Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3) Page 10

  Before diving into the minutiae in the materials, Marshall decided to contact Patrick Castle. He suspected Rodney's manager could fill in many of the blanks and help focus his sights on the person or persons responsible for the destruction.

  Chapter 17

  Rodney's creative juices for the day hadn't been extinguished by the morning's trauma after all.

  He felt a surge as he exited Horace Hotel. He wouldn't call it inspiration because it was an unfocused surge. Rodney just wanted to create something, anything, and do so right away. He couldn't tolerate having his work snuffed out by an unseen foe. He was in no mood to roll over and let that happen. This—being creative—was something he could partially control. So let the police catch the criminal. His job, as well as his role and purpose, he believed, was to make more art.

  Rodney considered going to his retreat on Hercules Road. Painting wouldn't satisfy him today, though. He needed to use both of his hands and tumble into an immersive experience. Sculpting is what beckoned him. So Rodney arranged for an Uber ride to his studio in Rugged Heights.

  Like so much else in the area, Rodney's sculpture studio had originated as something else and had later been converted into its present use. Tucked off the edge of a small business district on Myra Lane, the rectangular building had been designed and utilized as an underground printing press operation for an anti-war movement in the late 1960s. The operation didn't last long and the secretive space was then converted into a parking hangar for a wealthy couple's car collection. Eventually, decades later, the couple sold off their collection and the empty structure languished.

  Prior to Rodney purchasing it, the structure had fallen into severe disrepair. But Rodney had recognized at once that it would be very well suited for his studio needs. First, the general area was serene. Second, the unusual alignment of high windows—stretched in a horizontal row only under the roof line—flooded the space with natural light. There were no windows at eye level, thereby maintaining total privacy for his studio. Third, the enormous and heavy wooden doors facing Myra Lane were impenetrable. The couple with the car collection had installed them so they were nearly the width of the building, large enough to allow two cars at a time to enter and exit onto the lane. This feature made delivery and hauling surprisingly easy and efficient for Rodney's sculptures.

  As he always did upon entering the narrow side door, Rodney locked it behind him and wandered the studio to confirm there'd been no disturbances during his absence. Then he chugged cold water he kept bottled in the half-size refrigerator, selected the soundtrack for Sweet Charity to play on his sound system, and undressed down to his bare feet and briefs. Rodney then eased into the flow of work by rearranging materials, trying out combinations of mixed textures and concepts.

  Most importantly today, Rodney gave himself permission to experiment with abandon. He'd been toying lately with ideas about roots and seeds, how they fostered and weaved into soil for stability and nutrients. Now, he began playing with principles of growth and nourishment in sculptural form, vertical shapes rising from their foundations to accrue rain and sunlight.

  These pieces were plant-like at their core. However, Rodney didn't want to mimic foliage or trees. He was driven to capture the desperation of survival. The necessity of breaking out of the earth and reaching with all possible might for the elements crucial to living another day.

  Hours rolled by. Rodney began to feel comfortable that these new efforts were compelling. If his creative process held steady, they could fulfill his obligations to provide an exclusive nature-inspired line to Daphne's Swaledale Gallery. These efforts could also, to some extent, advance his overall career. He was thrilled to be experimenting again, even if these new pieces weren't going to be the pillar of his next era of art.

  At least he wasn't stuck in the binds of a mental spiderweb anymore, struggling without success and wasting energy.

  Finally, Rodney shut down the music and washed his hands and forearms in a corner sink with industrial strength soap. He wiped sweat from his brow and chugged more water. He congratulated himself on a productive session. He hadn't been burdened with temptations to eat lunch or check his muted phone for text and voice messages.

  Making a replacement piece of kinetic sculpture for the Sylvia Bridge was not on his radar. The fact was, more of his bridge installations could be in peril, and it wasn't known whether Doyle city officials would even commission a replacement piece, at least until the vandalism and criminality was solved. Also, as spectacular as the kinetic works were above the river channel, trying to duplicate them filled Rodney with dread. They required clock-like precision and tremendous amounts of creation time.

  As he'd worked through the late morning and afternoon, though, one distraction—Marshall Clay—had repeatedly sliced into his thoughts in a jumble of stimulations. Marshall had come to him in the form of random images, memories, and desires.

  There's definitely something there, Rodney thought, trying to analyze the intrusion of Marshall Clay into his work.

  That man is doing things to me. And it seems, somehow, to be important . . .

  Chapter 18

  Patrick Castle answered his phone call and Marshall barely got a word in.

  "You think there's any chance on God's green Earth I would entertain for even a moment meeting with you, Mr. Clay? It's so preposterous it borders on lunacy. No matter what you have to say, or what you think you can contribute, my answer to you is simple. Go whack off!"

  Marshall remained poised. From his years of reporting on the arts, he was used to irate responses. "I have Rodney's blessing for . . ."

  "Don't even try feeding me that malarkey. Rodney doesn't always know what's best for him. But his career is going to soar, eventually, no thanks to you. I shouldn't even have answered my phone. The man who first tried to destroy Rodney's reputation, and is now a suspect in the actual destruction of his art, has the nerve to telephone me and request a meeting? Crawl in a hole and die."

