A Masked Murder, page 8
“I’d work on it if I were you,” Autumn said. “What you want is to make sure that you still keep it human. You don’t want people to think you’re deceiving them.”
“Yes. You’re right about that.” He bunched a fist and rested his chin on it, staring at a jagged modern art painting on the opposite wall.
“So, maybe do hint at some conflict.”
"If I portray it as one big, happy family I guess some people might feel it was too inaccurate. I need to strike a balance between the truth and something that won't affect my artists' reputation."
“Well, perhaps you could talk more about their personalities. The desperate drive to succeed and the struggle that happens when great art isn’t acknowledged in an artist’s lifetime,” Autumn advised. She really liked Julian. His passion shone through. Never mind that he wasn’t willing to tell her what she needed to know, she wanted his gallery, and his artists, to do well and thrive.
“Yes, that’s a good idea. That’s hinting at the struggle, without making it obvious,” he said.
“If they ask you directly, you could say that a great gallery manager knows how to manage the personalities, as well as promote their art, and that talent has to be nurtured.”
“Wonderful words!” Grabbing a gold pen, he began jotting notes. “This is all just what I need.”
“I hope it’s helpful. It’s terrible to think of artists not receiving what they deserve in their own lifetime.”
“Yes, it is. It really grates me that it happens.” Julian sighed.
“It would be a pity if the person responsible wasn’t locked up,” Autumn reminded him. “You know, especially in view of this, we couldn’t risk it happening again. It might be helpful if I could have a little chat to – to whoever you think might have been most jealous and resentful of Stafford.”
“Why?” Julian looked startled.
“Because…” Autumn hoped that her thoughts would guide her correctly here. “Because if they are guilty, then the police will find them out. But if they’re not guilty, you don’t want them to end up incriminating themselves. You know what the police are like. If they are even partially suspicious, your artists could end up in a difficult situation. You don’t want them to be scarred, after they’ve been through so much already. Particularly the one, or ones, who are the most jealous of Stafford.”
“I see your point.” His hands were tapping anxiously on the table now, getting closer and closer to a beautiful paperweight with a silver-blue flower inside. “I don’t want the artists compromised in any way.”
"It will be far better for everyone if the killer is caught soon," Autumn said.
Julian sighed, his hand brushing tenderly over the paperweights smooth, round surface before he turned his palms up in a gesture of defeat.
“You’re right. I see it. You’re right. So, I’ll tell you. The artist who was most jealous of Stafford was a local painter called Ivy MacIntosh. But please, don’t tell her I told you. She’s an angry woman, deep down, and I don’t want her to direct that toxic emotion at me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ivy MacIntosh lived in one of the most remote parts of the island. It was so far away that Autumn booked a buggy to get there. She didn’t often do that. It was a luxury and an adventure rolled into one – or rather, it would have been if she hadn’t been heading en route to a suspected killer.
“You sure everything will be alright here for the next hour or two?” she asked Jasmine, hovering at the front door and feeling torn.
“Everything will be fine,” Jasmine reassured her. “Mr. Pringle has checked out, and we’re going to store his luggage and belongings down in the back room until he goes. None of the other guests are showing any signs of panic – yet,” she admitted. “Mrs. Pringle did seem a bit nervous, and she only had one poached egg instead of two. But I’ll do my best to keep things calm.”
“Thank you,” Autumn said. The atmosphere in the bed and breakfast was making her even more determined to solve the crime. There was definitely a frisson of tension in the air, and that was the last thing she wanted people on a happy vacation to feel.
“Don’t forget,” Jasmine warned, “it is your afternoon off, this afternoon.”
“But I’ve spent so much extra time out at the committee meeting, and rushing around,” Autumn protested. “I was planning to come back later and work.”
“It is your afternoon off. Take it. Use it,” Jasmine said firmly. “Everything is under control here.”
A clopping of hooves announced the arrival of the buggy, and Autumn hurried out and, after giving the ponies a pat, climbed inside.
