Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) Read online

  “It’s definitely her. Believe me, I’d know that chin anywhere.”

  “Sounds like you had trouble with her.”

  “Not really. She was just your average, everyday meddling neighbor,” I replied, growing increasingly restless with this whole procedure. I was tired of answering questions as though I was a suspect. It wasn’t my fault I had plumbing problems, although admittedly, they were bigger ones than I had originally suspected.

  “That bad, huh?”

  I looked over to see if he was commiserating or pumping me for information. Unfortunately, his face didn’t give anything away. I shook my head. “Elizabeth was a hybrid...a cross between Queen Elizabeth and Aunt Bea. She could dissect, critique, and rearrange my life while pouring coffee and patting my hand.” Oh, God, I could feel the rush of tears bottling up behind my eyes while my nose started to run. I hate any kind of womanly emotion like the sudden spurt of tears that threatened to burst forth, especially when I was doing my damnedest to buck up and maintain control. My revulsion for tears probably springs from my upbringing. My brother, Andy, couldn’t stand to see any woman cry, and when we were growing up he’d haul off and punch me in the arm if my eyes even started to mist. He thought it was unmanly to cry, and since I was the nearest thing he had to a brother, he expected me to feel the same way.

  Villari gently touched my hand. “You really cared about her, didn’t you?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose in a vain attempt to stop sniffling. “She was lonely... probably like a lot of older people. Her husband died ten or fifteen years ago,” I said, waving in the general direction of her house, which was mostly obscured by the line of pine trees and scrub oak that separated our properties, “and obviously left her a boatload of money. Apparently, it didn’t change her disposition too much because she was always popping in to boss me around or complain about one thing or another. But mostly, she was interested in my artwork.”

  “Your artwork?”

  “Yeah, I sculpt.”

  “You sculpt?”

  “Why are you repeating everything I say?”

  “Sorry. I haven’t run into too many artists. I guess I expected more of a bohemian sort of look. You know, lots of color, flowing scarves, that kind of thing.” Villari looked embarrassed. “Maybe a knitted hat or a pair of leather sandals,” he added lamely.

  “And I don’t quite match the image?” It was amusing to watch this big hunk of a man squirm, although I could understand how he felt. Wearing my usual outfit of baggy shorts and oversized T-shirt, I looked more like a scruffy tomboy than anything else, a look I’d grappled with for years. At different times in my life, I took a stab at looking more, well, womanly. I tried to develop a somewhat sophisticated image, thinking it would start to feel right, even comfortable, if I let it hang there long enough. In reality, though, my blouses caved in where they were supposed to expand and my feet hurt like hell in heels, so I returned to sneakers before I ended up toppling down a flight of stairs and breaking an ankle.

  So I’m stuck with me, a very average five-foot-five woman with a mess of brown curls that spring in every direction except the one I want. My chest is fair to flat and my legs are lean enough but could definitely use a shave on a more regular basis, and some lotion action. Everyone says my eyes—green—are my best feature, which is lucky for me because I don’t do anything more than swipe on a little mascara to spruce them up. My nose is pretty nondescript. It’s not cute or perky or turned up or down, or anything more than functional. All in all, I possess enough looks to keep a man from gagging, and if I’m lucky, catch a date now and then.

  “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”

  Yeah, sure. “Look, it’s no problem. It isn’t my real job. I mean I don’t support myself by sculpting, at least not yet, although it’s always been a dream of mine. In real life, I’m a teacher.”

  He raised his brow skeptically.

  “It’s true. I teach art at the elementary school down the road.” I held up my hand to stop him from sticking his foot in his mouth a second time. “I know, I know. I don’t look like a teacher either. The only thing I do look like is a third baseman on a weekend softball team—a position I do play, by the way—with extraordinarily bad taste in clothes.”

  A small, slightly lopsided grin hovered over Villari’s lips, vanishing quickly as he remembered why he was sitting next to me in the first place.

  "I got the impression that Elizabeth thought I was--” I hesitated.

