False Colors, page 21
part #1 of Jeff Shott Mystery Series
“Thank you,” she said, as if I had done something worthwhile.
She looked up at me. “I really adored him, even though he was immature and spoiled. We were talking about getting married and having children.” She attempted to laugh through her tears but ended up sobbing quietly again.
“Why did Brian kill him?” she asked quietly when she’d recovered. “They could have settled this thing, I know it. It’s just money. It’s not like Brian needed more. He could have changed the contracts. Why?” She held her cup and rocked back and forth in minute movements.
“I don’t believe that Brian killed Damien,” I said quietly. “I think he arrived just after the murder and right before the police.”
She looked at me in disbelief. “Who else would want to kill Damien?”
I could think of a number of people, but they’d waited an awfully long time, and none of them had a grudge against me.
“The murderer forced Damien to call me. There was no sign of forced entry, so he knew his killer. The object was to frame me, but Brian spoiled the plan.”
“Why would someone want you to seem like a killer?”
“Because the police now know that Guillermo’s death wasn’t a suicide. That plan was ruined by the information from Nicky’s computer. But the fact that I was there when Guillermo died is now making that killer nervous. If I were jailed for Damien’s death, the police might decide to tie me to Guillermo’s death because they’ve got no real answers. Remember, I claimed to be a witness. I was also there for Nicky. Being on hand for three deaths is just too coincidental, even if there’s no apparent motive. Once you’re in jail, there’s plenty of time to manufacture that motive, no matter how flimsy. However, the fact that there was another witness on hand means that I’m not the only person in danger.”
“Who’s the other person?”
“Trish Vernon,” I said, watching her reaction, wondering if she already knew, but she appeared properly amazed.
“Trish? Why didn’t she say something to someone?
“She was frightened. The killer might have recognized her, but she didn’t know the killer. She knew Guillermo didn’t commit suicide, but if she told this to the police, she’d become a target for the killer. Then, when Nicky died and looked like the killer, she figured she was off the hook. When they figured out the suicide note deception, she knew she was in danger, but she managed to keep hidden. But she can’t hide forever. The person who killed Guillermo knows who she is, and he’s still out there.”
“If you know this, why are the police holding Brian?” she asked, more caught up in the story than in her own grief. Maybe there is something useful to be said for mayhem. It really grabs people’s attention.
“Unfortunately, the police don’t buy my theory. They feel that the circumstances tie Brian to Damien too deeply. And with that tie comes the idea that he killed Guillermo and maybe even Lorenzo.”
“I’d like to believe you, Jeff,” she said, her voice expressing hope. “I don’t think Brian could kill anyone. What are you doing to do?”
“I’m going to find a killer,” I said. “But first, I’m going to get a haircut.”
51
Mr. Ashford was attired in a fire-engine red jumpsuit accented with a white and blue paisley wraparound silk scarf.
“Ducky,” he crooned, prancing toward me. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”
“You’re looking quite fetching,” I said. “You are the essence of glam.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the boys, but I’ll pretend you mean it just for me.”
I put out my hand to shake his. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Ashford. I need your help. By the way, please call me Jeff. Ducky is so formal.”
He winked at me. “Jeff it is. You can call me Ash. All my friends do.”
“I’d be honored to be considered your friend,” I said, meaning it.
“Is this problem related to that cowlick on your cute little head, or is it worse? Like dandruff?” He led me to his chair and draped me with a barber’s cloth.
“It’s a killer,” I said. “A real one.”
“Oh my, that sounds like male pattern baldness. But don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. Talk to me. Show me where you think your little head is getting cold.”
I reached out from under the smock and gently grabbed his arm. “No, Ash, I mean the person who killed Damien and Guillermo.”
“You’re serious?” he asked. “You’re the detective here. I’m just the queen of coiffure.”
“But detectives are only as good as their sources of information. You’re a prime source of information, and I need to pick your brain.”
“Am I dishing or surmising?”
“A little of both, maybe. Brian’s up for a murder. You know that.”
“I know it. None of us can believe it. I know Brian’s not a violent man.” He did a couple of quick clips and pushed my head gently to the left.
“Just a little more. That’s right. Hold there for a minute.” Three clips later, he told me I could straighten up.
“What if I told you Brian was innocent?” I asked. He stopped cutting for a moment. I wasn’t sure if I’d surprised him or if he was just surveying the topography of my hairline.
“I’d be pleased to hear it. Why do you say that?”
I explained about the neat frame that I thought Brian had been put it in. Then I asked him about Brian and Lorenzo’s relationship.
“Everybody knew that Brian was getting tired of Larry. He became Lorenzo after he became more full of himself. I think that started to get to Brian. He was getting ready to give him the big kiss-off, but Lorenzo” – he exaggerated the syllables – “was talking palimony.”
When Orby learned about this, he’d seize it in his jaws and find witnesses to back up the fact that Lorenzo was on his way out, one way or another.
“Was there somebody else?”
“I think Brian may have had someone lined up, but I’m surmising. He didn’t share that information.”
