“No!”
“I’m sorry.” I wrapped my arms around her.
“No, no,” she moaned. “It’s not true.”
“I’m sorry. Layla’s dead.”
She sagged against me. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”
Hell, Layla Fontaine, artistic director, mover and shaker and bitch royale, wasn’t just dead. She’d been murdered. Coldly, brutally, and audaciously. Someone had walked into BABA as bold as could be and shot her in the chest while at least twenty people worked in rooms nearby. Everyone in the building had to have heard the gunshot, so it wasn’t like the killer was trying to be stealthy. No, he—or she—had used a gun, drawing almost instant attention to his deed.
Was her killer really so arrogant? Or just pissed off? Or desperate? Or insane? Did he really think he’d get away with it? Looking around and not finding any obvious killer types waving guns in the air, I saw clearly that, so far, someone was indeed getting away with it.
Had Layla and the assailant argued about the Oliver Twist? Was it a buyer who discovered Layla’s lie about it being a first edition? Had he thrown the book at her, then shot her in cold blood when she laughed in his face?
My imagination had taken flight and I had to reel it back in. But as long as Layla had to die, that would be the motive I would want the killer to have.
I continued to hold Naomi in my arms as she cried and moaned. I understood what she was going through. Besides being her employer, Layla was her aunt. It wasn’t easy to find a loved one lying dead in a pool of blood.
I’d been there, done that. It sucked.
“What the hell is going on out here?” Minka yelled from the door of her classroom. Her voice carried all the way across the building. And down the street and over the bridge and into Richmond County. Her clunky boots stomped across the gallery.
“Oh, God, don’t let that cow come over here,” Naomi whispered.
“I won’t.” Even in this grim circumstance, it made me smile to know I wasn’t alone in my low opinion of Minka.
Over Naomi’s shoulder, I watched Mitchell stop Minka from advancing down the hall. She stared daggers at me and I met her squinty gaze levelly. She started to say something; then her mouth slammed shut. And for that brief moment, I could see what she was thinking. She was thinking she’d gotten off easy with the gash across her head instead of a bullet hole in her chest. She was alive, not dead and lying in a pool of blood.
The sudden vulnerability I saw in her eyes made me look away. I never ever, ever wanted to think of Minka as weak or helpless. It would take all the fun out of hating her.
“Stay back, please,” Mitchell said, stretching his arm across the hall entrance to block her.
“Who the fuck are you?” she said, with a contemptuous curl of her lip.
Ah, there was the Minka we all loved to hate.
Mitchell simply waited her out, not taking his eyes off her for a second. After a long standoff, Minka huffed. “Fine, whatever. Jerk wad.”
As she flounced back down the hall, I looked at Mitchell and sighed. “Sorry about that, but thanks.”
“No problem. She’s a peach. What else can I do to help?”
“Can you take Naomi to the lounge? She needs to sit down.”
“No,” Naomi protested. “I’m not leaving her.”
“You’ve had a bad shock, Naomi,” I said. “You need to sit down or you’ll pass out. I promise I’ll watch her until the police arrive.”
“But she’d want me to stay with her.”
“You’re probably right.” Layla had always loved bossing Naomi around. Still, she was a dead weight in my arms so I gave her an affectionate squeeze and said, “You’re so thoughtful to consider what Layla would want, but I’m more concerned about you right now.”
She sniffled, then began to sob. I traded glances with Mitchell, who immediately stepped forward and took hold of Naomi.
“You can come with me,” he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulders. Before he led her away, he turned and said to me, “Police should be here any minute. I got Ned to stand guard at the other entrance to this hall.”
“What other entrance?”
He pointed to Layla’s office. “That office has a separate entrance leading to another hall that curves around to the back of the building. I had to run to the men’s room the first night and got lost coming back. I followed the hall around and ended up in there.”
I hadn’t noticed a second doorway the other night when I brought Layla the book. Probably because I was so distracted by her sleazy scheme to pass the Oliver Twist off as a first edition.
I thought of Ned on the other side of the door. I didn’t want to say it aloud, but even though I trusted Mitchell’s instincts, I wondered if we could trust Ned.
Mitchell led Naomi away, and within seconds Tom Hardesty lumbered up, out of breath. “I was outside. It’s cold. What’s going on? Mitchell said you might need some help.”
“He did? Well, maybe you could—”
“Wait. Who is that?” Tom peered around me to stare at the body. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He shook his head. “No, it’s not. No. No. No.” His voice grew louder and more high-pitched and I scanned the hall looking for help.
Finally, I had to shout over him, “Tom, shut up.”
“But she’s . . . oh, God. She’s dead.”
“Yeah, we all got that,” I said loudly. “Where were you when the memo went out?” I probably shouldn’t have talked that way to a board member but he was such a twit. Seriously, Mitchell had sent this guy to help me and now he was having a panic attack? I’d lost any last drop of sympathy I might have had for him.
He didn’t seem to notice my acerbic response, just shook his head and whispered, “I was outside making a phone call.”
“Guess you missed all the excitement.”
“She can’t be dead,” Tom whimpered, and tried to move closer.
I sidestepped to block him.
“Noooooo,” Tom moaned.
I’d reached the end of my rope. “Tom, shut the hell up.”
Without warning, he fell to his knees and tried to reach for Layla’s hand.
“No!” I slapped his hand away just in time. “Crime scene. Get out of here.”
He collapsed on the floor and curled up like a baby in a womb.
Stunned by his behavior, I yelled down the hall, “Where’s Cynthia? I need her, now.”
“I’ll look for her,” Alice cried, eager to be of service.
I stared at Tom. “Get a grip, man.”
He began to weep as Cynthia stalked down the hall. “So this is where he disappeared to.”
“Yeah,” I said.
She dropped to her haunches and smacked Tom’s head. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“It’s Layla,” he sobbed. “She’s . . . oh, my God, she’s . . .”
“She’s dead,” Cynthia shot back. “And good riddance.”
Whoa.
Tom didn’t seem to notice his wife’s antipathy as he rocked in agony.
“Jesus H,” Cynthia muttered. She exhaled heavily, then took a deep breath and seemed to gather every last ounce of patience in her body. She patted his back and said in a soothing tone, “Come on, honey. The police will be here any minute. They can’t find you like this.”
That moved him to stand up. He wobbled once but she grabbed and steadied him.
He blinked, then gulped and said, “Thanks, honey.”
She smacked his arm. “We’ll talk about this later. Come on, let’s go.” Then she gripped his shirt to lead him away.
I had a feeling Tom would get an earful when he arrived home. Maybe that was a good thing. God knows, it seemed their relationship thrived on discipline. As they moved down the hall, I noticed that some of my other students had witnessed the entire scene.
Kylie grimaced. “This is all too surreal.”
“Two attacks in one week is more than surreal,” I said.
Whitney and Gina returned to the group, and Whitney rubbed her arms. “It’s really freezing out there.”
“Hey, I wonder if the local news will show up,” Gina said.
“We should call them,” Whitney whispered, and Gina nodded with excitement.