Scorched: Burn Me Once..., page 6
“Do you think I’ll be expected to mention Mr. Davis during my speech? I mean, is he considered a hero in this whole thing?”
I ponder that. The art thieves held-up Davis. He escaped, allowing the theft of the property he signed up to protect. I don’t fault him for that—if they had killed my partner, I’d have run too. But nothing Davis did explains why the thieves ignored Laura’s art.
“I think it’s up to you. You certainly don’t need to make him a hero, but you could acknowledge his recovery. Say how happy you are to see him here.”
Laura smirks. “Look at you with the politically correct advice. Such depth. I thought you were just the local town hero.”
I protest, but Laura lays her hand on my forearm. “Just teasing, Z-man. Good advice. I’ll use it.”
I nod without answering, wondering where she heard my SAR nickname “Z-man.”
Monica and the two men approach the entry. “You remember Duane, right, Sis?”
I’m struck at how confident she sounds compared to the restaurant where Laura influenced what Monica drank and tried to dictate who she could bring to the exhibit.
Laura takes the high road. She steps forward, accepting an awkward hug from Duane before turning to Bruce Davis.
“And you’re the survivor. Mr. Davis. I’m so happy you’re recovering. Thanks for joining us today.”
I note how she shapes Davis’s expectations. He’s welcome to attend but shouldn’t expect a hero’s reception.
Davis thrusts his hand forward. “Thanks for having me. You can call me Bruce.” He turns to Duane and shrugs before turning back to Laura. “I just—well, Duane and me know each other. From our security work. And I told him I wanted a chance to see something else that made it through that night besides me. I wanted to see your painting.”
Laura’s smile appears bemused. “My painting survived because it wasn’t valuable enough to take. I hope that doesn’t say anything about why you made it through that night.”
I glance from Davis to Laura. My daughter’s college friends would have called Laura’s remark a “burn.”
Davis squints. I’m pretty sure the gears in his head are turning fast, trying to decipher what Laura just said. Or what an appropriate response might be.
Finally, he shakes his head. “The doctors gave me a clean bill of health. I’ll be heading back to Denver tomorrow.”
The three guests continue into the lodge. Laura whispers into Monica’s ear, loud enough for me to hear, “Stick with the fruit punch, honey. It’s on the right.”
Monica doesn’t even turn her head.
“She seems different from the other night,” I say. “More sure of herself or something.” I pause for a moment. “You too. Nice little dig you gave Davis.”
Laura sighs, ignoring my last comment. “Monica’s tripping on something. I’m not sure what she’s taking, but I can always tell when she’s on something.”
We return to the doors to greet the steady flow of arriving guests.
“There’s Emma.” Laura points at the FBI agent striding toward us. “I like her.”
I nod. I like her too, but don’t voice my opinion. Just like yesterday, Emma Frazier radiates an aura of professional competence that reminds me of my friend Kristee. Like a Kristee ten years older. Frazier smiles as she approaches us and shakes our hands.
“Thanks again for accommodating my schedule,” Frazier says, as if Laura had the option of turning down a request from the FBI. “Is Tristen here yet?”
“Not yet,” Laura says. “But he promised he’d come. His photographer volunteered to shoot footage for me.”
“Did you know Bruce Davis is here?” I offer. “Maybe you can knock off two birds while you’re asking questions?”
Frazier gives me a nod as if she appreciates the heads up. “Interviewed him yesterday morning before they released him from the hospital. Didn’t know he’d be here today, though. Thanks.”
“Are you Laura Coker Long?” The voice comes from behind Frazier. She turns and steps to the side, allowing a short, heavyset man to step forward. He positions himself in front of Frazier.
Frazier looks over his head at us and mouths, “I’ll go on in.”
Laura lowers her eyes to the man before reaching out and grabbing his hand. “You’re Martin Algood, right? Thanks so much for coming.”
Algood nods, pulling his hand from Laura’s. I’m momentarily curious at Laura’s obvious deference to the man. Then I remember—Martin Algood is the potential buyer. He’s traveled from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to decide whether to purchase Broncho Buster.
