Murder at the Arts and Crafts Festival

Book 3: Cleo Mack Mystery

by G.P. Gardner

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

It's late March in Fairhope, Alabama, and artists from around the country are flocking to the bayside town's Arts & Crafts Festival. The annual tradition has something for everyone, only this year, the main attraction is murder . . .

Cleo Mack's life has been a whirlwind since she inadvertently became the executive director of Harbor Village, a retirement community bustling with energetic seniors. Juggling apartment sales, quirky residents, and a fast-moving romance is tricky business. But on-the-job stress develops a new meaning when Twinkle Thaw, a portrait artist known to ruffle a few feathers, arrives unannounced for the weekend's festival and drops dead hours later—mysteriously poisoned . . .

Twinkle's bizarre death doesn't seem like an accident. Not with a sketchy newcomer slinking around town and a gallery of suspects who may have wanted her out of the picture for good. As Cleo brushes with the truth, she soon finds that solving the crime could mean connecting the dots between a decades-old art heist and an unpredictable killer who refuses to color inside the lines . . .

Release date: December 3, 2019

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 225

Sample

Chapter 1

“It’s felt like Friday all day.”

Patti Snyder, Director of Resident Services, was standing beside the ficus tree that filled most of my office window, looking out at the sunny March afternoon in Fairhope, Alabama, the most charming little village on the shores of Mobile Bay.

It was actually Thursday, not Friday, and I was clearing my desk, preparing to slip out of the office a little early. For several minutes now I’d been bombarded by Patti’s silent urgings, like a drumbeat: go, go, go. She could scarcely wait for me to leave. Was she was planning to close shop as soon as I was gone?

She stepped away from the window. “It’s because of Arts and Crafts, I guess.” She sighed for the third time in as many minutes. “Don’t you feel like some big holiday’s right around the corner?”

Anyone who didn’t know her would think she was bored, but I detected barely controlled electricity as she swished around my desk, dragging her fingertips across the polished walnut. Her nails were peachy orange today, with tiny white dots and bright blue lightning bolts. Usually the nails matched her eyeglass frames, but she must’ve left them on her desk. I wondered if she even needed glasses, beyond their value as a fashion accessory.

She flopped into one of the armchairs and looked at me. “I thought you were leaving early.”

Now I was the one doing the sighing. “I’m going right now. It’s too fidgety in here to concentrate.”

I stuck a draft copy of a half-completed HHS questionnaire into the top drawer to work on tomorrow, grabbed a couple of tissues out of the box, and began wiping the desktop. “I like to find a nice clean desk when I come in every morning.”

I brushed a few eraser crumbs, a sprung paperclip, and two crumpled sticky notes into my palm and then rubbed at some smeary fingerprints. No sense pretending housekeeping would attend to such details. Just as I swiveled and reached behind me for the trash can, my desk phone rang.

Patti snatched it up like she was expecting a call. “Harbor Village, Cleo Mack’s office.”

I dumped the litter and wiped my hand with the clean side of the tissue while Patti listened, playing with the phone cord and admiring her flashy nails.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Should I check on her?” She listened for another moment. “She’s right here.”

She handed the phone to me.

“Nita. Dolly Webb’s sick.”

“Oh, no,” I said into the phone. If I’d swiveled around again and leaned to one side, I might’ve seen the front door of Nita’s apartment, right from my chair. “Anything serious? Should I send Nurse Ivy?”

Nita Bergen’s voice was normally low-pitched, but at that moment it carried more than a trace of tension and annoyance. “Of course it’s not serious. One sneeze. Now she’s in bed. How many people get to celebrate fifty-one years of marriage? You’d think she could be happy for us.”

“Oh, I’m sure she—”

“Forgive me, I’m just disappointed. I’ll be over it by the time you get here. I promise. I’d ask somebody else in Dolly’s place if I knew anyone who could get ready in an hour. That’s why I’m calling you. Patti’s too young to enjoy a fifty-first anniversary dinner, but what about one of your neighbors?”

“Ann, you mean? I can check. I’m about to run home and get ready.”

“I just think five people is so much more festive than four, don’t you? Especially with me in a sour mood. And it’s not just Dolly. Everything’s going wrong. I can’t get my necklace fastened and Jim’s taking forever in the shower.”

I winced. The festive aspect of our evening clearly needed a rescue. I flailed about for humor. “Seems like you’d be used to his routines after fifty-one years, doesn’t it?”

