The Deadly Art of Deception Page 2

  I washed the plate in my tiny sink, even though I knew Bent would run it through the commercial dishwasher when I took it back, and put it on the counter with the towel folded neatly on top. I hadn’t put much of a kitchen in the apartment since I hadn’t expected to be cooking. I had a two-burner cooktop and a miniature refrigerator that matched the one I had in the back room of the gallery. A microwave oven and floor-to-ceiling pantry cabinet that held cereal, snacks and a few dishes, gave me everything I needed.

  Taylor was sitting in a chair by the window, staring absently at the book in her hands, which she’d pulled off one of the bookcases that lined the apartment. Wherever there wasn’t a window, there was a bookcase. I hadn’t lived there long enough to have filled up more than a handful of the shelves, but everyone has a goal in life, and filling those shelves was one of mine.

  “What’d you find?” I asked, switching on the light since the sun had set. She blinked, startled, and held up the book for me to see. “Oh, that’s a good one. You’ll enjoy it.”

  She nodded and went back to pretending to read the book. I sighed and picked up the one I was reading from where I’d left it the night before, face down on the coffee table. I hate to mistreat books that way, but I had been too tired to look for something to use as a bookmark. I get lost in books, especially when the days go on and on, and I don’t realize how late it is until the light finally fades around midnight. It’s September and the days are shorter, but now I read to kill time after dinner, and I still end up getting too little sleep. Mel keeps telling me I should get a boyfriend so I wouldn’t have to spend my evenings buried in a book, but I’d never met a man who could live up to the ones in my complete set of Jane Austin novels.

  Last Christmas Mom got me one of those electronic gizmos that people use to read books. She told me it was wasteful to kill trees for books, and I have to admit there was real appeal to being able to decide what I wanted to read, and after three seconds of downloading, be able to dive right in. Having books shipped to Coho Bay was prohibitively expensive, so I usually loaded up at the local bookstore whenever I took a trip into Juneau. Sometimes if there was a book I was dying to read, I’d ask Kenny, our mailman, to pick it up for me on one of his daily runs. I still have the reader, somewhere, but after the initial rush, I found I missed the sensory aspect of reading—the feel and the smell of the book and the sound of the pages turning. It’s a funny thing, I know, and someday I’m sure the printed page will go the way of VHS tapes, but for me there’s just nothing like holding a book in my hands.

  Except that I couldn’t concentrate tonight, any better than Taylor could, so she and I sat there in silence, both pretending to read, but both lost in our own thoughts. It took every bit of my admittedly small reserve of self-control to hold back the flood of questions that threatened whenever I looked up at her. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up abruptly. “You must be exhausted, and here I am sitting on your bed. Why don’t you get your suitcases, and I’ll get out the spare bedding?”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.” A yawn almost split her face, and we both laughed.

  “Go while you’re still awake enough to make it back up the stairs.” Taylor clomped down to the entryway, and I went to the bedroom to get the spare sheet and pillow I kept for the times when my parents came to visit. “The couch is comfortable,” I said when she came back with one of her suitcases. “I sleep on it myself whenever my folks come over. I have a blanket too if you want one.”

  “No thanks,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m always hot.”

  “Well, I’ll put it on the chair in case you get cold in the middle of the night. You probably remember that I’m up and out early, but I’ll try not to wake you. Sleep as late as you want, then come downstairs and keep me company.”

  “I could run the register for you.”

  “That would be amazing. You saw how crazy it gets, but go ahead and sleep in. The hoards won’t show up before noon.” That wasn’t quite true, but Taylor had dark circles under her eyes that had never been there before. Whatever was troubling her, it would take more than one good night’s rest to erase them.

  “Cara?”

  “Yes?”

  “I...” Her face flushed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Tay. You’re always welcome here.” She turned away, and I thought it best not to press. I closed the door of my bedroom behind me and changed into an old flannel shirt. After brushing my hair and my teeth, I turned off the lights and crawled into bed. I expected to lay awake, wondering what had happened to Taylor and why she thought she had no place else to go, but I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

  Chapter 2

  “It’s four thirty, Cara.”

  “I know. I’m late. I’m sorry.” I put the plate and dish towel on the stainless steel drain board and pulled an apron from the hooks where they hung by the door. Tying it on, I went to see what my sister was making. Mel was rolling out dough at the worktable. One industrial baking pan was already full and had been set aside.

  “Reading?” Mel asked as she deftly covered the dough with cinnamon, sugar, raisins and chopped nuts, then rolled it into one long cinnamon log. She handed me a knife, and I sliced the dough into two-inch rolls and filled the second pan while Mel gathered up the dirty dishes and tossed them into the sink. “Or were you and Taylor up half the night gabbing?”

  “I wish. She hasn’t said a word.”

  “No! Seriously?” Mel went into the refrigerated storage room and brought out a flat of eggs, which she gently laid on the counter. “Did you know she was coming?”

  “I would have told you.”

  Mel piled ingredients on the worktable and started making piecrust. “Why didn’t she tell you she was coming? Didn’t she know Mr. Peterson isn’t leaving until the season ends? Where did she think she was going to stay?”

