Paint the Town Dead Read online

  Her mother must be mistaken. Rory didn’t understand why the detective should feel she was unapproachable. The few times she’d seen him at Arika’s Scrap ’n Paint, their conversations had been comfortable, centering around painting and her job. As far as she remembered, she hadn’t been standoffish. Convinced she would never understand men, Rory shrugged her shoulders, put the finished potatoes aside and began spooning gravy into a serving dish.

  “You should call him some time. He’s a good man.”

  Liquid splattered all over the side of the gravy boat and onto the granite countertop. Rory wiped up the mess and gaped at her mother. She wasn’t used to Arika getting involved in her love life, let alone giving a man her seal of approval. Rory shook her head and went back to work.

  “The delivery company picked up all the boxes this evening. Everything should be on the trade show floor by early tomorrow. We should be able to start setting up the booth around eleven. Will you still be able to help?” Arika said.

  “I’ll be there. Liz said she would help too. I’ll let her know what time.”

  “Good. Too bad she couldn’t make it tonight.” Arika sliced the meatloaf and placed it on a serving platter. “Is Jasmine okay? She seems a little...off.”

  “She had one of her attacks at the hotel.”

  Arika patted her daughter’s arm. “She’s lucky you were there.” She ran her eyes over all of the serving dishes. “That’s it. I think we’re ready. Help me take this out to the dining room. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

  Once everything was on the table and Rory’s mother said grace, the five of them dug in. Conversation soon turned to the painting convention.

  “Thanks for hosting the meet and greet, Mrs. Anderson,” Jasmine said. “Aunt Viveca is looking forward to it.”

  “It’s Sunday afternoon, right? Aren’t you usually closed then?” Brandy asked.

  “I don’t mind opening for a special event now and then,” Arika said. “I’m always happy to introduce someone to the local tole painting community. Or, in this case, reintroduce, I guess. I’m glad Viveca is teaching again. I never understood why she stopped.”

  “It was right around the time my mom, you know...”

  Arika nodded her head in sympathy. “I remember. Your mother was a lovely woman, God rest her soul.”

  When Jasmine was barely sixteen, her mother died of cancer. Rory remembered the hours both Jasmine and her aunt spent at the hospital during the long illness.

  “Your aunt’s booth is across from mine. VivEco, right?” Arika said. “What kind of company is it?”

  Jasmine nodded. “That’s right. They manufacture eco-friendly painting supplies. Sealers, varnishes, that kind of thing. I’ll be working at the booth off and on. They’re good products. You should consider carrying them in your store.”

  “I’ll be sure to check them out.” Arika gestured from their empty plates to the half-full serving dishes. “Eat, everyone. Don’t be shy. There’s plenty to go around.” She turned to Brandy who was sitting next to her. “How’s your aunt doing, Brandy? Any improvement?”

  “Afraid not. We’re looking into long-term care facilities for her, but they’re so expensive.”

  Arika squeezed the young woman’s hand. “You’re good to put your life on hold and move to town to take care of her like this. I’m sure she appreciates it.”

  “I’d do anything for her. She’s like a second mother to me.”

  After they’d cleared away the dishes and spooned out the ice cream, Peter raised his glass. “A toast. To old friends being together again.”

  Rory clinked glasses with everyone else and smiled, looking forward to spending as much time as possible with her childhood friends.

  Tuesday morning, Rory drove toward downtown Vista Beach and rounded the corner onto Driftwood Lane straight into trouble. Protesters lined the sidewalk in front of the Akaw, blocking all its entrances. A group of at least a dozen men and women shouted at passing cars, waving picket signs that read “Down with the Akaw!” and “Fix Our Homes!” As Rory slowed down, then slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting a couple of new additions who ran across the street in front of her, she wondered which one of them was responsible for the damage to her window.

  As she inched her way forward toward the entrance to the hotel’s underground parking structure, Ian Blalock hurried toward the group. The driver of the Mercedes in front of Rory honked his horn as he tried to maneuver between the people into the structure. One middle-aged protester, a man in a red t-shirt and jeans, pounded on the car’s windshield while others surrounded the Mercedes, preventing it from going any further. Quickly realizing the crowd had no intention of allowing anyone to park in the structure, Rory continued down the street to look for a temporary parking space in the nearby neighborhood. As she rounded the corner, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Two patrol cars raced to the scene.

  Five minutes later and less than a quarter mile away, she found a street with plenty of parking. As she eased her sedan into a space, she noticed a sign stuck in the lawn of a nearby home. At first she thought it was an election sign someone forgot to take down, but then she noticed the slogan: “No Hotel Parking!” She peered through the windshield at the street parking sign in front of her. Other than the two hours reserved for street sweeping the following day, no restrictions were mentioned.

  Satisfied she’d parked legally, Rory grabbed her painting supplies out of the trunk of her car, slung her bag over one shoulder and headed toward the Akaw. She’d taken only a few steps when a young woman with a fuchsia streak in her black hair, a nose ring and vibrant eye makeup fell into step beside her. Dressed in low-rise jeans and a midriff top that showed off her belly button ring, Veronica Justice puffed as she tried to keep up with Rory’s long strides.

