A Masked Murder, page 10
“Well…” he said. She waited, holding her breath.
“Well, when we started the mentorship, Stafford did tell me that he’d give me one of his small sketches when I’d completed the lessons. It was a piece called The Mystery Link. Very intriguing, black and white, just a square foot in size. He then refused, and said that if I wanted it, I’d have to buy it, and that he wouldn’t let me buy it, because he only sold to select people and I wasn’t on the list. So when I saw it was on display, with a notice that it was part of his private personal collection, I – I took it when there was nobody around.”
“Wow!” That comment escaped Autumn’s lips. She wasn’t condoning theft. But she did feel that, driven to desperation, Finn had stood up for his own rights. Just not in the way that she’d suspected at first.
"I know it was wrong of me. But I was planning to hold that picture hostage and tell him that I wanted my money back for the lessons, or he wouldn't get his painting returned. It wasn't really stealing. It was just – bargaining."
“Bargaining,” Autumn said.
“Now, though, it’s complicated.” Leaning forward, letting out a deep sigh, he confessed, “I don’t know what to do. You see, now it’s not just bargaining. He’s very possessive about his paintings. I knew he’d be mad.”
Autumn shook her head. “I guess what you could do is find out who the executor of the estate is and tell them that you need to have your money refunded. Until then, I guess there’s no harm in holding onto the painting, especially seeing he did say you could have it originally.”
She knew she was on shaky moral and legal ground here. Technically he had taken it without permission, but technically, Stafford had taken his money without providing the promised service. Hopefully he and the executor would be able to sort it out.
That was another question that Autumn knew she’d need to address – who benefited from his death. Had that person killed him?
"As far as I know, because he used to speak about it, he said that his closest relative is a younger sister who lives in Wales, in the United Kingdom," Finn told her. "They don't talk much. But I suppose she'll inherit his house and paintings."
So, no real motive for the inheritance, although it struck Autumn that living in Wales and not speaking to Stafford was a very sensible decision if you were related to him.
As she was replaying the conversation in her mind, something else struck her.
“You said that he only sells to select people?”
“Yes.” Looking at his watch, Finn got up, brushing dirt off the seat of his pants. Autumn did the same. “I guess my break’s over and I’d better walk back,” he said.
“I’ll walk with you,” Autumn said. “I might as well get a buggy from the hotel.”
As they walked, now side by side instead of in headlong flight and pursuit, Finn told Autumn more.
“You see, he used to be very possessive about his paintings, and as you know, he had a big ego.”
“Yes, I did experience that,” Autumn said.
"So, anyway, because of that ego, he had this weird set of standards. He had a list of everyone who had offended him and whose behavior he didn't like. And if any of those people wanted to buy one of his paintings directly from him, he'd refuse to allow the sale."
“What about through a gallery?” Autumn asked. What a peculiar man he had been. She was becoming more and more puzzled by his behavior.
“I’m not sure about that,” Finn said. “I don’t know what the rules were for the gallery. But I do know that for his own sales, if he didn’t like the buyer, he would not allow that painting to go to them.”
Autumn thought about that as she trudged along, legs still tired from the headlong run earlier.
“In a way, I guess that would have made his paintings more sought after?” she said.
“I guess so,” Finn replied. “I think it increased their value, and people wanted them more if they couldn’t have the paintings. Maybe that was one of the tricks of the trade he would have told me if he had mentored me,” he said sadly.
Autumn didn’t think Finn had been missing out on much. But she did want to tell him something important.
“You know, I saw you drawing in the sand there, when we were talking,” she said.
He glanced at her, dark eyebrows raised in surprise. “That? That was just doodling. It wasn’t real art.”
Autumn shook her head. “You have real talent. I think that the encounter with Stafford might have dented your confidence and made you believe you couldn’t paint or draw.”
There was silence for a while apart from the scrunching of their footsteps.
“I did end up feeling that way,” he said thoughtfully.
“You shouldn’t,” Autumn encouraged him. “There’s no reason to feel that way. You are a talented artist. I can see immediately, just from the way you made a sketch of a willow tree come to life in the sand.”
“That’s so kind of you to say so!”
“I’m not being kind, I’m being truthful. If you have talent, you mustn’t let anyone else rob you of your dreams. Go ahead and paint. If you need a mentor, find another one, somebody more sympathetic, or just do it on your own until you figure it out.”
“That’s cheered me up a lot,” Finn said. “I’ve been feeling worthless and untalented, and as if everything I’ve done is useless. But you’ve actually given me a new outlook.”
“I’m glad to have been of help,” Autumn said, realizing that they were now at the end of the trail, and the hotel’s grounds stretched ahead. “I hope I see your work in our gallery one day.”
Finn turned and did something surprising. He took Autumn’s hand in his, and he shook it firmly.
“You’ve no idea how you’ve encouraged me,” he told her, before turning and walking away.
Autumn stood for a moment, pleased by the praise, and feeling glad that she might have been able to reawaken a fire in a man who’d had his dreams crushed.