Laura opens her mouth. I presume she’s introducing me, but Algood speaks first. “Where’s the painting?”
“Inside—” Laura begins, but Algood interrupts, rolling his eyes.
“I know it’s inside. This is an exhibition, so I assume there will be other pieces, as well. So either give me directions to the Broncho Buster, or take me there yourself.”
I’ve yet to see Laura flustered, but the next ten seconds are pretty close. Two more groups of visitors are walking in our direction. She turns to me, raising her eyebrows.
I’m about to volunteer to take Algood to the painting—even though I’m not sure where it’s at—when Laura turns to him. “Mr. Algood, of course I’ll take you. Follow me.” She grabs his elbow and steers the man inside. She turns back to me as she crosses the foyer and tilts her head at the parking lot. Translation? Tyler, can you greet the guests while I’m gone?
I can, and I do, providing a tight smile while grinding my teeth. Acting as the sole greeter for a ritzy art exhibition was not on the list of things I imagined I’d do when I woke this morning.
Ten minutes later, I’m conflicted about my duties. Laura hasn’t returned. The exhibition is supposed to have started five minutes ago. It’s not that we don’t have plenty of guests—the inside of the lodge is packed. But Tristen and his photographer haven’t arrived yet. I wait another minute before Julie tugs my arm.
“Laura says you’re probably out here waiting for Tristen?”
I nod. “And the photographer, Nate. Last expected guests, I think.”
“She says forget him. Come join the party. She wants you up front by the podium for her speaking part. Follow me.” Julie turns and walks into The Lodge. I follow. The masks for the smoke are still stacked high on the table. Either the ventilation is good inside the lodge or no one is too worried about the smoke.
Julie glances back at me. “Watch yourself, today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Laura’s wound tight as a clock. Monica’s tripping on something. I’m not saying anything is going to happen, but the conditions couldn’t be worse.”
I don’t respond. I’ve almost decided Julie might be the sister I should worry about. Of course Laura is nervous. Who wouldn’t be for an event like this? Monica looks like she’s having a great time. We pass by her, Duane, and Davis, and she toasts me with a glass of something clear. Not punch. So really, the only person forecasting doom and gloom—again—is Julie.
Laura steps to the podium. No mask for her. Maybe everyone is following her lead. I know she’s stressed about this event, but I wonder if anyone else picks up on it. Her hands are firm as they grip the lectern. She surveys the audience for a good thirty seconds before beginning. This is a woman accustomed to public speaking.
“I’d like to welcome you all to The Lodge and thank you for—” she stops, at the sound of commotion in the rear of the room. I look past the last row of seats. Nate, Tristen’s photographer, is squeezing between audience members to photograph Tristen’s arrival.
I turn back to Laura. She’s doing that lip pursing thing again. But then her eyes meet mine, the corners of her mouth turning up. I raise my eyebrows. She turns back to the podium.
“Thank you for taking the time to come see our little exhibition, especially after the tragic theft that occurred last week and with the nearby wildfire causing all the smoke. And a special thanks to Mr. Tristen LaFrance, the owner of the stolen Remingtons, for attending today.”
Laura nods toward the back of the crowd. The audience turns as one. Tristen gives a small wave as applause ripples through the crowd. Laura gestures to the empty chair on her left. Tristen works his way up front.
Laura’s magnanimous gesture doesn’t surprise me. This is her day, her event, and her painting. Tristen has suffered a substantial loss, but it’s a loss of personal property, not his first-born child. Laura is allowing the entire attention of the crowd to shift from her to Tristen. The same way she did the night I met her, when she ignored my questions about her and got me talking about myself. Something I rarely do.
The way she joined Monica in abstaining from alcohol at dinner. Because she’s a caring soul.
I was first attracted to Laura’s physical appearance. No, that’s not how I usually start a relationship, but it’s true in this case. The moment I saw her, something stirred in me. And not just in my heart. That she seems interested in me also played a role. I’m unsure how middle-aged romance works for others. I’m new to it myself. I’m guessing that finding someone who likes you back is probably half the battle.
