Loving Again

chapter Nine


Sam was off the case but he wasn’t out of the loop. He picked up gossip from colleagues and his partner shared what she could. When all else failed, he snooped.

Danny Hartman told him Amanda’s supposed motive was proving to be weak. No one in the art community had heard of — or believed — Kane’s assertion that she stole ideas from him. Everyone thought it was just a jealous artist shooting off his mouth. Not only would Kane have lost in court, he’d have lost everyone’s respect because he’d tried to ruin a talented and well-liked artist.

Among the police investigating the murders, there was serious doubt that Amanda could have dragged Robin Jordan back to the classroom after the struggle evident in the retail area. And the ME’s report looked good. Sam had seen it sitting on Danny’s desk and had read it. He didn’t think she’d mind.

It said that, from the bruising on Kane’s neck and the angle of the gunshot wound, it was probable a left-handed person had wrestled the six-foot, three-inch victim to the ground before shooting him. Amanda was right-handed, more than foot shorter and weighed less than the bales of hay he’d bucked on the ranch.

And from the scrapings under her fingernails, Jordan had scratched her assailant. Amanda showed no signs of scratches.

By the time he’d finished reading the report, Sam could almost believe it was all over. Amanda was home free. He’d be back on the case with Danny and they would turn their attention to looking for the real perp.

Then he was called into L.T.’s office. Danny was there. When she avoided his gaze he knew it wasn’t going to be a good conversation.

After the usual throat-clearing preliminaries were out of the way, Angel said, “I need to ask you a few questions about Amanda St. Claire. You comfortable with that?”

“I guess.”

“What’d she tell you about the break-in at her studio the night of the murders?”

Sam relaxed back in the chair. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe they were just cleaning up the details. “Just that it happened. It’s not the first time. Not even the first time this month. That building’s as easy to get into as a pop-top can.”

“Yeah, she said. Did she tell you anything else about it?”

“You mean the bloody towel and the clip from Leo’s gun? Yeah.” He looked at the lieutenant, trying to figure out where this conversation was headed. “Don’t you think it was the killer trying to throw suspicion on her? I do.”

“What else did she say about the night of the murder?”

“Nothing. Is there something she should have told me?”

The lieutenant nodded to Danny.

Still avoiding Sam’s eyes, she said, “There was a guy working late across the street from Bullseye. A little after nine, he was loading up his truck when he saw a red SUV pull into the parking area in front of the Resource Center. It was raining so he didn’t get a clear look at the plate but he thought it was a vanity plate with no numbers.”

Sam jumped out of his chair and began to walk back and forth across the office.

Danny continued. “A short woman got out of the vehicle, went to the front door. Then she ran south, along Twenty-first, toward the factory entrance. He was pulling out less than ten minutes later when he saw her come around the corner from the north side of the building, like a bat out of hell, he said. She got in the SUV and roared out.” She caught Sam’s arm as he paced past her. “He saw the first and last letters in the plate as she pulled out. They were G and O. Amanda drives … ”

“A two-year-old red Toyota Highlander with a plate that says ‘GLASSCO.’” Sam finished her sentence as he shook off her hand.

“Amanda was there, Sam, around the time of the murders. The question is, why does she think she has to lie about it?”

“Christ,” Sam muttered as he continued to pace around the room, his hands jammed into his jeans’ pockets. “What the hell did she think … ?” He stopped in front of Danny Hartmann. “What did she say when you asked her to explain?”

“Haven’t asked her yet but I intend to today. I wanted to see if she’d said something to you that might help us understand what went on.”

“No, she said she went to work at noon and home a little after nine. Other than that, all she said was that she’s freaked. Thinks the same thing’s happening that happened last year.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Don’t be. You’re not the one who lied to me … to us.” He started to leave the office.

Danny rose from her chair. “Wait, I’m on my way to see Liz Fairchild.” She turned to their boss. “Okay if Sam comes along? He’s the one Liz agreed to see.”

Angel nodded consent and the meeting broke up.

• • •

Sam and Danny drove separately to The Fairchild Gallery so his partner could go see Amanda afterwards. Since he wasn’t exactly on a roll that morning, he was surprised when he scored a parking space right in front of the gallery.

He waited for Danny to join him, then knocked at the gallery door. Liz Fairchild immediately answered. Before he could finish introducing himself, Liz interrupted. “Of course I know who you are. I remember what you did last year for one of my best artists. Come in.”

