten years. I have to admit, at first it was something we did just to see if we could get away with it. Then it actually became lucrative. Very lucrative.”

I knew from Constance, or at least assumed, that Pinky didn’t need the money. “For you.”

She shrugged. “Pinky didn’t need the money, but she did love the excitement. I guess when you grow up with money like she did, having everything you’ve ever wanted in life, you have to dig deep for your thrills. But like so many rich people, she bored easily and wanted to stop.”

And Nola didn’t. That meant there was a very good chance that Constance was right that Pinky was murdered and that Nola killed her. But how? Not that it mattered at this point. If it was true, I had only two possible ways to escape the same fate: talk my way out or overpower her. In hand-to-hand fighting, I thought I’d be able to overcome Nola, but Gabe had told me over and over that you should never underestimate any opponent.

I glanced over her shoulder, trying to figure out if there was a way I could get around her. Still, getting to my truck was only one of my worries. Scout was still out there. I wouldn’t leave without him, not when I didn’t have any idea what this woman was capable of doing. So I had to keep her talking until I could figure out what to do.

“Lionel,” I said. “Was he named after Lionel Bachman?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You are pretty sharp. Pinky thought it was funny. I thought it was taking too much of a chance. But I guess that’s what appealed to her about the whole thing.”

“Was he in on it?”

“Of course. It would have been a lot harder to pull it off without someone of his caliber pretending to like my paintings.” Her lips pulled down at the corners. “And he never let me forget that he was pretending. I hated that man. Best day of my life when he died.”

“Okay, so you pulled off this huge trick on the snobby art establishment. What now?”

I saw her draw in a deep breath. “That’s a problem. But not as much a problem as you are. Frankly, I never counted on having to deal with someone like you.”

My stomach churned as I lied like a sideshow barker. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She gave a contemptuous laugh. “I’m not stupid. I couldn’t be stupid and pull this off. You are one of those tediously honest people who would insist on telling everyone the truth about Abe Adam Finch.”

Though I should have kept my mouth shut, I couldn’t help saying, “What you’re doing is fraud. Why not just paint under your own name?” But before she replied, I already knew the answer.

“Because the art world is a closed, narrow world with impossible rules for entry. This was the closest I’ll ever come to being one of the players.” Her lips turned up into a bitter slash of a smile. “Pinky just couldn’t understand that. To her, it was just a lark. Easy for her because she would always be in just by virtue of her money and her name. If Abe Adam Finch’s real identity was revealed, her friends would just laugh and say, ‘That crazy Pinky Edmondson, you just never know what she’s going to do next.’ You see it all the time, rich and famous people getting away with . . . everything! Her fancy lawyers would get her a slap on the wrist. Me, on the other hand . . .”

She was right. She had a lot more to lose. No one would ever take her seriously again in the art world, and she might even be prosecuted for fraud. At any rate, with only her alive now, all the blame would fall on her shoulders. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She’d obviously started out wanting to make art and ended up being seduced by the part of the creative world that was as judgmental and unbending as a Third World caste system.

Her eyes were shiny with angry, unshed tears. “I was so mad when she said it was time we ended the charade. What did she expect
me
to do? Where was I supposed to go? You know what she did? Laughed. Said I needed to get over myself. That she’d always meant for this thing to be temporary, for the joke to be eventually revealed to her friends.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked casually, glancing over her shoulder, frantically searching the woods for Scout.

She drew a small hand pistol out of her pocket and pointed it at me. “I need time to figure it out now that you’ve ruined things.”

I stared at the gun, trying to calm the rapid beating of my heart. I hadn’t expected a gun, which proved what Gabe said was true. Never underestimate anyone. I felt my senses spring to alert, knowing that in a split second, depending on this unstable woman’s whim, my life could be over.

“Killing me wouldn’t accomplish what you want,” I said.
Keep calm,
I told myself. Think of her as a green horse or an angry bull. Don’t let her smell your fear.

“I don’t plan on killing you,” she said. “Like I said, I’m not stupid. I just need time to get away. Luckily, I always knew something like this would happen. I should have left right after Pinky died. I have a plan B. I have
always
had a plan B.”

It was something about the way she said Pinky died that told me that Constance had, indeed, been right. But I wasn’t foolish enough to say it out loud. Right now, I wanted to stay alive myself.

She waved me toward the front door. “I’m going to tie you up and lock you in the basement. By the time anyone notices you’re missing and your husband figures out where you are, I’ll be—” She stopped, clamping her lips together. “Gone.”

She jabbed the pistol in my side. “Now, I mean it, don’t try to be a hero. You can’t beat a bullet. Trust me, I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot you if I had to.” She handed me the front door key. “Unlock the door.”

“I know,” I said, fumbling with the lock, finally opening the heavy wood door. We walked down the hallway toward the door that led to the basement. Would I ever know if Nola murdered Pinky Edmondson? Right now, I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was live.

“Open the door,” she said.

The metal knob was icy to my touch. The cold, dank scent of the unfinished basement drifted up. Panic rose in my throat, a salty bile that threatened to choke me. I didn’t want to go down in this room under the house. It felt too much like a grave. I hesitated a split second. Enough to panic her.

“Go!” she said in a low voice, giving my back a push.

I felt myself start to fall. I grasped at air, my head hitting the wooden railing. My feet tangled, and I tumbled down the stairs, jolts of pain exploding in my head, my arm, my leg. I hit the concrete floor with a thump, my right arm twisted under me, pain ripping through me, pain so intense that I prayed to lose consciousness. The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, and in the deep, black silence I heard the faint click of a bolt.

Please,
I prayed.
Lord, help.
Then nothing.

CHAPTER 15

I
WOKE UP SURROUNDED BY THE COLOR BLUE, A SOFT robin’s egg blue. I was in bed, a firm, bleach-scented bed. For the first few seconds, I wondered if I was dead. Was heaven a room painted blue that smelled like bleach? Voices murmured in the background.

I opened my mouth, and something that sounded like a croak tumbled out. Blurry bodies rushed to my side. I blinked my eyes a few times, finally able to discern a dark shape. The shape loomed over me. Gabe’s familiar ginger scent eased my racing heart.

“Querida.”
His voice sounded faraway.