Nita laughed, and I continued to tease. “I’ve seen his bathroom, with all those moisturizers and sprays and lotions. All that takes time, but it’s what keeps him young and handsome, you know.”

Jim was about to turn eighty-four, and Nita was only a year or two behind him, but both of them were still healthy and attractive.

“I’ll see you at five.” Nita chuckled lightly. “And anyone else you can round up.” She disconnected.

I shut down the laptop and closed it, pushed my chair back, and got up just in time to see a woman walk briskly across the drive outside my window. I paused to watch her. This was the second time I’d seen her since lunch. She’d been walking in the other direction a couple of hours earlier, toward the entrance. I’d immediately thought sales rep and expected her to show up in my office after the minute or two she’d need to get inside and cross the lobby. But she hadn’t appeared.

I looked a little closer this time, seeing only her back. “Who is this, do you know?” I stepped aside so Patti could see out the window.

The mystery woman was thirty-five, give or take, wearing a short, slim skirt with a fitted jacket and chunky heels and carrying a red handbag. That was one way of saying she stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb in our laid-back little community of retirees and vacationers.

There was no answer from Patti. I turned around and found the office empty.

Time to go.

I patted my pocket to be sure I had my keys and phone, grabbed my shoulder bag, flipped the lights off, and locked the door behind me.

Patti was at her desk out front, wrapping up a phone call. One lonely little ceramic turtle sat on the piece of driftwood that occupied a corner of her desk. It’d taken me weeks to figure out that the number of turtles was a visible barometer for her love life. There’d been as many as eight during the holidays, but not so many lately. Maybe that was the reason she was mopey. I waved to her and did a loop through the gate and the lobby, heading for the front door.

Patti hung up and stood to follow me, reading her note and calling out as she walked. “Ms. Zadnichek says to remind you of an appointment at the front desk of the Art Center tomorrow at nine thirty. Don’t be late. Someone will be waiting for you and there’s a tight schedule.”

She looked up to be sure I was listening. She had followed me as far as the wide metal gate that secured the offices from the lobby at night. Stilts, the orange-spotted giraffe cutout, looked over the top of the bars, making the entire gate, when it was closed, look like a cage at the zoo.

“What’s that about?” Patti asked. “And where did you say y’all are going tonight?”

I stopped just before breaking the beam that opened the automatic doors and held up an index finger. “Selecting a painting for the Harbor Village Purchase Prize.” Then two fingers. “And Jesse’s Restaurant, in Magnolia Springs. Do you know it?”

Her expression brightened. “Is this your first visit to Jesse’s? Oh, Cleo, it’s wonderful!” She grasped the vertical bar of the gate and swung around, curls bouncing, all her mulligrubs gone. “Stewart and I went there for Valentine’s. They gave each of the ladies a mini bouquet.”

Stewart Granger was our multitalented, multi-tattooed director of maintenance, and Patti’s heartthrob. And Valentine’s was a month ago. There’d been a long line of turtles on her desk then and progressively fewer ever since. Trouble in paradise, I supposed. I’d suspected all along she was too young for him, to say nothing of her immaturity. But that didn’t keep me from feeling sorry for her.

“Why don’t you close up early and go home?” It wasn’t that I minded her leaving early. She certainly put in enough hours every week. We all did. But I hated being in the dark about whatever she was up to.

She surprised me by shaking her head. “I’m saving my perks for tomorrow. I want to go to the arts and crafts festival in the afternoon, before the crowds get too big. Wish Jim and Nita a happy anniversary for me. And tell Riley to take you down that arbor.”

I nodded without knowing exactly what she meant and waved goodbye. Arbor? Ardor? Whatever. If she wasn’t about to sneak out, what was she up to?

Patti was the same age as Stephanie, my daughter, twenty-six years my junior. Stretching across that gap every day kept me sympathetic about the years separating me from most of our residents. I wondered how often my antics had them gnashing their teeth in frustration.

Gold lettering, newly emblazoned across the automatic doors of the administration building, caught my eye as I passed through. Harbor Village, I read backwards. A second line, in smaller letters, elaborated: An Active Senior Community. Small black lettering in a bottom corner identified me, Cleo Mack, as Executive Director, and gave emergency phone numbers.

The administration building, known to residents and staff as the big house, stood three stories tall at the western end of Harbor Boulevard, looking down the wide median with flower beds, palm trees, and a row of the five-globed street lamps that dotted the Harbor Village campus. I smelled freshly mowed grass as I crossed the drive in front of the garages. The mower was still running somewhere near the highway, judging by the sound. The first grass cutting of the spring.

