Pudding Up With Murder Read online

  I left room one and moved into room two to see Britt’s new discovery, Jerome someone. Even from the doorway I understood what Britt meant about color. The images on the canvas seemed at first to be one color, but upon closer examination I could see a whole spectrum in every brushstroke. I couldn’t even imagine how he had done it.

  He liked cityscapes, and there were images of Paris, London, New York, Budapest—all with recognizable icons in beautiful washes of color that indicated a time of day: Paris in a blue evening mist; London in a red sunrise; New York in a pink and shimmery midday.

  I stopped in front of a painting called Summer Walk, immediately entranced. Two people were strolling with a dog down a street lined with overarching trees in purple evening light. The woman had long blond hair, and the man’s hair was dark. His hand was wrapped around her waist, and she held the dog on a dainty leash. The dog, brown and bulky, could have been Mick, and the couple could have been Parker and I. It wasn’t just the strange resemblance that I loved, but the amazing kaleidoscope of color that permeated the canvas, although the dominant colors were blues and purples, because this was clearly an evening walk—the last one before bed.

  Could I afford it? My eyes darted to the price tag: $2,500.

  Britt appeared and handed me my wine. “Isn’t it lovely? That woman could be you, Lilah. I just love his magical use of light. Look at the way it shines off of the park bench there. And how luminous the trees are as they bend lovingly over the couple.”

  “And the path that they’re walking seems to have a special light, as well.”

  “Good eye! If you didn’t already have two jobs, I’d try to get you to work here.”

  I smiled and sipped my wine. “So who is this artist? How did you find him?” I studied the corner where a scrawled blue signature said Merault.

  Britt’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “That’s a funny story—oh, hang on. People are starting to arrive.”

  People were indeed at the door, and Britt didn’t make it back to me because of her hosting duties. I saw some faces I recognized from around town, and eventually Prue Cantwell herself came in, accompanied by Damen. He had a possessive hand clamped around her shoulders, and she seemed happy, so I assumed they had made up. She was greeting people she knew as she headed for room one, and she spied me lingering in the main aisle. “Hello!” she called, waving at me. She and Damen moved forward, to my surprise, until they were in front of me. “It’s Lilah, right? I won’t forget it now.”

  “Yes. Nice to see you, Prue.”

  “Lilah, this is Damen. I don’t think you two met—the other day.”

  I shook his hand, and he said, “Nice to meet you.” He really was handsome, and his eyes were friendly. Perhaps he looked more natural to me now that he had ditched the black leather. He was wearing blue jeans and a white button-down shirt with a skinny black tie. Now he was studying me more closely. “Did I meet you? You look familiar.”

  Prue saw someone she knew and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  I said, “You met me at Mr. Cantwell’s birthday party. Or saw me. As Prue said, we weren’t introduced.”

  He blushed slightly. “I wasn’t at my best that day. I apologize.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes our families can push us to our limits. Or our spouse’s families.”

  “Prudence isn’t my spouse,” he said with a slightly yearning expression.

  “Significant others, then. Her painting is amazing. I would love to see more of her work, and I know Britt would like to display more of it. Wow, the people just keep flowing in. Are they all for Prudence?”

  Damen glanced at the door. “A lot of them are, because Britt sent out notices that she had a special new painting. Some people are here for other artists, or just here because it’s a special event. Prue’s painting will sell before the evening is over. It always does.” He said this with the easy confidence that the partner of a talented person often develops. He probably didn’t fully understand Prue’s art, but he understood its popularity.

  I heard a familiar voice talking with Britt near the doorway. I looked up to see Parker, still in his work clothes of a white shirt, red tie, and gray jacket with black pants, chatting with Britt as he scanned the room. Then his eyes found me, and we exchanged a long look.

  “Will you excuse me?” I said. “My date just arrived.”

  “Sure. Maybe we’ll talk later.”

  “I’d like that. Thanks, Damen.”

  I started to move toward Parker, but Britt was ushering everyone toward the back wall, where the dais was. I followed, assuming Parker would find me. The long windows were now blue-black with night. “Thank you, everyone, for coming to the Blackwood Gallery. We’re featuring local artists in room one, and we’re excited to have a new painting by Pine Haven’s own Prudence Cantwell, whose last show was dubbed ‘a masterpiece’ by the Chicago Tribune and by the Art Review. We are lucky to have Prudence in our midst! I’m going to put her on the spot and ask her to say a few words about her painting Disillusionment.”

  Prudence waved and took the microphone, shaking her head at Britt as if to say, “I’m too modest to speak.” Then she scanned the crowd and said, “Thank you all for being here tonight. Britt always has impressive art in this gallery, and my painting is just one of many pieces for you to enjoy. I do hope you’ll connect with my work; Britt and I are in talks to stage a larger showing sometime around the New Year.”

  The crowd applauded politely at this, and Prue’s face grew serious. “I am here without my family tonight because we recently lost my father; I considered not coming, either, but then I realized that this is like another family—the world of art—and I take great comfort from being here. Thanks so much to all of you.”

