Art's Blood Read online

  “Gross,” said Elizabeth, reverting to the language of her youth. Then a light dawned. “Is Kyra just angry about his marrying his mistress or does she think—?”

  “Oh, she’s absolutely sure that her dad put a contract on her mom. She just has no way of proving it…yet.”

  * * *

  Back at the farm late that afternoon, Elizabeth sat in her car, postponing the wearisome task of unloading the groceries. The image of the twisted metal and the red boot kept returning. How soon would the police be able to identify the body in the crushed car? After everything that Laurel had told her about Kyra Peterson’s sad family history, Elizabeth wondered how the young woman would handle the death of her lover. But there’s not much I could do to help— maybe call Laurel and get her to come out. And it could turn out to be someone else in that car.

  She considered calling Phillip Hawkins. Hawkins, formerly a police detective himself, maintained extensive connections with the local law enforcement community. He had been a friend of her late husband’s when the two had served in the navy and had looked up Elizabeth on moving to Asheville the year before. Phillip had taken her to dinner several times (Elizabeth would not call these occasions “dates”), and she had enlisted his aid when a neighbor’s son had been found dead in the river under suspicious circumstances. During the past year Phillip had often found reasons to visit the farm, and he and Elizabeth had developed a casual, if slightly cautious on her part, friendship.

  He’s easy to talk to— and he makes me laugh. Such a nice man but… That was the thing. Phillip was long divorced and had shown clear signs of wanting to take their relationship to another level. And I really like him. But whenever I think about getting involved again after Sam… Strange. It wasn’t so much a sense of loyalty to Sam that kept her from loving another man. No, it was the irrational, nagging feeling that Sam had betrayed her by dying and that she would never let another man do that to her.

  That’s stupid, Elizabeth, she chided herself. She grabbed the canvas shopping bags with the cold items first and started for the house. When she reached the porch, the dogs, Molly and Ursa and James, roused themselves to greet her. Suddenly, tubby little James ran to the edge of the porch and let out a shrill peal. Half dachshund, half Chihuahua, and the worst half of both, Ben had said when the little stray had appeared at the barn one morning. Among other annoying habits, James was given to extravagant and mindless barking, so Elizabeth ignored him and reached for the screen door.

  “Mrs. Goodweather?” The quiet voice made her gasp. Kyra Peterson was coming up the steps. Her face, free of its usual heavy black eye makeup, was tear-streaked and pale. “Mrs. Goodweather, is…is Laurel here by any chance?”

  The spiky black hair was limp now. Kyra was wearing baggy blue running shorts and a loose white T-shirt. She looked fragile and helpless and Elizabeth felt a surge of maternal emotions.

  “Kyra, has something…? Did they…?”

  She couldn’t ask the question but Kyra said, “Boz is dead. They’ve arrested Aidan.” And then the tears began again. The moisture brimmed up in her clear green eyes and spilled softly down her face. Unlike most women, whose faces reddened and contorted in grief, Kyra could still look pretty while crying.

  Elizabeth set her grocery bags on a rocking chair and stepped forward to put her arms around the weeping girl. When at last Kyra was quiet, she let herself be led inside to the comfort of a glass of iced tea. The dogs followed, eager for the cool of the kitchen fan. Molly, the sleek red hound whose black-rimmed yellow eyes and haughty attitude had led Laurel to speculate that the dog was a reincarnated Egyptian princess, composed herself gracefully in front of the fan. Ursa and James, both more sociable by nature, vied for Kyra’s attention, Ursa lying at her feet and little James jumping up on the bench beside her.

  “I wanted to see if Laurel was here, if maybe she could come stay with me for a while.” Kyra’s voice was a whisper and she kept her face averted, stroking the insistent James on the head. “It’s too quiet with Boz and Aidan not there.”

  She brushed her hand across her eyes. “The police came and asked Aidan where he’d been Saturday night after the show and all day Sunday. I told them that he’d been with me but…” She looked up at Elizabeth with a piteous face and pushed James away. “I guess I’m not a very good liar; they kept asking me different things and I got confused.”

  “But why did they arrest Aidan?” Elizabeth sat down beside Kyra.