“Off visiting?” the driver asked. “Or shopping?”
“Doing a bit of shopping,” Autumn said, not wanting to arouse his suspicions or get the whole town talking. It wasn’t a lie in any case. She was shopping for answers.
“Shame about that terrible incident at the ball, isn’t it? You heard about it, I’m sure?” he asked. “Dreadful that an actual murder could happen on the island.”
He was only making conversation, but the topic made Autumn’s stomach churn. This was what he was telling all his passengers. Bad news traveled fast. The island was soon going to be abuzz with the fact that a terrible incident had occurred. That wasn’t good for anyone’s business.
“Yes, I heard about it,” she said, as a flash of genius occurred to her, “but the police asked the public not to talk about it.”
“Is that so?” the driver asked, glancing back at her with a worried frown as if wondering what other topics of conversation there might be.
"Yes. Apparently, it could compromise the investigation. I hear our officers are hot on the killer's trail," Autumn said.
“Is that true?” Hearing the excitement in the driver’s voice, the ponies’ ears flicked back, and their trot sped up a gear. “Okay boys, okay. No need to use up too much gas on this hill,” he cautioned them.
“Yes. I believe it’s a matter of a few more hours before there is significant progress,” Autumn said. Alright, so it was wishful thinking, but it never hurt to spread good news. Perhaps it might influence karma.
"That's excellent. I'll be sure to spread the news. Or not. Since we're not supposed to. I'll be sure to keep it all to myself and talk about the upcoming rain," he chuckled.
“Good idea,” Autumn said, feeling reassured. It might just have been a good idea to take a buggy today regardless.
The rest of the ride passed in silence, and Autumn was able to relax back in the padded seat, and take in the beauty of the trees, and the way that the gray clouds were chasing each other across the sky, letting in glimpses of sunshine. The gardens along the roads were looking colorful, with the summer flowers still blooming. And, as they crested the hill, the view over the woods, with the lake shimmering beyond, made her catch her breath. She could see why the island attracted artists. Everywhere you looked, there was a potential painting, waiting to be framed. What a special place they lived in. Now, it was up to her to make sure that its reputation was saved.
“Right. Here you are. Number three.” The ponies halted outside the sumptuous home, with groomed grounds, and a discreet sign pointing the way along a paved path: Gallery.
She thanked the driver and climbed out, while he got a container of water out of the back of the buggy to water the horses, and offer them a few sugar lumps.
Meanwhile, Autumn headed to Ivy MacIntosh’s front door, after some hesitation over whether or not to go straight to the gallery. She decided that a private gallery was more likely to be open by appointment, and it seemed politer to knock on the door.
Pristine, shimmering white, the knocker was an intricate sculpture of brass hands. Lifting it and bringing it down, she waited, wondering what would play out, and how far Ivy MacIntosh’s jealousy had driven her.
After having given her the name, Julian had remained tight lipped, giving her no other information. Even the address she'd looked up for herself online. There was a lot to find out here. She wasn't sure where the conversation would take her, and she had no idea what Ivy herself would be like. She'd seen lots of her art online, but no photos of the woman herself.
The art had been bleak. Ivy specialized in paintings that looked post-apocalyptic, with a touch of surrealism, in dark blues, grays, blacks and greens. Vines strangling men who were escaping high walled prisons; hands gripping bars that were gripping them back, preventing their freedom. The most poignant had been a tiny boat, with a broken sail, adrift on a vast, merciless sea. That painting had given Autumn chills when she saw it. She couldn’t get it out of her mind, even now, as she waited for the door to be answered. That painting, to her, spoke of a tortured mind.
Perhaps a mind that would have plunged a dagger into a rival artist’s chest, while consumed by jealousy.
Autumn shivered just thinking of it, and then, drew in a sharp breath as she heard footsteps approach.
The door swung open. And there stood a woman she hadn’t expected at all.