  There was more applause after this, and Prue’s eyes were moist as she handed back the microphone. It was true that no one in her family was present; I hadn’t noticed that until she mentioned it. I wondered if her father’s death was the only reason her siblings hadn’t come out to support her.

  My focus was on Parker, and I wanted to move toward him where he stood near one window, but it seemed Britt was still in presenting mode. “Thank you, Prudence. I appreciate your willingness to come out tonight, and I toast your talent.” She handed a glass to Prue Cantwell, and life went into slow motion.

  The glass in Prue’s hand shattered, and champagne sprayed outward into the air. Britt and Prudence screamed in unison, and Jay Parker loomed forward, his gun in his hand. “Get down, everyone!” he shouted. “Get down! I’m a police officer, and that was gunfire. Get down and away from the window!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The crowd, panicked and making sounds between whimpers and shouts, did as he ordered, crouching down and moving toward the middle hallway, where there were no windows. Parker lifted his gun, ran toward the entrance, and disappeared. He was chasing a murderer, and my skin went cold at the thought.

  Prudence was crying in earnest now, and Damen was tending to her hand, which was bleeding. I edged forward, still in a crouch. “Did he shoot your hand?” I asked. My lips felt numb.

  “It’s glass,” said Damen in a soothing voice. “I think I got it all. Now we’ll just wrap this up and fix it at home.” Admiration for him surged through me; he was just what Prudence needed: a large, calming presence in a frightening atmosphere.

  Prudence held out her hand, allowing him to minister to her, her face almost childlike. In that instant she looked like Peach. I turned my attention to Britt, who was wiping at some champagne on her dress with trembling hands.

  “Britt,” I said. “Are you okay? Did any glass get into your skin?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. Then she looked at me; her eyes were wide and her pupils were dilated. “What just happened? What just happened in my gallery?”

  “Jay will find out. He’ll get to the bottom of this,” I said. I looked out t
he windows and saw blue and red lights. “And he’s already called for backup. Look, the police are here.”

  Soon there were official people swarming all over the gallery, inside and out, and we guests were ordered into room one until the police could process the scene and ask some questions. Britt told some officers where they could find folding chairs, and the men and women in blue set these up hastily so that we could sit while we waited. I slumped into a chair next to Britt, feeling empty. I was facing Prue’s painting, and I suddenly understood it far better. Disillusionment. The face wasn’t melting; it wasn’t the face of the person who had proved to be something different. The face on the canvas captured the expression, the feeling of the disillusioned person—the falling away of the scales that kept him from seeing the truth. I knew this viscerally, as my own skin felt as though it was sliding off of my bones and I realized that the gallery would never be the same, could never feel the same, because someone’s evil act had intruded. Britt or Prudence could have been killed.

  This brought me to another thought. Prudence’s father had just been killed. Was someone trying to kill her, as well? Or was it Britt the gunman had been aiming for? I reached out to Britt and took her hand. “Are you okay?”

  She shrugged. “I am having trouble believing this is happening. I wish Terry were here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s with a client. He said he would come by later.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Do you know of anyone who—might have a grudge?”

  She shook her head. “No. My clients are pleased with what they purchase, and they are all wealthy enough not to quibble over price. What other reason would there be?”

  A good question. Why had this happened?

  “What about Prue? Does she have any enemies?”

  Britt’s eyes still looked disturbingly wide. “No—just family stuff, you know. Like we were talking about at my house. She was just telling me that she had an argument with Cash today—oh, I shouldn’t be airing her family things. Look at her over there; she’s crushed.”

  Prudence was closer to the door of room one with Damen, who looked very pleased to have an opportunity to protect her. I wondered why Damen didn’t seem more traumatized.

  “Damen’s ex-military,” Britt said, reading my mind. “He seems to be in his element, doesn’t he?”

  I was still curious about Prue’s argument. “Why was Prue in a fight with Cash? Maybe it’s important.”

  She shook her head. “I doubt it. Prue just happened to remember that right before their dad died, like a couple of days before, Cash brought over some girl named Amber, and they met privately with him. Prue only knew about it because she had been there to make arrangements about the birthday party, and she was leaving when Cash got there with this girl.”

  “Amber again,” I said under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just—I heard her name once before. Go on.”

  “Apparently the meeting really upset Marcus. Later on he told Prue indignantly that he didn’t want ‘that Amber’ to come over anymore.”

  This was indeed strange. I wanted Parker to hear it, but he was busy with his crime scene. “Does Prue have any idea what was happening?”

  “No. And I guess she raised it with Cash today and got nowhere. He said she should mind her own business, which shocked her, because Cash is always so sweet.”

  I looked back at the painting. Disillusionment. Family could cause it, too.

  I realized that the people in the room had all calmed down with the presence of the police; they had rehashed the event itself by telling the story to one another, and now they had slipped back into gallery talk while they waited to be questioned. I heard words like flowing, bold, dramatic, and light.

