A Walk in Ashes

Gold makes a visit to a car repair facility to interview a limping Keith Nottingham. He corroborates Gaston's story of their whereabouts on the night of the murder. Keith shares that he last saw Lacey Redfern on Saturday morning prior to her leaving out to visit with her mother. After dropping the rescued kitten off at his house, Gold notes the little blue Kia parked in one of Miss French's parking places. He calls to trace the license plate and identifies it as Lacey's car.

Gold begins reading Miss French's private journal and begins to think that he might have been just the right man for her. There is an evening visit from a rebarbative Regina who knows of his bid to buy Belle's portrait and mocks him for his infatuation with a dead woman. After she leaves, he settles into Miss French's apartment, drinking her liquor, imagining what being on a date with the woman would be like. Mulling over his lengthy list of possible suspects, he dozes and a summer thunderstorm moves in over the city. He is awakened when someone puts a key in the lock. He is stunned by the woman who enters the apartment, recognizing her as the presumed dead - Belle French.

Chapter 8

Return

"You're Belle French, aren't you?"

The woman looked at him, strangely.

"Aren't you?" he asked again, his voice sharper, more commanding this time. He was standing up and was putting his gun back in the holster.

"I'm going to call the police," and the woman started toward the phone.

"Ma'am, I am the police." The woman stood still, confused, not understanding. "I'm Lieutenant Gold." He got out his badge and held it up for her to see.

The woman turned the light on and took his badge to look at it. "What's all this about?" she asked him.

"Don't you know?" he asked. "Don't you know what's happened?"

"No. What? . . . What do you mean, what's happened?" Miss French was soaked through and dripping onto her floor.

"Haven't you seen the papers? Heard a local news report? Where have you been?"

"I've been up in my cabin. It's in the mountains. We don't get phone service or internet there."

"Don't you even have a radio or television?"

"I have a small TV with dish service. But my television wasn't getting a signal. Lieutenant, I go up to my cabin to unplug, to get away from everything. Now, what has happened?" the woman had a sharp, commanding tone of her own.

"Someone was murdered in this room. Do you have any idea who it was?

"Oh my word! No! I had . . . .have no idea. . . " the woman sat down in one of her dining room chairs, her hand to her mouth. She had paled and her pupils had widened. It looked like an honest response.

"Here, have a drink," he went over to her liquor cabinet and poured her a couple of fingers of Blue.

She shook her head, "I can't . . . I never. . . I don't drink," she protested.

"Drink it," he ordered. "This has been quite a shock." He stood over her while she took a sip. She pulled a face. No, she wasn't a regular drinker.

"Who has a key to your apartment?" he asked her.

"No . . . nobody," she answered.

"Are you sure?" He was standing close to her and could smell her light perfume.

She nodded, "I'm . . . I'm sure. When did this happen?"

"Last Friday night," and he gestured at the stains on the wall. Ms. Potts had not been able to scrub them out.

He watched as Miss French recoiled, obviously horrified.

"We'd been believing that the victim was you. Someone tried to kill you," he told her, very softly.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked him in a whisper turning her big blue eyes on him.

He answered, "Find out who was murdered . . . and then find the murderer." He hesitated considering his options. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to stay here. Someone tried to kill you and they may try again if they know you're still alive."

She shook her head, "But I have no enemies. There's no one who would try to kill me."

He ignored her and asked, "You still packed?"

"Yes, but . . ." she nodded and gestured to the weekend bag she had brought in.

He interrupted, "Why don't you get a raincoat. Then I'm taking you to some place safe."

Miss French was stunned. She nodded and stood. She wobbled and he instinctively put his hands out to steady her, catching her by the elbows. She leaned into his chest.

"I'm sorry. I'm not used to strong drink and . . . and . . . I'm rather clumsy," she confessed pulling herself upright and away from him.

I should think you're one of the most graceful women I've ever met, he thought. Gold was still holding her by her arms and didn't immediately let her go. She felt good in his hands. He felt her regain her balance. Reluctantly, he released her.

