Eaves of Destruction Page 15

  One round table in the middle of the room held jars of paintbrushes. A large square pot held several dozen twisted tubes of oil paint in every color. Cans and bottles held more brushes and tools of all kinds. Small palettes were stacked neatly in an old woven basket.

  Around the edges of the room were a number of easels with canvases of different sizes. Some were finished paintings and some appeared to be works in progress. And from where I stood, they all looked stunning.

  Matthew Jorgensen was a master artist. I wasn’t sure why the realization surprised me. Maybe because he was such a genial man that I didn’t expect to find such depth of talent. Or maybe because Petsy’s personality was so stridently negative that I didn’t believe any true genius or talent could survive and thrive in the same house.

  As I walked around, I noticed that Matthew didn’t seem to specialize in any one style of art, such as still life or portraiture. He did it all. There were landscapes and seascapes and desert rock formations. He painted eerie tree skeletons and colorful fields of flowers. There were several beautiful portraits of women and a few of men. Lindsey was featured in numerous works and it was clear from each of those depictions that he loved his daughter very much.

  “You are so talented,” Amanda said softly.

  “It’s a shocker, right?” Matthew laughed.

  “Not at all,” she said. “If my tone made it seem like I felt that way, it’s just that I’m always a little awed when I’m surrounded by so much talent and beauty.”

  I was surprised. She sounded so formal, all of a sudden.

  But Matthew beamed. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

  She continued walking slowly around the room until she stopped at an elongated dancing figure standing on a pedestal. “What’s this? Did you sculpt this? It’s beautiful.”

  “I did. Thanks.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and moved toward the pedestal. “I like working in clay and wood, but I don’t get the chance very often. Unfortunately I’m always painting.” With a grin, he added, “Although it’s really not unfortunate at all, is it?”

  “No, it’s a very good thing,” I said, secretly dismayed to see a work of sculpture that he’d done. That meant he had sculpting tools, such as a chisel, hiding here someplace. I loved uncovering new clues, but hated the possibility that Matthew might be a killer.

  Matthew chuckled. “Well, it certainly pays the bills.”

  “I’m glad.” I moved around the room, taking it all in. “You’ve got so much light pouring in. No wonder you love it up here.”

  “That’s what it’s all about for me,” he said.

  I stared out of the bay window on the west side of the room. “Your view is sensational.”

  “You should see the view from the widow’s walk,” he said, pointing toward the tower room. “I wanted to connect this space to the tower because it’s got doors that lead out to the roof.”

  He crossed the room and we followed him up the steps to the tower room. A set of French doors led right out onto the widow’s walk and I stared out the windows at the rectangular space. The flat surface was about twenty feet long by ten feet wide, surrounded by a clean white railing. Two white Adirondack chairs sat in the center of the platform, facing the ocean. It was incredibly charming and one of the picturesque elements that made this house such a classic Victorian.

  He smiled dreamily. “I sit out there once in a while and paint the coastline. We can walk out there if you’d like.”

  “I would love to see it,” Amanda said.

  “I would, too,” I said, but glanced around nervously. “And I really want to spend more time in your studio. But would you mind if I used the bathroom first?”

  “Not at all. I’ve got a little one to the left of the door. Or you can run down to the second floor and use the bigger one. If you turn left, it’s the second door on your right.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll go downstairs. Thanks. I’ll be right back.” I gave a quick glance at Amanda, who nodded, and then I took off. I figured I would have a better chance of finding hairbrushes if I used the larger bathroom on the same floor as everyone’s bedrooms.

  I found the bathroom, walked in, and locked the door. Only then did I realize there was a second door, leading to another room. I locked that one, too, and began to search. It took me only a few seconds to find someone’s hairbrush. I was a little disappointed to discover that this was Lindsey’s bathroom—the strands of hair left in the brush were long and blond. Would it be useful to test hers as well as her parents’ hair? Maybe but I was still more interested in finding the brushes that belonged to Matthew and Petsy.

  Did I dare venture farther down the hall? Petsy was still not home and I hadn’t seen or heard Lindsey since I got back from lunch. Was she home? Was I crazy? Maybe, but I had to take the chance and look while the time was right. Besides, I wasn’t worried about Lindsey finding me. Petsy was another issue altogether. There was no way I wanted her to find me down here. Even so, I figured I had a few minutes’ leeway to do a quick search.

  I left the bathroom and walked quickly down the hall. I opened the third door on the opposite side of the hall and glanced inside. It was very obviously a lady’s bedroom, with a huge bed and a very puffy comforter, with pillows of every size and shape. It had to be Petsy’s bedroom. I wondered where Matthew slept, because I had no doubt that they did not sleep together in the same bedroom. As a couple, they just didn’t have that . . . connection. The one that said to the world that these two people were close. A unit.

  I stepped inside the room, closed the door behind me, and then scurried over to the door most likely leading to the bathroom. Instead it was a large walk-in closet, so I opened the other door, noting that so far, no two doorknobs I’d tried were the same. That gave me a thrill, although I acknowledged that I shouldn’t have been wasting time admiring doorknobs. But these were so special, made of an anodized copper, and each had a different curlicue pattern on the surface. That was another Victorian detail that would’ve delighted me even more if I weren’t currently on a covert mission to find discarded strands of hair.

