A Masked Murder, page 12
“I’m really sorry to disturb you…” she began, but didn’t have time to say more.
“What, what, what are you doing?” Chest heaving, eyes wide, he glared at her. “It’s a Sunday afternoon. A Sunday afternoon. The one sacred time of the week when I can actually have a nap. I moved to the island for peace! I thought here, finally, I won’t get woken on a Sunday by someone telling me I parked them in, because there are no cars here. And now, still! Still, my peace is disturbed. Are you selling something?”
From the way his nostrils were flaring, Autumn guessed that if she had been selling anything, the chances of him buying it would be nonexistent.
“No, I’m not selling anything, and I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she said quickly. “I was hoping that you could give me some information. I see it’s a bad time. I also enjoy a Sunday afternoon nap, although I usually take mine a little earlier.”
Not that she often had much time for it. But once a month or so, she had to admit, it was a real luxury to put her feet up and have that snooze.
“Then you know how I feel,” he said, but she thought that he must have vented most of his annoyance now, because he spoke in a calmer tone.
“I definitely do understand,” she reassured him. “Are you Victor Drake?”
It had taken her an eternity to even establish this angry man’s name. Now, finally, he nodded.
“Yes, I am,” he said, as if he’d rather have been somebody else who didn’t get interrupted during a clearly sacred nap time.
“Could I come in for a minute and speak to you privately?” she asked. Here, standing on his front doorstep, she felt that he might slam it in her face any moment. Inside, in a more relaxed environment, he might calm down.
He might also get angrier, but Autumn reminded herself that she’d known the risks when she started.
“Well, I still don’t have the faintest idea what this is about. But my nap’s ruined anyway,” he said in a resigned voice. “I knew when I had such a late night last night, that something was bound to happen to get in the way of a well deserved rest. Isn’t that just typical?” He sighed. “Come on in, then. Come on in.”
Autumn followed him into a house that was an art lover’s retreat. Beautifully decorated, she was impressed with the clean layout, the colors, and the style. She loved the stark lines of the entrance hall, with a huge, colorful painting set over an antique table, and the living room, where a sculpture of a dancer in the corner looked as if it was about to whirl to live and pirouette around the clean, white furniture and red carpet.
Victor sank down onto a couch, rubbing his eyes. “So, now that you’ve invited yourself into my home, why are you here?”
“I wanted to talk about Mr. Stafford’s art,” Autumn said, deciding to launch the bombshell immediately. She’d deal with the fallout – or so she hoped. The front door was a short run from where she was sitting, and he hadn’t locked it. Assuming her still-aching legs could move that fast, she could be out of it in a few seconds, and make her escape if he turned violent, or produced a hunting knife.
"Stafford? What an obnoxious part of a man. I have literally never met someone with so many issues in all my life. Why have you come here to speak to me about that?"
"Because I was a committee member at the masked ball last night. It was obviously traumatic for a lot of people, so I'm seeking more information on him, hoping to understand it all better."
He stared at her for a while with a thoughtful expression.
“When it comes to understanding Stafford, I don’t know if you’re going to make much headway. You know what happened a while ago?”
“What happened?” Autumn asked, hoping that the encouragement would expedite the conversational flow.
“It was a few months ago now, and I bumped into him at one of these art events, and took an interest in his work, you know, some of it I found a little bland, but there were a few pieces that had real talent and I was interested in.”
Listening to this, Autumn couldn’t help wondering privately what Stafford’s reaction had been if he’d heard his work called ‘a little bland’ and been told that only a few pieces had real talent. Put it this way, it would probably have made Victor Drake’s reaction to his interrupted nap, seem mild.
“Did you ask to purchase a piece?” she said.
He nodded. “Yes. I’m an avid collector and there’s nothing collectors love better than finding great artists before they are famous, and buying up their work. Stafford already had some fame, in a minor way, and I was keen to invest in the pieces I liked. I’m sure you can imagine how surprised I was when he flatly refused my offer.” Victor shook his head disbelievingly, as if even now, that moment had felt surreal.
“What did he say when he refused it?” Autumn asked.
He sneered at me, saying that I was a local buyer and that he was interested in spreading his name far beyond Magnolia Bay, and that this piece was one of his favorites and he did not intend to sell it to me, or to anyone local. He said he had hopes and dreams for the piece that went far beyond this frankly ordinary and backward community.”
“And what was your reaction to that?” Autumn asked. Honestly, in terms of getting people murderously angry, she had to admit, Stafford had been his own worst enemy.
“What do you think I did?” Victor put the ball all the way back in her court, staring at her with a narrowed gaze.
“I can’t imagine what you might have done,” Autumn said untruthfully, because she could actually imagine what this man, with his flaring temper, might have resorted to.
“Well, let me enlighten you,” Victor said. “Firstly, I insulted him right back again. I called him an overblown pipsqueak whose ego was far bigger than his talent and who would never see real recognition in his lifetime. I said, furthermore, that his dress sense was awful and that he should change his cologne because the way he smelled was insulting to the nose.”
“He can’t have taken that well,” Autumn said.