Miss French gave him a weak smile and went into her hall closet to get a raincoat. She turned towards him holding out an embroidered and bedazzled denim jacket. "This isn't mine. It wasn't here when I left on Friday. I'm pretty sure it belongs to Lacey Redfern. It looks like one she wears a lot. She's one of my models, just about my size with hair about the same color as mine."

"The victim's face was blown off by a blast of buckshot," Gold told her and watched her wince.

"You don't suppose . . . ? Oh my god! Not Lacey!" She wobbled on her feet again. And again he caught her, his hands once more on her arms. She felt deliciously warm and soft. For a brief, wonderful moment she leaned into him, her body warm and alive in his grasp. She was crying, sobbing silently into his chest. He felt his hands go around her in a comforting gesture.

"I'm sorry, you must think I'm such a klutz," she talked into his chest. "This is all so much," she sniffed and wiped away tears.

"It is a lot," he agreed and allowed her to rest against him resisting the urge to pat her hair. Although as close as he was, he could smell her hair. It had that same delicate scent as her perfume and he wanted to bury his face in it. After a moment he made himself suggest, "Why don't you sit down a moment." He directed her back to the dining room chair and grudgingly released her.

"This is so unfair. Lacey was just starting to get things straightened out. Her life had been such a wreck. And if she was killed by mistake . . . by someone wanting to kill me . . . ." Miss French took several deep breathes. "I think I'll be all right in a moment," she told him.

If the victim had indeed been Lacey Redfern, that explained why her car was in the lot. He continued, "This is Tuesday night. You left on Friday. Rather a long weekend, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"What time did you leave out on Friday?"

"About 5:30. I'd just made a call to a friend canceling a dinner appointment," she told him.

"Did you drive your own car or rent one?"

"My own car. I usually keep it in the lot here or in the garage on Rankin."

Explains why we couldn't find your car. "Did anyone see you leave?"

"I doubt it."

"Stop anywhere on the way to the cabin?"

"There's a little gas station near Warrior Mountain. I usually stop, use the facilities, get a drink."

"See anyone you know at the gas station?"

"No, they frequently have staff changes and the person waiting the counter wasn't familiar to me."

"Then what?"

"I stopped in Tryon at the IGA and bought a couple of bags of groceries. I didn't see anyone I knew there either," she told him.

"Do you have the receipt for the groceries?" he asked her.

"No, I put it out with the paper and dropped the paper in a recycle bin on the way out."

"Then what?"

"I drove on to my cabin. Nobody I knew saw me on the road," she told him.

"You were there four days. What did you do?"

"I worked in my little garden, took walks in the woods, meditated," she answered him.

"You didn't go out in all that time?"

"No, after the little trip to the grocery store, I had everything I needed in the house."

"So, nobody came to see you?" he asked.

"Nobody." Her eyes glittered, "Lieutenant, I went there to be alone."

"Any phone calls?"

"My battery had gone dead. I don't get any signal at the cabin. I didn't even bother recharging it."

Explains why we couldn't get a ping on your cell phone. "Police were up there on Monday. There was no one in the house. Your car wasn't there."

"Oh lord! Yes, I forgot. I'm sorry, I'm still so stunned," she ran her fingers through her hair. "On Monday I took the car, went down to Saluda and went on a hike to Little Bradley Falls - by myself. I was gone for hours. I didn't see anyone, well a couple of other hikers but I couldn't tell you who they were."

"All right then, you were going to marry Killian Jones this week. Thursday, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes," she answered him.

"Yet you went away just before your wedding for a long weekend to be alone."

"I was tired. I'd been working hard."

"You know Killian Jones has a key to this apartment? Why are you lying about that?"

Miss French was indignant, "I know nothing of the sort. He hasn't. I keep a spare in my office but no one knows about that."

"Then how else did the victim, assuming it was Lacey, get into the apartment? Did you let her in?"

Miss French didn't answer obviously perplexed at the situation he'd just described.

He continued on, "Did you think she was in love with Jones? You knew that he'd given her the Rolex that you had given him."

Miss French looked closely at the police officer, her eyes narrowed. "You know all that, do you?" she said softly.

He nodded.

"I knew about Lacey," Miss French told him. "I knew that she was not in love with Killian. She told me so herself."