  “Was what?”

  “Talented.” I could feel the flush burning my cheeks. Despite the way my big mouth shoots off now and then, I’m actually pretty modest when it comes to talking about my sculpture. The truth is, sometimes I can’t shake the feeling that I’m only kidding myself, that one day I’ll wake up and find I’m just goofing around with a chunk of clay.

  “Not to be rude, but why would that matter to her?”

  I had asked myself the same question a million times. “She never really told me for sure.”

  “But you have an idea.”

  “I got the feeling that she wanted to support me somehow.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was my imagination, or my deepest hope, but she was awfully critical of my work and kept pushing and prodding me to change this or that. She seemed to take it very seriously. And when something was done to her satisfaction, she acted proud, like it was her work, too.”

  Villari seemed to be deep in thought. “Did you ever meet any members of her family?”

  “You mean those ‘two spoiled brats that aren’t smart enough to spell Boyer and don’t have enough backbone to carry the name’?”

  “I suppose those were her words?”

  “Yep. She thought the two grandkids were useless.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Cassandra is practically a stranger to me. She doesn’t spend much time being neighborly. Aside from watching her zip in and out of Elizabeth's driveway in her little red BMW, I hardly see her.”

  “And her brother?”

  “He’s a jerk. It was one thing Elizabeth and I completely agreed on.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Find out for yourself. He’s marching his skinny little ass over here right now.”

  Chapter Two

  Preston Boyer was one of those guys who just begged to be made fun of and I have no doubt his school years were a nightmare. Despite my feelings, which ranged from extreme dislike to total revulsion, I felt little twinges of sadness for his life growing up. I could see him as a little boy, his pasty white face staring arrogantly from behind black horn-rimmed glasses, his spindly body stiffly encased in a perfectly starched white shirt and pressed pleated pants. It wasn’t just his appearance that made you want to flatten his sharp little nose; it was his attitude—a superior, patronizing demeanor—that would attract bullies like maggots to rotted meat. He was so obnoxious I’m sure he garnered very little sympathy, despite having lost both parents in a grisly automobile accident, a head-on collision with a drunk driver one New Year’s Eve.

  I never knew him as a child, but I doubt he had changed much over the years. Although Elizabeth Boyer talked infrequently about her grandson, she had dropped little bits of information over the years, details delivered tonelessly, with little warmth or affection. Apparently he was a loner and had very few friends, none of whom she ever named. I’m not sure she could have named them if she’d wanted to. He seemed to live life on the sidelines while sneering at those getting dirty in the middle of the game. Elizabeth, insisting I use her first name, called Preston her greatest failure.

  “I don’t know,” she mused aloud one day while staring out my studio window, “whether Preston was always so distant or whether it was just the trauma of losing his mother and father at the same time. Somehow he associates me with their death and sometimes I believe he hates me, as though I killed his parents.” She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. “It was a horrible time, one that I try to push into the back of my mind as muc
h as possible. But then, it never goes away, does it?”

  I laid my sketchpad down on my lap and hooked my ankles on the legs of the stool. “I don’t think you ever forget something like that. When my mother died, my father took her photograph off the mantel. It was a picture of her crouching in the garden with all these colorful flowers surrounding her. Flowers she was in the middle of planting. He had snapped the shot without her realizing it, and I still remember her complaining about how awful she looked. But it was his favorite picture.” I paused. It was still hard to talk about her death without sliding into a cavern of sadness. “Anyway, my dad took the picture and commissioned an artist to paint a large portrait. He hung it in his office across from his desk so he could see it every day as he worked. At first I thought it was really sweet, but after a few years I began to think it was morbid, that he ought to take it down and get on with his life.”

  Elizabeth turned slowly from the window. “And now what do you think?”

  “That it was his way of grieving. He never stopped loving her, but he needed something to look at, something to talk to as he mourned. Eventually, the pain began to ease a little. Years later, after I left home, he remarried. She’s a very nice lady.”