My path went around the pale green, eight-car garage that served the apartment building I lived in, and down the front sidewalk. I made a point of returning to my apartment by this route occasionally, rather than zipping up the wide sidewalk at the back of the building, right to my screened porch. This route reminded me to check my mailbox in the building lobby and allowed me to speak to people sitting out on the front porch. I could check the building’s public spaces as I went through the hallways, spotting little problems before they became big ones. Anything I found was turned over to Stewart.

Today there was a little commotion going on when I pulled the front door open.

On the other side of the lobby, both pairs of glass doors to the courtyard were propped open. The long harvest table that usually stood beside the kitchenette, covered with pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, had been moved to the courtyard, draped with a white tablecloth, and set with elegant china and glassware. Semitropical plants, in pots and beds around the perimeter of the patio, released a flood of color and oxygen and fresh, earthy smells. It was a pleasant welcome, like a visit to the jungle.

I turned to the bank of mailboxes and heard my name called.

Georgina Burch, the retired art teacher who lived in an apartment beside the front door, was peeking out of the courtyard. “Cleo, come give us your opinion.”

I walked toward her and saw Katherine Roka, another artist and mother of Harbor Village’s business manager Emily, arranging chairs at the table.

“Hi, Cleo.” She plopped into a chair and wiggled, testing it for stability on the uneven tiles. “I think that’ll do.” She smiled as she popped to her feet again, pushed the chair in against the table, and gestured to a vase. “Georgina thinks the flowers are too tall.”

“I don’t want people craning their necks all night to see around them.” Georgina spun a fat blue vase, filled with spring flowers, to a different orientation and stepped back, giving it a critical look.

“Let’s test it.” I pulled out the chair at my end of the table and sat.

Georgina took the chair at the opposite end. I leaned one way and then the other but, whatever I did, one blue sprig protruded into our line of sight.

“Ah ha!” Georgina got up. “Off with his head!”

I wiggled in the chair, found that it didn’t teeter, and got up. “Who’s partying tonight?”

“Some of Georgina’s old students are in town for Arts and Crafts.” Katherine tossed her a smile that looked a little tense. “And now her sister’s arrived.” She looked at me. “Everyone wants to visit Georgina.”

It was true. Georgina Burch was one of the most popular people at Harbor Village. I saw her almost every day, always on her way somewhere. Off to play bridge at the senior center, to volunteer at the Art Center or the Methodist Church, or to drive a friend to lunch or a medical appointment.

Georgina looked at Katherine and sighed. “I wish you were staying. I understand, but I wish things were different.”

She snapped off the base of the blue salvia stem and reinserted the long part into the vase, then gave it a pat. “There. It’s too early to light the fire, but I’m going to get it ready. I hope it won’t be too warm tonight. A nice little fire warms the courtyard and improves the ambience. Soothes the savage breast.”

“It’s cool in the shade already.” I walked around the table to see what she was doing.

Georgina took a knee in front of the red clay chiminea. Its spherical base rested in a heavy metal frame, and the chimney top was about as tall as I was. Dry twigs and short branches lay stacked in a basket, on top of several short logs. Georgina tossed the salvia stem into the fire pot and began breaking the twigs in half. Then she crumpled a few pieces of newspaper and put them in first, laid twigs on top, and followed up with one of the log segments.

“Have fun tonight.” I went back to the mailboxes.

I opened box number eight with my key and pulled out a stack of flyers and magazines that immediately began sliding and spilling in all directions. Response cards fell to the floor and scooted across the tile. A big, glossy card slid under a barstool. I grumbled to myself as I spread the flyers on the kitchen bar, picked up the cards, and went back for a couple of letters lying on the bottom of the mailbox.

Katherine Roka came in from the courtyard and went to the sink behind the bar.

I climbed onto a barstool and scanned an invitation to an investment seminar that came with the bribe of a free seafood dinner. “I hope you’ll have a great time tonight,” I told Katherine. I put the invitation on the recycling stack with the glossy ads.

Katherine turned off the water, shook her hands, and looked for a towel. “Oh, I’m not staying.”

“Dammit,” Georgina muttered from the courtyard, and Katherine rolled her eyes.

I smiled at her. An official-looking letter was next in the stack of mail. I tore the flap open and pulled out a sheaf of papers announcing an upcoming social work convention. I glanced over the letter and saw I was scheduled to participate in a panel discussion of reversible dementias, my favorite kind. I started a new stack for real mail.