  Marshall had a thoughtful response at the ready, but the line clicked dead.

  Undeterred, and realizing the phone might not get him far in Doyle now that he was no longer technically a reporter, Marshall decided that making personal visits were his best hope to acquire information.

  He did some online research on Flora Miles. Accessible to the press, Flora had been featured in numerous magazine features in recent years, which trumpeted the quality of her art and her uplifting rise from working on an assembly line at a soda factory to producing acclaimed sculptures for sale throughout the country. Marshall dismissed the magazine articles as mostly horrendous puff pieces, yet believed Flora possessed admirable and consistent talent. The publications indicated that Flora's gallery and studio shared the same address—44 James Street, in the neighborhood of Rugged Heights—within walking distance of the coffeeshop and less than a half mile north of the Bluestone River.

  Sugar maples lined both sides of James Street. "The Victorian Block" had cottage-shaped stores and boutiques with colorful wooden facades. Flora's gallery, sandwiched between a premium paper crafting store and an eyebrow threading salon, welcomed visitors with a fanciful flower garden and a cobblestone walkway. A string of bells hanging on the door jingled with a tinny cacophony as Marshall stepped inside.

  The diminutive room bore no resemblance to a modern art gallery. Instead, the walls were lined with lace-covered tables and shelves holding figurines, bowls and plates, dolls, postcards, pottery, and candles. Geometric floor tiles, embedded between hardwood planks, reached the center antique counter where a woman with rosy cheeks giggled while ringing up a sale on the cash register.

  Marshall meandered around the small space and studied the displayed items while he waited until he could have the cashier's sole attention. The priciest offerings were the dolls. There wasn't a single piece of sculpture exhibited anywhere in the room.

  "Welcome, sir," the cashier said, looking him over as she sipped from a coffee mug. "You're new here."

&nb
sp; "That's right," Marshall said, approaching her with a smile. "This is quite a place."

  The cashier, unsure whether Marshall was complimenting or insulting the store, fidgeted with her name badge—which spelled out "Linda" in cursive letters—on her floral dress. "It's very popular. Most of our customers check in at least once a week."

  "There's undeniable charm here."

  "Why, thank you. Are you here to buy a gift for a lady friend? Or something special for your mother?"

  "I'm looking for Flora Miles. Is she in today?"

  "Yes, of course. She's here everyday." Linda pointed at the slender hallway at the back of the room. "Don't step on Mister Stuart. He's being quite the grouch the past hour or so."

  "I take it Mister Stuart is a feline," Marshall said.

  "Shh. He doesn't know that."

  "I can keep a secret."

  "He can be fussy with men, and he's already broken several figurines today. He's in some mood! Normally he never jumps on the ledges."

  Marshall thanked her for the warning and proceeded down the carpeted hallway. He found Mister Stuart perched like a sphinx outside of Flora's art studio. Marshall knelt down and rubbed behind his ears, and within seconds the Turkish Angora was purring and tilting his head so Marshall could reach his favorite spots. While crouched down, Marshall looked ahead into the studio. Several women stood around Flora as she painted flourishes on ceramic plates. At first Marshall thought he could be interrupting an art class or seminar. The women were conversing, however, about favorite holiday destinations and Flora clearly enjoyed the socializing.

  The women noticed Marshall when he stood back up to enter the room. They stopped talking as they looked him over.

  "Come in," Flora said in a cheerful tone, only glancing in his direction for a split second, and not interrupted at all as she painted.

  "I hope I'm not intruding this afternoon," Marshall said.

  "Everyone's welcome back here. Join our little party."

  "You're very kind."

  "What can I help you with? A custom piece for your home or office?"

  "I actually hope I can speak with you in private."

  One of the women standing closest to Flora huffed, and said, "You should've made an appointment."

  "True," Marshall said. "Unfortunately, time is of the essence with the matter at hand."

  "It's okay, girls," Flora said to the women. "Kindly give us five minutes, won't you please?"

  Marshall reminded Flora of his name once when they were alone.

  "Yes, now I remember you," Flora said. "We spoke briefly after the mayor's ceremony on Bigbury Plaza all those weeks ago. You're the one who flayed Rodney Riggs Redfern open in your column and exposed his innards."

  It entertained Marshall that Flora's speaking style mismatched the personality and atmosphere of her gallery store. He said, "Regrettably, yes, that's me."

  "Why do you say 'regrettably?'"

  Marshall inhaled a deep breath. "In hindsight, I was dead wrong about Redfern."

  "Really?" Flora, still painting on her plates, lifted her brows. "Some people think you had it right the first time."

  "Are you one of those people?"

  "Hold on, tiger. I haven't agreed to an interview with you. What story are you working on now?"

  "I'm not writing a story," Marshall said. "I'm not currently employed with any news organizations."

  "So you got canned, huh?"

  "Laid off."

  Flora giggled. "Same thing. Semantics! Still, even if you're not a reporter, I deserve to know exactly why you're here."

  "I'm looking into the destruction of Redfern's sculpture last night on Sylvia Bridge."

  "Oh, that." Flora frowned, as if expecting a more sensational topic. "You're looking into it for who?"