  “And the portrait?”

  “It’s still in his office. I’m not sure, but I think he still talks to her. He probably can’t wait for my mom to meet Sherri, the woman he married.”

  She sighed. “I’m afraid that will never happen to Preston. He seems incapable of putting anything behind him, and quite frankly, women don’t seem to find him very attractive or appealing.” Then she delivered the sucker punch. “Of course, if someone who knew his background and understood what he’s been through, if someone like that spent some time with him—”

  Dear God, tell me what I thought was happening wasn’t really happening.

  “Uh, Elizabeth, I think Preston would prefer to find his own dates. He doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy being set up. Matchmaking seldom works, you know.” I was starting to babble, but that was because a heavy dose of panic was constricting my chest.

  “My dear child, Preston doesn’t have the first idea of what is good for him. Never has. He spends his days in that dreary office downtown, hating every minute of it, and hating me for securing the job for him. But what choice did I have? The boy never applied himself in school and made terrible grades. Where else could he go?”

  As she talked, I drew several firm strokes and fleshed out the woman’s leg, smudging the charcoal lines with the side of my palm as I went along. “Besides that, Preston has never been very friendly towards me. I really don’t think he likes me.”

  Elizabeth left her spot by the window and came to stand next to me. “The calves need more definition, Maggie.”

  As much as it annoyed me to admit, she was right. As usual. I added a few short lines, tensed up the slender muscle, and arched the foot.

  She paced the floor behind me. “Maggie, Preston hates everyone, me especially. Quite frankly, I’m not all that wild about him or his sister, but it is my job to do the best I can, and I think a woman is called for in this instance.” She stopped and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Please say you’ll try it one night, something casual like dinner, and if it doesn’t work out, I promise to let the matter drop.”

  So I capitulated like the spineless excuse of a woman that I was.

  Of course, it came as no surprise that dinner was a total disaster.

  And now, watching that bony little twerp navigating his way across my lawn, I wanted to reach out and pummel his nose just like the bullies of his youth because I couldn’t stand to see his mousy little face sully the memory of a woman who lovingly badgered me every day of my life. A woman now zipped into a body bag.

  I stood up before he reached the porch. “Hello, Preston.”

  He shot a venomous glare my way and then spoke directly to Villari, who rose to stand next to me.

  “Just what the hell are you doing about my grandmother’s death? We have a murder here and the two of you are sitting on the steps gabbing like teenagers.”

  “I’m well aware of what we have here, Mr. Boyer.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be testing for fingerprints and whatever else one does in a murder case?” he retorted, “something other than wasting time with a wannabe artist?” His insolent gaze swept up and down my body like I was a piece of rotting fruit. “My grandmother may have wasted her time with this woman,” he spat, “but I see no reason for the rest of us, especially the police, to do the same.”

  Apparently he didn’t enjoy our date any more than I did.

  “I realize this is difficult for you,” Villari began, “but hostility will get us nowhere.”

  “And exactly where do you see this little chat with Ms. Kean taking us?”

  Villari was doing a masterful job of keeping his temper in check. I glanced at his profile and, judging by the clenched jaw and protruding vein in his temple, realized he was one step away from tossing Preston in the septic tank himself.

  “Mr. Boyer, the police are doing everything possible right now,” he explained in a very calm, well-modulated voice. “Your grandmother is being taken to the medical examiner’s office, where an autopsy will be performed. In the meantime, we are scouring the grounds and interviewing neighbors for information, which is why I was talking to Ms. Kean here before you interrupted. A police investigation must seem interminably slow to the victim’s family and I apologize for that. But being methodical and thorough is a necessity.”

  “You sound like a cop speaking to a class of third graders on Career Day. My grandmother just died. She was murdered, for God’s sake, and I want to see my tax dollars going to something other than a dozen donuts and a cup of hot coffee.”

  “Then I suggest you go back home and write the mayor, Mr. Boyer, and get the hell out of my way.”

