A Walk in Ashes
Regina has shared that her reveal of Killian Jones's past misdeeds did make Miss French begin to re-think the relationship with the man – but it also caused Miss French to re-think her relationship with Regina. Miss French did call her as she was about to leave town to go to her mountain cabin.
Gold takes his leave and visits with Leroy, Miss French's liquor provider and with David Nolen, who had advanced Miss French some of his own money to get her company up and running. He then visits Gaston Grande, the man who painted the extraordinary portrait of Miss French. He takes a near instant dislike to the man and wonders how Miss French could have ever had a relationship with the bombastic lunkhead. In passing he asks Gaston if he knew Lacey Redfern and is told that she is his roommate's, Keith Notthingham's, on-again, off-again girlfriend. He suspects the relationship may have been abusive.
Gold picks up some dinner for himself and eats it on the back deck of the house he is refurbishing. He realizes that he is developing feelings for the enchanting Miss French, imagining her as a part of his life.
Chapter 6
Taste
The following morning he got take-out coffee and drove his vintage silver land cruiser truck back into town and parked again in the place that was designated for Miss French's apartment. He went back up to the apartment. He checked the time. It was about twenty minutes after seven.
He paused a moment to study her portrait: he realized that she was wearing a blue version of That Red Dress. The blue in the dress matched her eyes. She had possessed astonishingly blue eyes. Then there was chestnut brown hair falling in burnished ringlets, alabaster skin, a cute little figure, a soft gentle smile. He could get lost in those eyes. That smile could ease the pain in his soul.
How the hell had a Neanderthal like Gaston Grande manage to paint such a remarkable portrait?
Gold took a deep breath and went into her bathroom. It was clean, hell, it was sparkling. He checked the medicine cabinet. No prescription bottles. Some first aid stuff, some ibuprofen, some vitamin C. There were a lot of little bottles and containers. He opened a drawer. More bottles and containers. He looked under the sink. Along with feminine hygiene products there were more bottles and containers, these stored neatly in a plastic shoe box. He picked up one. Kate Somerville oil-free moisturizer. He looked at another one. Glamglow Youth Mud. Not sure what that was used for. He picked up another one. Mega-mushroom soothing lotion. He was completely in over his head.
He shut things up and shook his head. The woman was a complete products junkie. But nothing illegal or even marginally so.
Next he went to the kitchen. He looked in her fridge. It was the tidiest fridge he'd ever looked into. There were long clear containers that held different things, like pickles or condiments. There must have been six different mustards in one of the 'drawers.' He checked the crisper drawers – a bag of organic carrots, some organic celery and a cucumber. On the other side were a couple of apples, a pear, and some cherries. There was some bottled water labeled as containing electrolytes and another water bottle that was labeled as being natural alkaline spring water. Some organic apple juice and some organic peach-strawberry-mango juice. And organic milk and some almond milk in another carton. Organic eggs. Nice.
She had one of those new-fangled pod coffee makers on the counter. He went through her cabinets and found several dainty little cups hanging from little hooks. He selected one and put it on the coffee maker. There was a little drawer underneath the coffee maker that was full of the little pods for Costa Rican coffee, a mild roast coffee. He frowned and pulled the drawer all the way open. In the back there were a few others that were labeled as being dark roast. Satisfied, he picked out one of these and popped it into the machine, waiting the short time for it to brew. Gold then took the black coffee and returned to his job.
He sat down at Belle's writing desk placing the coffee to one side on a little coaster that was already on the desk. Miss French had a pastel pink computer that he opened and began to go through, checking her email, facebook and whatever other social media he could access.
He checked her phone records. Last Friday there had been a call to an attorney in Atlanta. Gold looked him up on line. The guy specialized in adoptions. Gold made a note of it.
Then he checked her search histories – mostly fashion related, wedding related, nothing sinister. He also pulled out the white leather bound journal that he'd found the other day and he began perusing it. It was her personal journal, her diary. He'd stop periodically to write down something in his little notebook.
He was expecting someone.
Promptly at eight, the door opened and in came a plump woman dressed in a plain uniform.
"Ms. Potts?" he addressed the woman.
"That's my name. Who are you?" she answered him promptly. "What're you doin' here?"
"Lieutenant Gold. I'm with Homicide."
"Another one of those infernal policemen. Hope you get off your butts and figure out who killed Miss Belle. The woman was a real lady."
"Sit down, please," he gestured to one of the plush chairs in the small sitting room.
Ms. Potts stopped a moment peering over at the desk. She could see what he had been doing. "You're goin' through her private stuff! Her emails and such! And her journal! You've been readin' her private thoughts! Pawin' through her things! It's a shame, that's what it is! A shame! Can't leave her any dignity!"