  “Just the person I wanted to talk to,” the reporter for the View said in a raspy voice.

  She should have known the news about the vandalism would spread quickly, Rory thought. “Hi, Veronica. So you heard. Did the police tell you?”

  “The police? Why would they be involved?” The thirty-year-old stared at Rory, a puzzled look on her face.

  “I called them. Wouldn’t you?”

  “You called them on your friend?”

  Rory stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gaped at the reporter. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Rory took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s start over. Exactly what did you want to see me about?”

  “Your friend, the one who had the attack at the Akaw. I thought it would make a nice human interest story. Not too many people know much about narcolepsy.”

  “Jasmine? She’s a very private person. I don’t think she’d want me to talk to you about her.”

  “Maybe she wants to educate people about her problem. You’d be helping her do that.”

  Rory had never considered that possibility. An article explaining her friend’s condition and what she dealt with on a day-to-day basis could be a good thing. “I might be willing if Jasmine says it’s okay.” She started walking once again toward the hotel.

  Veronica trotted after her. “Wait up. I’ll mention it to her at the convention. You’ll see, she’ll jump at the chance to tell her story.”

  Rory slowed down enough so the reporter could walk beside her without having to run. “You’re attending, then?”

  “I’m doing a feature on it for the paper. Taking a couple beginning classes. Thought I’d get a better view of it that way. More of an inside piece, if you get my drift. I’ll also put some pics up on VBC and tweet during the convention.” Veronica had started Vista Beach Confidential before she began writing for the newspaper. The blog covered happenings around the city and often included photographs of local events.

  Rory pointed to more of the “No Hotel Parking!” signs that stuck out of lawns and flowerbeds from over half of the houses they passed.

  “What are all these signs about? Are th
ey part of the protests? I don’t remember your mentioning them in your articles.”

  “All part of the issues with the Akaw. People are parking on the street like we just did instead of in the hotel’s underground parking structure.”

  “We didn’t have much choice. The protesters were blocking the entrance.”

  “True, but lots of other people are parking here to avoid the fees,” Veronica said.

  “No wonder people are upset.”

  “And then there’s all the noise and trucks blocking driveways during the construction phase. That didn’t make people happy, either.”

  Rory cast a sympathetic glance at the houses they passed. She knew how annoying construction could be. Six days a week for the past five months, she’d awakened to the pounding of hammers, whining of saws, and beeping of trucks backing up while a house on her block was being remodeled.

  As they stood on the other side of the narrow street from the hotel and waited to cross at the light, Rory looked at the hotel’s parking entrance where protesters were crowded around two uniformed officers and the hotel manager. One officer was talking to a man with a goatee and a tattoo on his neck who seemed to be in charge of the group. Rory counted three dozen men and women listening to the conversation.

  “All of their homes couldn’t have been damaged, could they?” Rory said.

  “I’m sure some are residents who thought the hotel shouldn’t have been built in the first place.” Veronica pulled a camera out of one of the two tote bags slung over her shoulder and took several shots of the now departing protesters. Three of them, when they noticed the camera pointed in their direction, waved signs and chanted. “Some of them probably wanted the city to build that park they’d originally talked about putting in.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t have any proof but, between you and me, I think money changed hands.”

  When the light turned green, they crossed the street and headed toward the Akaw, its entrance now free of protesters. A small group stayed behind, quietly sitting in the courtyard in front of the building, half-heartedly waving signs. The two women walked through automatic doors into a lobby lit by a combination of strategically placed skylights and overhead lighting and headed toward the convention office. A banner reading “Ocean Painting Society invites you to Join the Painting Wave” hung near the entrance to the Manhattan ballroom.

  They joined the well-mannered line of women snaking out of the room and down the hallway toward the lobby. Everyone chattered companionably as they all waited for their turn to pick up their convention packets. The line moved steadily forward. Rory and Veronica were steps away from the doorway when the commotion started.

  Chapter 3

  “No need to be snippy, young man. Mind your manners!”

  A hush fell over the crowd as everyone’s attention was riveted to the drama playing out before them. From her position near the doorway, Rory looked over the heads of the people in front of her into the ballroom reserved for the convention office. Inside, two teenagers sat on folding chairs behind a long table, handing out registration packets and convention brochures. An older woman in a red tailored suit and matching fedora stood in front of one of the teens, waving her cane at the young man who stared back through eyes encircled by black guyliner, a bored expression on his face. With his half-black, half-blond spiky hair, he looked a bit like a young male version of Cruella de Vil.

  Veronica stood in front of Rory and craned her neck, trying to find out what the fuss was all about. “What do you see?”

  “Maybelline is having words with someone at the check-in desk.”

  “Maybelline?”

  “Sorry, I forgot you don’t know everyone. Maybelline Winkelman. Retired high school principal at VB High. Believe me, you don’t want to cross her.”

  Rory met the woman years ago in a painting class and enjoyed talking with her. During her career as a principal, Maybelline had been a strict disciplinarian, but the majority of her students adored her, inviting her to weddings and christenings years after they’d left high school.

