A Walk in Ashes
Gold recognizes that he is becoming increasingly enamored of the lovely Miss French. He arrives early at her apartment to await several visitors. First is Miss Potts, Miss French's housekeeper. She is quite the feisty woman and does not hesitate to share her disapproval of Gold going through Miss French's private information. Ms. Potts also confesses that she cleaned up two glasses and a bottle of cheap liquor after she had discovered the body and before she called the police. Gold (after hinting he could arrest her for destroying evidence) enlists Ms. Potts's assistance in getting fingerprints from Killian Jones (and while they are at it, the fingerprints of Regina Mills and Cora Hart – as well as Ms. Potts).
Gold then makes a visit to Lacey's apartment. The last time anyone saw her was Friday morning. Her apartment appears to have been abruptly abandoned but he is told that it's not unusual for Lacey to take off for days at a time. Gold rescues an abandoned half-starved kitten from her place.
He then goes to a car repair facility to interview one more individual who may be able to give him information regarding Miss Redfern.
Revelation
Chapter 7
It was a dirty, fly-by-night car repair facility. Gold parked under a sweetgum tree, lowered the windows, patted the kitten and then went on out. He approached the owner (he assumed he was the owner – the man's tee-shirt was the cleanest of the staff milling around). Gold flashed his badge.
"Yeah, whacha want?"
"I need to talk with Keith Nottingham. I believe he works here," Gold said politely.
"Yeah." The owner spit to the side and called out, "Keith, you gotta cop here to see you."
"Whut? I ain't been arrested or nut'in'," the tall young man came limping out from behind a car, wearing a tool belt, complete with a variety of socket wrenches and various small tools. He had a couple of small screwdrivers sticking out of the pocket of his shirt.
"I just have a few questions for you, sir," Gold continued politely.
"About what? I don't got to talk to you without a lawyer."
"You're not in trouble Mr. Nottingham. I just wanted to ask if you knew the whereabouts of Miss Lacey Redfern."
"I saw her last Saturday. She said she was gonna drive over and see her mother."
"What context was . . . Where did you see her?"
"She'd dropped by my place Saturday morning."
"Where does her mother live?" Gold pressed.
"I dunno. Somewhere Tennessee or Kentucky."
Gold walked around the garage. "Her car is missing too," he said looking up at the car on the lift.
"Well, I'd guess she drove it over to her momma's," Keith told him. "How else would she get there?"
"Of course. I appreciate your time." Gold turned to walk back to his truck but stopped, "Oh, yes, where were you last Friday night?"
Keith narrowed his eyes. "I'd gone out with Gaston Grande to see a movie."
"What movie?"
"Slumber Party Three, The Revenge," Keith said sourly without a moment's hesitation.
"And then?" Gold asked. A perceptive man might have heard the steel behind his voice.
"Went back to our apartment and got piss drunk."
"You share a place with Mr. Grande?"
"Yeah," Keith confirmed.
"Thank you," he told the man and started to walk back to his truck. He paused again, "How'd you hurt your foot?" he asked.
"Tripped over somethin' when I was drunk. How about yourself?"
"Made a bad choice," he answered and walked back to his truck. He stopped before cranking up to take some notes on the conversation.
Gold went back up to his home and deposited the kitten, shutting her up in the bathroom after he'd opened another can of food into a cereal bowl and filled up another bowl with water. He hesitated, but then put a towel down on the floor for the animal. He found an old cardboard box in the garage and filled it with the litter and put that in a corner of the bathroom.
He then drove back to Miss French's apartment, parking in one of the two places that were designated for her apartment. He looked at the car next to his. It was a little blue Kia. He made a call and got the confirmation he thought he would.
Lacey's little blue Kia. What was it doing at Miss French's apartment? Why had it been left there? She certainly hadn't taken it to drive west to go see her mother.
He went up the stairs and back into the apartment, again settling in behind Miss French's writing desk.
And there he hesitated, picking up his phone and putting it down several times.
He sighed, shook his head, but then made up his mind. Finally, he used his cell phone and called the art dealer Cora Mills had mentioned. It was probably a silly impulse on his part but that portrait haunted him.
Somehow, he thought, in his lonely, drab existence, knowing that that picture would be waiting for him when he got home, well, it might make things seem less lonely.