Never mind the gray area about the painting’s actual owner. Finn deserved it.
And he’d given her a very interesting piece of information, too.
Stafford had refused to sell his paintings to those people he disapproved of. Had one of those potential buyers been refused, and decided that the best way to handle that situation would be to kill him?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Looking at her phone, to call the buggy to take her home, Autumn saw that she’d had three missed calls from Jasmine at the bed and breakfast. Stress surged through her as she saw the list of calls. It wasn’t easy running a hospitality business and trying to catch a killer, all at the same time.
As she dialed Jasmine back, Autumn felt tempted to shelve the investigation.
Her business needed her.
But then she remembered that the murders were busy destroying her business, and that she couldn’t afford to shelve the investigation.
She quickly put in a request for the buggy, and then she called Jasmine back.
“How’s it going?” Jasmine said, sounding worried. “You’ve been out a long time.”
“I know,” Autumn confessed. “One thing led to another, but I’m coming back right now. Is there a problem?”
“A problem? No, no problem at all. I was just worried you were in danger.”
"I've managed to avoid danger, luckily," Autumn said. If only the same could be said for high-speed running.
“Are you coming back now? Mr. Pringle has checked out, and stowed his luggage and his shopping bags in the back room. So I called Ethan immediately to look at that crack in the wall.”
“Has he found the cause yet?”
“No. He’s still on his way.”
Her two differing responsibilities warred within Autumn.
"I should come back and supervise the repair," she said, staring up and down the road. There was no sign of the buggy as yet. It would probably take another five minutes. There were a couple of hikers in the distance and a few golden leaves blowing down the road.
“Why? It’s just a wall repair. It’s not like we’re devising a new breakfast menu,” Jasmine said reasonably. “If the repair seems expensive, I can always call you to confirm. But for now, if you’re sure you’re not in danger, I’d go ahead with the investigation.”
Autumn picked up a tone in Jasmine’s voice that she didn’t fully understand.
“You sound very serious about that,” she said.
“It’s just that – well, I overheard Mr. Pringle talking to two of the other guests, and from what I picked up, he was discussing the murder and they were also seriously considering leaving,” Jasmine said miserably.
“Oh, no.” Autumn felt ice water cascade down her back. The busy fall season had allowed her to plan a few repairs and maintenance projects, which needed to be done, and which she’d penciled in for early spring. That wouldn’t be possible if the income she’d been relying on was suddenly cut short. With quiet winters, every fall guest made a difference.
“Yes. I think he’s one of those people who likes to spread doom. You know, a wealthy international tourist who thinks that his opinion counts more than everyone else’s.”
“I guess so.” Autumn realized that Jasmine had a more unbiased view of him than she herself did. She thought all her guests were wonderful, and most times, she saw their good sides and was able to accept their quirks in a tolerant light. That was an essential quality for anyone in hospitality. You’d be driven mad otherwise.
“So, go out and find this killer,” Jasmine said.
“I will do that. I know where I’m going next, and you don’t need to worry. It’s not dangerous. In fact, it’s just a return trip to a place I’ve been already,” she said.
Here was the buggy approaching. Gratefully, Autumn climbed inside. To think that she’d been considering taking her bicycle on this trip. After that unscheduled run through the woods, she’d have been far too tired to ride it all the way back.
“Please can you take me to the Magnolia Gallery,” she told the driver.
“I will do.” He turned the horse around and shook the reins, sending the pony into an easy trot. “Lovely weather we’re having. I believe there’s a few showers expected later in the week.”
***
When Autumn walked into the art gallery for the second time that day, Julian was in the front room, busy adjusting a painting, using a spirit level to get it absolutely straight.
He turned when she walked in.
“Hello there,” he greeted her. “You’re back again? How can I help you this time?”
“I’m actually wanting more information,” Autumn said quietly. There were a couple of visitors browsing the gallery and she didn’t want them to be alerted.
“More information?” He turned to her, quirking an eyebrow, and then turned back, bending to check the alignment of the frame once more.
“You know, I really can’t stand it when a painting is even slightly askew,” he admitted. “It gets my OCD going. I don’t even know I have OCD until I see a painting unevenly displayed on the wall. Then, it’s like – like nails on a blackboard!”
Autumn laughed. “So your definition of torture would be having someone tilt all the artwork in your home?”
Julian shuddered theatrically. “Do not even talk about it! The thought sends me into conniptions.”
He gave one tiny nudge to the left hand side of the frame, and then nodded in a satisfied way. “Perfection. Now, to the office.” He gestured discreetly. “Let’s talk business – whatever it might be.”
Autumn followed him into the office and sat down.
“It’s about Stafford,” she said. He gave a dramatic sigh.
“Of course it is. I’ve been fielding calls all day, with people asking if there are any of his works up for sale. It’s becoming a little tedious, because there are none of his works for sale at this present time.”
“That’s what I wanted to find out more about,” Autumn said.
“How do you mean?”
“I was told…” she discreetly made sure not to mention her source, “I was told that Stafford was rather picky about who he sold to.”