  I slid the baking pan onto the rack so the rolls could rise and walked over to the sink. I washed my hands and let the water run until it was hot, then pushed down the stopper and let the water cascade over the dirty mixing dishes. I squeezed a generous dab of soap out and watched the suds rise. “All good questions but I don’t have any answers.”

  “You didn’t ask her? Hey, could you turn the oven on? Three seventy-five.”

  “I know. I wanted to ask, but you know how she gets.”

  “Yeah. Stubborn as a mule.”

  “And silent as the grave.”

  “Until she decides to talk and then—look out.”

  We both laughed, then went back to work. There was no time for small talk during the season. We had to make sure everything was ready before the first hungry local walked through the door. Mel was making quiche, and I started washing her baking dishes, our joint efforts giving Bent a chance to sleep for an extra hour. I could hear movement in their apartment, so I knew he’d be down soon. We’d all have breakfast in the kitchen, then I’d head to the gallery and they’d feed the horde of locals, rushing to eat before the first tender landed. It had been our routine for three seasons, and we had it down to a science.

  “People sure seemed freaked out to see her,” I said as I scrubbed.

  Mel slid the quiche into the oven and set the timer before answering. “What’d you expect?” She dumped her dirty mixing bowl into the sink.

  I sighed and fished it out of the water. “Always another bowl.” I washed it and set it on the drying rack. “Tay must’ve hated everyone staring at her like that.”

  Mel snorted. “She had to have known how people would react. She didn’t have to sit out in the dining room. She could have come around to the kitchen if she didn’t want people staring at her.”

  “She’s got too much pride to slink around. You know that, Mel, and I don’t blame her. She doesn’t have anything to apologize for.”

  “I agree, but that isn’t gonna stop people from talking.”

  “It’ll die down.”

  “Why would she wan
t to come back here, Cara? I thought for sure she’d stay in Seattle.”

  “Who are we gossiping about today?” Mel and I exchanged guilty looks as Bent lumbered into the kitchen. I shrugged and started rinsing out the sink.

  “You know perfectly well who.” Mel’s voice softened, her face flushed, and she couldn’t keep from smiling. The way they carried on, you’d have thought they were newlyweds instead of closing in on their sixth anniversary.

  “Why isn’t she here for breakfast?” Bent laid his hand on my shoulder. “Hope she’s not letting last night scare her away?”

  “A few cold shoulders aren’t gonna keep Tay away from your cooking. She’s still asleep.”

  “City folk,” said Bent, shaking his head in mock disgust. “Sleeping half the day away.”

  “I hope she does,” I countered, matching his playful tone. “She was dead on her feet last night. I get the feeling she hasn’t been sleeping much lately.”

  “Something did seem to be bothering her when she came in,” agreed Mel. “Didn’t seem like herself at all. I had to look twice to make sure it was her.”

  “Whatever it is, it must be pretty bad to drive her back here after everything that happened.”

  “Feels like a sausage day, don’t you think, ladies?” asked Bent, cutting off our speculations and drawing us back to the work at hand.

  “You goof,” said Mel, swatting mildly at him. He ducked away, his laughter filling the kitchen as he lumbered off to the storage room.

  He returned, his arms full of supplies, singing a bawdy bar song in a slightly off-key baritone. When there were customers in the dining area, Bent resigned himself to whistling along with the radio, but when it was just family, he would cut loose with songs he’d picked up in the Navy. At first I’d found his lyrics quite shocking, but as I’d gotten to know him better, I’d started to sing along with him, inserting nonsense words for the ones that made me blush. Bent found this highly amusing and sometimes sang my lyrics instead of his. The sight of this bear of a man belting out G-rated bar songs sent Mel into fits of laughter.

  After breakfast, I headed off with a promise of leftover quiche for lunch. I hurried up the boardwalk that ran along the harbor, enjoying the predawn quiet. The lights of today’s cruise ship, which was anchored in deep water, reminded me that this boardwalk wouldn’t be quiet long and I still had a lot of work to do. Reaching city hall, I looked up at the gallery and treated myself to a moment of proprietary pride. The Broken Antler Gallery was my own brainchild, a way to put my business education to good use while giving local artists an outlet for their work. The log cabin construction reflected the carefully cultivated rustic style chosen by the merchants to appeal to the tourists. I unlocked the front door and slipped in, locking it behind me. I threaded my way through the gallery, moving from memory since it was too dark to see. I had two hours before dawn broke and another hour before the first tender would arrive. That should be plenty of time to get caught up on the paperwork I never had time to do while the gallery was open.

  I flipped on the light in the back room and started coffee. Steaming mug in hand, I fired up my computer and started going through yesterday’s sales. Methodically, I went through each transaction, making sure that every sale was credited to the correct artist and printing out labels for the pieces that needed to be shipped. I keep thirty-five percent of each sale as my commission, making my gallery wildly popular with artists all over the region. Most art dealers take a substantially bigger cut, some as much as sixty percent of the sale. Because my family owned the land outright and my father and I had harvested the materials and contributed most of the labor, my overhead was very low. I could afford to operate on less commission and still earn a profit. This enabled me to attract artists even during my first season in business. The Broken Antler Gallery quickly developed a reputation for carrying the best work by the best artists in southern Alaska, earning both my artists and me a good living.

