Part 23 (1/2)
Nevertheless she approached them and waited patiently to be waited on. As it happened she got the girl, who raked her over with her gaze, taking in every inch of her appearance.
”What can I get you?”
She spoke with a slight speech impediment, but Cait decided that was due to the piercing on her tongue. The girl couldn't be more than fifteen, with brown hair in need of a wash, and an unfortunate complexion.
”I'd like to speak to the owner. Is he or she around?”
As an answer the teenager turned away toward a door that led to a back room. ”Mom! Someone here to see you.”
Obviously feeling like she'd done her duty, the girl walked by Cait to wait on the next customer. Several moments pa.s.sed before a woman appeared in the doorway, a frown on her face as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and scanned the interior of the shop.
”You're the owner?” Cait was already reaching for the file folder she carried with the victims' pictures.
”Casey Teames. And you're not a salesperson.” Something in the woman's stance eased and she came closer to the counter, leaned both hands against it. ”Sorry, but that's about the only people who come in asking for me.”
A slight smile curving her lips, Cait pressed her temporary Sheriff's Department ID against the clear plastic back-splash separating them. ”No, I'm not here to sell you anything. I just have a few questions. How long have you owned this shop?”
The woman gave the ID a cursory glance before returning her gaze to Cait. ”Nine years, I guess. No wait, eight and a half. Steph was in second grade when we bought it, and she's a soph.o.m.ore now.” She slid a quick glance to the girl who was now giggling with the boy working beside her. ”Hard to believe.”
Pa.s.sing the pictures of the two victims to Casey, Cait said, ”Both of these people have been tourists in the area in the past few years. Recognize either of them?”
To her credit, the other woman took her time studying each, before slowly shaking her head and pa.s.sing the photos back. ”I don't. Sorry. We usually get a lot of people in and out of here in the summer and fall. Is there any reason I should recognize them?”
Ready to move on, she said, ”Not really. I'll be hitting as many shops in the area as I can to ask the same question. I appreciate your time.”
There was a slightly puzzled expression on the woman's face, but it was clear the majority of her focus was on her daughter and the girl's attention to the boy working with her. ”No problem.”
Cait vacated the shop and wended her way through the half-filled tables on the walk outside it to move on to the next store, a small crowded s.p.a.ce featuring leather goods. The owner, a lean taciturn man by the name of Jacob Beales, spent much less time looking at the photos than Casey Teames had, and much more time pressing his wares on her.
”Finest leather goods in the area, and everyone around here will tell you the same.” He picked up a brown suede purse and tried to thrust it into her hands. ”Just feel that. Doe skin. You may pay less at a country fair, but then you'd never be able to find the vendor again if something goes wrong. I guarantee everything I sell. Thirty days, same as cash.”
The bell on the door tinkled, and Cait took advantage of the diversion to make her escape back outside.
She remembered the gift shop next door. She'd spent a bit of time looking in its windows the last time she'd strolled Main Street. Pus.h.i.+ng the door open, she entered to find it crowded with several browsers.
With a quick glance toward the front, she saw one woman with gray braids pinned up on her head manning a cash register and another, a couple decades younger, helping a couple trying to decide between two paintings on whitewashed canvas.
Cait decided to use her intervening time perusing the rows of artwork lining ledges along one wall. But after only a few moments, she decided that nothing on display came close to the images painted on back of the scapulas. Not, she admitted silently, that she would necessarily recognize the style on a bigger canvas. But it reminded her to show the picture she'd brought of close-ups taken of a few of the images, just in case.
”Ms. Fleming. Decide to buy a painting after all?”
The familiar voice had her turning. And smiling when she saw Jeffrey Rus...o...b..hind her. ”Just poking around. What about you? Looking for another place to display your work?”
”Can't paint fast enough to keep my gallery happy as it is.” Today he was dressed in creased walking shorts, Birken stocks, and a b.u.t.toned-down s.h.i.+rt. With a flip of his hand, he indicated his fiancee on the far side of the store. ”You remember Candi Montrose? She's trying to decide whether to make an offer on this place. It wouldn't be my first choice, but she's the one with the head for numbers. And according to her figures, it's very successful, given its limited inventory.”
Cait's gaze lingered on the woman for a moment. There was a certain charm to the shop, but somehow she couldn't imagine Candi spending her days inside it, waiting on demanding customers. She reminded Cait of her mother. Although the women didn't look alike, they shared a similar regal bearing and a vague sense of ent.i.tlement. Something that said they were born for better and that their expectations in life had never quite been met.
