Live and Let Pie Page 14

  I understood his point but embracing darkness didn’t resonate with me. I had made it my life’s work to spread light in the form of warm, comforting pastries and handmade pies.

  Henry showed me a collection of new works. These were smaller. Unlike the broad, sweeping strokes on his bigger pieces, the new art was on small canvases and resembled human form, only each body was contorted so that prominent features like a nose or arms were missing or placed in the wrong spot. Like an ear sticking out of a toe.

  “These are…” I struggled to find the right word. “Interesting.”

  If Henry noticed me pause he gave no indication. “Yes. I’ve been morphing my stroke work lately and am enjoying where these are taking me.”

  “Do you have a background in art?”

  He stared at me for a minute. “I thought you grew up in Ashland.”

  “I did.” I got the feeling that I had offended him.

  “I taught at SOU.”

  “Oh, I had no idea. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, you’re too young to remember that far back.” He laughed. “Not many of us old fogies around these days.”

  “Were you an art professor?”

  “Yep.” He nodded. “It used to drive Edgar crazy. We were like oil and water when it came to art. He didn’t understand the process, the result. My work made him squeamish. I was good with that. Art is supposed to move you. I would tell my students not to fear negative reactions. Good art—great art—evokes a response. Any response. If you walk by a painting and don’t even turn your head, that’s an insult, but if you tell me that my work is too dark or revolting, I’ve done my job.” He reached for a tiny paintbrush and dabbed the corner of a canvas. “I suppose that doesn’t work in your line of business, does it? People don’t want revolting pastries.”

  “We try to avoid serving revolting pastries.” I laughed. “This is amazing. You should do a showing in town. People would love knowing that a retired SOU professor is still here and painting prolifically.”

  “Nah.” Henry used the softest touch with the edge of the paintbrush. “I’m a hermit. My days of showing my work are over. This is for me. Keeps me out of trouble as my wife used to say.”

  I didn’t press him, but when I got back to Torte I was going to do a little research into Henry. Even if he didn’t want to do a formal gallery showing, I was sure that the local paper would want to do a feature story on him and his connection to the university.

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary at Edgar’s place the other night?” I asked, steering the conversation to Edgar. “The police are saying that someone killed him. I keep wondering if maybe he had something to do with George’s murder and couldn’t live with the guilt.”

  Henry dropped the paintbrush. “What?” He reached down to pick it up and then wiped paint on his overalls. “Why?”

  “Well, in part because of what you told me about him and Anna Mill. If George broke them up, do you think Edgar could have killed him?” I hoped that I sounded causal.

  “Edgar? No.”

  I could tell that I had made him uncomfortable. I felt bad for suggesting that his longtime friend could be a killer.

  “I happened to bump into Gretchen, the director of the homeless council, right after Edgar was killed; do you know her?” I changed the subject again.

  “Gretchen, yeah, I know her.” He didn’t elaborate. Nor did he look enthused when I mentioned her name.

  “It seems like a lot of people are vying for the empty lot,” I continued. “Gretchen, Stella the developer, even OSF.”

  “Good luck to all of them.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Edgar wasn’t going to sell to any of them.”

  “Really? Did he tell you that?”

  “Not in so many words. But I knew the man for far too many years, and I can tell you this. He was motivated by one thing and one thing alone.”

  “What was that?”

  “Money,” Henry huffed.

  “But he lived in such a rundown space.”

  “Right. Because he refused to put a dime into it. I told him a thousand times he couldn’t take his cash with him to the grave, but the man was cheap and because of that he was also a millionaire.”

  “What?” I couldn’t picture it. Edgar’s house was falling down—literally. When I had met him, he looked as if he could use Gretchen’s service. Now Henry was telling me that he was rich?

  Henry nodded. “Yep. The man saved every single cent. He was the cheapest person I’ve ever met. You know who bought every bottle of expensive gin we drank together? Me. We argued all the time about the fact that his cabin was slowly sinking, a potential deathtrap, but he didn’t care. He kept piling up the nickels and dimes. I guarantee you that his net worth account is triple that of any of the people who live in the huge mansions up on Scenic Drive. He owned more land in the Rogue Valley than God.”

  “I believe you, but it’s so strange to think about someone who lived like Edgar being a millionaire.”

  “Believe it. Remember, we’re from a different era. These days students spend twenty minutes making a video and end up bringing home millions. In my day we had to work and save and then work and save some more. That’s what Edgar did. He bought the cheapest property on the cheapest lot in Ashland back in the day and then saved every red cent that he made. He was a hoarder. Have you ever seen inside his shack? It’s like something straight out of the depression era. He saved every coffee can, every newspaper.”

  “You’re right. You definitely wouldn’t know from the outside that he was rich.”

  “That’s the way he liked it. For all I know he kept his stash of cash under his mattress. He didn’t trust anyone with his money. Not banks. Not a single living soul.” An alarm beeped on Henry’s wrist. “Time to take my meds.”

  “I’ll let you go. Thanks for the tour and letting me see your art. It’s incredible.”

