Gaffe Out Loud Page 8

  “I mean, I don’t know,” Zane said. “I never looked.”

  “You’re right. Everything is a blur after we found Desiree dead.”

  Zane nodded toward the house behind me, his eyes lit with hopefulness. “Can I go look for it?”

  “I’m not supposed to go upstairs. And, if the artwork was there, I’m sure the police took it for evidence.” I straightened as an idea hit me. “Zane, what if that’s what this crime is about—that painting? What if Desiree tried to steal it?”

  Why hadn’t I thought about that earlier?

  Zane twisted his head in confusion. “I thought Desiree came here to find you?”

  My thoughts raced ahead of me. “Maybe she did. But maybe she somehow stumbled onto this in the process. I mean, I heard she didn’t have a job and was desperate for money. Desiree could have found that painting and figured she had a way out.”

  Zane let out an uncertain-sounding sigh. “How would she know it was valuable? And that would mean she sneaked inside your house. There was no sign of that, right?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. My neighbor said he saw her sitting on the deck, apparently waiting for me to get here. What if she decided to wait inside? She probably didn’t have money for a hotel room. Not according to what I’ve heard.”

  Zane nodded slowly. “You could be on to something here. Let’s keep talking.”

  The scene played out in my head. “So she sneaks inside the house. I didn’t see any signs of forced entry—”

  “But there was a realtor lock box. There’s a chance she could have figured out the code and gotten that key. It takes time, but it’s entirely possible. There are only ten thousand different combinations of numbers, and if someone has time to go through them . . .”

  “So she does that. Goes inside. Sees the place is empty. She knows I’m moving in here because it was in the tabloids.” I frowned as those last words left my lips.

  “I saw that. Someone must have seen you during a walk-through last week and snapped a picture.” Zane shrugged almost apologetically.

  I released a sigh, not surprised. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Desiree comes here, waits for me, decides to go inside. Then she goes upstairs—maybe she’s just being nosy. And she finds that painting. How hard would it have been for her to look up the previous owner of the house? She could have seen his name and looked up his work.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Zane said. “Wesley does have a web presence.”

  My heart skipped a beat as my mental movie kept playing. I felt like we were finally onto something. “Maybe she started to leave with the painting when someone walked in on her.”

  Zane crossed his arms and shifted until his hip rested against the deck rail. With the sand dune behind him and the bright sun shining overhead, he could be a poster boy for beach living.

  “Who would have walked in on her?” Zane asked. “The house was under contract—no other realtors should have been showing it.”

  There was only one person who made sense. “Wesley.”

  Zane’s eyes widened, and he straightened with shock, as if I’d told him Star Wars was a disgrace to modern movies or something. “Wesley? No. He’s a lover not a fighter. An artist, not a savage.”

  “If someone tried to steal his work, I’d bet he’d fight.”

  Zane shook his head, as if he felt a headache coming on. “But if Wesley was in town on the day Desiree died, why wouldn’t he have come to the closing? He canceled at the last minute.”

  “Maybe he wanted to prove he wasn’t in town so he wouldn’t look guilty.” It sounded smart to me.

  Zane and I both stood there in silence. This sounded like the most plausible theory yet.

  Though part of me wanted to stay out of this investigation, another part of me wanted answers. I wanted to be able to enjoy my house until I had to leave to begin filming. Was that too much to ask? I didn’t know. I just knew that I wouldn’t be getting any true rest under this roof until I knew what had happened to Desiree.

  “Do you know of any art galleries in town that carry Wesley’s work?” I asked, feeling like I’d found my first decent lead.

  “I know of one.”

  “I want to go there. Now.” Maybe this would keep my mind off Jackson. And if I found Desiree’s killer, maybe my string of bad luck would end.

  Maybe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Outer Banks art galleries weren’t like NYC galleries.

  I’d always wanted to be a connoisseur of art and culture, but in truth I was a girl from the Virginia mountains who’d grown up with nothing. Hollywood had changed me, but, as the saying went, you could take a girl out of the country but you couldn’t take the country out of the girl.

  The Sea Glass House, as it was called, was a converted beach home. It had a quirky feel with squeaky wooden floors, and it smelled strongly of essential oils. Clove, maybe? I was no expert.

  Each room had a different theme. There was the driftwood art theme. Sea glass art theme. And then there was the room with Wesley’s paintings. I soaked in his artwork for a moment. He seemed to specialize in landscape portraits of the beach, but he’d added a unique twist by using bright colors and almost cartoon-like graphics. It was a modern take on a classic oil painting.

  Were these sophisticated? I wouldn’t think so.

  But they had a pop culture art appeal. To me, at least. I liked them.

  “It’s like Bob Ross,” Zane whispered. “Everything is happy. Hashtag: Bobwouldbeproud.”

  Zane was a huge Bob Ross fan. In fact, we used to like watching reruns of the show together, usually while eating hummus and drinking smoothies. Those were fun days, but I knew I had to leave them behind, especially when I considered my history with Zane.

  “I agree. I think Bob Ross would approve.”