  The older woman continued in a ringing voice that carried out the door and down the hallway. “Pick it up and apologize right now.” She thumped her bejeweled cane on the ground for emphasis. Every time it hit the floor, its tip lit up.

  The young man leaned across the table and pointed at the ground. “Pick it up yourself, Granny. It’s right there beside you.”

  Rory stepped out of line and moved to one side so she could see what the teenager was pointing at. A driver’s license lay on the carpet next to Maybelline’s feet. The eighty-year-old remained stubbornly independent and could paint up a storm, but she had her limitations. Bending down to pick anything off the ground was no longer something she could easily do.

  Rory started forward, intending to pick up the license herself, but a woman at the front of the line beat her to it. As the woman bent down, Maybelline lifted her cane, preventing the Good Samaritan from reaching the fallen item. “Thank you, but leave it, please.” She peered at the name tag pinned to the teen’s black t-shirt. “I want Gordon, here, to get it for me. He needs to learn to respect his elders.”

  The woman who had tried to help took a long look at Maybelline’s determined face and straightened up, leaving the license on the floor.

  “Like hell I will.” Gordon sat back in his chair, folded his arms in front of his chest and glared at the former principal defiantly.

  The scent of a combination of jasmine and gardenia wafted down the hallway toward them. A plus-sized woman exuding a slightly frazzled air rushed past the line and squeezed through the doorway into the crowded office, coming to rest next to Maybelline’s side. “What seems to be the problem?” Nixie Mohr said after she recovered her breath.

  “This young man is being very rude. He threw it at me and now he won’t pick it up.”

  It took several minutes for Nixie to sort out the problem. Apparently, Gordon had tossed Maybelline’s license on the table only to have it skitter across the surface onto the floor.

  “I’m so sorry. Gordon, pick up the license and apologize to Mrs. Winkelman.”

  “I don’t even want to be here, Mom. It’s your stupid convention.”

  In a low voice and with a smile on her face she said, “I’m paying you and you’ll be as polite as all of my other employees are.”

  Gordon Mohr stared at his mother defiantly for a moment, then grudgingly moved around the table, grabbed the license and handed it to Maybelline. “Here.”

  “Gordon,” his mother said, a warning note in her voice.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to the older woman in a tone that clearly indicated he wasn’t. “I’ve got to pee.” He shouldered his way through the doorway and headed down the hall in the general direction of the restrooms. As he walked past, Rory caught a glimpse of a silver earring shaped like a skull in his left ear.

  “Sorry about that. Teenagers,” Nixie said to Maybelline. “Did you get your packet?”

  Maybelline nodded her thanks and stuffed her license in her wallet. Registration packet in one hand, cane in the other, she headed out the door. People murmured words of support as she passed by.

  Nixie took over her son’s spot and started processing registrants as if nothing had happened.

  “Nixie’s son wasn’t very polite, was he? I wonder if losing his father had something to do with it,” Veronica said as the line moved forward.

  “Probably. He’s only sixteen. Hard to lose a parent at that age,” Rory said.

  “It was sudden, wasn’t it? I heard she woke up one morning and found her husband sitting in a chair, dead of a massive heart attack.”

  Rory’s heart went out to the woman. “I can’t imagine what she went through. She didn’t even have a chance to call for help.” She nodded toward the girl at the table who was motioning with her hand, indicating she was ready for the next person in line. “You’re up.”

  Veronica headed over to the teenager while Rory stepped up to where Nixie wa
s now free. She handed the woman her ID, but the convention organizer waved it away.

  “No need, Rory, I know who you are.” She riffled through the box of packets, alphabetically sorted by last name, until she found the right one.

  Rory took the packet and plastic badge holder Nixie handed her. “Thanks. Is Gordon okay?”

  “He’s hanging in there. As you can imagine, it’s not been easy for either of us. I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do with him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I shouldn’t be bothering you with this. It’ll all work out in the end, I’m sure.” Nixie squared her shoulders and smiled. “I think you’re all set. Is there anything else I can do for you? I’m selling aprons to protect your clothes during class.” She plucked a white apron with the conference logo emblazoned on it off of a neat stack beside her on the table.

  Rory patted her tote bag. “Thanks, but I’ve got one right in here.”

  Convention materials in hand, Rory made her way to the lobby and sat down on an empty chair, her body sinking into the soft cushion. With her back to the front entrance, she inspected her packet, which contained a list of her classes, a badge insert with her name and hometown printed on it, and a ticket for each class she’d signed up for. Satisfied nothing was missing, she pinned her badge to her t-shirt, stuffed the rest into her tote bag, and checked the time on her cell phone. Half an hour before she was needed on the trade show floor. She was studying the convention schedule when a shadow fell over her. Rory looked up to discover Maybelline Winkelman standing in front of her, smiling.

  A twinkle in her eye, Maybelline extended her hand. In it was a forest green hexagonal box. “I brought you something from my last trip to Seattle. I know how much you love them.”

  Rory gasped in delight. “Frangos! Thanks so much!” Her mouth watered at the thought of the scrumptious mint chocolates. She gestured toward the empty chair beside her. “Sit down and have one with me.”