Then he called one of his own people, "Hello Clark, yeah, go get something to eat. I'll take over. . . . No, I really have never read the woman's blog. . . . You don't either but your girlfriend does? . . . . And she wrote what about me?. . . . Oh jeez. . . . No, I'm not sleeping with her. . . No, I don't plan on sleeping with her . . . Where do I begin? She's a murder suspect, she's not my type, and NO. . . .Yeah, just go get something to eat. . . . Oh, I need you to run by a pet store. . . . Uh huh. I need a litter box and litter and some cans of cat food, something for a kitten. . . . I don't know what kind, just kitten food. . . Yeah, I'll take over from here . . . take your time." He hung up and made another call. Apparently he was The Hot Topic in Regina's latest blog. This could reap him all kinds of razzing from his co-workers.
He made his third call. "Scheuen, any calls come through? . . . Not on the land line. Nothing happening on her cell? . . . It's still shut down or out of order, huh. . . . . . . No, I've not read that damn blog. . . I'm working on a murder case. . . I heard that already . . . and that . . . Yeah right. No I'm not sleeping with her. . . No, I don't have any plans to sleep with her . . . thanks. Keep monitoring, will ya?"
Was there anyone in Asheville that didn't read Regina's damn blog? And what the hell kinda trash was she writing about him? He debated looking up the blog but thought that it just might make blood run out of his ears.
He was ready to start pacing when he looked up at Miss French's portrait for a moment. It seemed to calm him down.
Damn, but she was a fine looking woman.
He took a couple deep breaths and then returned to the woman's journal and began reading.
Well, she definitely was not a lesbian. She wrote about the different men in her life. Gaston – she'd thought he was a muscle-bound jerk but with some real art talent. She did value the portrait he had done of her and struggled to reconcile the delicacy of the picture with the crudeness of the man. She had realized early on that there could never be anything permanent between them and had tried to back out of the relationship gracefully. Gaston, however, was not one to understand subtlety (she wasn't able to do the 'we're in different places right now and both need our room to grow' brush-off). The breakup had been more forceful and direct than she had wanted it to be.
And Nolen – nothing sexual there. From Miss French's perspective the guy was most fortunate - involved in an ideal marriage with his soul mate. She evidently knew Ms. Nolen and had ended up hiring her for some part-time work. Miss French was immensely grateful to the guy for helping her out.
And Leroy – she wrote about what a good friend he was and how glad she had been that he had been able to connect with that special someone.
Now there was Killian. She wrote a lot about him. She was taken with his good looks but there was something off about him. She suspected he was keeping company with Cora, certainly taking money from her. She didn't quite trust him, but enjoyed being with him.
She was thinking about marrying the man, not because she was in love with him but because she had reached a point in her life that she had given up on finding anyone any better.
Gold found this an unenviable, but understandable position.
Miss French wrote that she had always believed there was someone out there, someone special, someone who would sweep her off her feet. She wanted a man she could trust and respect. She wanted a man who was capable. That was her word – capable.
She also hoped she might be able to have mind blowing sex with the man.
Apparently she had never had great sex with any man. She had come to believe that just maybe there was something wrong with her.
She confessed that she had never had an orgasm that she hadn't given herself.
She wondered if she was some kind of latent lesbian. But she wasn't attracted to other women sexually. She never had fantasies of being with another woman. No, she liked men. Definitely liked men.
Especially smart men. Men she could have a conversation with, a discussion with, hell, even an argument with. Men who weren't intimidated by her intellect.
Gold nearly blushed at some of her more explicit writing. She'd gone into graphic details of what she wanted in a sexual partner . . . and how she wanted it. There was a dark side of Gold who read with some perverse appreciation about her preferences – he could have done those things. Yeah, he could have kissed her everywhere she wanted to be kissed. Yeah, he could have put her in that particular position to have his way with her. Yeah, he'd've been comfortable allowing her to do that to him. And oh yeah, he would definitely would have enjoyed doing that particular mild kink with her. Nothing over the top, he thought, just a little fun and games.
Yeah, he thought with some level of satisfaction, he could have so gratified her appetites . . . but, of course, now it was too late.
It was eight in the evening. Clark had already been by with the cat necessities and Gold had carried the items down to his car. Clark had also brought Gold a soft drink, but Gold had otherwise passed up food. He hadn't realized it was so late. He'd settled back down behind Miss French's delicate writing desk.
The door to the apartment opened again without so much as a tentative knock or 'hello.' It was Regina.
"I happened to see the lights on," she told him. "Have you sublet this apartment? You're here often enough to pay rent."