  “Can I help you?” a man asked behind me.

  I turned and saw a prim and proper gentleman with a thin, neat goatee and mustache. His name tag read, “Art,” which I found entirely appropriate.

  “I like these.” I nodded toward Wesley’s paintings. “Is the artist local?”

  “He just moved from the Outer Banks.” Art practically glowed as he talked about Wesley’s work. “But his paintings are wonderful, aren’t they? He’s one of our most popular artists, and his work is finally getting the recognition it deserves.”

  “The cost seems reasonable.” Most were priced below five hundred dollars.

  Art raised his chin. “I’ll give you an inside tip here. These paintings will be increasing in value soon, so I’d buy now while you can.”

  That was interesting . . . “Why are they going up in value?”

  Art looked around before leaning closer. “Of course, art is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it. Let’s just say that people have been willing to pay quite a lot for Wesley’s work recently.”

  “That’s happy little news for him, I guess.” Zane nodded as he said the words, looking entirely too pleased with himself for tapping in to his inner Bob Ross.

  Art squinted as he studied my face. “You’re that actress, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. Joey Darling.” As I said the words, I couldn’t help but think about how Jackson probably wouldn’t approve of me doing this. He liked me to keep out of trouble, and I seemed to gravitate toward it. But asking questions never hurt anyone, right?

  I knew from personal experience that wasn’t exactly true. And the thought of Jackson caused another surge of sadness in me. I didn’t want to fight with him. I didn’t want to be stubborn, but I didn’t want to be a pushover either. Perhaps finding the balance I needed was more challenging than I thought.

  Art shifted, his mental gears obviously still turning. “Didn’t you buy Wesley’s house?”

  “I did. How’d you know?” This man didn’t strike me as a tabloid reader.

  “He told me.”

  I suppose that made sense. “Is that right? I thought it would be nice to have some of his art
work in the house—but I wanted to check it out first, you know?”

  “Of course.”

  “Every house tells a story. I want to preserve the history of this place—even its modern history—and I thought one of these paintings would do the trick. It would leave Mr. Twigg’s footprint on the house.”

  The man’s eyes lit, as if he’d realized that I was in a position to actually be able to afford something here. “I agree. That’s a lovely idea.”

  I paused by one particular painting—one of the local lighthouses. I really did like it. “But I like to have my artwork signed.”

  “Mr. Twigg doesn’t believe in signing his artwork on the front. He said it ruins the painting.”

  “But I’ll only buy artwork if it’s signed.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “Any idea when Wesley might be back in town? I really want to ask him myself if he’ll sign his artwork for me. It’s most definitely a deal breaker.”

  Art looked around again, as if there might be someone else inside the empty gallery. There wasn’t. “He’s still in town.”

  “Is that right? I had no idea. Is he in hiding?” I laughed like the idea was funny. In truth, I laughed to cover my suspicion that Wesley was hiding because he was guilty.

  “He’s trying to finish one more piece before he leaves. He’s strange like that. Once he starts something, he likes to complete it. Moving locations might mess with his mojo, he feared.”

  “Understandable.” I knew all about the creative life—the good, the bad, and the ugly of it. “Any idea where he’s staying? I’d like to meet him.”

  “My understanding is that he’s staying with a friend.”

  “You know this friend’s name or how to find him?”

  “Well, I couldn’t possibly tell you that.” Art shrugged, like he was above it and slightly offended that I’d asked.

  “There’s no way I can track him down then?” I continued.

  “That would be highly unprofessional. But I’d be happy to call him for you.”

  “I’d really like to talk to him myself,” I pressed.

  “Maybe I could arrange that—after I call him.”

  I plastered on another grin. “You see, this is part of my problem. I like immediate results. I know it’s a character flaw. I really do. But I’d like to talk to him today.”

  Art glanced at his watch. “I have a tour group coming in thirty minutes, and I’ve got to get ready for them. But I’d be happy to contact him afterward.”

  “I suppose that will work. I just hope I don’t change my mind during the time in between.”

  “She can be fickle like that,” Zane added.

  I turned to walk away, hoping my ploy paid off. I think I might have come on too strong. Maybe I should have let it play out more. But it was too late for that.

  Zane followed me toward the door, flashing a peace sign to Art.

  “Wait!” Art called.

  I paused and held my breath, waiting to hear what he said.

  “I can’t tell you an address, but I can say that he’s staying with someone named Dizzy.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  Dizzy?

  What? How had I missed this?

  “So Wesley is in town. But he doesn’t want anyone to know. Why?” I asked, once I was back in my car with Zane beside me. I cranked the AC, but the humidity was still winning. The day was getting hotter and hotter as it went on.

  “There’s only one reason I can think of. He’s guilty.” Zane sounded disappointed. He must have really liked Wesley. Then again, Zane could get along with anybody. He was Mr. Social, which was what made him a good real estate agent.

  “Exactly!” My voice rose a little too much in excitement. But Zane and I were on the same page, and it felt good to have someone actually agree with me.

  “He must have planned that whole being out of town for closing thing so he could cover his tracks.”