She couldn’t be more than five feet in height, and was probably fifty years old, with a round, good nature face, broad hips, and cheerful blue eyes under a perfectly cut sandy brown fringe. She was wearing pink. Pink was not a color that Autumn would have expected the artist of “Land Without Hope,” “Stranded at Sea” and “Eternal Imprisonment”, among other depressing works, to wear.
“Um,” she said, thrown, but forcing herself to rally fast. “Are you by any chance Ivy MacIntosh?”
The woman looked her up and down. More up than down, due to her shorter height.
“I am,” she said after a few moments. Then she extended her hand. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Autumn Ray,” Autumn replied, shaking her hand, which was plump and warm. “I own Harbor View.”
“I’ve been there more than once to pick up clients,” she said. “It’s a lovely place. I’ve always admired it. Come on in.” Only when Autumn had crossed the threshold did she turn to ask, “Why are you here, anyway?”
“Oh,” Autumn said, temporarily thrown by the artist’s friendly nature, which was causing her to rethink her approach. Even if it was only surface friendliness, and the real cold blooded killer was lurking underneath, “I came – I came because of the – the incident last night.”
That was a complete failure. As she spoke the words, Autumn berated herself. She could have approached this so much more discreetly. She could have thought up an excuse that wasn't an actual lie. The problem was she hadn't expected such sunny forthrightness. It made her want to be not only open, but sunny, in return.
Ivy led the way through to the living room, which had an enormous picture window looking out over the backyard, and down to the woods, with the water beyond. It was a glorious view. Glancing at the walls, Autumn didn’t see any of Ivy’s works on the wall. There were a few beautiful, hyper-real paintings of flowers and leaves, as well as a couple of serene landscapes.
Once they’d sat on two neat, beige couches, Ivy stared at her in an assessing way.
“So you came about the incident last night? Why’s that? What would cause you to knock on my door after a fellow artist was killed?”
“Your name was mentioned at the ball,” Autumn said. It wasn’t a lie. She was sure that Ivy’s name had been mentioned, just not to her.
“The ball?” Ivy sighed, her shoulders lifting expressively. “The whole darned town was there, weren’t they?”
She hadn’t mentioned herself. Autumn took note of that fact.
“The way you’re saying that – it doesn’t sound as if you and Stafford were friends?” she tried, not knowing if the question might trigger a furious response.
But to her astonishment, Ivy leaned back in her chair and let out a hearty guffaw.
The bellowing sound filled the room, causing Autumn to blink in a startled way. She was laughing? In front of a stranger, when a fellow artist’s death was mentioned? She didn’t know what to make of it, and decided the best course of action was simply to keep.
Ivy was a friendly person, but this conversation was seeming a lot creepier than it had before.
Finally, breathing hard, Ivy stopped laughing.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “That was a very inappropriate reaction and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to behave badly in front of a stranger, but to be fair, I’m still very shocked, and I didn’t expect you, or anybody, to be here.”
“I understand, and I apologize,” Autumn said, sensing that Ivy had more to say. After a pause, she continued.
“I laughed as a knee jerk reaction, due to the understatement you made.”
The understatement? Ah, yes, she’d said that it didn’t seem as if she and Stafford were friends. At least Ivy was admitting to the bad blood.
“We were sworn enemies,” she said.
"Why?" Autumn sat straighter, knowing that the sharp-eyed artist noticed this change in body language.
“It’s because he was such a vile person,” she said with feeling. “I know he’s dead now, and I know he lived on the island and I regard everyone on the island as a neighbor of sorts, but seriously, I couldn’t believe the way he behaved.”
“Were you angry about it?” Autumn asked.
“Angry? Well, more disappointed than angry. I personally think that artists do have a public image that they need to uphold. Sure, we can be quirky. It’s practically written into the contract. But rude, hurtful, derogatory, humiliating others? No talent in the world can make an excuse for that,” she said firmly.