"Sit down, please," he asked her again.
Ms. Potts drew herself up. "I'll stand on my own two feet, thank you. I always have and I always will. Don't think you can go ordering me around. I ain't afraid of cops. I was brought up to spit whenever I saw one."
Gold had to smile to himself, "Go ahead and spit if that'll make you feel better."
Ms. Potts stood with her arms folded. "Whaddya want to know?"
"What we all want to know. Who killed Belle French?"
"How would I know? Isn't that your job? Now . . . hey, wait a minute! You don't think I done it? I know you cops get some crazy notions, but if you got any ideas concernin' me . . . ! Ask anyone – anyone who ever came to this house. I would have worked for her. I would have washed, cleaned, ironed, scrubbed, done everythin' she wanted of me, whether she paid me or not. And it wasn't only on account of the thousand sweet things she done for me. It was because she was so sweet herself. Because she was a real fine lady. But you cops wouldn't know nothin' about that."
Gold spoke softly to the distraught and angry maid. "But you do. That's all the more reason why you should help me. Now Ms. Potts," he went over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a particular bottle of whiskey, "Do you happen to know how this got into her liquor cabinet?"
"Yeah, I do. I put it there," Ms. Potts promptly responded.
"But she didn't buy cheap stuff like this. Not a real fine lady like Ms. French."
"No. She weren't the one that bought it."
"When did you put it into the cabinet?"
"Saturday morning right after I . . . Before the police came."
"Was it out Friday night before you left?"
"No."
"Are you sure of that?"
Ms. Potts drew herself up, "I cleaned out that cabinet on Friday, like I do every Friday. Got everything lined up like she liked things. Put out clean glasses. Everything was spic and span. Yeah, I'm sure." She was looking him in the eye.
"Then," Gold put the puzzle together. "There was somebody with her in the apartment Friday night after you left. Someone who brought that bottle."
"I suppose so," Ms. Potts agreed.
"Who?"
"I don't know. How should I know? But I didn't want anyone getting any wrong ideas about her." Ms. Potts took a deep breath and continued, "That's why I took that bottle and two glasses out of the bedroom before the police got here. I put the bottle in the cabinet. And that ain't all I done."
"Ms. Potts?" Gold narrowed his eyes. Anyone else might have been intimidated.
"I cleaned the bottle off and then washed out the glasses and I put 'em up. One of them had alcohol in it. The other had had some juice," she told him defiantly.
"Ms. Potts," he was shaking his head. "Do you know what happens to people who destroy evidence?" he asked her.
"I don't care. Now you ain't gonna tell those reporters are ya? Let them make up nasty stories and drag her name through the mud? Go ahead, but it won't do you any good." Ms. Potts was on a roll, "I'll say you lied. I'll say that you . . ."
"Take it easy, Ms. Potts. I'm not trying to be disrespectful towards Miss French. I'm trying to find out who killed her," he had raised his voice slightly. "Now, I'm going to get your help with something and your helping me will go a long way with me forgetting that you destroyed evidence." His tone brooked no resistance or argument. "I'm expecting someone here at ten." And he filled her in on his objective and what she could do to be helpful.
The two went on with their respective jobs with Gold back to looking through Belle's private writings at her desk and Ms. Potts cleaning the already pristine refrigerator, dusting and then vacuuming. Ms. Potts frequently glared at Gold and made disgusted little sounds as he continued going through Belle's private information.
It was ten after ten when there was a knock at the door. It was Killian Jones, Ms. Cora Hart and Ms. Regina Mills. Cora was wearing her signature red but Regina was more subdued, attired in shades of grey. Killian spoke up, "Lieutenant Gold sent for me."
They all greeted him, "Good morning Lieutenant," Killian spoke up.
Gold frowned, "This is quite a procession." He added to himself, "That's never good." Then he spoke to the group, "I only sent for you, Jones."
"I know," Jones replied.
Cora spoke up, "Killian's dropping me off at the hairdresser's later . . . so I thought I might as well come along."
"My excuse is equally feeble," Regina spoke up. "I just popped in to pay my dubious respects . . . and inquire as to the state of your health."
"I would have thought you came to see if there's anything else you can put into your blog," Gold said sourly.
"Or, better yet, my Friday night podcast," Regina continued on. "I've already re-released my old podcast on your heroic actions taking down the drug lord to remind my fans of the sergeant with the stainless steel shinbone. I'm updating my blog this afternoon. It's all in preparation for your continuing exploits at solving this . . . The Belle French Affair. How does that sound for a title?"