“But most of all, I’d like to say thank you to the residents of this valley, from Leadville all the way down to Salida.” Laura pauses, scans the crowd, and then points at someone in the back, and laughs. “Some of you came from even farther than that. Thank you for your support for my gallery and for putting up with the smoke to join us today.” Laura’s smile widens. “I declare the exhibition officially open. Enjoy!”
Applause fills the room. Laura steps from the podium, her eyebrows lifted in a how’d I do? expression. Not that there is more than one answer to that unspoken question, but I’m still flattered she values my opinion.
“Fantastic, Laura. I mean, I knew you were a special artist. Your paintings are really good.” I fumble at my words because Laura knows I’m clueless as to what caliber of artist she is or how to judge her work. But she just gives me that smile, like she expects me to keep stumbling forward. So I do. “I just didn’t realize how much respect this community has for you. Or how natural you look up at that podium talking to them.” Laura nods. I’ve hit the right tone. “You had them eating out of your hand. Total control.”
Crash. Laura’s smile freezes. She squints at me. I scramble to rephrase my last sentence, but she reaches out and grabs my forearm before I can speak.
“Tyler, that’s not how you see me, is it? Someone who has to be in control?”
I say nothing, swaying my head in a “no” like a cow avoiding flies.
“Let’s just stick with the part about how you liked my welcoming remarks.”
I nod, still silent. Laura is like chocolate-chip cookies—or beer. The more I have, the more I want. And I want to spend more time with her.
I just need to work on my conversational skills.
CHAPTER 9
Agent Frazier stands beside me, admiring the small sculpture of a tired cowboy slumped on a horse that appears as worn out as its rider. She turns toward me. “What do you think?”
The bulk of the audience mills around the main attraction: the Broncho Buster painting. Avoiding the crowd, I’m checking out some of Laura’s lesser-known pieces.
I nibble at a pastry filled with spinach and bacon, and read the name of the piece. Still Standing. “If you’re asking me about quality, you’re asking the wrong guy. The best I can do is tell you I think this is bronze.”
Frazier laughs. “You’re right, it’s a bronze. Do you see how she imitates her painting style in her sculpture? Everything for Laura is about texture. Her work makes you want to touch it.” Frazier looks at the crowd surrounding Broncho Buster. “I’m surprised she doesn’t have more issues with that. People touching her work.”
“I didn’t even know she did sculpture. I thought she just did paintings.”
“What about the exhibition? How do you think it’s going?”
I take a last glance at the piece before shifting my gaze to the crowd. “I’d say it’s a success. Especially when you consider how close it came to never happening.”
Frazier nods. She turns to the window next to the main entrance. Smoke still blankets The Lodge. The cars in the lot are barely visible. The ventilation proves somewhat effective in the exhibit area but the lobby smells like a Boy Scout campfire. “Right. Art thefts aside, I’m surprised they let the event proceed with all the smoke from the fire. I guess they know what they are doing.”
“Did you interview him?” I nod toward Tristen LaFrance across the room. He stands to the side of Broncho Buster, talking to Martin Algood. Nate bobs in the crowd, trying to capture a shot of Tristen, Algood, and the painting.
“Not yet. Mr. LaFrance is one of those people who likes to do things on their own timeline. I’ll give him another fifteen minutes before I remind him of our appointment.”
“You think it’s a money thing? Like those kinds of people purposely make your job hard because they want you to know who’s in control?”
Frazier furrows her brow. “I know what you’re saying. I’ve seen that before.” She glances at me. “Obviously you have as well.”
Laura must have shared more with Frazier than just my Colorado time. Frazier’s not wrong. I’ve seen it in the military. Not so much the money part of it, but how people with power, or those close to it, use it to remind us who’s in charge. We would get 20-year-old civilian aides to the Secretary of State or Commerce or something, and I swear, they would demand schedule changes because they could. But Frazier doesn’t want to hear my stories. I say nothing.
