A Masked Murder, page 7
The guard, seated in his booth, got out as soon as they approached and hurried over to them.
“Good evening,” he said, adjusting the zipper of his reflective jacket. “You folks need anything?”
He was from the mainland, Autumn knew. The guards were part of a rotating team that serviced the island, as well as a few other points around Lake Michigan.
“I was just wondering, for my own peace of mind,” Autumn said, “if there had been any boats coming or going late this evening.”
He thought for a minute, rubbing his short beard as he stared out at the boats.
"It's been quiet," he said. "I came on shift at six, and nobody left since then. A couple of people came back in from a late sail." He pointed to one of the small commercial sailboats that made their living from taking tourists out on the waters.
And that answered Autumn’s question. With a shiver, she acknowledged the killer was most likely still on the island.
Finding him, or her, suddenly seemed like an urgent job, and she was ready to help out again. With all of her heart, she wanted to make Magnolia Bay a safe, peaceful place again.
“I think we need to look at other angles,” she said.
“I agree,” Ben nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about this now. It needs to be solved.”
Then, they reached Harbor View’s front door, and Ben enfolded her in a warm hug. She turned her face up to his. As their lips met in a kiss that turned more passionate than she’d believed it could after such a stressful night, Autumn decided that his support had given her the determination she needed.
She was going to do whatever she could to find the killer, starting first thing tomorrow.
CHAPTER TEN
“What on earth happened last night?” Those were the first words out of Jasmine’s mouth as Autumn hurried downstairs, late and bleary-eyed, to help with the breakfast preparation. A murder might have been committed, but life went on. Now, more than ever, it was important that every guest was happy.
“The artist was killed,” Autumn mumbled, as she filled the coffee machine. She had slept badly, tossing and turning, having strange nightmares where Stafford himself stood over her threateningly, wielding a paintbrush and saying, “This would not have happened if you’d let me have another cocktail!” Eventually, she’d managed to doze off, and had of course forgotten about turning her alarm on.
She always woke up before it went off. “Always” not including nights when a murder occurred, and she’d gotten to bed after midnight.
“The artist? You mean that guy who was standing by the paintings and insulting everyone? He was the actual artist?” Jasmine said in a low voice, sounding confused.
“Yes, he was. And yes, he was very rude. I had to try to manage him through the evening. I left him in his private room for a while, and that was when somebody must have sneaked in.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jasmine said loyally, transferring croissants to a basket. “I can see you’re blaming yourself already. Shocking as this is, don’t go doing that. I’m sure the police will figure out who the killer is. Someone’s bound to have had a motive.” She paused. “Maybe we should rather pay attention to that crack in the wall?”
“Is it worse?” Autumn said, feeling horrified. Please, don’t collapse, she silently begged the house. But she didn’t feel reassured by her wordless plea. Creaky and unpredictable, the old house was chuckling away at her.
“I don’t know. I’m just worried about it for some reason. Maybe it’s that on top of everything else,” Jasmine admitted. “We can’t catch the killer, but we can fix the crack? That’s my thinking.”
“I agree,” Autumn said firmly. It was unnecessary for her to spend valuable and precious time chasing after a killer when she was highly unqualified to do the job. Fixing the crack needed to take preference.
“When does Mr. Pringle leave?” she asked.
“He’s checking out tomorrow,” Jasmine said.
“Alright. I’ll get hold of Ethan, and at ten tomorrow, I’ll make sure he’s here, and that he fixes it immediately. I think we can manage to keep that room free for one night if it does end up being a bigger job.”
The coffee was ready. She took the jug and placed it on the sideboard in the dining room, admiring the friendly, warm-feeling space for one moment. It was not possible to feel totally stressed when staring at her beautiful, peaceful dining room, with the first rays of sunshine peeking through the window, the tables with their cheerful, yellow trimmed cloths, and the small vases of fresh flowers dotted around the room.
It was possible to feel partially stressed, that she acknowledged.
Footsteps on the stairs sounded, and Autumn realized that the guests who had attended the ball last night would be curious about what had happened. She would need to have an answer for them, that didn’t disturb them. Less was more, she decided, as the first two guests strolled down.
They were Mr. Pringle and Mr. Jackson, who were staying in adjoining rooms and usually came down to breakfast at the same time. Mrs. Jackson was more of a late sleeper. She’d be down in another ten minutes, rubbing her eyes and pleading for coffee.
"Good morning," she greeted them with a big, welcoming smile.
“Good morning. That was a pleasant function last night,” Mr. Pringle said. He frowned as he moved to the sideboard to pour coffee. He was a middle aged man, with a deliberate, precise way of moving, wearing a neat, wine red polo shirt and dark blue jeans. He poured the coffee without spilling a drop, something that Autumn herself found difficult to do first thing in the morning.
“Thank you,” Autumn said, reassured. Prematurely as it happened.
“I was wondering what the problem was. Everyone was asked to leave very early,” he said.
“Yes,” his friend, who was wilder haired and had a big, guffawing laugh, and was wearing a sweater and tracksuit pants, added. “The wife and I were also wondering what had happened. Seems there was an incident or an emergency of some kind?”