  Britt’s hand still lay limp in mine. I shook it a little. “Hey. We’re stuck here for a while. Tell me what’s been bothering you.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she wiped at them angrily. “This is silly. It’s the stress of this shooting, not—the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  She smiled at me. Her eyes were shining with tears, and she looked very pretty. “You know how long I’ve been with Terry? Five years. And I still love him as much as I did on the very first day.”

  “Of course you do. I can see that.”

  “And what I love best about him is that he’s such a free spirit. He doesn’t go by the book, you know? Terry lives life on his terms. And that’s worked for us. We work together.”

  “I agree.”

  She slipped her hand out of mine and clasped hers together. “But I’m getting older, and I find that I’ve changed. I was always so antitraditional, and now—” She smiled at me and shook her head. “Suddenly I find myself wanting the things my parents had. The things my mother had. And I always said I was nothing like my mother.”

  “You’re Britt. You are your own person,” I assured her.

  She nodded, looking at her lap. “Terry and I always said we didn’t need all the trappings that other people craved—marriage, children, cozy house and two-car garage. We were an adventure couple, and we would seize life by the horns.”

  “You have!”

  “Yes. And Terry wants to do it forever. But, Lilah—I’ve done a lot of soul-searching in the last few months, and I have to be honest with myself. I wish that Terry wanted to marry me, because suddenly that’s what I want.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that!”

  “But there is. Because it’s a betrayal to Terry, and to this agreement that we had. And the thing is—the whole reason I love Terry so much is that he’s the sort of guy who doesn’t marry. You see the problem? If he married me it would force him into domesticity, and I would never want that for him. I love him the way he is!”

  “But you also want him to propose to you and give you a ring.”

  She laughed. It was a bitter little sound. “Yes. And a married life together. And I can’t bring those two images together. I can’t tell Terry about this at all. It’s ridiculous, but there you have it.”

  I thought about this for a moment. Would Terry want to settle down, go through a wedding ceremony, wear a ring on his hand? I had to agree with Britt—this didn’t sound like something that the wildly independent Terry would want. And yet I knew he loved Britt very much. Wasn’t love about meeting in the middle? “Marriage isn’t death, Britt.”

  “No. But it’s a box of sorts. That’s how Terry would see it, and I agree. You commit to marriage, and you’re shaping your own future.”

  “That’s very grim. My father told me once that it was a relief to marry my mother. He had wandered around looking for someone like her, and once he found her he said he was happy to live on his own little island with her. She is his oasis.”

  “How sweet,” Britt said. Her face remained sad, though.

  Suddenly a uniformed officer was standing before us. “Miss Blackwood? Detective Parker would like to speak with you.”

  She nodded and walked away with her police escort. I found it both impressive and obnoxious that Jay could summon people to himself, a king amidst the detritus of crime. I wondered fleetingly if Jay Parker would ever want to marry me. It seemed doubtful, considering that our rekindled relationship had already encountered roadblocks.

  After about half an hour, a junior officer came to question me, and then I was released. I looked for Britt, who seemed exhausted. “Oh, Lilah—listen, I’m just going to stay a bit longer. I need to get the window patched, and the police might have more questions for me. I’ve asked Prue and Damen to take you home. Do you mind?”

  “No, of course not. Call me, okay?”

  Britt promised that she would. I never even had a chance to say good-bye to Parker, who was immersed in questioning people. I followed Prudence and Damen out to his car, which was a surprisingly sedate Chr
ysler minivan. I climbed in the back and thanked them, and Prue turned to me from the front passenger seat. “No problem. Thanks for coming out tonight.”

  “Your painting is amazing. I understood it better after the shooting.”

  She studied my face and nodded slowly. “That makes sense. Thanks.”

  We drove the reverse of the route that Britt had taken hours before, mainly in silence. Damen attempted a few more things in his soothing voice, but Prue and I were lost in our own thoughts. When they pulled up in my driveway, I reached for the door handle.

  Prue turned around, suddenly urgent. “Lilah, I know Jay Parker was there tonight. Do you know why? I mean, he’s been working on my dad’s case. . . .”

  “He was there for me,” I said. “On a date. But lately that’s how a lot of our dates end: with Jay working. You don’t have to worry—he’ll get to the bottom of both things.”

  “Right! You said you were dating him.”

  “Yes. Since December.”

  “That makes sense, then.” But she looked concerned.

  “Thanks again, Prue. Damen,” I added, nodding at him. “I appreciate the ride.”

  “No problem at all, Lilah. Good night,” Prue said.

  Just before I shut the door, in the glare of the car’s interior light, I saw Prudence send a worried look to her boyfriend. I was suddenly too tired to worry what it might be about.

  I slammed the door, and the car backed out of the driveway.

  Nat King Cole’s voice was back in my ear, but this time he was singing “Mona Lisa,” a song my Grandpa Drake had once sung to me whenever he found me coloring. I had a sudden longing for childhood and Grandpa Drake and a Pine Haven I had known before people started getting killed.

  But if you hadn’t seen murder, a little voice in my other ear said, you would never have met Jay Parker.

  And a third voice wondered if it would have been better that way.