Katherine spoke in a loud voice, including Georgina in the conversation. “I’m just helping Georgina get set up. My husband was one of her students and he’ll be here, but I missed out on all the fun.”

“Oh?” I looked at her closely.

Katherine was petite and pretty, with thick, dark hair worn in a pointy pixie cut. Her daughter, Emily, had the red hair that identified her as a member of the extended Slump family, but that trait came from Emily’s father. Katherine’s hair was almost black and her skin pearlescent, even without cosmetics. I knew she was an artist, scheduled to conduct a workshop at Harbor Village Saturday, but I didn’t know much else about her. “You didn’t grow up in Fairhope?”

“No. Up in the hill country.” She gestured toward the north. “We didn’t have art courses at my high school. Solly went to school here at about the same time and had a whole slew of art classes to choose from. All taught by Georgina, of course. Solly gives her credit for steering him into the art profession.”

“Blames me, you mean,” Georgina voice was muffled, coming from the courtyard.

“He’s a painter?” I was trying to remember if I’d met him.

“No, a potter. When he can get away from the office.”

“He has a day job, I suppose.”

She laughed and shook her head. “He’s dean of the Ocean Springs branch of the Magnolia Art Institute. You’ve never heard of it, probably, but it’s developing a strong reputation in art circles, thanks to Solly. You’d be amazed at the hours he puts into making that happen. He doesn’t have much time for studio work now, but he’s brought a few pieces for the festival. Come see them tomorrow.”

In truth, I had a very good idea how much time academic jobs took. Nine months ago, I’d still been professor and chair of a social work program in Atlanta. I had a momentary flashback to that time, before I’d been offered a nice bonus and early retirement, and before I’d discovered Fairhope. I’d never pictured myself working for a big corporation like Harbor Health Services and would never have guessed how much I’d come to like both the new job and my new home. A lot had happened in the last nine months.

I shifted my attention back to Katherine and an idea popped into my head. “Solly’s having dinner here tonight, and you’re not? Do you have other plans?”

Katherine shrugged narrow shoulders. “I’ll find something to do. Maybe Emily and I will go out.”

“I’m really not a stalker, Katherine. I’m asking because I need an extra person to go to Jesse’s Restaurant in Magnolia Springs in just about…” I looked at my watch. “Forty-five minutes. We have reservations for five people and one just canceled.”

She smiled and didn’t say no.

“You know Nita Bergen,” I pressed onward. “It’s Nita and Jim’s fifty-first wedding anniversary, and they’re treating. Nita called a few minutes ago to say Dolly Webb canceled at the last minute, and Nita thinks four people won’t be festive enough. She was hoping I could find another guest.”

She was listening and smiling, and I added another inducement. “I haven’t been to the restaurant, but I hear it’s really special.”

“It sure is!” Georgina shouted from the courtyard.

Katherine frowned. “I hope nothing’s wrong with Dolly. She and Nita are signed up for my workshop Saturday.”

“Just a cold, I understand. Do you know Jim, too?”

She flashed a mischievous smile. “By reputation, mostly. Emily talks about him. I guess he visits the office occasionally.”

“Ha!” Georgina barked.

“More like a shadow director,” I admitted. “But he’s a big help to us. Now, back to tonight. Jim and Nita are celebrating, and Riley Meddors is driving us. He’s a retired banker.”

“And Cleo’s beau.” Georgina popped in at the doorway and closed the doors behind her. She was wearing white running shoes, a navy-blue Auburn University sweatshirt, and cropped cargo pants. “A real sweetheart, he is. Go, Katherine. It’ll make me feel so much better.”

Katherine looked down at her own dark jeans, pink button-down shirt, and pink denim jacket with fringe trim. “I don’t have any dress-up clothes with me.”

“You look fine,” I said quickly. “I’ll lend you some pearls if you like.” Nothing else in my closet would fit her, but pearls would dress up her outfit. “Come to my apartment and freshen up while I get ready.”

I gathered up my mail, keeping the stacks separate, and Georgina came to give Katherine a hug.

“You go. Enjoy yourself and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be right here, and we’ll get together this weekend.”

Katherine nodded. “You’re the one who should be enjoying this night. Don’t worry about me. And please don’t worry about Solly. He’s a big boy.” Katherine got her purse from the counter beside the sink and froze, staring at me. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I hope you really want me.”

I assured her that was the case, and we went through the interior hallway to my apartment at the back of the building.

“Your husband’s name is Solly? Is that short for something?”