“Funnily enough, he was too shocked to respond at all. It was quite satisfying watching his eyes get bigger and bigger, and his face redder and redder,” Victor remembered, surprising Autumn with a grin.
“And what did you say next?”
“I said that under no circumstances was I ever going to invest in a Rowan Stafford piece, even if I had a gap in my living room exactly the right size and shape for it. That I’d take joy in spending my money on every other artist apart from him. And that if he wanted to shrink his market, he was going the right way about it. Then, I walked out.”
“And have you acquired any other pieces by him since then?” Autumn asked.
Victor sighed. “Must I repeat myself? Did you not hear me right? I said that I was never going to invest in any of his pieces again. That remains my stance. Never, ever, will a Stafford piece grace my wall, or rather, disgrace it, since he was such a revolting little man.”
"So you have no plans to acquire any of his art?" Autumn asked again, just to confirm that she'd gotten things right. Because what he was saying to her now was removing his motive for murder. He had vowed never to touch another Stafford artwork.
“Honestly, if one was given to me, I’d give it back,” Victor said. “You know, when I invest in art, it’s more than just a piece, it’s the entire experience. I’ve had some great interactions with artists. I’ve bought some work in circumstances that I’ll always remember. It’s part of what makes being a collector so special. And yes, Stafford soured that for me completely. On principle now, I would not buy his work, or even deal it, and I wouldn’t want it in my home. Bad vibes, you know?”
“You heard he was murdered?”
Victor made a face. "I feel sorry for the police. They must have a list of suspects yards long. One thing I found out about Stafford was that thanks to his behavior, he left a lot of angry people in his wake, and my feeling is that he eventually angered the wrong person."
“He could well have done,” Autumn agreed. “Were you at the masked ball yourself?”
Victor shook his head. “No. I avoided it like the plague. I made sure not to be there. In fact, I headed off the island and spent last night at an art viewing in Chicago. I overnighted at a hotel there, and came back the next morning. Hoping for my nap,” he said, his expression souring again as he stared at Autumn. He was not going to be quick to forgive her for that interruption, even though he had been cooperative in answering her questions.
She realized she was no closer to getting answers. All that Victor had told her was that Stafford had lots of enemies, which she already knew, and that he had a solid alibi for the time of the crime.
“Well, that’s very interesting and has certainly helped me get a better picture.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” he said, standing up. “I’m sure as committee members, you probably feel responsible in some way, but I can tell you, Stafford brought this on himself. He had it coming.”
As Autumn left, the words resounded in her mind, strangely threatening.
She headed out into the windy afternoon, seeing to her surprise that it was starting to get dark. A whole day gone by, and what did she have to show for it? Nothing at all. All she’d done was rule out a few of the more likely suspects. The killer was still hiding.
At that moment, her phone began to ring. It was Ben, and she grabbed it up, feeling cheerful at being able to speak to him, despite the disappointment of this suspect fizzling out.
The excitement in Ben’s voice was audible.
"Autumn," he said. "I was talking to one of the clients who brought their hamster in for a checkup. And I learned something about Stafford that could be really important. It could provide a reason for his murder."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“What did you learn?” Striding down the street, Autumn turned up the volume of her phone, so that she could be sure of hearing Ben clearly over the gusting wind that had started to blow, scudding the lake water into wavelets.
“Well, I learned that Stafford lives in a very sought after spot on the island. It’s between the harbor and the woods, up on the hill, one of those properties with an incredible view in every direction.”
“That’s interesting.” Autumn hadn’t yet been to his house. “Why does that create a motive for murder?”
“Apparently he’s had a new real estate agent from the island hounding him for months now, wanting him to sell. He’s got a blue chip client who’s been looking to buy and who’s had an interest in that property, among others. I believe that they had an argument about the property, in public, a while ago, with Stafford insulting him, and saying that he would never sell, and that the estate agent was wasting his time.”
“That could be very significant,” Autumn said. “Who’s the estate agent?”
“I just had a look,” Ben said. “It’s a company called Island Lifestyle, and the agent’s name is Gavin Barker.”
Now, Autumn remembered where that name was familiar from. She’d had a few leaflets in her mailbox over the past few weeks, from Gavin Barker.
“If you want to sell, I’m your man!” the leaflet had boasted. “Best service, best results!”
There had even been a photo of him. A round face and sunglasses pushed onto the top of his head and a confident, beaming expression were Autumn’s main take-homes from that photo.
“It says on their site that Gavin Barker is showing a home on Michigan Avenue, with a lake view,” Ben said.
"Right now, I'm about a ten-minute walk from Michigan Avenue, heading south," Autumn calculated.
“And I’m approximately ten minutes away, heading north,” Ben said.
“So, meet you there?” she asked, her heart speeding up.
“In ten minutes,” he confirmed.
***
Michigan Avenue, named because it bordered the lake along its full length, was one of Magnolia Bay’s finest roads. Autumn had always dreamed of buying a house on this road. That was assuming she had an imaginary, huge budget. Homes on Michigan Avenue were for the wealthy. That view was something people were willing to pay top dollar for.