"When did she tell you?"

"At lunch last Friday." She continued, "I also know she meant nothing to Killian except as a friend. I understand him better than you do."

"I think they were both in your apartment Friday night. Lacey was found in one of your little nightgowns, a white frilly thing, and a pair of your slippers," Gold told her. "That's hardly the regulation costume for an impersonal chat between a man and woman who mean nothing to each other, who are just friends. Did you know or did you suspect he was going to bring her here Friday night?"

Miss French's eyes flashed with a hint of anger, "How could I? I don't know that he did bring her here. And neither do you. You merely assume it."

"Well, what other assumption is possible? That you invited her to stay and then killed her before you drove up to the mountain cabin?"

"You suspect me!" she told him suddenly, sitting up and realizing why he'd been asking her all the questions.

"I suspect nobody and everybody. I'm just trying to get at the truth." He had to suspect her. He had to suspect everyone. Couldn't she understand that? He needed to know if anyone could verify her presence away from the apartment at the time of the murder.

"I see," she said softly. She got up and walked over to her desk which he'd left in a mess. "You have been trying to get at the truth." She picked up her journal, the white leather bound journal, and held it in her hand. She looked up at him, her cerulean blue eyes locking with his soft brown ones, "You've read things I never meant anyone else to look at."

"Strictly routine," he defended himself, then added, "I'm sorry, Bel . . . Miss French. Really, I am. Right now, I am most concerned about your safety. I think," and here he hesitated, "I should take you to my place. You can have my bedroom and you can lock the door if that would make you feel safer."

"You're a brave man, Lieutenant, inviting a murder suspect into your home," she said with a slight smile. "Is the locked door to keep me safe from you or to keep you safe from me?"

"Maybe a little of both," he answered, sounding more gruff than he'd intended. "Come along, take your bag." He picked up his cane and limped to the door. Carrying her own weekender bag she followed after him.

As they were about to go out the building, he asked, "Where's your car now?"

"In the Rankin Avenue garage. I came by the parking lot here, but there was already a car and a truck parked in both of my places." She looked outside. It was dark and the rain was coming down in buckets. "Walking here, I got soaked."

"What do you drive?" he asked as he led her toward his truck parked in the designated place for her apartment.

"An Aston Martin Vantage," she told him.

"Nice," he told her. That fit in with what he knew. "Come on," and through the downpour, he led her to his truck, his carefully restored silver '72 custom crew cab Toyota Land Cruiser truck, that was sitting in one of her two parking places. "It's not as nice as yours but it runs."

Even in the pouring rain, Miss French drew back to look at his truck. "This is so cute!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah, cute, that's just exactly what I was going for," he answered her. She thought his truck was 'cute.' He wasn't sure how to respond to that. He took her bag and tossed it into the back of the cab area and then held the door open for her, despite being caught in the downpour of rain.

She had to step up above her knee level to get into the big vehicle and he resisted the urge to put his hand on her derriere to give her a boost. Once she had settled in, he heard her, "Thank you." He then shut the door and went around to the other side to get in the cab's driver's seat.

He got into his seat and shook the rain off of himself. Before he set out, he got on his phone, "Clark . . . yeah . . . that's right . . . uh huh . . . yeah, she's with me . . . no, I don't know yet . . . yeah, go ahead and let Scheuen know. . . . Not Scheuen? . . and you're going off too. . . Then who is it? . . . Dullward and Blythe? . . . Got it. . . Well fill them in before you go . . . Thanks." He hung up.

"Clark and Scheuen and Dullward and Blythe?" Belle asked.

"They're working shifts watching your apartment and your shop."

"Why?"

"Well, we didn't have a motive for anyone to murder you, so one of the possibilities was that maybe you had something in your apartment or your shop that someone wanted and they would be coming after it." He glanced over at her. "We were grasping at straws," he explained.

Miss French replied, "I see." She ventured a glance at this man who had just burst into her life and taken it over. He was handsome she thought, although a little unconventional. She remembered his soft brown eyes and the little crinkles in the corners. She remembered his strong hands on her arms, the strength and warmth of his body as she had rested against him. At the moment, he was focused on the road and traffic. Intensely focused.