  “Because they think he killed Boz,” of course. The words hung unsaid between them. “Laurel said she told you about our plan. Just before the show I sent an anonymous letter to the police saying that Aidan hated Boz and had threatened to kill him because he’d stolen me from him. And that Boz hadn’t wanted Aidan in The 3 but let him stay because I insisted. Well, it’s worked in one way: we’ve got plenty of publicity.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “It’s just that Boz was supposed to come back before Aidan actually got arrested.”

  “But Kyra,” Elizabeth asked, trying to keep her voice gentle, “where was Aidan after the show and on Sunday?”

  Kyra looked down at her hands, which were wrapped around her glass of tea. Following her gaze, Elizabeth noticed the small single black roses tattooed on the backs of three of the fingers on her guest’s left hand.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Goodweather. Aidan wouldn’t tell me. He came in last night. Or this morning— it was pretty late, maybe one or two. He asked when I thought the police would get the note and the fun and games would start. He was really happy and we smoked a bowl and then…” She hesitated, studying the roses on her fingers as if seeing them for the first time. “We slept really late and then had breakfast…and we were in bed together when the police came this afternoon. That may be part of why they wouldn’t believe me. Aidan and Boz are both…important to me, just in different ways.” Her expression was defiant as she looked at Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth attempted her best nonjudgmental face. “You wanted Laurel but she’s not here. I think she’s working nights for the next three or four days. But if you don’t like staying by yourself, I have a guest room—”

  “Mrs. Goodweather, could I? Just for a while till…till things get better?”

  Shaggy black Ursa roused herself to rub against Kyra’s knees, seemingly aware of the young woman’s distress. Kyra gave her a pat and continued to look pleadingly at Elizabeth.

  “Of course you can. But enough of the Mrs. Goodweather. Please, I’d rather you call me Elizabeth.”

  “All right…Elizabeth.” Kyra took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing. Laurel told me that you have a boyfriend who’s a detective or something. I wonder if he could help me? I could pay—”

  “He’s not a boyfriend!” The retort was instant and her irritation more obvious than she had intended. Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt at the shocked surprise on her guest’s face and softened her voice. “He’s just…he was a friend of my late husband. But I guess I could call him for you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  AUNT OMIE

  (TUESDAY, AUGUST 30)

  WHY ARE YOU TAKING SO LONG TO GET dressed, you idiot? Just put on something clean and decent. It’s not Oscar night.

  Clad only in her underwear, Elizabeth was standing in front of her closet, trying to decide what to wear. She and Phillip were going, she for the first time, to visit his Aunt Omie in Shut In, the little community beyond Hot Springs. She pulled on a new lime green T-shirt and just as quickly pulled it off, deciding that it was too sloppy looking for a visit to a lady way up in her eighties. And the teal blue silk camp shirt seemed too dressy when she looked in the mirror—this is the country, Elizabeth— so she settled on a noncommittal navy blue linen shirt. A clean pair of khaki slacks completed the outfit. Then there was the question of her hair— up or down? For special occasions she sometimes piled her dark, silver-shot hair into a braided coronet or twisted it into a chignon. Was this a special occasion?

  Somewhat reluctantly she had c
alled Phillip Hawkins on Monday night. Kyra had begun to tell him her story but, overcome with emotion, had wordlessly thrust the phone at her hostess and disappeared into the guest room, her face once again streaked with tears. Elizabeth had tried to explain the complicated scheme worked out by The 3: what she had overheard and what she had been told. She had lowered her voice to give Phillip a little of Kyra’s background. “She’s had a really rough time, Phillip. I’d like to try to help her. She feels sure that Aidan’s innocent.”

  Phillip had already heard some of the story from a buddy at the police department and was surprised to hear of Elizabeth’s involvement, however peripheral. Actually, he had said, “On the trail again, Sherlock?” but had agreed to talk with Kyra. “As long as she understands I’m nothing official, no connection with the Department, no PI license.”