“That’s correct,” Autumn said, her heart sinking as she tried to navigate the way forward. She didn’t want to lie to guests. That would be wrong. But the truth might scare them, or might scare Mrs. Jackson, when she found out. “Who would like an omelet? We have cheese, cheese and ham, or spinach and feta, available this morning.”
But there were no takers for the omelets, it seemed. Mr. Jackson moved to the sideboard and thoughtfully selected a croissant, patting down his hair as if realizing that it still looked slept on. Mr. Pringle returned to the table with his coffee and thoughtfully stirred in a sachet of sugar.
“I heard somebody say, on the way home, that there was a death?” he inquired of Autumn, his dark eyebrows raised.
It was no use. She couldn’t lie.
“Unfortunately, there was a death under suspicious circumstances,” she admitted. “We cleared the area and closed things down as a precaution.”
“Good heavens!” Mr. Jackson bit down on his croissant in a shower of crumbs. “An incident that serious? I’d never have guessed. You mean it was – it was an actual murder?”
“That’s what a death under suspicious circumstances means,” Mr. Pringle said, nodding grimly.
“Is it safe here?” the other man asked Autumn.
How she wished she could respond with something neutral like, “Can I get you a fried egg?” But that wasn’t possible. These guests were quite rightly concerned for their safety. She owed it to them to give them some facts at least.
“There has very seldom been any incidents like this on the island,” she said. “The police are investigating around the clock.”
She said that, but she was personally sure that Officer Warring would have headed home and gone to bed after his last interview last night. He would be up by now, though, and she was sure he was on the case.
“Well, it’s a concern, isn’t it?” Mr. Jackson said, after devouring the other half of his croissant. Autumn moved over to fill his coffee cup. Mr. Pringle hadn’t touched any of the food, and was thoughtfully sipping at his own cup.
“I’m not sure I want to stay here another night,” he said.
The words were the ones Autumn had dreaded, and she felt a chill settle in her stomach. The exodus of guests after a disaster was something she'd experienced before, and it had made a dent in the summer season business for many of the island's service providers. Small businesses couldn't afford big dents, and definitely not a second dent. Everyone was grateful for how busy it was with the quiet of the winter months ahead. That winter season could seem endless. No matter how sick and tired you were of working hard by the time winter came, you were always ready to welcome guests with open arms once the spring was here again.
“Please, don’t leave. It would be such a shame to see you go,” she said.
He shrugged, clearly not responding to her heartfelt plea.
“You know, I have to do what’s right for my own personal safety. It’s disturbing to know that we were at an event where there was a violent attack. I’m from Britain, and we usually act much faster when we have an incident than you are doing here. In Britain, the police would have made an arrest by now, most likely.”
"I'm from Texas," the tousled-haired man said. "Our police usually move fast there, too. But we came here to get away from this whole big city vibe and turn our backs on crime for a while."
“You can’t even evade the criminals here.” Pringle sighed, shaking his head as he took a small, precise sip of his coffee. “Nope, I’m afraid I’m out. Ms. Ray, you’ve been most kind and accommodating. But I think I’ll go back to the mainland now. No disrespect, and I know it’s not your fault. But I can’t stay here. It’s just not safe.”
“Oh, no! Please rethink!” Autumn gazed in a panic at Jasmine and then, pleadingly, at Jackson, who was eyeing the croissant basket again.
"Well, that's a sad decision for you to make, but I guess you have to live your life on your terms," Jackson said, giving into temptation and standing up to take another croissant. "I hope you'll come to the gallery this afternoon with us, as you were planning to. And to dinner tonight, at the Magnolia Arms?"
He looked at Pringle with an expression that was part hopeful, part pleading. To Autumn’s surprise, Pringle relented.
"I'm a man of my word and will accompany you to those two events. But it will need to be an early dinner. I'm going to book a boat to take me back to the mainland, and I'd like to settle in before it's too late."
“Let’s dine at six-thirty then?” Mr. Jackson asked. Pringle nodded.
“I’d better go upstairs and pack.”
He stood up, having barely touched his coffee, and headed upstairs. A courteous greeting on the landing told Autumn that Mrs. Jackson was on her way down. Sure enough, bleary eyed, and just as wild-haired as her husband, she stumbled downstairs.
“Morning,” she said, giving Autumn a grateful glance as she hurried to fill her coffee cup.
With Mrs. Jackson downstairs, the conversation turned to what they were doing that morning, and Autumn took the chance to retreat. Mrs. Jackson was a yogurt lover, and her dessert bowl of yogurt, studded with chunks of fresh fruit, was ‘her biggest morning treat’, or so she’d told Autumn.
“If there’s a bright side to this,” Jasmine whispered, as soon as they were back in the kitchen and Autumn was busily preparing the yogurt, “it’s that we can get that crumbling wall seen to sooner.”
“I don’t know if there is a bright side.” Autumn shook her head as she spooned chunks of melon, ripe blueberries, strawberry slices and pomegranate rubies onto the vanilla yogurt that was not made on the island, but was locally made at a farm near the mainland. She topped it with a generous drizzle of honey.