“Oh, yes. How did you find that out?” Julian frowned. “That’s very confidential information. You know, we don’t usually give reasons. We just informed buyers that the piece they required was not available, and the seller had withdrawn it. Then it keeps everything on a more professional basis.”
“But it doesn’t sound as if the reasons were professional at all,” Autumn said. “Choosing not to sell to selected buyers? That’s very personal.”
“You know, a lot of artists do have similar tendencies,” Julian hastily interjected.
“Really?” Autumn asked. “Can you name three of them?”
Julian’s flawless forehead looked like it was trying hard to frown. Eventually, he just gave a deep sigh.
“Alright. I admit, he was a little exceptional in that regard.”
“Is there anyone you can remember who was offended by that? Maybe somebody who came back with a counteroffer and then got even madder?”
Autumn watched Julian closely because she was convinced he knew more than he was saying.
“You’re asking me to remember?” His voice hit a high crescendo. “Sweetheart, my memory is shot. It’s really bad. I have to keep a system of notelets just to get me through my day. It’s stress, of course. Stress.”
He glanced at Autumn appealingly, as if hoping she wouldn’t choose to add to his immense stress. Unfortunately, though, she wasn’t backing down.
“Looking beyond your stress, and I’m not trying to belittle it,” she said gently, “would there be a name that comes to mind?”
“All I seem to be doing today is giving you out names! Names that could drive the nails into the coffin of my reputation!” he protested.
“But surely everyone in the art world knows?” she asked.
“That may be, but the point is that not everyone in the art world is telling. You’re making me do that.” For a long, thoughtful moment, he buried his head in his hands.
Then, he raised it decisively.
“Please, do not let this get back to the individual concerned,” he said. “I’m telling you this because I support law and order. But yes, there was one person who was persistent about buying a piece, and got very angry when they kept being ‘not available’. I think Stafford must have had some kind of grudge against him, because really?”
He stared at Autumn wordlessly. She gave an encouraging nod.
“Anyway, I eventually let slip that Stafford didn’t want to sell to this man. It was for some really peculiar reason. I think it was something to do with the fact he lived in Magnolia Bay, and Stafford wanted his art to reach a wider audience.”
“He used that as a reason?” Autumn frowned.
“Look, I don’t create the personalities of our fine, sensitive artists,” Julian reminded her. “I simply work with them. And I did my best to work with him. I couldn’t change his mind on some things, so I merely tried to adapt.”
“The name?” Autumn gently reminded him.
“Victor Drake. Please…”
“I won’t tell him that you told me,” Autumn said.
As she thanked him again and turned to leave, he sat up in his chair, a hand placed across his chest. “Please, Autumn,” he said. “I adore you, and there’s never a time I wouldn’t want to see you enter this gallery. But I must beg you – not again today. Not again. It’s playing havoc with my blood pressure!”
With the heartfelt plea ringing in her ears, Autumn headed out.
She needed to find out where this angry buyer lived, but she knew that she could not delay any longer. Duty was calling, and she had to get back to the bed and breakfast, find out what was happening with this troubling crack – and try to do damage control if any other guests were hell bent on leaving.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I just worry that we may be in some kind of personal danger.” The sweet faced guest, who Autumn had adored from the moment she’d walked through the bed and breakfast’s doors, was now hovering at the reception desk, looking anxious.
With a stressed expression on her face, Jasmine was trying to reassure her. As Autumn approached, Jasmine’s look of relief was visible.
“Is everything alright, Mrs. B?” Autumn asked. Mrs. B was what she liked to be called.
The silver-haired woman, with a pearl necklace gleaming above the collar of her silk blouse, turned to Autumn. "My dear, it's not your fault. Not your fault at all. The problem is that we came here to get away from all of this. Not to feel like we're in the epicenter of some awful conflict. It's all just so distressing, and now, Mr. B is worried that somebody else will be next, and this will escalate into a killing spree. He's saying we should go somewhere safer, but I don't know where that might be."
She sounded so anxious that Autumn just wanted to give her a big, warm hug. That might not be professional, though, so instead she did her best with a reassuring tone of voice.
“Why don’t you give it until tomorrow?” she asked. “After all, you have dinner reservations for tonight, at the lovely place down at the harbor. A buggy’s taking you there and back, and the guesthouse is safe, I promise.”
Poor Mrs. B jumped as a loud banging began from the room above them. “Safe?” she said in a quivering voice.
“That’s just a small repair being taken care of,” Autumn said, feeling fraught that Ethan had chosen that exact time to begin his work on the ceiling. The timing was terrible, and now, her already nervy guest was looking downright panicky.
"It would be a real shame to cancel that dinner," Jasmine interjected, adding her voice to the argument. "And it might not be possible to get such a comfortable hotel room anywhere on the mainland at short notice on a Sunday evening."
“It’s my opinion,” Autumn said firmly, deciding she was entitled to it even if it was totally unfounded, “that this unfortunate incident was as a result of a personal conflict.”