  He had Tuesday free and would come out in the afternoon to hear what more Kyra could tell him. “But first, Elizabeth, will you do me a favor? I told you about my Aunt Omie over in Shut In, didn’t I? Well, I promised to go out there tomorrow for a visit. Would you go with me? I know she’d like to meet you and I think you’d get a kick out of her. Besides, don’t you make quilts? Aunt Omie has some beauties, some that her mother and even her grandmother made.”

  The persuasion was blatant but the temptation had been too great; Elizabeth had rapidly rearranged the plans she had made for Tuesday (weed eating and sowing fall lettuce) and had agreed to meet Phillip down at her lower barn at ten-thirty. “It’ll take about an hour and Aunt Omie will fix lunch for us…. No, she’d get her feelings hurt if she couldn’t feed me. Besides, her cornbread alone is worth the trip.”

  So it was that Elizabeth found herself riding with Phillip Hawkins through the twists and turns of the road beyond Hot Springs. She had seen little of him since April, when after a pleasant dinner he had abruptly announced that he had to go back to Beaufort for a time. She knew that his ex-wife lived near there and wondered if that was the reason for the trip, but she refused to ask any questions and Phillip volunteered no explanation. He had called her again, was it back in June? to say that he had returned, but she had been too busy with her garden and the responsibilities of the farm to accept his invitation to a concert. And when he had called a second time, she had had some other pressing engagement, probably washing my hair, she thought. She glanced over at Phillip, whose whole attention was focused on the narrow winding road.

  He’s not exactly handsome, she told herself, not like Sam was. But he’s pleasant looking and he has soulful eyes. And he looks good bald. She remembered that she had once described Phillip to a curious friend as looking “like Danny DeVito but tall.” Not real tall, but about six feet and solidly built.

  Phillip suddenly glanced at her and she felt herself flush. He smiled and said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “I haven’t asked you about Janie.” Elizabeth grasped at a topic while wondering if Hawkins had been aware of her careful appraisal. “What’s she doing now? And Seth, what’s he up to?”

  Phillip’s daughter Janie, a sometime student at UNC–Asheville, was one of the reasons he had relocated from the coast. Emotionally volatile, Janie seemed to respond well to the continuing presence of her father, and his patient attempts to keep his daughter on track were one of the most endearing things about this big bear of a man.

  “Janie’s back in school and doing really great this semester.” Phillip’s face radiated pride. “She’s switched to psychology and likes it. And Seth’s got a fellowship to stay and do graduate work at ECU. What about your kids?”

  “Rosemary’s still at Carolina— assistant professor in the English department. She’s working on a book about present-day Southern fiction— people like Lee Smith and Clyde Edgerton and Sharyn McCrumb and Tony Earley. She’s happy as can be, has even bought a little house outside Chapel Hill. Laurel’s doing art and tending bar, not much change there. And of course Ben’s my mainstay on the farm.”

  She hesitated, seeking the right words. “Phillip…I feel bad that it’s been so long since we got together. I’m glad you asked me to come with you to see Aunt Omie.”

  Phillip kept his eyes on the road. He said nothing but a smile began to creep over his face.

  * * *

  She was waiting on the porch of her tiny log cabin. Though bent with age, Omie moved spryly and skittered down the worn plank steps as nimbly as a much younger woman. She was beside the car as it came to a stop and began talking before Phillip could open the door. “Well, Phillip Lee, I sure am proud you come today. And you brung your lady friend too.”

  Bright blue eyes in a cheerful, wrinkled face surveyed Elizabeth unabashedly. “Look at that pretty braid of hair. Law, hit hangs ’most down to your waist. Come right in and get y’uns a chair. I got our dinner all ready. Mind that bottom step, hit’s a mite slick.”

  At Aunt Omie’s insistence they took seats at the chrome and formica kitchen table that seemed to be de rigueur in mountain homes. Once Elizabeth had wondered what had happened to the rustic wooden tables that must have originally been in use in these old houses but, after a trip to an antique mall in Asheville, she had realized that they were now collectors’ items, selling at prices that would make their original owners doubt the sanity of the modern world.