While still knowing she could be the killer, Autumn had to admire her stance.
“I agree that it’s wrong to be gratuitously mean,” she said. “Were you at the masked ball yourself?”
"I'm afraid to say that I made a deliberate decision not to go," Ivy said with a shrug. "You know, my husband is working on the mainland this week – he's an architect – and I thought I'd rather stay home and have a quiet evening, than be around a throng of people. I tend to be a loner," she explained. "In the end, I spent the evening baking, making a few loaves of bread and a few fruit buns. It was restful and creative. My kind of evening." She glanced to the kitchen. "Would you like a fruit bun?"
“Actually,” Autumn said, “I’d love a bun. Especially in view of the fact this freshly baked bun presented an alibi.
Ivy got up and headed through to the kitchen, returning a minute later with a bun on a plate, and a glass of water, with a sprig of mint in it.
The bun was well browned on top and it did look as if it had been freshly baked. Autumn considered herself a good judge of that, since she spent every morning baking. This looked to her as if it was about twelve hours out of the oven. The crumb, the crust, the feel of it. Yup, twelve to fourteen hours.
So that meant it was likely that Ivy was telling the truth. At any rate, Autumn wasn’t going to get any further information on her alibi, since she’d been home alone and contentedly baking what were very good buns.
“This is very tasty,” she praised. “I love the balance of the spices and the proportion of the fruit.”
Ivy gave her a proud smile. “I’m glad you do. I’ve put a lot of effort into perfecting my bakes.”
For a minute, Autumn ate in appreciative silence. There was no point in spoiling a good bun with a dark conversation. Only when she’d finished the tasty treat did she resume her interrogation. Having confirmed Ivy’s alibi – as far as she could – she was now keen to probe deeper into what she had hinted at.
“You mentioned that Stafford treated people badly? I’m interested to know more about that.”
“He treated people appallingly.” Ivy shook her head. “His behavior drove people away. Even that nice girlfriend of his, who stood by him through thick and thin – she eventually left the island, and moved all the way down south. In the end, I think she realized that he was never going to keep his promises, and that her only use was a doormat for his emotions.”
“How do you know all of this?” Autumn asked cautiously. It seemed like Ivy had done a lot of research into Stafford and his connections, and that was adding to her suspicions. Perhaps Ivy might have ended up thinking it would be doing a public service to kill him.
“The art world is small, and my goodness, people love to talk,” she said. “Especially when they’ve been treated wrong, and he treated a lot of people wrong.”
“What else did he do?” Autumn asked. For a moment, she’d latched onto the girlfriend, wondering if she’d snapped as a result of the poor treatment. But the girlfriend had left the island, and in fact the state.
“Those art lessons he was giving. I think that made a lot of us artists deeply unhappy. He charged a fortune for them, and in return, I do know that he promised one resident he would be his mentor and help him get started in his career. It never happened, and when you say angry? Well, I was furious about that,” Ivy said. “You don’t let people down that way, especially when they’ve made a financial commitment.”
“Who was that person? That sounds terrible,” Autumn said.
Ivy stared at her. “I hope you’re not planning to cause trouble for them?” she asked.
“Why would I do that?” Autumn protested, blushing as she felt caught out.
"I don't know why. What I do know is that you've come in here without knowing me at all, and you're asking a lot of frankly rather strange questions." Folding her arms, Ivy stared at Autumn. "I'm suspicious of your motives in doing this. Like I said, the art world is small."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Autumn felt herself flushing even more deeply at Ivy’s accusation. Truth be told, she felt very bad about her own behavior now. Ivy seemed to be able to account for her time last night, she hadn’t attended the ball, and she’d even given Autumn a home baked bun. And how was Autumn repaying her? With stealth and ingratitude. No, it was wrong.
“I apologize,” she said. “I should have been honest with you upfront. I’m actually asking some questions to try to figure out who the killer is.”