"You've been a policeman for a long time?" she asked him as they began driving south out of Asheville.

"Too long. It feels like it's been three hundred years."

"You find your job rewarding?" she asked.

"Sometimes. Sometimes not," he answered.

She sat quietly, as if digesting what he had said. He abruptly added, "I like solving crimes, gathering all the threads and spinning them together to find the guilty party, giving the families of the victims some peace, some sense of closure."

Again she sat quietly for a moment before asking, "Is it hard? To do what you do?"

He thought about it. "Yeah. No matter what other magic I work, I can't bring back the dead, so there's always the loss that won't go away. Even if I solve the crime, I'm still walking in people's ashes."

She sat quietly the rest of the trip. For his part, Gold would occasionally take sidelong glances at the woman.

If possible, she was more beautiful in person than in her picture. Regina had been right, Gaston hadn't truly captured her, but the skanky son of bitch had come close. No painter would ever capture the energy, the true loveliness that seemed to shine through her.

And he'd just told her more about himself in the last ten minutes than he had told anyone in the last ten years.

They pulled off the main highway and began to wend their way up through some narrow roads. The trees were dense on both sides of the highway and there were few lights besides the headlights of the truck. It wasn't long before Gold pulled off onto a very narrow paved road and slowed up. The rain was heavy enough that it obscured his home, but Miss French could tell that it was a large two, maybe even three, storied structure. Gold stopped shortly to press a remote, opening the garage door and then pulling into a garage that was attached to the interesting dark dwelling.

Gold reached up to a remote again and closed the garage door. He reached back and grabbed her bag and the kitten's bag and stepped down out of the truck into the semi-darkness of the garage. He went around and held out his hand to assist Miss French getting out of the truck. She looked around. There was enough light for her to make out that the garage was neatly ordered with several shelves and cabinets along the side. It looked like there might be a small woodworking shop in the back corner. She trailed the police officer through a door that went directly into his kitchen.

Gold was most conscious that his little home was hardly fashionable. The furnishings were an odd mixture of antiques and Ikea hacks. Some of his pieces had been scavenged and he had spent time restoring them. Others were bland store minimalist pieces and he had spent time personalizing and upgrading them.

He turned on the light and they were both left standing in the kitchen. He set the kitten's bag on the floor and put Miss French's weekender on a chair in the kitchen.

He saw that she was looking around – his ordinary fridge, his ordinary stove, his ordinary dishwasher. It was all . . . well . . . ordinary. Well, at least the place was clean . . . well mostly. He felt a little awkward with her standing in his kitchen – as if some ethereal angel had dropped from heaven and landed in his . . . ordinary house.

"Do you need a shower . . . or need to brush your teeth? . . . Or anything?" he asked feeling a bit nervous, as if he were the captain of the chess team who was out on a date with the prom queen.

"Truth be told, I'm a little hungry," she confessed. "I've not eaten anything. I was planning on getting back and fixing myself a little something."

Now that was something he could do something about . . . and, now that he thought about it, he was hungry too. He picked up the phone. "You like pizza?"

She grinned. "Of course."

"I'll call Iannucci's. They're still open and they'll deliver to me. What do you want on it?"

"I'm pretty easy," Miss French told him. "Whatever you recommend."

He nodded and speed dialed. "Yeah . . . Gold here. Right. . . . I want the large house special. Is Gus delivering?" he asked. "Perfect. Thanks." He turned back to Miss French. "I order from them a lot. They have my address on file."

"Excellent," Miss French told him. "Now, where can I put my things?" she asked. They were still standing in his kitchen.

"Oh, here," and he led her back by the living area to a hallway and then to a large bedroom complete with a fireplace and a small sitting area. "I'll get some fresh sheets," he told her. He was pretty sure he had an extra pair and foraged in the closet in the hall that had one shelf devoted to his linens. He was glad to find them where he thought they should be.

When he came back in, he saw Miss French staring at the room, particularly the bed. "This is a genuine rice bed, isn't it? Not a reproduction? I can tell it's not a standard size." She had also noted the pecan paneled walls, the tin tiles on the ceiling, the extraordinary period lighting, the polished wooden floors, the elegant Persian rug, the carved mahogany chifforobe.