He measured my sideburns with the tip of his comb and pulled out a straight razor to tidy them. “I feel like Sweeney Todd whenever I handle this,” he said, delicately swishing away any excess hair near my ears.
“The Demon Barber of Fleet Street,” I intoned.
“You’re a Sondheim fan?” he asked, amazed.
“Great lyrics. As good as Cole Porter or Lorenz Hart.”
“Tell me you’re a Streisand fan, too.”
“I have my secrets, Ash,” I said. “Anything else about Brian?”
“Sorry. He was annoyed with Damien. He thought of Damien as the son he never had. Brian attributed Damien’s anger and arrogance to the fact that he was an artist. Brian just enjoyed nurturing talent. Sort of like having a baby and raising it to adulthood in four or five years. And Damien, despite all his complaining, really liked Brian. They spent lots of time together. I met Damien a few times. When he stopped talking about himself and his intense devotion, he was actually fun to be with. His stories about his patrons are wild.”
“Everything you’ve told me so far will make the cops’ day if they come to question you, and they probably will.”
“You think it might be time for Bruce and me to take off for some R&R?”
“If you could leave in about an hour and a half, and get lost for about two weeks, it would be great. But I have a couple of other questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Shoot. Whoops. Bad expression this week. Go ahead.” He unfastened the Velcro holding the bib on me and moved it slightly down on my shoulders
“Don’t move,” he warned me quietly. Again, I felt the delicate scrape of the razor as it removed the vestiges of hair at the base of my skull, leaving me perfectly coiffed.
“Marlene. Were she and Damien a couple, or is she putting on a show?” I asked
“Oh no, she loved him. Guillermo was a convenience for her, and she lost a few fans because of that one. But we still liked the fact that she held onto Damien. Maybe that’s immoral, but hey, that’s show biz.”
“How about Scotty DeGaulle?”
“A sweetie-pie. Reminds me of my nephew, Noah, but Noah is eight years old. He and Scotty both look at the world with total wonder. Have you met him?”
“I have,” I said. “I wanted to hug him and tell him that everything would be okay.”
“You have children?”
“I rent them,” I said. “Peter Kaplow?”
“A weirdo. He and Marlene were getting it on for a while. No kidding. She was probably pissed at Damien. But it didn’t bother him that much. He was probably busy with one of his female clients. But Marlene got around. It depended on her mood. Her mood depended on Damien’s mood.”
“Gillian Brody?” I asked.
“A cipher. Very comfortable in the gay scene. I think she’s a lesbian, but I’ve seen her flirt with men on occasion. She’s often at odds with her uncle; she hates his taste in artists. She never approved of Damien. She said he demeaned women, and he did. But it sure sold a lot of paintings.”
“How’d she get along with Guillermo?”
“He was the one who controlled the allowance that Gillian got from Brian. He knew how to handle other people’s money. I don’t think Brian’s made any changes yet. He knows he’s not a financial guy.”
He undraped me and pulled out his mirror with a flourish. He turned the chair and held the mirror behind me at such an angle that the back of my head was reflected in the front mirror.
“Once again, you are a tonsorial treat for every passing glance.”
“I appreciate the information, Ash.”
“I hope it helps Brian. I notice you didn’t mention Trish. You know, I really enjoyed her as Betsy. Why did she have to ruin that?”
She was the last person I’d consider as a suspect, but I’ve been off-base before.
“Why?”
He leaned close to me and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I heard that she was right there when Guillermo did his balcony scene.”
“Where did you hear this?” I asked with an urgency that startled him and caused him to back slightly away from me. “Sorry to scare you, Ash, but this is important.”
He closed his eyes and lowered his head, searching for something in his memory.
“Sorry,” he said, opening his eyes. “I don’t know who told me. But I don’t think it was Trish.”
“Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”
“Only Bruce and now you. But he doesn’t gossip.”
“Neither do I,” I said, “and if you want to save Brian’s life, and your own, you never heard that information. But if you remember who told you, call me immediately, day or night.” I gave him my cell number.
“Why is it so important?” he asked.
“Because you spoke to our killer,” I said. “No one else knew she was there.”
“And if he knows that I know…”
“Keep that razor well stropped,” I said.
52
I needed someone smart and neutral to bounce ideas off, so I picked up my son and summed up the last few days.
“The information Mr. Ashford gave you won’t help Brian’s case if the police can’t confirm any of it,” Michael said after I related the conversation I’d had with Ash.
He straightened his hat and sat back. “If I were Lieutenant Orby, I’d figure that Brian killed Damien for his nuisance value, and Lorenzo because he was tired of him. Neatly tied package, case closed. Next.”
“I think the person who had the most to gain from Brian’s death, or business demise, was Gillian Brody. But I’ve got no proof that could tie her to the murder. Without that evidence, Brian has no chance,” I said.
“Lay out your case for me. Maybe we can figure out something. Meanwhile, let’s eat. I’m starved,” he said.
Is there any teenager who isn’t hungry every minute of the day?
We picked up a couple of pizzas with garlic and chicken from Rotellis, a local chain that’s always reliable, and brought them back to my house.