  I tried the door and found the bathroom. It was all pinks and purples—and not in a soft, pretty way. No, this room was loud and gaudy, with outlandishly girlie froufrous everywhere.

  On the built-in vanity there were several dozen brands of moisturizers and lotions and potions mixed in with sprays and tubes and jars of perfumes and balms and crèmes. On the wall, there were paintings that depicted nursery rhymes, of all things. Little Bo Peep and her sheep. Little Miss Muffet and her tuffet. The childish paintings were so far removed from my imaginary picture of Petsy’s style that I started to laugh. To each her own, I supposed.

  I quickly sobered and began opening drawers in the cabinets beneath the sink counter. Nothing was orderly; everything was a jumble. Again, not what I’d imagined I’d find in Petsy’s rooms.

  Finally I found an old cracked hairbrush with plenty of dark strands still attached. I grabbed as many as I could, all the while wishing I had thought to bring gloves with me. Because yuck. This was Petsy’s old hair.

  I quickly stuffed the hairs into the small Baggie and then took another moment to glance around. In the pink trash can under the sink I saw used tissues. I grimaced, but I knew it would be smart to gather up whatever I could find that might contain enough DNA to run the tests for Amanda.

  I used the inside of the Baggie itself to grab a few tissues and quickly tucked them inside. I zipped the bag shut, shoved it in my back pocket, and tiptoed to the door leading back to the bedroom. Glancing out, I saw nobody standing around, waiting to arrest me, so I sneaked across the bedroom and back into the hallway.

  I had made it as far as Lindsey’s bathroom door when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone was walking upstairs from the first floor. I wanted to run in the opposite direction, but instead I took a deep breath and tried
to hold on to my cool and calm attitude. And keep walking. A moment later, the person stepped onto the hallway carpet.

  Naturally it was Petsy. She couldn’t have given me fifteen extra seconds to escape this confrontation? Of course not.

  I had obviously startled her, because she stopped abruptly. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Hi, Petsy,” I said oh so casually. “I was upstairs in Matthew’s studio and had to use the bathroom. He suggested I use the one down here, so I did. And now I’m going back upstairs for a few more minutes.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she cried, genuinely outraged. “Why aren’t you working? I’m losing money by the minute.”

  “I appreciate your concerns, but you’re not actually paying my crew by the minute, or even the hour.” I smiled gently as I spoke, as if I were afraid of upsetting her too badly. Which I wasn’t, of course. “You’re paying us for the entire job. And believe me, you’re getting more than your money’s worth. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I breezed past her and headed for the staircase.

  She harrumphed. “You are the rudest—”

  That was enough. I turned back to her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind,” she griped. “Just go. And don’t let me catch you up here again.”

  I felt my temper rising and knew I had to stand my ground or forever walk around with my tail between my legs. Besides, what could she do to me? At the very worst, she could search me, but all she would find was a bag of hair and tissues.

  And if she tried to search me, I swore I would tell the world about Little Miss Muffet.

  “You didn’t catch me up here, Petsy,” I said evenly. “I was simply using the bathroom.”

  And before I started shaking, I turned and walked away. I could hear her sputtering and I felt her eyes following me. But she didn’t say another word, and by the time I reached Matthew’s studio on the third floor, I was sagging with relief. I wasn’t sure why. Again, what was the worst that could have happened? I suppose Petsy could have fired us, but that really would not have been the worst thing. In fact, Wade would be delighted if we got fired from this job.

  No, it was just Petsy herself that freaked me out. The way she thrived on cutting a person down and making them feel like less than a human being. I had no idea why she thought she had to behave that way, but I knew I could hate her forever because of it.

  Chapter Nine

  I returned to the third-floor studio and spent another half hour with Matthew and Amanda. I did a casual perusal of the table where all of Matthew’s tools were stored in odd cans and jars. There had to be a dozen different chisels of varying sizes and shapes, along with other tools of the trade. We ventured out to the widow’s walk and admired the amazing view. And we talked about painting and other arts. I enjoyed listening to Matthew talk about everything.

  When I asked if Lindsey painted, too, he chuckled fondly. “My daughter loves to paint, but readily admits that she’s not very good. But she’s fantastic at selling art, so that makes up for it as far as I’m concerned. Believe me, that is an art in itself.”

  “Does Petsy have an artistic bent as well?” I asked casually. I didn’t want to pry, but . . . Oh, who was I kidding? I wanted to know every possible detail about the Jorgensens.

  “She used to,” Matthew said. “Back in school, she was very interested in her art and drama classes, but as the years went by, she lost interest. You know how it is. You grow up and get distracted by other things. Money, status, all those things that make the world go round.” He said it tongue in cheek, but I could tell this was a painful subject for him.

  “You two went to school together?” Amanda asked.