”And how is your case going? I'll admit to being intrigued enough by the details to listen to every bit of news there is about it. The news of the bones being found in Mimosa Creek was absolutely chilling.”
Her attention firmly back on the man at her side, she said, ”Have you ever been there? To the springs?”
The elderly man shook his head. ”Candi's not much of an outdoorswoman. Are you close to making an arrest?”
The retired professor, she decided, was something of a gossip. ”The case is progressing. We have several leads we're following.”
”Cop speak,” he complained, but his eyes were twinkling. ”I've watched enough TV to recognize it.”
”Maybe so. But that doesn't make it untrue.”
Russo lowered his voice. ”I heard some young lovers found the bones when they snuck into the springs au naturel.”
”You heard wrong.” The man looked so crestfallen that she almost felt sorry for her response. ”As usual truth isn't as an exciting as rumors.”
”Well, that's to be expected, I suppose.” His tone was rueful. ”Never believe everything you hear, right? Small-town grapevines are like university campuses. Facts change to become more t.i.tillating.” He scanned the displayed artwork critically. ”See anything that meets your fancy?”
Coming to a sudden decision, Cait took the camera picture of some of the images she'd blown up that had been found on male E. Handing the sheet to him, she watched his expression closely. ”Actually, I'm looking for something along the lines of this art work.”
His expression went from curious to scholarly. ”Shows apt.i.tude, undoubtedly. There's uniqueness to the line movement. The technique is solid. Originality is hard to determine since he or she has chosen familiar objects. But this artist hasn't had formal training.” He handed the sheet back to her.
”Why do you say that?”
”Several reasons.” Russo slipped his hands into the pockets of his shorts and sent a quick glance at his fiancee before returning his gaze to Cait. ”The materials used in the paintings are subpar, for one thing. Garish rather than soft or bold. It's difficult to enter into the work, as the over-specificity of content lacks individualization.” Her expression must have been blank, because he explained, ”Even in the rendition of familiar objects, something of the artist should be imbued in the work. Whether in the lighting, brushwork, spatial relations.h.i.+ps . . . if the objective is to paint exactly what you see, one may as well use a camera.”
As if suddenly realizing he may have insulted her taste, his expression became arrested. ”But of course if you enjoy this artist's work, if it speaks to you on some level, don't let my opinion sway you. The most important thing about a piece is how it makes you feel.”
Dark humor filled her. How these particular images made her feel was hardly appropriate subject matter to be discussing with the professor. But if he was correct about the UNSUB being untrained as an artist, that, too, helped her get a handle on the offender.
”I appreciate your insight.” She tucked the page back into the folder.
Rus...o...b..gan to move away. ”Looks like Candi is ready. I hope you find more of that artwork you're interested in.”
Cait murmured a good-bye and strolled closer to the ladies manning the front of the shop. Despite the warmth in the shop, the professor's parting words gave her a chill.
Because she found herself hoping exactly the opposite. She was hoping the person responsible for this particular work was finished. That they'd catch him before he ”created” again.
It was nearly twenty minutes before she was able to speak to one of the women running the store. It was the elderly of the two who waited on her with a wide smile and a discreet glance that took in the fact that Cait had no store items in her hands. ”How can I help you?”
Handing her the two photos, she said, ”I'm wondering if you recognize either of these people. Both have been tourists in the area in recent years.” She stopped, a bit bemused as she caught sight of the woman's nametag. MOONBEAM. Either the woman's parents had hated her when she was born or she'd changed her name for her own incomprehensible reasons. Whichever it was, the woman was studying the pictures intently.
After a few moments Moonbeam tapped the picture of Recinos. ”She has such a tragic aura,” she murmured before lifting her gaze to Cait. ”Who is she?”
”Do you recognize her?”
The woman shook her head. ”I don't think she's been in here this year. Him, either, for that matter. I have a pretty good memory for people. Always recognize our return customers. Some people vacation here every year,” she explained, leading Cait a little to the side so clients could make their way more easily to the cash register. ”Or at least return for a weekend or two. We get folks from all over the country and every once in a while from overseas. That's why we keep the guest-book. It's sort of fun to figure how many states have been represented here each year.”
Spying the large register-like notebook on a table to the side of the door, Cait moved toward it, interest sharpening. She waited impatiently for the girl signing it to finish before moving in front of it and flipped through the pages. ”Do you put a new book out every year?”