“I don’t think Mr. LaFrance is doing this on purpose,” Frazier says. “My first impression is that he just marches to his own drummer.”
She’s probably right. The typical billionaire who had his most expensive art stolen wouldn’t personally travel to the crime scene to check it out for themselves. They would hire someone to do it for them. Your average wealthy art owner wouldn’t agree to be interviewed at an art exhibition. They would have told Frazier to “have your people coordinate with my people.” Frazier’s quick assessment of Tristen LaFrance seems spot on.
“Agent Frazier, let me ask you something.”
“Emma, please.”
“OK. Emma. Did you already know Duane Dahl and Bruce Davis were friends?
“We did. Not so much the nature of their relationship, but we’re aware of it.” She pauses. “And looking into it.”
I nod and move to my real question. “You said you interviewed Bruce Davis, right? About the heist?”
“Yes.”
“Did he mention anything to you about a third person involved in the theft? Someone that never got out of the vehicle.”
Frazier tilts her head. “Where did you hear that?”
“I stopped by the hospital to talk to Davis after someone dropped off his cell phone at our SAR headquarters. He told me about the woman.”
Frazier winces. “Ah, I see. You’re the one who let him have his phone before we had time to look at it.”
“No. I mean, I took it to the Sheriff’s office after I talked to Davis.” I’m unsure why I don’t immediately admit she’s right. It’s like I’m in junior high wanting to say it wasn’t me.
“Right. But Davis had his hands on the phone. You gave it to him? Then took it back?”
She’s busted me. “Yeah, he said he sent an email.”
Frazier presses her lips together, but says nothing.
She doesn’t have to.
CHAPTER 10
My phone buzzes. When I step from the exhibit hall to the lobby to take the call, Julie makes a beeline for Laura. I glance back at Frazier, who has her phone pressed to her ear. I tap “accept” on my phone. The initials “RP” tell me who’s calling. Deputy Sheriff Rick Perez.
“Hey Rick.”
“Yeah, Z-man. Are you still at that art shindig at The Lodge?”
“Yep. What’s up?”
“Your artist friend isn’t answering her phone.”
Across the room, Julie is showing her phone screen to Laura. “I’m not surprised. She’s hosting her show. Kind of busy.”
“Any law enforcement up there with you?”
I review the guests I greeted at the door. No uniforms. Didn’t recognize any cops. “I don’t think so.” I reconsider. “Wait. We’ve got Emma Frazier. The FBI agent.”
“Why’s she there?”
“Interviewing Tristen LaFrance. You going to tell me what’s up or make me guess?”
“Nothing too serious.” Perez goes silent for a beat. “I hope. The wind shifted on the Chalk Creek Fire. We need you all to shut down that art show. Get folks back to Buena Vista. I’m a little short-handed right now. I called the BV Police, but they say they’ll be another hour at least. Could I talk you into making the announcement? Make sure people start moving?”
“Got it.” It’s a simple request—a tough one to screw up. “What about the permanent residents? The folks who take care of this place?”
“Let them know what’s up. I think we’re talking another day or more if the winds stay the same. They can wait a while longer if they need to get stuff out of there, but make sure they have connectivity to Wi-Fi or a landline to Chaffee Fire to follow the status.” Perez’s voice trails, like he has more to add. “I’d recommend they come out with everyone else, though.”
“Got it. I’ll give you a holler with an update after I get folks moving.”
I return inside. Laura stands by the podium at the front of the room, looking from side to side as if she’s missing something.
She zeroes in on me, eyebrows rising as I approach.”Did you hear about the fire?”
I nod. “Sheriff’s Office wants me to get everyone moving. I’m going to use the microphone, alright?” I point to the podium.
“OK.” Laura grabs my arm. “Will you stay and help me load my art?”
How could she think I would leave her? “I’m not going anywhere without you or your work. Let me get folks notified and heading the right direction first. Of course I’ll stay.”