  I didn’t think it was possible for Preston to blanch, not with that bleached-out, pasty skin of his. But sure enough, the little color he did possess simply drained from his face, leaving a chalky-white complexion that was even less attractive than before.

  “You have no right to talk to me that way,” he sputtered. “I want to speak to your captain and I want to speak to him now.”

  Villari stepped down until he was standing eye to eye with Preston. The Shaggy Mane not only topped six feet, an easy five-inch advantage, but his lean, athletic body was powerful enough to squash Preston like the annoying gnat he was, without breaking a sweat.

  “If you want to talk to my captain, look him up in the phone book. In the meantime, crawl back into that hole you emerged from until I’m ready to question you.” He leaned forward. “And trust me, Mr. Boyer, I will be questioning you very soon." Villari stared a minute longer and then looked up and over. At me.

  “Don’t leave town, Ms. Kean. I’m sure we’ll be talking again.” He put two fingers against his brow and sent me a lazy salute before turning and walking away.

  “Why would he want to talk with you, Maggie?”

  I remained on the porch. Without Villari’s height advantage, I was as close to Preston as I wanted to be. The little weasel gave me the creeps.

  “Gee, it’s hard to imagine. I wonder if it could have anything to do with a dead body that showed up in my yard?”

  “You always were such a smartass. I never could understand what Grandmother saw in you.”

  “And I never could understand how you could be carrying her genes.” The little runt had a big mouth and nothing to back it up. His nasty demeanor didn’t intimidate me, but it angered me enough to throw diplomacy to the wind. Marching down the steps, I stopped in front of Preston and poked my finger in his chest. “Listen, you little twerp. Why don’t you cooperate with the police so they can find out who did this to your grandmother? Try dropping the haughty attitude for a change. You might discover that people don’t find you nearly as repulsive as they do now."

  "I don't give a damn what people think about me," he sneered,
grabbing my arm as I started past him.

  I stopped. “Sure you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t work so hard at trying to make them hate you.”

  He tightened his grip. “You’re going to psychoanalyze me?” he asked incredulously.

  “I don’t have the time or the interest, Preston. Right now I have a friend to mourn.” Emotions I couldn’t read flitted across his face. I stared straight into his eyes without flinching until he released his grip. I headed across the yard, taking a wide turn around the septic tank, which was still open and surrounded by cops. Apparently they had grown accustomed to the stench. The gravel driveway crunched under my feet as I passed a few feet behind Detective Villari. He was talking to the serviceman, the same one who had found my neighbor this morning.

  “Didn’t notice anything,” I heard him say. Villari jotted a few notes down and asked something I couldn’t hear. The guy in the striped shirt shook his head.

  “Nope. It was my first appointment.”

  Not wanting to hear any more, I hurried past and followed the sidewalk toward what I called my backyard. A crooked row of shrubbery, trees and scrub oak separated the front section of my property, where my house stood, from that of my neighbor, but the back was wide open. Elizabeth Boyer had requested that it be kept that way. All the previous occupants agreed, as I did, and the land was left alone, unmarred by rock, brick, or barbed-wire fences. It was left as nature intended, wild and spacious, overflowing with ponderosa pines and blue spruce trees. I liked having a private forest behind my house and took long walks following a narrow trail whenever I could get away. I was headed there now, looking forward to the cool shade and fresh pine scent, when my stomach lurched at the very loud, very familiar sound. It was the slam of expensive brakes and the pings of little rocks ricocheting off the underbelly of a car as it fishtailed on the gravel road. I didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

  “Maggie!”

  “As if Preston wasn’t bad enough, Queen Bee just arrived,” I muttered, picking up speed until I was practically jogging toward the back forest. The last thing I wanted was a scene. Cassandra Boyer was the antithesis of her brother. She inherited all the looks in the family and all the dramatic flair. If she wanted something, she went after it, even if it meant parking her car in the midst of thirty or more cops milling around a taped-off crime scene. Cassandra ignored the whole bunch of them to pursue me with a vengeance.