“This is Detective Danny Hartmann,” Sam finished the introductions. “Thanks for seeing us before you open up.”

“No problem. But I’m curious what the Portland Police Bureau thinks I can do to help them,” Liz said as she led them through the gallery. It was elegant looking, all cream-colored walls, focused light and strategically placed partial walls at interesting angles. In the front of the gallery was an exhibit of scenes from the Southwest. In the back, the works of other artists were on the walls; metal sculpture and glass pieces were displayed on pedestals. In a simple but well-designed case, jewelry and smaller objects were arranged.

Her office, on the other hand, was decorated with nothing except a calendar and a large bulletin board covered in layers of announcements, postcards, and invitations. Which suited the furnishings — a battered desk and two equally beat-up file cabinets. Accommodations for visitors consisted of a couple of folding chairs. Only the computer looked state of the art. Liz clearly didn’t waste money on anything her clients wouldn’t see.

Sam and Danny opened the folding chairs and sat while Liz poured coffee for them, coffee that thankfully matched the classy gallery and not the office if the aroma was any indication. Settling in her desk chair with her mug, Liz looked from one detective to the other and said, “So, what can I do for you this morning?”

“Danny’s the detective in charge of the Kane/Jordan case,” Sam said. “We heard you had a run-in with Eubie Kane not long before he was killed. Mind telling us what it was about?”

She sniffed. “He’s been a pain since I signed him for the gallery. His latest was trying to get out of his contract when he thought he could get into a gallery he considered a step up. I wouldn’t let him go. I’d dropped a bundle for print ads announcing a solo show for him next month. That’s what the run-in was about. He wanted out. I wouldn’t let him, not without the two months’ notice he agreed to. I was pissed at him, the little worm.”

After she took a sip of her coffee, she continued. “Sorry. I’m not as insensitive as that sounds. Not even someone who was a pain in the ass should have his life cut short like that. And Robin Jordan. I heard she was a real sweetheart.”

“Did you have trouble with him before the contract issue came up?” Danny asked.

“Oh, honey, all the time. He complained about everything.” She imitated Eubie’s whine. “The light’s not right for my glass. Do something about it. Those pedestals don’t show off my work to its best advantage. Get new ones.” She threw up her hands and returned to her normal voice. “If he wasn’t bitching about one thing, it was another.”

“If he was that much trouble, why didn’t you let him go?” Sam asked.

“Because I liked the work and it sold pretty well. I don’t have to be an artist’s best friend to represent them.”

“Okay, so you and he had it out last Monday. You gave him a note?” Danny continued.

“He wouldn’t listen when I said no, so finally I said maybe if I put it in writing he’d understand. I wrote, ‘hell no, you can’t go’ or something like that on a piece of brown paper — I was hanging a show and the floor was littered with the stuff — and gave it to him. How’d you figure out I wrote it?”

“Part of a mailing label with your name on it was on the other side,” Danny said.

“Remind me not to write any ransom notes, will you?” She got up from her desk and picked up the coffee carafe. Saying, “Let me freshen your coffee,” she topped up the two visitors’ mugs before emptying the remainder of the contents of the pot into her own.

“He got into it with Amanda St. Claire recently, accused her of stealing his ideas. Do you think there was any basis to that?” Sam asked.

“If anyone stole ideas, it was the other way around. Eubie was technically pretty good and people liked his work but he played it safe, did the same thing over and over. Not like Amanda who’s always pushing herself and has an omigod originality that attracts critical attention.”

“So, to have it for the record,” Danny said, “Where were you Tuesday between say, seven and ten pm?”

“You mean this past Tuesday night?”

Danny nodded.

“Let’s see — I had drinks with a friend. After that, I dropped by a new gallery that’s trying to stay open late most nights. Wanted to see if they were getting any foot traffic. I went home after I had dinner. I was leaving for Seattle the next morning and wanted to get a good night’s sleep.”

“Where’s home?” Danny asked.

“I live in the southwest, off Macadam Avenue.”

“After you had drinks with your friend, were you with anyone who’ll vouch for you?” Sam asked.

“No. Collins, my partner, isn’t here right now.”

Sam persisted. “You didn’t stop anyplace else on your way home?”

Liz stood up and looked out into the gallery, as if she heard a noise.

Sam repeated the question.

“Drinks, dinner, home. That’s about it.” She sat down without looking directly at either detective.