“Damien’s murder, with me as the culprit, would solve two problems for Gillian.”
“First?”
“It gets me, the relentless other witness, out of the way by totally damaging my credibility.”
“Second?”
“The cops put me in for all the killings.”
“On what basis?” he asked, taking a large bite and chewing vigorously.
“The cops conclude that I was also there for Guillermo’s death. I was around for Nicky’s death. If I was on scene for Damien’s murder, I probably killed him, too. Just because I’d skipped for the other two, that was merely an oversight. Now they connect me to the first murders by circumstance.”
He pointed.
“What?” I asked, puzzled.
“Tomato sauce on the right side.”
I dabbed at my lip with a napkin. “Yeah,” he said, and then he asked, “What’s your motive? I don’t see you as an art connoisseur.”
“I’m interested in Marlene?” I suggested.
“I’d believe that. You’ve certainly spent enough time with her.” He hesitated. “Are you? ’Cause I really like Nora.”
“So do I, and no, I’m not interested Marlene. But yes, I have spent a lot of time with her, and it would be easy for Orby to conclude that we’re an item and that we’re working together.”
“You’ll tell them the truth, that you’re investigating her because you thought she might be the killer.”
“Except they’d have only my word and hers that nothing went on between us.”
Michael reached for another slice of pizza and slapped it onto his plate. “So, you’re screwed because they figure you get the girl and she gets the money and then you expect to go off into the sunset and live happily ever after.”
I nodded. “Sounds good.”
“Even better,” he said, “with you as the suspect, the police attribute the original attempt on Brian’s life to an angry Damien. He’s not around to defend himself. So, case closed.”
“Which plays right into Gillian’s hands because…”
“Because Brian stops worrying,” he concluded.
“Right, and Gillian helps him off a ledge just like Guillermo or tries to blow up his car again. But now the state will execute him and save Gillian the trouble. Just because Brian came to Damien’s apartment five minutes too early.”
“It makes sense,” he said. “With Brian out of the way, Gillian owns half the gallery. She knows the art world much better than Marlene, so she can probably run the place. Guillermo’s not around to control the purse strings, so she controls her own finances.”
“It’s neat, and it fits the facts. So why didn’t I see it earlier?”
“Probably because we haven’t had a pizza for at least two months.”
53
Friday night arrived, and I rang Nora’s doorbell, dressed for an evening out in jeans, light blue button-down shirt, and navy blue blazer. I hadn’t ironed the shirt for the occasion – we rugged he-men don’t iron – but I had made sure I removed it from the dryer while it was slightly damp in order to keep the wrinkles to a minimum.
She greeted me at the door with a big smile and a very big man right behind her. Marty had finally made it in for the weekend. I was pleased to see him because I knew how much Lily, and Nora for that matter, had missed him. I also missed him. He projected warmth, like a big friendly bear, and he made me feel like I was part of an extended family.
Nora was dressed almost identically to me. “I anticipated,” she said. “I thought we should match, and your ensemble is very predictable.”
“Do I detect a note of censure?”
“Au contraire, mon amour, I like consistency in a man. It lets me know where he’ll be when I need him. It’s almost as good as a leash.”
Lily came over to us and gave me a quick hug. “Daddy’s home, so you two go out and have a good time, and don’t stay out too late.”
We didn’t stay out too late. Instead, we went back to my house and spent an enjoyable and relaxed night together. “It’s terrific when Marty is in town,” she said, lying in my arms in bed the next morning. “Lily really misses him when he’s gone, and I don’t want to go out and leave her with a babysitter.”
“I certainly don’t mind spending time with the two of you,” I assured her. “Underneath this wild façade there beats the heart of a devoted family man.”
“You’re about as wild as oatmeal,” she said. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Anything else? My good looks? My rapier wit? My unbridled sexuality?”
She yawned languidly, volubly, and on purpose. “Oh right, I almost forgot about those.”
I laughed. “You remember that wild stallion you rode to the heights of ecstasy last night?”
She propped herself on an elbow and scrutinized me. “You mean that was you?”
I pulled her on top of me and parted her lips with my tongue. There was nothing rushing us, and we made love slowly and tenderly, enjoying this leisurely time together. When we had both climaxed and our breathing had slowed, she closed one eye and appraised me from head to toe.
“It’s your rapier wit,” she said.
I found Nora funny and endearing at once, and I’d rarely felt as relaxed with any woman. She seemed to fit in with my natural rhythms, and I with hers.
We showered, dressed, and debated where to eat lunch, breakfast time having long ago passed. Burger-Fi, over on A-1-A in Delray, right across from the beach, is a favorite of mine. Their burgers are cooked to perfection and lean, and the fries are the icing on the overly caloric cake. Waiting time is virtually non-existent. We sat outside, cooled by the sea breeze, and I reached across the table to take her hand.
“I think I know who our murderer is, but I’d like a second opinion since you’re familiar with the players. Do you mind?”
“Are you kidding? Of course not. Once you figure this out, I’m a reporter on the scene. Art and murder go together like peanut butter and mayonnaise,” she said.
