galleries in Sanibel and found a whole section of paintings signed Candy Port . She perused them with a cold eye, looking for Mick’s influence and not finding it. The woman’s work showed marginal skill, but it had a certain “outsider art” appeal, as she roughed in her subjects’ eyes, making them seem more childlike and lost than they would be had she stuck to the representational. There was certainly something there, that spark of intuition, perhaps, a way of seeing the world. But it was held back; something kept it restrained even here on the canvas. The woman’s own limitations were omnipresent.
Still, Grace found herself especially captivated by the images of children and animals, which lost the sinister feel of the other depictions and seemed to reveal the artist’s lingering sense of wonder. Grace remembered Candace had a cage of parakeets just beyond the front room of her house, and of course there was that cat, who was clearly her closest friend. But the children? She had not seemed to be a woman who would admit children into her life. But in a painting that gave her pause, there were two imps staring over a fence that Grace recognized as the one framing the artist’s yard. The kids must be her neighbors, Grace surmised.
The painting was priced at three hundred and fifty dollars. The frame alone was worth that, as it was vintage wood and customized to echo the fence in the painting. It set the painting off nicely. Obeying some instinct she couldn’t even name if she tried, Grace bought the painting.
On her way back to Miami, she decided that Candace was indeed capable of having set that fire, even if her intention had been to destroy the art instead of kill Mick.
Chapter Five
Suspect number two was right up the coast in Fort Lauderdale, so Cat didn’t have to travel far to interview him. This was a man Mick referred to as “Chester the Molester,” but Cat planned to address him as “Dr. Canon.”
His wife answered the door. She was a diminutive woman with an old-fashioned permanent, her natural gray color and lack of cosmetic surgery—unlike many a Miami oldster—revealing her age to be upwards of eighty. On her feet were solid orthopedic shoes.
“You’re here to see the Professor?” She looked Cat up and down as if she distrusted her on the basis of looks or maybe age alone. “He’s in his studio.” She left the door open for Cat and began walking down a long hallway that opened to an indoor atrium filled with plants and canvas-stacked easels.
Dr. Canon was sitting on a stool, legs akimbo, staring at a half-finished canvas, a lit cigarette dangling from one hand. He did not respond to the sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor.
“Chester, darling,” his wife said, raising her voice, suggesting he was hard of hearing. “That lady detective is here to see you. The one who called.”
At that, Dr. Canon turned and spied Cat over the top of thick reading glasses. What little hair he had left on his head had been combed back neatly with some sort of hair cream. There was a pack of cigarettes in his left shirt pocket. He was wearing a tropical cabana shirt and white loafers with trouser shorts. He looked like a very old-school Florida cracker. Cat thought about the mug in her Uncle Mick’s dream, the one Rose dropped.
“A lady detective, eh? Well, why don’t you sit down.” He motioned to a hardback chair across from his canvas.
“I’ll bring you some sweet tea,” said his wife.
“That’d be lovely, Louise,” said Chester, with a touch of real feeling that surprised Cat. This was the man her great-uncle characterized as “genuine only in his capacity for evil.”
“I’m here to talk to you about Mick Travers,” Cat prompted.
That drew a blank look, so she continued. “You had it in for him when he was a student in the MFA program at Columbia.”
“Who’s that, you say? Travers…” He put a finger to the side of his head as if mentally
Still, Grace found herself especially captivated by the images of children and animals, which lost the sinister feel of the other depictions and seemed to reveal the artist’s lingering sense of wonder. Grace remembered Candace had a cage of parakeets just beyond the front room of her house, and of course there was that cat, who was clearly her closest friend. But the children? She had not seemed to be a woman who would admit children into her life. But in a painting that gave her pause, there were two imps staring over a fence that Grace recognized as the one framing the artist’s yard. The kids must be her neighbors, Grace surmised.
The painting was priced at three hundred and fifty dollars. The frame alone was worth that, as it was vintage wood and customized to echo the fence in the painting. It set the painting off nicely. Obeying some instinct she couldn’t even name if she tried, Grace bought the painting.
On her way back to Miami, she decided that Candace was indeed capable of having set that fire, even if her intention had been to destroy the art instead of kill Mick.
Chapter Five
Suspect number two was right up the coast in Fort Lauderdale, so Cat didn’t have to travel far to interview him. This was a man Mick referred to as “Chester the Molester,” but Cat planned to address him as “Dr. Canon.”
His wife answered the door. She was a diminutive woman with an old-fashioned permanent, her natural gray color and lack of cosmetic surgery—unlike many a Miami oldster—revealing her age to be upwards of eighty. On her feet were solid orthopedic shoes.
“You’re here to see the Professor?” She looked Cat up and down as if she distrusted her on the basis of looks or maybe age alone. “He’s in his studio.” She left the door open for Cat and began walking down a long hallway that opened to an indoor atrium filled with plants and canvas-stacked easels.
Dr. Canon was sitting on a stool, legs akimbo, staring at a half-finished canvas, a lit cigarette dangling from one hand. He did not respond to the sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor.
“Chester, darling,” his wife said, raising her voice, suggesting he was hard of hearing. “That lady detective is here to see you. The one who called.”
At that, Dr. Canon turned and spied Cat over the top of thick reading glasses. What little hair he had left on his head had been combed back neatly with some sort of hair cream. There was a pack of cigarettes in his left shirt pocket. He was wearing a tropical cabana shirt and white loafers with trouser shorts. He looked like a very old-school Florida cracker. Cat thought about the mug in her Uncle Mick’s dream, the one Rose dropped.
“A lady detective, eh? Well, why don’t you sit down.” He motioned to a hardback chair across from his canvas.
“I’ll bring you some sweet tea,” said his wife.
“That’d be lovely, Louise,” said Chester, with a touch of real feeling that surprised Cat. This was the man her great-uncle characterized as “genuine only in his capacity for evil.”
“I’m here to talk to you about Mick Travers,” Cat prompted.
That drew a blank look, so she continued. “You had it in for him when he was a student in the MFA program at Columbia.”
“Who’s that, you say? Travers…” He put a finger to the side of his head as if mentally
Similar Books