"Melodramatic dear, but you always were prone to over-acting," Cora told her and then spotted the liquor and the glasses. "I'm going to pour myself a drink. Care to join me?" she asked . . . everyone. "This stuff is ghastly," she held up the Jolly Roger, the odd liquor bottle that Gold had questioned Ms. Potts concerning. "Now Belle always kept Johnny Walker Blue," and she leaned over to look through the cabinet and pull out the bottle of prime liquor.
"A very nice idea," agreed Gold. "Killian wouldn't you like one?" Before Killian could answer, Gold asked, "Ms. Potts, will you get us a couple more glasses?"
Ms. Potts glared at the police officer but said, "Yes, sir."
"Well, Ms. Potts," Cora noticed her. "Whatever are you doing here?"
"I'm paid up for the week and I'm working regardless."
Gold offered the liquor to Regina, "Mills, would you like one?" he asked.
"I see no reason to exclude myself. If the host is providing the whiskey."
"Will this do?" Gold held up the bottle of Jolly Roger.
"Not at all. I'll have some of the good stuff," Regina rejected the cheap alcohol and took one of the other glasses to pour herself a drink.
Gold turned back to Killian. "How about you, Jones? It's cheap, but it's potent."
"As a matter of fact, I don't think I care for any. I'm not much of a daytime drinker."
Gold held the glass containing the cheap liquor but did not raise it to his lips. "Really? Ms. Potts, bring Mr. Jones some of that excellent peach-strawberry-mango juice that Miss French has in the fridge."
Ms. Potts soon came back with the carafe of juice and a glass balanced on a serving tray. Jones took the glass and poured himself some juice. Gold turned back to her, "Ms. Potts, that will be all for you today. You can go home now," he smiled kindly at her.
"But I . . . " Ms. Potts locked eyes with him. "All right sir. But I'll be back tomorrow morning."
"Of course you will. Take care of yourself," he watched her go.
Regina held up one of the beveled crystal highball glass. "I remember when Belle bought these glasses. Waterford crystal. She got a complete set. She loved them. She loved all her things so. I remember she had this . . . well, it was almost a rule about buying things. Don't buy something if you don't love it but if you do love something then go to great lengths to buy it."
"What are you going to do with her things?" Gold asked. "Sell them?"
Cora shrugged, "I'm the executor of her will. I really don't know – haven't given it much thought. I suppose we'll sell her things. She has some rather valuable pieces here. Really when she asked me to be the executor of her will, I never expected to outlive her. I'll probably just call in Albert."
"You mean Albert Spencer, the art dealer?" Regina asked.
"Yes, he was well acquainted with Belle. I'll let him dispose of everything, probably have a quiet private auction. It'll be less gruesome that way."
"Not quite everything, Mother," Regina spoke up. "Two or three things in here belong to me. This vase, for instance and that, uh, that brass clock, of course . . . and the antique Japanese fire screen. I only lent them to Belle, you know."
"Oh really, Regina?" Cora was appalled.
"Yes Mother, really. This vase is the gem of my collection. I intend to have it back. And the clock and the screen, too."
"But they aren't yours. You gave them to Belle. I won't permit it," Cora disputed her daughter's claims.
"Does an alleged fiancé have any voice in this matter?" Killian jumped into the fray.
Both women turned on him and, in unison, said, "No!"
"I'll take the vase with me now and send someone to collect the other things this very day," Regina insisted.
"Nothing is leaving here except you, Regina," Gold stepped into the situation.
"Is that your quaint way of indicating dismissal?" she asked him.
"We're all going anyway. I have more errands to run," Gold told them all.
"Lieutenant, I don't understand," Killian spoke up. "You sent for me, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, didn't you want to see me? Don't you want to ask me some questions?" he asked puzzled.
"Oh, I'll be seeing you," Gold told him. "And asking you some questions," he added.
"Well . . ." Killian nearly sputtered.
"Goodbye everyone," Gold was ushering them towards the door.
"Come along Killian," Cora spoke up. On the way out she stopped and turned back to Gold, "Are you making any progress on the case, Lieutenant?"
"We're doing all right," he replied non-committedly.
After they had left (been escorted off the premises), Gold carefully labeled the glasses and set them aside. He made a call to get some of the lab crew up here to pick them up to get fingerprints. Then he went down the stairs to talk with Miss French's landlady, an Ariel Poole.
She'd been crying. "She was such a lovely, wonderful person and that was such a horrible way to die," she told him.
"How was she as a tenant?" Gold asked the young woman.
"Perfect. Always paid her rent, kept the place pristine, no raucous parties, recycled. Never had any problems with her."
"Did she have a lot of guests?"
"Oh people were always coming in and out, at all hours – not for anything seedy, mind you. She was always helping people out, sometimes just giving them a place to stay, a hot shower and a meal. She was always reaching out to others. The kindest soul you'd ever meet. Any time someone was in trouble, they would come to Belle. If a girl had broken up with her boyfriend, they'd go and see Belle. If a boy had broken up with his girlfriend, or boyfriend for that matter, they'd go and see Belle. She never judged. She'd just be there for them."
