The woman’s tuna salad arrived at the same time my coffee refill did. She picked at her food with faint interest, as though she was going through the motions of eating because she knew she should rather than because she was hungry. By the time she put down her fork and pushed away her still-laden plate, I had made up my mind.
I stood up and walked over to her table. “Excuse me,” I said. “I couldn’t help noticing. You look so much like Rochelle that you must be related. Please accept my condolences.”
She nodded. Her eyelashes were thick and almost as long as her fingernails. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind. And, yes. Her real name was Latisha, you know. She was my sister, my younger sister.” She held out her hand. “My name is Cornelia Lester. And you are?”
I wondered if, to maintain the subterfuge, I should ask about the Rochelle Baxter alias, but decided against it. At that point, the less said, the better.
“Beaumont,” I told her, returning her solid handshake. “J.P. Beaumont.”
“Have a seat.” She motioned me into the table’s other chair. “I hate eating alone,” she said, as if to explain her uneaten salad. After a pause she added, “Did you know her?”
I sat down and shook my head. “Not really,” I lied. “But I know about her. Bisbee’s a very small town.”
“Yes,” Cornelia agreed. “Small towns are like that. Did you know she was an artist?”
“No.”
“Tizzy was always sketching away when she was a kid. That’s what we called her back home, Tizzy. Other kids would be out playing ball or swimming, or just hanging out, but Tizzy always had a pencil in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. Even back then we all knew she had a God-given talent, although our parents weren’t much in favor of art for art’s sake. They wanted us to have jobs that would actually pay the rent. It’s bad enough that she’s gone, but to die like that, the night before her first show…” Cornelia Lester shook her head and lapsed into silence.
“Show?” I asked.
“Yes. A one-woman exhibition of her paintings at a place called Castle Rock Gallery. The opening party was to be held Thursday night, but Latisha died on Wednesday. I’d really love to see the paintings, but I haven’t been able to. The gallery isn’t open. I checked on my way through town.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s after one,” I suggested helpfully. “Maybe they’re open now.”
Once again Cornelia Lester shook her head. The beads on her cornrows knocked together with a sound that reminded me of a baby’s rattle. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so. I talked to a man who owns the antique store next door. He said this is the second day in a row the gallery has been closed. He’s heard rumors that something bad may have happened to the owner. Dee Canfield, I think her name is. She’s been missing for two days now, ever since she posted the notice canceling the show and locked the place up on Thursday afternoon.”
“That’s odd,” I said.
“Yes. I thought so, too,” Cornelia Lester agreed. “Since this Canfield woman and Latisha were evidently friends, I intend to ask Sheriff Brady about this the first chance I can.”
“You haven’t spoken with Sheriff Brady then?” I asked.
“No. I tried calling a few minutes ago and was told the sheriff is currently unavailable. I left a message, but she hasn’t called back. That’s all right. There’s plenty of time. I’ll be here until Tuesday at least. That’s the very soonest the medical examiner may be able to release the body.”
This was all very interesting. It would have been nice if Joanna Brady had bothered to mention that another woman was missing, especially since she was someone closely connected to Latisha Wall, making it more than likely that the two incidents were related. Since Sheriff Brady hadn’t said a word, I decided it was time to follow up on my own leads.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, standing up, “I really must go. It was rude of me to barge in on you this way.”
“Not at all,” Cornelia Lester said. “I enjoyed the company. I was glad to have a chance to talk.”
“Same here,” I said.
I charged lunch to my room and then hurried out to the desk, where I borrowed a local telephone book. Castle Rock Gallery wasn’t listed in the dog-eared copy the clerk handed me, so I asked him instead.
“Oh, that,” he said. “No wonder. The phone book came out last spring. Castle Rock Gallery is brand-new – too new to be listed, but it’s not hard to find. Go straight out here, cross the street, cut through the park, and then turn right on Main Street. The gallery is several blocks up on the right. If you find yourself walking past a big chunk of gray limestone two or three stories tall, that’s Castle Rock. It means you’ve missed the gallery and gone too far. Come back down and try again.”
The uncomplicated directions made it sound fairly close, so I left the Sportage parked where it was and set out on foot. Getting there took me just ten minutes, but it was real walking – all of it uphill. I remembered seeing a sign that said Bisbee’s elevation was over five thousand feet. By the time I arrived at Castle Rock Gallery, I felt every damned one of them.
I was out of breath and sweating up a storm by the time I reached the place. Cornelia Lester had been right. Castle Rock Gallery was locked up tight even though the posted hours said the gallery was open from ten to six on Saturdays. A hand-lettered sign taped to the inside surface of a window next to the door said the grand opening of Rochelle Baxter’s one-woman show had been canceled until further notice.
I looked around. Cornelia Lester had mentioned speaking to the man who ran an antique shop next door. Because the gallery meandered down the street and filled three adjacent storefront buildings, next door was actually three doors away in a place called Treasure Trove Antiques.
I went there and let myself into a musty, dusty place stacked high with mountains of junk some people had thrown out of their lives. No doubt other people would be happy to part with far too much of their own hard-earned cash to bring the cast-off crap into theirs.
A bow-legged guy in cowboy boots and a Western shirt sat in a faded leather morris chair with a thousand-dollar price tag. He took off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses as he looked up from the paperback he was reading. “Howdy,” he said. “Let me know if I can be of any help. Don’t like to smother people. Not my style.”
I pulled out my badge and held it up for him to look at it. I hoped the combination of bad lighting and slightly below-par eyesight would fix it so he didn’t get that good a look. “Actually,” I said, “I understand the lady who owns the gallery next door has gone missing.”
“Sure enough,” he said. “Dee’s gone, and so is that jerk of a boyfriend of hers – Warren something or other. They’ve been gone almost two full days now. If Dee’s come to any harm, I’m guessing that Bobo Jenkins from up Brewery Gulch way might’ve had something to do with it. He was in there raising so much hell the other day – Thursday morning, it was – that the sheriff had to show up with her siren screaming and lights flashing just to calm things down. This here’s a quiet little town,” he added. “Don’t get a lot of that – lights and sirens, I mean.”
I jotted down the name. “You said Bobo Jenkins?”
“Yup. Used to own a place called the Blue Moon Saloon up in Brewery Gulch. I believe he sold it a couple of months back. I was outside having a smoke Thursday morning. That’s the thing with all the dad-gummed rules and regulations we have nowadays. A man can’t smoke in his own shop even when he ain’t hurtin’ nobody but his own damned self. So I was outside smoking when ol’ Bobo comes charging up the street like the devil hisself is after him. I do mean he was movin’. Not jogging. Not trotting along, but outright running. Looked mad enough to chew nails. Next thing I know, he’s in the gallery and him and Dee are screaming at each other something fierce.”