"Any objections?" Gold asked her.
"Yes, actually I do have some. I object to you prying into Belle's diary, and especially her emails and letters, particularly those from me."
"Why? Yours are the best in the bunch," Gold replied.
"Thanks, but I didn't write them to you. Haven't you any sense of privacy?"
"Murder victims have no claim to privacy."
"Have detectives who buy portraits of murder victims a claim to privacy?" Regina asked him coyly. "Spencer told me that you've already put in a bid for it."
If the comment made Gold uncomfortable he didn't show it. "That's none of your business," he said sharply.
"Lieutenant Gold, did it ever strike you that you're acting very strangely?" Regina began circling him. "It's a wonder you don't come here like a suitor, with roses and a box of candy – gas station roses and drugstore candy, of course."
He didn't respond to her jibe. Regina came over to him and leaned down. "Have you ever dreamed of having Belle as your wife? By your side at the policeman's ball or listening to the heroic story of how you got a silver shinbone from a gun battle with a drug dealer?" She pulled back. "Oh, I see you have."
Gold's lips were drawn and thin. "Why don't you go home? I'm busy here."
"Perhaps we can make a deal, after all when two people both want something the other has, a deal can always be made. You want the portrait. Perfectly understandable. I want my possessions – my vase, my clock and my screen. Also perfectly understandable. Now, if you . . . "
"Get going," Gold's tone was sharp.
Regina was miffed, but she took the hint. "You better watch out, Gold, or you'll end up in some basement psychiatric ward. I don't think they've ever had a patient who fell in love with a corpse." She stomped out in a complete tiff, leaving him alone.
Gold now sat in the darkened room. Outside things had begun to cool off some and he could tell a summer storm was brewing. It would likely begin raining shortly.
He had been working on the case for three days now, having been called in on Sunday.
Who had killed Belle French?
He hardly thought it was a random act of violence. Someone had climbed three flights of stairs, stood outside the door with a gun full of buckshot, rang the bell, and fired into the woman's face. No, this was a crime of passion, of furious anger, of blinding rage.
But given Belle French, everyone's Golden Girl, loved by everyone, hated by no one, the biggest stumbling block was finding anyone with a motive. So who wanted her dead? He went down the list.
Cora – Miss French's attorney and the executor of her will. She'd stand to inherit a tidy sum – hardly worth murder given how rich Cora was to begin with. So it might be passion. Cora almost certainly had something going with Miss French's would-be fiancé. Was Cora jealous enough to remove her competition? A shot gun didn't seem her style.
Regina – Miss French's mentor. Again money wasn't a factor here. Regina, he had divined, had a vast sexual appetite, not confined to either gender. She certainly felt she had a right to tell Miss French who she could see and who she couldn't. She'd gone out of her way to break up several relationships, notably the painter Gaston and the current love interest Killian. But Miss French had never given the slightest indication that she was interested in Regina – not that way. Was Regina off kilter enough to say if she couldn't have Miss French, then no one else could?
Killian – the would-be fiancé. What was going on between him and Lacey? He stood to gain a lot of money if the marriage to Belle went through and he was too smart to fuck it up by having a fling with some model. Gold figured that a smart woman like Miss French would have asked for a pre-nup – but then again, love could be deaf, blind and stupid – maybe she was going forth without one. He'd need to check with Cora about that. It was most likely that passion would be the motive here. Maybe Miss French had broken off the engagement and in a fit of rage, Killian had shot her. Gold shook his head – that seemed like an awful expenditure of energy for Killian who struck him as consummately lazy.
Jefferson – the business partner. He stood to gain a lot of money with Miss French's death if he inherited the business, particularly the company name. But the man seemed to genuinely like Miss French. He seemed content to go on with just doing his designs and not having to worry about the business.
Mrs. Potts – the maid. Gold eliminated her. Fiercely loyal. No apparent motive.
Ashley Sweep – the model. Miss French was her bread and butter. No sense of any romantic rivalry. She seemed an unlikely suspect.
Ruby Wolfe - the model. She talked about Miss French like a friend. Again no sense of money issues, no romantic stuff going on. She also seemed unlikely.
Lacey Redfern – the model. Not enough on her to make a decision. What was her relationship with Killian? She was supposed to be that troglodyte's, Keith Nottingham's, girlfriend. She seemed to be missing. Really missing – her kitten left to fend for itself, her car left at Miss French's apartment complex. What if Miss French had caught her stealing as others had hinted that Lacey would do. Maybe Miss French had fired her and Lacey had taken revenge and high-tailed it out of town in Miss French's car. Why would she take a more visible car if she was running away?