  “Stop by anytime. I’m usually here.”

  He shuffled into the house. I left armed with new information. Edgar was a millionaire. I wasn’t sure what that meant in terms of the case, but I knew that he had money—and plenty of it. Could that have given someone yet another motive for murder?

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning Mom called to ask if I would take a second look at the Emigrant Lake house with her. I didn’t hesitate. The house was meant for her and the Professor. Plus it would give me a chance to wander around the lake for a few minutes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there might be a connection between Edgar’s murder and the discovery of George Mill’s body. I kicked myself for not asking Henry more about it last night.

  When we hit a lull between the morning and lunch rushes, I scooted out to meet Mom at the lake. Glorious summer weather greeted me. The hills glowed in golden tones. A vast blue sky stretched before me. There was no sign of police activity at the lake. Kids jumped from the docks and floated on inflatable rafts. It was surreal to think about the fact that an abandoned town lay under the lake’s calm waters.

  Mom and I toured the house again, without Stella breathing down our necks. She ran her fingers along the cool countertops. “I love this kitchen, honey, don’t you?”

  “It’s perfect. I can see you here. Can’t you imagine Thanksgiving and Christmas? You can put the dining room table there.” I pointed to the wall of windows opposite the open kitchen. They boasted a spectacular view of the lake below. “We can watch the winter birds migrating while we feast on your homemade Parker House rolls and the Professor’s chestnut stuffing.”

  “You’re making me hungry. That’s not fair. I’m supposed to be of sound mind and body when making a decision about purchasing a new house.” Mom winked.

  The Professor appeared in the door frame. “Did someone mention chestnut stuffing?”

  “Guilty as charged.” I threw my hands up.

  “It’s the middle of summer and Juliet Montague Capshaw is trying to sway me by painting a perfect picture of the holidays
here in this house.”

  The Professor walked toward the gleaming windows. “Watch out, Juliet, she’s pulling the middle and last name. That spells trouble.” He gave me a knowing look, then addressed Mom. “Helen, I must agree with your only daughter’s astute assessment. These ceilings must be at least twenty feet tall. A blue spruce would work quite nicely in that corner near the fireplace, don’t you agree?” He nodded to the adjoining living room. “As the Bard would say, ‘If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.’”

  “Doug, that’s not fair.” Mom shook her index finger at him. “We’re making a lifelong decision here.”

  “Indeed, my dear. Indeed.” He caught her eye. They shared a tender look that made me lose my breath for a moment. “All the more reason to do as Juliet has so wisely suggested. Imagine gatherings, merriment, a welcoming space for friends and neighbors. I do believe that this house more than any that we’ve seen feels right. Does it for you?”

  Mom’s eyes welled. I took that as my cue to make my exit.

  I let them have a moment together in the house. It was obvious that they had already made their decision. Watching them go through the process of finding their dream home had made me nostalgic for Carlos. When he and Ramiro had come to Ashland for Mom and the Professor’s wedding he had asked about the possibility of coming to stay for an extended time. He would take leave from the ship and Ramiro would have a chance to study abroad. On paper it sounded ideal. Carlos could manage Uva. Ramiro could help at Torte after school or on weekends. But was it a pipe dream? Would Carlos really be happy here? As much as I longed for him, I didn’t want to tie him down if he was meant for the sea.

  We had spoken weekly ever since. Carlos was intent on making a long-term stay in Ashland a reality. He’d been in touch with Ramiro’s mother, the schools, and had already started the paperwork for obtaining temporary residency. Technically we were still married, even though we’d spent the last two years apart. In the eyes of the court we were a happy couple, which would make it easier for him to get a green card and a student visa for Ramiro. It was happening so fast that I worried Carlos wasn’t putting enough thought into the reality of life in Ashland.

  What if he hated it? What if he ended up bored?

  What are you really worried about, Jules? I asked myself as I navigated slippery loose rocks on the hillside trail that led down to the lake.

  If I was being honest with myself, I was worried that this was our last chance. I wasn’t going back to the ship. If Carlos and I couldn’t make it here in Ashland, we couldn’t make it anywhere. The thought terrified me, and yet was also freeing. I loved Carlos—deeply. Maybe this was the final push we needed to make a decision about our future together once and for all.

  Or maybe it will be a complete disaster, I mumbled as I reached the shoreline.

  I stared out in the direction of the spot where the girls had recovered George’s skull. My thoughts shifted to Edgar. There were many similarities between him and George. They were both recluses, who opted to live alone and not participate in Ashland’s active and vibrant community. That was a rarity around here. They had both attempted to hold on to their land and perhaps their way of life. They had both been unmarried and died alone. The thought made me shiver.

  What could the connection between them be? Or was I just grasping at air?

  I felt like the lake waters. On the outside, calm and composed, but down below swirling with questions and a secret life. Carlos was my not-so-secret life. I could hear his thick Spanish accent ringing through my head from our last conversation. “Mi querida, do not worry. You think too much. You must follow your heart. What does your heart say about us coming to stay with you?”