  "For myself," Marshall said. "You're aware of what happened?"

  "Everybody's talking about it. What does it have to do with me?"

  "I understand from your friend Kenneth Blakely that you and your husband were downtown with him late last night."

  Flora set down her paintbrush and the ceramic plate suspended in her other hand. "Ken's got a loud frigging mouth. What did he say?"

  Noticing her suddenly ashen features, Marshall knew he'd struck a nerve. He didn't want to box himself in and miss getting her to talk by revealing the truth. He knew nothing else other than Kenneth was supposedly going to meet with Flora and her husband.

  "All of you were in the vicinity of the bridges," Marshall guessed.

  "So?"

  "You likely strolled by whoever destroyed the sculpture on the south end of Sylvia Bridge."

  "Possibly. How would I know?"

  Marshall, spinning a little lie, said, "Well, the three of you saw that the floodlight at the base of the sculpture had been destroyed."

  "Kenneth said that?" Flora looked dumbfounded.

  "What's not clear is whether the sculpture had been knocked into the river channel by then or not."

  "No. That moron needs to get his facts straight. We noticed the light had gotten broken. The sculpture wasn't lit up, but it was still there."

  "You're certain?"

  "Yes!"

  "What time was this?"

  "Who knows? Ten or eleven or whatever."

  The women returned to the room and resumed their spots around Flora.

  "This is quite important and a key point," Marshall said. "Can I ask for your husband's phone number so I can speak with him and see if he remembers the exact time you were on Sylvia Bridge?"

  "Absolutely not. He left this morning on a hiking trip with his buddies in the mountains. There's no cell service there."

  "Can I ask when you expect him to return?"

  "A few days, at least. Maybe longer. Joe does what he wants, for as long as he wants to do it." Flora picked up her paintbrush and waved it in Marshall's direction. "Really, that's all I have time for. I've been more than fair entertaining your fanciful inquiries."

  "Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your attention."

  "I better not see my name in print, Mr. Clay. I expressly forbid you from referring to me in any way in any of your stories."

  Marshall stopped by the cashier's counter on his way out and slid his hands halfway in his pants pockets.

  "That didn't last long," Linda said. "I hope you got everything you needed."

  "I'm vexed about something," Marshall said.

  "What's that?"

  "Where are the Flora Miles sculptures? Why aren't they for sale?"

  Linda grinned at him with haughtiness, like he'd asked something foolish. "Her originals are in fine art galleries, private homes, building lobbies, and world-class museums."

  "None of them are for sale?" Marshall asked.

  "Not here. There's no room." Linda handed him the store's brochure from a plastic display case beside the register. "Some might be available on Flora's web site. Type in the internet address listed at the bottom of the page."

  "Flora Miles painted on everything in this room?"

  "Yes, she's constantly painting."

  "I just didn't expect all these . . . trinkets. I expected to view her sculptures here."

  "It seems you are unfamiliar with the arts," the cashier said, once again smugly glossing over Marshall. "Learn more and maybe a whole new world will open up for you. Artists don't limit their creative output to just one medium. They explore. They respond to the universe in different ways, in different mediums, and the process of artistic evolution never ends."

  Marshall didn't correct her and reveal his extensive knowledge of the fine arts. Linda had been patronizing, but he wasn't wounded by it in the slightest. And, to Linda's credit, she'd actually just said something reasonably salient—and it triggered a question he really needed to pose to Rodney Riggs Redfern.

  Chapter 19

  Streaks of coral, magenta, and violet criss crossed the sky above Doyle in the twilight, enhancing the captivating motions of the five remaining sculptures on the bri
dges linked to the river islet.

  Rodney took the opportunity to film some of them with his phone camera. Though not a skilled photographer, he thought Christine might still be able to use one of his clips online. His biggest relief, while walking on the bridges, was that none of the others had been harmed—at least not yet.

  Would darkness bring another attack? Rodney couldn't help but worry that might happen. On a more positive note, he saw that the mayor had followed through on steps to protect his sculptures, which were barricaded off from pedestrian access by ten feet. Also, in addition to the uniformed officer patrolling the bridges, Rodney was sure he'd spotted at least one plainclothes officer milling about.

  Mayor Dimitri Ustinov had mentioned these precautions to Rodney in a voice message he'd received while busy in his sculpture studio. It did provide him some comfort that the mayor had followed through on his assurances.

  But checking up on bridge security wasn't the primary reason Rodney returned to downtown Doyle.

  Rodney entered the revolving door at the front of Horace Hotel and took a seat in a plush wingback chair in the lobby. He fought off a wave of doubt, then pulled his phone from his pocket and called Marshall Clay.

  "Good evening," Marshall said, answering immediately.

  "How's it going?"

  "It's been an interesting day, I have to say. Every time I try to find an answer I end up opening the door to more questions."

  "About my case?"

  "Yeah. I don't know who did it. I'd love to be a fly on the wall at the police station and discover what they've learned. Have you heard anything further from the sergeant?"

  "Not yet. By the way, Kenneth isn't taking my calls," Rodney said.

  "He's not returning mine, either. I've called and texted him a few times throughout the day."