Gold shook his head. It was a stretch.
There were others, Ariel Poole - Miss French's landlady, but there were no problems there. Miss French paid her rent on time, was a well-behaved tenant, didn't engage in anything illegal. Miss French was a confident and a friend.
David Nolen - Miss French's behind-the-scene business partner. Again he was making hand over fist money with his little investment. Miss French's death didn't benefit him in any way.
Gaston Grande - the semi-gifted painter, semi-ex-boyfriend. Murder would take too much effort and take away time from his other bimbi.
Keith Nottingham - Lacey Redfern's boyfriend. No apparent motive there unless – and this got complicated, he was mad at Miss French for firing his girlfriend, assuming Miss French had fired her.
He briefly considered Leroy - well he was considering everyone. No, Leroy gave Miss French credit for hooking him up with the love of his life. Plus she was a regular, well-paying customer.
No, he figured, it would likely be one of his top three contenders. But trying to figure out which one. Plus there was the aggravation of not having the murder weapon. What the hell had the killer done with it? Has he or she walked out of the building carrying the damn thing or had he or she hidden it somewhere? Was it still in the building?
He mulled over what Regina had said to him. What the hell had made him bid on her portrait? He was sitting there in the dark when lightning hit nearby and lite up the room, briefly illuminating the room and the portrait. She was gorgeous no doubt.
Hell, the woman was breath-taking.
He shook himself. So,the woman was beautiful, for sure, but what was he going to do with her picture in his big cold, lonely house. He poured himself some of her Johnny Walker Blue and sipped it, removing his jacket and loosening his tie. He sat in one of her plush chairs, one of the chairs he could sit in and look up at her portrait.
Why couldn't he have met Miss French . . . Belle . . . when she was alive? She was everything he might ever have wanted in a woman. Kind, intelligent, creative, kind, especially kind. Women had not been kind to him. Life had not been kind to him.
He never felt that women were kindly disposed towards him. Belle sounded like someone who would have looked twice at him. She might have accepted an invitation to dinner from him.
What was it Regina had said? Had he imagined her as his wife, walking beside him, listening to him, making love to him?
Yes, he had. But he had kept telling himself she was dead. He had kept telling himself that even if she were alive, there were such differences between them. She was cultured and classy – he was a hardened man from the streets. She was rich – he had modest means. She was nice – he was, well, not. He was violent and she was - sweet.
His heart hurt thinking about this woman. He felt that he was getting misty-eyed. He wiped his eyes.
Get a grip on yourself, man. The woman's dead. Even if she were alive, you wouldn't have had a chance with her. She's so much better than you, so much better. Entirely too refined – moved in completely different social circles.
He sat in her chair, as if he was one of her guests, maybe her date, drinking her liquor, basking in her beautiful apartment as if she was admiring him. He would have brought her flowers – nice flowers from a florist. And candy, some of the good stuff, like Godiva chocolates.
Or jewelry . . . like a necklace, or earrings . . . or a ring.
It was dark and into the night, about eleven. Everything in the apartment was dark. He had startled awake and had automatically reached for his gun. He could hear the rain pounding down. There was a hair's breadth moment of disorientation and he realized that he was still in Belle's apartment. He had fallen asleep in the chair.
Something had awakened him. He sat still trying to figure out what had awakened him when the sound recurred.
It was a key in the lock.
Someone was unlocking the door to come in.
Without a second thought, Gold pulled out his gun and waited.
The door opened.
"What are you doing here?"
Gold sat stock still, struggling to register what was in front of him.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
He barely found his voice; all that came out was a whisper, "You're alive!"
She spoke firmly, yet he found her voice soothing and melodious, "If you don't get out at once, I'm going to call the police."
He found his voice and managed to ask, "You're Belle French, aren't you?"
Again, thank you, thank you, to my wonderful, supportive reviewers (hope some of your questions may have been answered in this chapter): onlyinyourdreams77, MyraValhallah, Erik'sTrueAngel, juju0268, deweymay, Robin4, jewel415, Tinuviel Undomiel, OneMagician, Aletta-Feather, Grace5231973
Guest (fun pieces): and there's now a new piece to this puzzle. Thx so much
NEXT: Gold interviews Miss French