"It's a Thomas Elfe original," he confirmed impressed that she could recognize the genuine article. "I had to do a little work on it but it is authentic."

"Wow!" she said. "I've never slept on anything this nice," she told him. She looked around. "This room is extraordinary. You have some really nice things, you know."

"A few nice things," he agreed. "I got the house after it had been on the market for three years and they were about to bulldoze it and just sell the land. It was in . . . serious disrepair. I got it for a song. After paying for a new roof, and a new heating/cooling system, this was the first room I renovated. My plan is to ultimately turn this into something like a library or office and move the bedroom upstairs." Lord, he was just chattering away. How could she possibly be interested?

"You did a terrific job," Miss French told him, very impressed. "Did you do all the work yourself?"

"Not the big jobs, the roofing and the heating and cooling. And I can't do electrical. But the carpentry work, the furniture restoration, those are mine."

She reached for the sheets, "I'll take care of making the bed," she told him graciously. "You go and listen out for that pizza."

He left her in his bedroom. He went back to the kitchen. He checked his fridge. He had beer and some soft drinks – no organic juices or alkaline water. He had mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise. And some liquid smoke he liked to put that on his burgers. No fruit. No vegetables, unless you counted pickles. There was an opened jar of ragu sauce and some eggs, a half-empty gallon of milk, pre-cooked bacon and some pre-grated cheese. He went into the living room and picked up a bit, mainly newspapers, junk mail, and odd paperwork. Miss French came back out carrying the original set of sheets she'd taken off his bed.

"Oh, another real fireplace!" she exclaimed as she handed them off to him and sat down in front of the hearth. "I have gas logs. They're lovely but the real thing smells so fantastic."

"I used the fireplaces a lot last winter. I hadn't gotten insulation in then, but that's since been addressed. I'm hoping this winter won't be so drafty." He took the sheets off her hands and deposited them in the little laundry room in the hallway, shutting the folding doors. When he returned he saw that she had found the matches he kept on the mantle and had lit about ten of the candles he had sitting around.

"I hope you don't mind. I enjoy candlelight so much myself and when I saw all your candles . . . "

"No problem," he waved off her concerns. She had sat on the little sofa in front of the fireplace, kicking her shoes off and pulling her feet up. He joined her and was immediately struck by how lovely her face appeared illuminated by the candlelight. It brought out the iridescence of her skin. Her lips were pursed in a sweet rosebud, the color of a young red rose. As she curled up next to him, she ran her tongue over her slightly parted lips. He had to stop himself from leaning in, from pressing his own lips to hers.

He felt like he knew her, knew her well. He had to keep reminding himself that she didn't know him. She had no reason to trust him. She hadn't spent the last two days staring at a portrait of him, finding out all about him and his secret little desires, and pondering what a life with him might be like.

The doorbell rang giving him a welcome reprieve from his musings. He reached for his cane and struggled to a stand, his leg aching in the rain. Miss French watched him, noting his difficulties moving around. He opened the door and paid the young man for the pizza, and, she suspected, gave him a hefty tip. Poor kid, making deliveries out in this horrid weather.

He brought the pizza back into the living room and set it on a small coffee table in front of the fire.

"Can I get you a plate?" he asked.

"Only if you're getting yourself one. I'm fine eating right out of the box," she told him getting up as he prepared to walk back into the kitchen.

"How about . . . what to drink?" He called back from the kitchen.

"Beer or a soft drink. Whatever you're having," she called back to him.

"Beer it is." Damn she made things easy.

Thank you, thank you to my ever-inspiring reviewers: Grace5231973, onlyinyourdreams77, Erik'sTrueAngel, MyraValhallah, Robin4, jewel415, OneMagician, kagi-chan2, cynicsquest, Tinuviel Undomiel, Aletta-Feather, juju0268, deweymay, orthankg1 (chapter 6), Guest (knew it!) and Chauchi (6 & 7) thx so much –twyla

NEXT: Belle spends the night and provides Gold with several surprises