"Did you ever have cause to go and see her?" Gold asked her, making a note in his ever-present notebook.
"Well, I did once. I had some boyfriend problems a while back. I was upstairs talking to Belle nearly every day. She helped keep me strong."
"How did it turn out?"
Ariel gave him a small smile. "We're seeing each other regularly now."
"Anybody ever say anything bad about Miss French?"
"Like you mean did they want her dead or threaten her?" When Gold nodded, Ariel shook her head. "I don't know anyone who didn't like Belle."
"Were you aware of any visitors coming to her apartment on Friday?"
Ariel shook her head.
"Do you happen to know a Lacey Redfern?" he asked. "She might have been one of those who came to see Miss French."
Ariel shook her head. "Not by name. What did she look like?"
"Not sure. She was short and brunette, one of Miss French's models."
Ariel shook her head again.
He put his notebook back in his pocket and prepared to leave. He stopped on the way out, "Oh yeah, do you usually keep the windows on the stairwell locked up and the screens latched?"
"Oh yeah, it could be a hazard if any small children came in the building," Ariel told him.
"And how many parking places are assigned to Miss French's apartment?" he asked, curious.
"Two. All the penthouses have two places. People can pay and get another place if they need it."
"Are the parking places next to each other?"
"Let me check," Ariel told him and pulled out a map of the parking places. "Yeah. Miss French's places are next to each other," and she showed him on the map.
He started back out but then stopped again. He asked, "Will you have any problems renting the place, now that someone's been murdered in it?"
Ariel shook her head, "This is Asheville. It's not quite as ghost-friendly as Savannah, but still, having an apartment to rent that has such a notorious history will not be a problem."
He nodded and headed on out. He had two more people to interview. He was becoming concerned about Lacey Redfern's disappearance and how that might tie into Belle's murder. He had two addresses to check out and got into his truck to track them down.
The first was a low-rent apartment complex beyond Arden, towards Fletcher. He double-checked the address and went to the apartment door and knocked. He got no reply. He then fetched the apartment manager and using his badge intimidated the plump woman into opening the apartment.
It was empty. It looked like someone had just picked up and left. There were clothes on the floor, out of date food in the fridge, a couple of dirty plates in the sink and, it took him awhile to locate the mewing animal, one very hungry kitten. He picked up the poor little calico thing. It had not been well taken care of judging by his ability to feel the animal's rib cage. He found and opened a can of cat food which he put in a disreputable bowl for the animal. The kitten promptly devoured the food. He put out some fresh water for the animal.
"Have you seen her recently?" he asked the manager who was following on his heels.
"No, but that ain't nothin' new," the woman volunteered more information. "She has her rent set up to pay automatically so it weren't like she ever came by. She's got these rough looking boyfriends, like bikers or gang-bangers, several of 'em, but she keeps the noise down so the neighbors don't complain. Is she in trouble?"
"Just want to question her about her whereabouts. When was the last time you do remember seeing her?" he asked.
The woman thought, "Maybe last Friday morning. I remember because I was walking out to the mailbox and saw her go by in her little blue Kia. I figured she was on her way into work. But her being gone for days at a time, that ain't unusual. I figure she's shackin' up with one of her boyfriends."
"Ever see this man?" Gold pulled up a picture of Killian Jones on his phone(from a magazine article on Miss French's business).
"Now isn't he a pretty thing. No, can't say I 'member him. She liked rougher, bigger guys."
"Thanks." Gold nodded. "If she comes back, let her know I've taken her cat and give her this card, please." He handed the woman his card, then collected a bag of litter and stuffed his pockets with several cans of cat food. Cradling the kitten in one hand, he walked back to his car carrying everything, balanced with his use of his cane.
He heard the woman, "Special Investigator? Homicide? Whut's that about?"
The kitten settled in the passenger seat of the car, curling up and nodding off, apparently quite comfortable with him. One more stop. He double checked the address. A car repair facility.
Thank you, thank you all my lovely reviewers (this story is a bit of a stretch for me – something new I'm trying and I do appreciate the insightful feedback): Cynicsquest, OneMagician, Erik'sTrueAngel, MyraValhallah, Robin4, jewel415, Aletta-Feather, Grace5231973, onlyinyourdreams77, Chauchi, deweymay, and juju0268
NEXT: Gold continues the interviews
Gold decides to try to purchase one of Miss French's possessions
And he has to deal with the fallout from Regina's latest blog
Gold spends a quiet evening with The Portrait of Miss French and gets the surprise of his life.