  One by one, I carefully packaged the previous day’s artwork. Art is fragile and needs careful crating to safely make the journey from Coho Bay to buyers around the world. When Coho Bay won our contract with the first cruise ship line, it took two years before the initial ship sailed into the bay. I’d bartered with a gallery in Juneau, providing them free labor for a season in exchange for being able to learn the nuts and bolts of the business. It saved me years of trial and error. I was just putting the label on the last box when the doorbell rang. I switched on the lights in the gallery and went to open the door. “Morning, Kenny.”

  Kenny had been running the mail between Juneau and Coho Bay as long as anyone could remember. He’d been old when I was a girl, but even though I had aged, he never seemed to change. He wore an old leather bomber jacket and had a collection of baseball caps, some advertising local businesses and some with pithy sayings. Today’s read, Wishin’ I was Fishin’ and had a small picture of a man fishing out of the back of a rowboat.

  “Mornin,’ Cara. Whatcha got for me?”

  We spent the next few minutes shuttling crates and cartons through the store and out to his truck. Every morning Kenny went all over town gathering the mail and packages. He loaded them onto his boat and ran them up to Juneau. There he’d exchange the outgoing for the incoming and make the return trip to Coho Bay. He’d make his delivery rounds in the afternoon, providing daily service during the season and twice a week, weather permitting, through the winter. The whole town shared a single address—Rural Route One—but Kenny knew where everyone lived.

  After he left, I stood in the doorway, looking out at the bay. The sun was rising over the mountains behind me, bathing the cruise ship in soft golden light. The season always passes in a blur, and it was hard to believe it was nearly over. Two ships after this one, and it would be time to shift into winter mode. I watched the sky lighten, soaking in the quiet beauty of early morning and waving to the trickle of locals who passed by, heading for their stores or excursion boats. Watching the sunrise over the bay never left me feeling anything but awe even after twenty-six years of sunrises. This simple but staggering beauty was what anchored me to Alaska. I was as much a part of the alchemy of the state as the trees and the rivers and the bears.

  A long, low horn sounded from the cruise ship, cutting through my reverie and reminding me I had to restock before the first tender docked. I could see it pulling alongside the ship to take on the first wave of passengers. In half an hour, the first fifty passengers would pour out of the tender onto the dock and into the town. I tore myself away from the sunrise and started pulling artwork from the storage room to fill empty spaces. By the time the bell jingled on the gallery door, I was ready.

  “Do you have any Jonathan Snow? I’ve been asking at every stop on this cruise, and I hear you’re the only gallery that carries his work.”

  I looked at the woman who’d asked the question, wondering whether she was a serious collector or just another gawker. “Yes, Snow grew up in Coho Bay.”

  “Then I’m not too late?” She was breathless, but I still wasn’t sure whether her eagerness was because of the art or the artist. Tabloids and cable news had been full of lurid stories after Johnny’s death, and the demand for his work had far outpaced the supply, driving the prices through the roof. An artist’s work usually increases in value after his or her death, but I’d never seen anything like the feeding frenzy that hit after Johnny died.

  “I have two of his paintings left.” I led her to the back of the gallery where the stunning oils were displayed. “As you can imagine, there’s been quite a demand for his work.”

  She sighed when she caught sight of the paintings. Her features took on a look I’d seen many times, when someone who truly appreciates art sees a piece that speaks to her soul. Collector, I decided. Johnny would have been pleased by her reaction, even though it was unlikely she would be able to afford to buy. He had always been more interested in the emotional impact of his art than the financial.

  “Do you mind if I...”
Her voice fell away.

  “Of course not. Please take all the time you want.” I left her there and returned to the counter in time to see Taylor come through the gallery doors. She was dressed in a white T-shirt under a burgundy, button-down shirt over neatly pressed tan pants. The Merchant’s Association had settled on this look during our first season. Each business chose a different shirt color, and I had chosen a deep burgundy for the gallery. Taylor’s was probably the same outfit she’d worn when she used to work with me. It had been thoughtful of her not only to save it after she’d gotten married, but to bring it with her. Still, if she’d thought ahead enough to pack the outfit, it was odd she hadn’t thought to let me know she was coming. Well, that was Taylor, never quite crossing the t’s or dotting the i’s.

  “Morning,” she said, sliding behind the counter.

  “Afternoon. Sleep well?”

  Taylor leaned over to look at the clock on the counter, carefully hidden from customer view. Clocks made cruisers hurry, worried they’d miss the last tender back to the ship, so you won’t find one on display in any of our shops. She blushed. “Sorry. Jet lag.”

  “You flew in from Seattle, Tay. That’s only one time zone. At least you’ve stopped looking like something the cat dragged in.”

  She turned her back to the sales floor and stuck her tongue out at me. Turning back, her eyes moved slowly around the room until they rested on the woman who was admiring Johnny’s work. A man with a camera had joined her. “That all you have left?” he called out.

  “Yes. You know how it is when an artist...” I stopped, suddenly self-conscious.