  The kitchen was very warm and full of the smells of cooking; Aunt Omie had evidently been using the white enamel Modern Maid wood-burning cookstove, but the back door stood open and a cross draft lifted the brightly printed curtains at the window over the sink. A dozen jars of what looked like apple jelly sat on the counter, partly covered by a faded dishtowel, and an assortment of battered cookware crowded the vast range top. Omie set three worn Blue Willow plates on the table and began to dish up the contents of the various pots and pans. Creamed corn, smothered potatoes, green beans cooked with pork, and a small dish of fried sausage patties were the center of the feast. But the old woman kept producing dish after dish: a big pat of bright yellow home-churned butter to go with the cake of white-meal cornbread that she dumped out of a black iron skillet onto a plate, big, soft, lightly browned biscuits—“I fixed ’em fer breakfast but they might go good with some of this new jelly”— a pint jar of bread and butter pickles, thick slices of ripe red tomatoes, blackberry jam, the still-warm apple jelly, and a choice of buttermilk or sweet milk to drink.

  There was a lump in Elizabeth’s throat as she thought of how many times she had eaten almost this identical meal at her neighbor Dessie’s house, back when Dessie had been strong and able to keep a cow, to churn, and to can. The old ways were dying with this generation; Dessie’s children had jobs away from home and grabbed a fast-food lunch, often as not. And those who stayed at home were usually content with peanut butter on Wonder bread.

  When Aunt Omie finally took her seat, she fixed Phillip with a piercing gaze. “Will you return thanks, Phillip Lee?” Without waiting for an answer, she bowed her head and clasped her hands.

  Phillip and Elizabeth did the same and Phillip began. “Our blessed, divine, heavenly father, bless this food to our use and…and…” He faltered. “…this food to our use…”

  “And to the nourishments of our bodies,” Aunt Omie prompted without opening her eyes.

  “…and to the nourishments of our bodies. Help us and guide us; keep us where wouldst have us. In Jesus’ holy name, amen.”

  Phillip rattled off the remainder of the prayer without hesitation and gave the older woman a relieved smile. She looked at him for a long moment, then sniffed. “Was you to say that three times a day, you’d not fergit it.”

  As they ate, Phillip and his aunt caught up on family news. Elizabeth smiled to see the little woman treat Phillip as if he were a teenager. The age he was when he used to spend all summer with her. She still doesn’t think he has any sense.

  When they had eaten far more than was comfortable, including outsized helpings of meringue-topped banana pudding, Phillip pushed back from the table. “Aunt Omie, I told Elizabeth you’d show her
your quilts. She makes quilts too. And I’ll do the dishes.” He held up a forestalling hand. “Just the way you taught me.”

  “Well…” Aunt Omie’s brow creased and she pursed her lips. “All right then. I’ll just hot up the fire a mite. You want the water in that kettle bilin’ hot to rinse off them dishes. And mind you wash the glasses first.”

  * * *

  “The quilts is back here in my spare room.” Omie glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen where Phillip was stacking dishes beside the sink. “Ay law, I hope that boy don’t break Mommy’s willow pattern plates.” Elizabeth followed her hostess down a narrow hallway and into a little bedroom with pale lavender walls and a linoleum floor patterned in swirling misty grays and blues. An old white-enameled iron bed with a blue-and-white woven coverlet filled most of the space.

  “What pretty colors.” Elizabeth glanced down at her hostess, who was reaching for the long hanging string to turn on the bare bulb in the center of the white-painted ceiling.

  Omie beamed. “How do you like my pretty linoleum rug? I put hit on layaway in nineteen and fifty-one and paid hit off in nineteen and fifty-four. Law, I was proud when hit went down. Now the quilts is in the chest at the bed foot. Just pull them piles of newspapers off the chest top and put ’em on the floor.”

  Most of the quilts were similar to ones Elizabeth had seen in the homes of her neighbors: string-pieced squares and diamonds that used even the smallest scraps of cloth. Many of the quilts appeared to be pieced of the flowered feed-sack material that had been popular in the thirties and forties. There were a few bright examples that used scraps of double-knit polyester and one heavy wool quilt of somber gray and blue and brown rectangles, probably a tailor’s discarded samples. The women of these mountains took what they could find and turned it into art, Elizabeth thought as she opened out a beautiful Lone Star pieced in purples, pinks, and reds on a deep green background.