  I glanced at Zane. “But Dizzy?”

  I still couldn’t figure out how she fit into this.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t tell you about her new roommate,” Zane said.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t tell me. I mean, this is Dizzy. I just saw her yesterday.” Dizzy was an over-sharer. This just didn’t make sense.

  “Maybe we should go pay her a visit,” Zane suggested.

  “Oh, we should definitely go pay her a visit.” I put the car in reverse and started toward Beach Combers.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled up to a pink-sided house that had been converted into a hair salon. I stared at the place for a moment. This was where I’d gotten my start when I’d moved here. I’d been broke, with no acting jobs on the horizon and a deep-seated desire to locate my father, whom I hadn’t heard from in months. I’d gone back to my roots—actual roots, not hair color roots. I’d started working for my aunt, and Jackson had been one of my first customers.

  At the thought of Jackson, my heart sagged.

  Where was he right now? What was he thinking? Was the end of Jacksoey? Or was it Joeyson? Either way . . .

  I couldn’t even think about that right now.

  And maybe that was why I was jumping into this investigation with both feet. It was distracting me from other issues at hand.

  Like the fact that Sam Butler was waiting back at my house.

  More guilt pressed in on me.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Zane asked as we sat there in my car, neither getting out.

  I nodded, though my heart felt heavy. “Yeah, I guess my fight with Jackson is bothering me more than I thought. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Me too. But that’s real life, right?”

  “Every couple I know has disagreements. Unless one is just a real pushover, I guess. And neither you nor Jackson are pushovers.”

  Nope, Jackson and I both had strong feelings on things. I hoped that would work in harmony together.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Joey,” Zane said. “He’ll come around. He’s obviously crazy about you.”

  “If he doesn’t?” My throat ached as the words left my mouth.

  Because I knew this was bigger than one disagreement. I knew I’d be leaving soon, and then Jackson and I wouldn’t see each other as much. I knew that things were going to change, and that scared the dickens out of me.

  “You’ll always have me waiting in the wings.” Zane flashed a smile.

  I let out a terse laugh. “Very funny.”

  I actually didn’t know if Zane was joking or not. But I was going to assume that he was.

  “We should probably go talk to Dizzy now,” I said, my hand on the door handle.

  “Yeah, probably.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Joey! Zane! What brings the two of you here?” Dizzy paused as she rolled an older woman’s hair in curlers. “Jingle Bells” played on the overhead.

  Every day was a good day for Christmas music, as far as Dizzy was concerned. Even in July. I was surprised she hadn’t put up a tree yet or donned a Santa hat.

  “Did you decide you wanted to work here again and forget about that whole Relentless show and being famous?” Dizzy continued.

  “Not exactly.” I paused and the scent of perm solution and hair spray hit me.

  Part of me missed this old place. It wasn’t that I wanted to work here again, but it did hold some memories. Memories of simpler moments. Memories of when life felt normal and ordinary for a blip in time.

  There was a lot to be said for that. I’d pulled myself back together here. I’d rediscovered the person I was before I became famous.

  I turned back to Dizzy. “I actually have a couple questions for you.”

  “Can you ask now? Or do you need privacy?”

  I glanced at the elderly woman whose hair Dizzy was fixing. She tried to look uninterested, but her eyes kept darting toward me in the mirror. She was definitely listening.

  “Privacy would b
e great,” I said.

  “Let me put two more rollers in, and I’m all yours. For a few minutes at least.”

  Five minutes later, we were in the back room of the hair salon. Dizzy moved some magazines, as well as boxes full of products, off the table and motioned we could sit there. I decided to stand instead.

  “So what’s going on?” Dizzy’s eyes danced with curiosity.

  “Do you have someone living with you, Dizzy?” I got right to the point.

  Her curious eyes grew wide. “Living with me?”

  “Yes, like, at your house,” I clarified.

  Realization rolled over her features . . . along with a touch of what appeared to be guilt. “Well . . . kind of. ‘Living with me’ seems like a strong way to word it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She frowned, almost comically. “It means that I took in a boarder.”

  I was hoping this was all a mistake. Obviously, it wasn’t. “You didn’t tell me that. Are you having financial trouble? Do you need help? You could have come to me.”

  Dizzy waved her hand in the air like she didn’t have a care in the world. “No, no, no. It’s not like that. I just saw the opportunity to make a little extra money, so I put it out there that I had a room to rent.”

  “And who’s now living in that room?” I waited for her to admit the truth.

  “His name is Wesley. He’s in his fifties. I think you’d really like him.”

  “When did he move in?” She still hadn’t admitted the man’s connection to me. Was she clueless? Or was she trying to hide something?

  “One week ago. But he’s only staying for the summer, and then he’s moving on.”

  I couldn’t read Dizzy’s expression, but she definitely didn’t appear to feel guilty. That left me with the conclusion that she was somehow clueless about these details. “Is this Wesley a painter?”

  “Yes, he is. How did you know?”

  “Because I just bought his house!” My words came out a little louder than I intended.

  Dizzy gasped and put a hand over her heart. “What?”