“Anything else you think we should be aware of about Eubie Kane?” Danny asked. “Any enemies? Anybody who disliked him intensely enough to want to harm him?”

“Not that I can think of. He was always playing the tortured artiste, which was boring and annoying, but I can’t think of anyone who truly hated him.”

“So, who found him annoying?” Danny asked.

“Most recently? Me and another gallery owner, Sophie Woods. I talked to her right after he was here that Monday, and she was steaming about how much time she wasted talking to him when he knew he couldn’t sign with her.”

They asked a few more questions before winding up the interview, thanking Liz for her time. As they walked to Sam’s truck, a young man with dark hair and a couple small Band-Aids on his face, as though he had cut himself shaving, walked past them, stopped close to the gallery and stared at them. Sam returned the stare until the man broke eye contact, knocked on the door of the gallery, and Liz let him in.

Danny stood by the driver-side door while Sam unlocked it. “She’s not telling us everything,” she said. “She skipped a step or two about what she did after she had drinks.”

Sam nodded agreement. “And she must be six feet tall and left-handed from the way she picked up that coffee pot. She could have done what it would have been hard for Amanda to do. But would Robin Jordan have let her into Bullseye? And where’s the motive? Would she kill the goose that laid the golden — or in this case, glass — egg? And fighting with Jordan that way? Killing her? I don’t see it.”

Danny didn’t seem to be paying attention to Sam’s musings. She was looking across the street. “That car over there. The guy working across the street from Bullseye that night not only saw Amanda’s Highlander, he saw Eubie Kane’s van, a beater Toyota Corolla, and what he called a classy looking silver or gray car, a BMW, he thought. That silver Beemer across the street from the gallery — wanna bet when I run the plate, it belongs to Liz?”

“She was there, too? Christ, what was going on at Bullseye, free beer night?”

“Liz strikes me as more the wine type but, other than that, I agree with you. After I see who owns that car I’ll go back and ask her one more time where she was,” Danny said, “before I go on to my next appointment.”

“If you can let me know … ” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“I’ll try, Sam. I promise.”

• • •

Liz Fairchild let Mike Benson into the gallery and locked the door before she said, “You’re not due to work today, Mike. And frankly I’m surprised you showed up at all. It’s not often a thief returns to the place he robbed.”

He handed her a fistful of bills. “I’m not a thief. I came by to give you the money for the bracelet. It was marked $95. It’s all there. I shouldn’t have taken it before I paid you but I had this hot date and wanted to give her a present. It was her birthday.”

Liz took the money. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have let you take it and pay me later. You didn’t have to steal it.”

“I didn’t steal it. You’ve been paid for it. You were on the phone when I left, remember? I didn’t have a chance to ask you. And I had to get home to change.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said. Before she could say anything else, there was a knock on the door. Liz turned yelling, “We’re not open until … ” but stopped, mid-sentence, when she saw Danny Hartmann. “God, now what?” she muttered as she walked to open the door.

“What else can I do for you, Detective Hartmann?” Liz said when she let the officer back in. As the two women faced off in the middle of the gallery, Mike Benson disappeared out the front door. Neither woman paid attention.

“It’s about your car over there,” Hartmann said.

“It’s legally parked, isn’t it?”

“I don’t do parking enforcement. I’m interested in whether you and your car were at Bullseye on Tuesday night.”

“No, that’s not the gallery I went to.”

“I’m not talking about their gallery on Everett. I meant the Resource Center in the southeast.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Around the time Eubie Kane and Robin Jordan were killed, a man across the street from Bullseye saw a silver car parked out front that sounds a lot like yours.”

“You think I killed them?”

“Not necessarily. But if you were there, you might have seen something that will help us figure out who did.”

“I told you, I had drinks with a friend, went to a gallery over on the eastside, had dinner at Doug Fir, then I went home.”

“You were at a gallery and a restaurant on the eastside, where Bullseye is? You didn’t say that before. You were there — when? For how long?”

“It’s not real clear. Maybe about seven, eight. For an hour or more, I’d guess.”

“Which puts you driving home about nine. You could have been the Beemer owner who swung by Bullseye.”

“I don’t remember doing that. But then, I’d had several drinks.”

“You sure that’s the answer you want to give me?”

Liz didn’t respond for a moment. “I’ll call you if I remember anything else.”

“You do that.” Hartmann handed Liz a business card. “Here. For when your memory improves. I hope that happens soon.” She was on the sidewalk before Liz could respond.