  “We did,” he said, a soft smile on his face. “I fell in love with her the first time I saw her walk into my third-grade class.” His gaze drifted off as his mind seemed to wander back to those old days. “I know she might seem a little harsh sometimes, but she was a beautiful little girl and she grew up to be a lovely young woman.”

  A little harsh? Was he kidding? The woman could give piranhas lessons in aggression. But maybe he wasn’t kidding, since he sounded very much like a man who was still in love with his wife.

  “She’s still beautiful,” Amanda said kindly.

  “Yes, she is,” he agreed, then added quietly, “Although you can’t always see it when she goes on one of her tirades.”

  “She does seem a bit . . .”

  His eyebrows rose. “Cranky?”

  “I was going to say overly concerned,” I said, although it was a lie. I just wanted to keep him talking.

  Matthew sighed. “I’ve learned to live with it. She’s mild compared to her mother, though. That woman was always so petty, so wrapped up in appearances, it was like a sickness. Petsy tried to break free from that mind-set, and she was doing pretty well for a while. We got married and we were happy, but then Lindsey was born and Petsy seemed to turn into her mother all over again. I think the baby made her so nervous that she fell back on those negative attitudes and behaviors she grew up with.”

  “A baby changes everything,” I murmured.

  “Yes,” he said. “So, you’ve obviously noticed that Petsy can be overly critical. Just like her mother, she’s very concerned about superficial things like what someone’s wearing or the way they speak. I try to ignore it, try to recall the girl I fell in love with, but . . .” He shrugged, then suddenly grinned. “What can you do?”

  I was taken aback by his abrupt change of mood. It was understandable, though. He’d probably had enough of trash-talking his wife, so I didn’t ask any more questions. We went back to the subject of art and painting and had a short but fun chat about our favorite artists.

  None of us mentioned the painting Matthew had shown us the other day, of the woman who looked so much like Amanda. It was as if it was a forbidden topic and I wondered why. If we could just have an open, honest discussion about it with Matthew, we might be able to put an end to our great search for dirty old hairbrushes. But, then, I’d had so much fun, why would I want to stop?

  Amanda and I left Matthew to his work and returned to the dining room to continue ours. She leaned in close so we could talk quietly. “That was interesting, wasn’t it?”

  “It was,” I whispered. “I never thought I’d actually feel sorry for Petsy, but hearing Matthew talk about her made me a little sad.”

  “Me, too.”

  “And I wanted to bring up the adoption, but he was going on and on about Petsy and I couldn’t find the right moment to switch gears.”

  “I know,” she said. “We can try to talk about it the next time he comes around.”

  “By the way, I found Petsy’s bathroom and got a bunch of hair from her brush.”

  “Fantastic!” Amanda said.

  “Yeah, but Petsy found me up there and she was really annoyed. So if you were thinking of snooping around this afternoon, you might want to wait until sometime tomorrow, when she’s out of the house.”

  “Good idea. The last thing I want is a confrontation with her.”

  We went back to work, but a few minutes later, my phone rang. It was Carla, asking if I could run over to the Spaulding house to check on a problem with the new soffits above the kitchen cabinets.

  “I’m not sure I’ll make it back here before the end of the day,” I said to Amanda. “Do you want to meet at my house after work to commiserate for a while?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”

  I smiled. “Not necessary, but always appreciated.”

  The whole time I was gone, I worried that Amanda might try to sneak upstairs and hunt down Matthew Jorgensen’s hairbrush. I’d warned her about my run-in with Petsy, but what if Amanda got a bee in her bonnet anyway? What if Petsy caught her in Matthew’s bathroom? What if Petsy or Matthew called the police? What if Amanda confronted them both
with the ever-growing probability that they were her parents?

  My mother-hen analogy was at work again, making me anxious and distracted. I had to get back and find out if Amanda was all right. But as I drove home, I thought about the situation and finally came to my senses. I really had to let these worries go. Amanda was a grown-up, just like me. She had been making her own decisions for years. She was talented and savvy and knew what she was doing. If she couldn’t handle a little hairbrush espionage, she shouldn’t have signed on to the job.

  And lest I forget, she had pulled a pretty slick number on me to get the Jorgensen job, so it was probably downright silly of me to worry about her now.

  Still, I hovered over the speed limit most of the way home.

  I spotted Amanda’s red truck as soon as I turned onto my street. And in spite of all my best intentions to quit worrying, I breathed a sigh of relief seeing that truck parked outside my house. Fine. I admit it. I should start a chapter of Worriers Anonymous. Hi. My name is Shannon. I’m worried.

  After parking my own truck in the driveway, I watched as Amanda jogged over to join me. I led the way through the gate and into the kitchen. Amanda played with Robbie while I poured us each a glass of wine and put together a little plate of cheese, crackers, olives, and almonds for munching purposes.

  As soon as I sat down, she pounced. “So, tell me everything that happened. You found Petsy’s bathroom. What did you do? And when did she catch you? I’ve been so nervous, just thinking about that confrontation. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I had to run out, but we can talk now.” I raised my wineglass. “But first, cheers. Let’s drink to gathering hair for a good cause.”