“You mustn’t worry. I overheard that conversation. The other guest was practically begging him to say, too. He’s a holdout, you watch.”
“I’m worried he’s the start of the exodus.” It was so unlike Autumn to feel pessimistic. It was so uncharacteristic, she chided herself. Be positive.
But, as she took the yogurt through, listening to the faint thuds from upstairs that signaled her early departure was packing up his gear noisily, it was difficult not to worry. She'd already had one loss, and she couldn't afford to delay.
This crime needed to be solved, and the killer arrested.
Luckily, thanks to the snippet of conversation she’d overheard earlier, Autumn knew exactly where she was going to start.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The art gallery in Magnolia Bay was a relatively new addition to the neighborhood. It had been beautifully decorated, situated on the main street, next door to an antique store that was just as much of a destination. The owner, much like Ben, had decided to move from one of the mainland cities in order to pursue his passion for art in the island environment.
Autumn had been into the gallery once before, when there had been a display of floral watercolors. She'd bought a couple of lovely pieces for the bed and breakfast. It had been a happy evening, with champagne and snacks and absolutely no murders at all.
Now, Autumn was hoping that this peaceful place might help her solve the murder that was already impacting upon her business.
She headed inside, seeing that there was a sprinkling of people already in the gallery. Thinking that there might be some of Stafford's paintings in here, her gaze was automatically drawn to the colorful walls. But surprisingly, she didn't see anything there that resembled the style she'd seen yesterday night. There was a beautiful seascape and a horse's head that looked so real you could even stroke it. But no illusion paintings.
She headed to the reception desk and asked to speak to Julian Wellington.
“Of course,” the young woman, who had a tattoo of a bird on her wrist, replied. “I’ll call him now.”
A moment later, the gallery owner came breezing in. Autumn had taken an immediate liking to him the first time she’d met him. Slim, with platinum hair and striking blue eyes, he wore his heart on his sleeve – which was usually clad in extravagantly colored jackets. Today, he was wearing one with prints of Marilyn Monroe all over it in different shades. The effect was dazzling.
"Autumn, Autumn!" Rushing up to her, he clasped her hands. "I am so, so devastated by what happened yesterday. Such a white-hot talent, one of the art world's biggest gems, just… erased. Just erased!" Gesticulating wildly as he let go of her hand, he turned. "Come to my office, sweetheart. We need to speak in private."
Autumn followed Julian to the small back office, which was stacked with piles of paintings that she guessed must be waiting to be displayed. There were more on the walls. Like Julian himself, the office was a riot of color and activity. There were a few photos on the walls with Julian rubbing shoulders with local celebrities, and another few of himself in front of his luxurious home, and at the wheel of a red speedboat that looked to be moored at a private pier.
“So, what can I help you with?” he asked. “Or do you just want to talk?”
“I am hoping you might have some information,” she said.
“Information?” His eyes narrowed. “On what?”
“On the art scene on the island,” Autumn said.
“Well, that’s a thorny topic.” Julian sighed. “I’d love to say that it was all sunshine and rainbows. But the truth is that it’s a highly competitive environment. Rather cutthroat. You know, all artists are competing with each other. There’s a lot of animosity between them. I often feel I’m more like a peacemaker than anything else. But then again, it goes with the territory. You’re dealing with highly talented, extremely sensitive people.”
“Is that so?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, and yes again. Magnificent, soaring talent, but sometimes sadly shackled by personalities that are not, um, media trained.” He smiled sympathetically.
“I think I understand you,” Autumn said, thinking of all of last night.
“I wish that every artist got the recognition they deserved.” He wrung his hands, looking stressed. “But sadly, for many, it never happens. Not in their lifetime, anyway. How I wish that every artist could get the acclaim, and the rewards, they deserve, in a timely way.”
“Are there any of Stafford’s paintings in your gallery right now?” Autumn asked.
“No. They all sold in the past few days. The pieces on display at the ball, which I was looking after the whole night, were all already sold, thus, I couldn’t take my eyes off them for a moment.”
What Julian was saying gave Autumn a lot of food for thought. It seemed that the art world was a far more jealous place than she’d assumed. She was intrigued to hear about the resentment that seethed below the surface. Especially with Stafford having achieved the coup of being the featured artist at the ball, resulting in a spike in sales, it might have made someone else illogically jealous.
Murderously jealous, in fact.
“Who was Stafford’s biggest rival?” she asked.
Julian looked uneasy. “I’m not sure I should be telling you this right now,” he said. “Maybe it’s a sensitive time, and I feel as if I also have to keep the doings of the gallery confidential. Just as a doctor might do with his patients, if you know what I mean?” He stared at her anxiously.
"Well, you'll obviously have to tell Officer Warring when he gets here. And what are you going to say to the media?" she asked.
“Oh, I’ll have two completely different stories ready,” he said innocently. “Officer Warring will get the truth, of course, but as for the media? I always make sure the gloss never tarnishes. I’m going to tell them that our local talent is a supportive network that nurtures each and every creator within it.” He cracked his knuckles nervously. “Does that sound good?”