  My heart said run. It was wounded. Not permanently broken, but the layers of scar tissue had finally begun to heal. Yes, I missed Carlos, but Ashland had taught me that I could live without him. If he came and left again I wasn’t sure how I was going to mend.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” The Professor’s baritone voice interrupted my downward spiral into worry.

  “Nothing. Just thinking about how sometimes things appear perfect on the surface.” I motioned to the lake.

  “Ah yes. Quite true. That makes me think of words by the Duke of Suffolk in King Henry VI, Part Two.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.’”

  “It’s a lovely quote, but I’m not sure I understand the context. I’m a bit rusty on Henry VI.” I smiled. No one was as well versed in Shakespeare’s works as the Professor. And that wasn’t exclusive to Ashland either. The Professor could hold his own against an Oxford scholar.

  “The Duke of Suffolk is referring to deception in that passage. He’s suspicious of Gloucester’s calm exterior. Too calm for his taste, as he is quite sure of Gloucester’s treachery.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “It’s one of Shakespeare’s most popular quotes, and I might add, a metaphor for life. Steer clear of calm waters. They say to avoid rocky waters, but in my line of work I’ve learned not to trust eerily still water. Sometimes we need a hint of a swift current or an errant wave.” He gave me a knowing look.

  “Right.” I wasn’t sure if he was alluding to my love life but opted to change the topic. “Any news on the investigation?” The smell of baking pine needles hit my nose as we walked along the path toward the picnic area.

  “Which one?” He strummed his fingers on his auburn beard.

  “Good point. I was thinking of George, but I’ve learned a bunch about Edgar too.”

  “Would you care to elaborate? I’m most interested.” He reached into the breast pocket of his short-sleeved buttoned-up shirt. It was dotted with silhouettes of Shakespeare’s profile.

  “What about Mom?” I looked back toward the house.

  “Not to fear. I wouldn’t abandon her. She and our real estate agent are having a chat about positioning furniture and paint color while they wait to hear about the status of our offer.”

  “You put in an offer?” I clapped.

  His eyes twinkled. “We did. Hopefully it’s a formality. Our agent thinks we’ll know within the hour.”

  “That’s great.” I stopped and gave him a hug.

  “Thank you for supporting your mother and me through this. I know how much it’s meant to her to have you by her side.”

  “I’m her biggest fan.”

  “The feeling is obviously mutual. It’s one of the many reasons I fell for her. Your relationship is one for the ages. It’s a rarity to see a mother/daughter team like you two. I’m grateful you both allow me to bear witness to your extraordinary love.”

  “Thanks. You know, she’s pretty into you too,” I joked.

  “That makes me one lucky man.” He gave me a half bow. “Now to your previous question; there have been a few developments. We’ve learned that Edgar ingested medication typically given to patients with heart arrhythmias.”

  “Did he have a heart condition?” We continued on to the park. I could hear kids on the waterslide and the sound of a motorboat cutting through the water.

  “None that the medical examiner has been able to determine, but this medication taken in high dosage can lead to a heart attack. We are working on the theory that someone delivered a deadly dosage to Edgar, although we can’t rule out the possibility that he intentionally overdosed.”

  “But why?”

  “My thoughts exactly. I was explaining to Thomas and Detective Kerry the other day that over time a good detective learns to hone his or her senses. You’ll get a sense of knowing, for lack of a better term. There might not be anything obvious at first glance, but I was encouraging them to trust their intuition. Those hunches tend to lead us down the path of discovery.” He opened his Moleskine notebook. “As I’m sure you can imagine, Thomas finds this concept easier to digest than Detective Kerry.”

  “She’s definitely a rule follower.”

  “A wond
erful asset for a detective. I wouldn’t discourage her from her pristine practices when it comes to police protocol, but I would like her to also lean on her feelings. That will come with time.”

  “You think?”

  “Juliet, would you believe that when I was first learning the ropes, I too was uptight?”

  “Never.”

  “’Tis true. I had a fabulous mentor, whom I hope you’ll get to meet one day. He retired to the desert in Arizona, but I have invited him for a stay this fall. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be the detective I am today. He taught me everything I know and then some.”

  “Does Mom know him?”

  “She does. He was a frequent customer when your parents first opened Torte. As was I. You might say that I’ve loved your mother from afar for many, many years.”

  “That’s so sweet.”

  The Professor’s cheeks reddened ever so slightly. He fumbled momentarily. “I don’t mean to imply that I ever would have acted on my feelings when your parents were together. Please forgive me for how I worded that. I have always adored your mother, but I respected her first and foremost. I never would have done anything to jeopardize their relationship.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “I know. It’s okay. I understand, and it makes the fact that you and Mom have found each other that much sweeter.”

  He looked relieved. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to think poorly of me.”

  “As if that could ever happen.”

  “Since the topic has arisen naturally, would you allow me to ask a favor?” He plucked a broken twig from an overhanging branch.

  “Of course.”

  He extended his arm. “Might we go sit on that bench down by the water and have a brief chat?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t know what the Professor wanted to tell me, but for the first time in memory I could tell that he was nervous.