Now, as she reached the house, she saw a couple of buggies pulled up outside, transporting people to the show house. Some of the arrivals, Autumn didn’t recognize at all, and they had that look about them that told her they were from the mainland. It was that air of being a tourist, of looking around them and taking everything in.
Newcomers to the island never stopped commenting on the lack of cars, and that was the conversation that Autumn heard in the still, late afternoon air, between a well dressed couple, as she watched the clouds scud across the sky, and waited for Ben.
"So unusual, isn't it, Helen? It's like being back in the old days."
“Think how fit we’d get if we lived here!”
"I'm not sure I can survive without a car for those impromptu trips to the store and suchlike, though."
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get used to it. You could always bring over that bicycle that’s been gathering dust in our garage for the last decade?”
“Bicycle?” the husband asked in alarm, causing Autumn to smile to herself. Then, her attention was caught by someone hurrying along the road to the show house.
It was Ben, and he waved as he saw her. Autumn waved back, noting that he’d changed out of his branded vet-practice golf shirt, and was now wearing a long sleeved black jacket and a pair of faded jeans. His walking shoes looked well used.
“I was nine minutes away, as it happens,” she said.
“And I was eleven minutes away,” he admitted. “Still haven’t gotten the hang of judging all the distances around here. I see there are a lot of people at this show house,” he said, looking at the prospective buyers milling in the entrance hall. “You think we’ll get to speak to Gavin Barker on his own?”
“I guess we can try to organize it,” Autumn said.
They headed inside, to find that a table had been set up in the entrance hall. Cleverly, in Autumn’s opinion, Gavin was creating a congenial atmosphere by having drinks and snacks available. It was staffed by a young man, of student age, who gave them a broad smile.
“Welcome,” he said. “Can I offer you a cocktail?”
Autumn had to admit, she was briefly tempted by the orange cocktails, with umbrellas, served in tall, elegant glasses. But she decided that if she took one it would be under false pretenses. She was here to find out information, and not as a potential buyer. Probably, Ben felt the same, because he also declined with a polite thank-you, before they headed into the living room.
This was empty, apart from some expensive furniture, but from the archway that led to the kitchen, Autumn picked up a booming, confident voice.
"This truly is the kitchen of your dreams. Turnkey! Turnkey! Everything you need is here, madam, right down to the very last appliance to make your food preparation a dream. As you take your culinary creations from the oven, you can glance out at the view of the lake, which you get from the kitchen, the main living room window, and from all the bedrooms upstairs. I am sure you can visualize how relaxing and uplifting such a view is after the city rat race."
“Absolutely!” a woman’s voice said.
“How do you source your properties?” someone else asked the booming speaker, who was clearly Gavin himself.
"Oh, I have my methods," he said with a chuckle, causing Autumn to glance at Ben, eyes widened. "I have my methods. You know, people can be unwilling to sell, but when you paint the right picture of the value of their property, they can sometimes change their mind."
“Let’s go and meet him,” Autumn whispered, heading through to the kitchen, and hoping that this encounter would be successful.
The timing was perfect. The other customers were just heading out, and the estate agent, who was shorter, wider and more solid than his picture had hinted at, was busy wiping a smear off the refrigerator door, using a dishcloth. The huge, double door refrigerator, like all the other kitchen appliances, was state of the art. It had a separate mini-compartment for drinks and wine, and an ice machine.
“Welcome, welcome to number nine Michigan Avenue. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting now?” Gavin asked.
"I'm Ben, and this is Autumn." Ben introduced both of them, which Autumn thought was good manners, since Gavin had only made any significant eye contact with Ben. He'd clearly assumed that they were a couple and that Ben was the one who would be spending the money. Autumn thought that was quite amusing. She wasn't offended and thought it worked in their favor in terms of being able to ask some questions without him becoming suspicious.
“Wonderful, wonderful.” He shook Autumn’s hand after Ben’s, and then gestured to the kitchen. “Look at this space! Look at the view. This home is being sold with all the appliances, which as you can see are top of the range. It’s a home I’m proud to showcase.”
“It’s very fine. Do you find there’s a lot of demand for these top-end properties?” Ben asked in interested tones.
Gavin nodded immediately, straightening the sleeves of his jacket, as he replied. “Absolutely. There’s a very strong demand for these higher-end homes. You know, wealthy people are discerning. They want what they want. And what Magnolia Bay offers, beyond compare, is lifestyle. Lifestyle, lifestyle,” he said.
“So people are drawn to the quiet, and the lack of cars?” Autumn asked. She hoped they would be able to guide the conversation where it needed to go. Luckily, Gavin did seem to like talking.
“More and more of them are looking to escape the rat race. And today, with our improvements in technology, it’s possible to do so much more online. There’s no need to live in a city because you work there. You can go through once a week for meetings, and the rest of the time, work in your own private study. That is upstairs in this home, with a pristine view of the lake.”
“How many bedrooms are there?” Ben asked. Autumn guessed that he was working around to the conversational topic of space. That would then allow them to ask about any other properties he might be suddenly acquiring.