“Solomon. Known in the Bible for wisdom, wealth, and writings. My Solly falls short on a few counts, unfortunately. I ought to call him, I guess, and tell him what I’m up to. He’s in town, waiting for five o’clock, when they begin setting up booths.”

“Were you supposed to help?”

She shook her head. “The students are there. They’ve got their routine all practiced.”

I glanced up frequently as we walked, scanning the ceiling for leaks, checking to make sure all the light bulbs were working. “This hallway always seems dark to me.”

Katherine motioned toward the wall beside us. “Just think, all this could’ve been windows opening to the courtyard. Maybe you could install them now? Or some white paint would help.”

“I wonder if windows would require structural changes.”

“I’ll bet they’re cheaper than you think. Maybe your staff could do it. Is that what Stewart does?”

I confirmed it as I got out my key. Tinkerbelle, the fluffy calico who’d lived in the apartment even before I came, was waiting inside the door, meowing to hurry the unlocking process along.

“What a beautiful cat!” Katherine entered ahead of me and dropped to one knee. “Are you friendly? May I pet you?

Tinkerbelle meowed some more, squinting as she presented her chin and cheeks for scratching.

“This is Tinkerbelle. Belle like a Southern belle. She’s very friendly but watch out, she’s shedding. Let me put this stuff away and then I’ll set up the guest bath for you.”

I went through the living room, dropped off the real mail at the desk, and put the junk into an almost-full recycling basket. In the hall bath I laid out a washcloth and hand towel and turned the lights on. “I don’t know if you really want pearls, but I’ll get them and you can decide. And then I’ll get ready.”

“I think I have a new friend,” Katherine said.

Tinkerbelle followed her to the hall, twining around her ankles.

“Her coloration is gorgeous. I’d love to put her in a watercolor sometime. Can’t you just see her, curled up on a thick cushion in a wicker chair, with long fern fronds dangling from above? Do you mind if I get a couple of photographs?”

Tinkerbelle really was a pretty cat, with semi-long hair now that she’d recovered from roughing it outdoors, after her original owner abandoned her. She had a white chest and socks, a big orange saddle, and was velvet black elsewhere.

“Of course I don’t mind. Remind me now, watercolors are your specialty?” I talked louder while I dashed through my bedroom to the master bath and grabbed the short strand of pearls off the carousel. I was back in a flash and handed the pearls to Katherine.

“Transparent watercolors, usually. But I’ve been dabbling in photorealism for a few years now.”

“That’s some type of photography?”

She raised her hands and watched the pearls slide through her fingers. “These are beautiful.” She stepped in front of the bathroom mirror and held the necklace to her throat. “I’ve never had real pearls. I should get some. Photorealism is a type of drawing that strives for a three-dimensional look. Done well, it’s often mistaken for black-and-white photography. It’s what I’ll be teaching in Saturday’s workshop. Why don’t you come?”

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” I grabbed at a feathery bit of cat hair floating between us. “I hope it’s the time of year that’s causing all this shedding.”

“Losing her winter coat.” Katherine addressed the cat as she closed the bathroom door: “You wait here while I wash up. And then you can pose for a photograph.”

I checked the cat box, got another pair of black pants out of the closet, along with a beige silk blouse and a new red stretch blazer, then closed myself in the master bath. When I’d washed and changed and brushed and freshened my makeup, I put the jacket on and smiled at my reflection. Too bright, I knew instantly. Way too bright. I turned for a side view. I was overdressed, in comparison to Katherine’s jeans, and the red made me look like I should be on a horse, surrounded by foxhounds. The jacket still had its tags. Was it too late to return it?

I went back to the closet and selected a camel-colored blazer.

I was putting the red jacket back on a hanger when I heard an unfamiliar ring tone, followed by Katherine’s voice. The ensuing conversation was short and I caught only an occasional word, but Katherine did most of the talking. When she ended the call, I went to the living room and found her preparing to photograph Tinkerbelle.

“I love your apartment, Cleo. It’s so sleek and modern.”

“I did some downsizing before I moved here. And I haven’t missed a thing.”

I went to the kitchen, checked Tinkerbelle’s water dish, and added dry cat food to her food bowl. The cat charged into the room and skidded to a halt. “Sorry, Katherine. I wasn’t thinking. I should’ve known that sound would bring her running.”

Katherine followed Tinkerbelle to the kitchen.

“How do you like the pearls?” She tilted her head to one side and then the other, giving me a good look. “They lean toward yellow ins. . .