“Almost eight months. I used to work at the Lincoln Daily News in Nebraska.”
“And this is Laura Patchett,” Clay said as he worked his way around the table pouring cups of steaming black coffee. “She made the brunch invitations—in her studio, I mean.”
Laura greeted me with a gentle lift of her cup.
“You know the Karlsens,” Clay went on, motioning toward the other end of the table, “and this extraordinary young lady is Charlotte Wynn.”
Charlotte put a hand over her cup. “None for me, thanks.”
“Charlotte works downtown as a legal assistant. And sitting next to you”—Clay began to fill Dalton’s cup—“is Dalton Taylor.”
Dalton smiled at me and nodded at Gilroy.
“That stunning work is his.” Clay gestured to the wall on my right, to the painting Laura had scorned moments before.
I angled in my seat for a better look. It captured a scene of small-town life in the folk-art fashion: bold colors, flattened perspective, houses and figures drawn in a primitive style. Apparently size signaled worth in Clay’s world. The painting was at least three by four feet, and in my un-arty opinion, its size was its sole virtue, if virtue you could call it.
“Part of my Hidden Little Town series,” Dalton said. “Number 5.”
“Ah,” I said, as if I knew what he meant.
Laura snorted.
“Yes?” Dalton said.
“How many in the series now?” Laura asked.
“Nine finished.”
“At least it’s in a faintly modern. style But it’s amazing you’ve found so much to gossip about.”
Dalton responded with a tiny smile. “Artists notice everything. They observe intensely, if they’re capable of observation. Capable of truly seeing the world around them. Some people who fancy themselves artists can’t see a thing.”
I slid my coffee cup toward Clay so he could pour more easily, and Gilroy did the same. Gossip? What was Laura talking about?
“Rachel and James are newlyweds,” Clay said. “Married less than a month ago.” He finished his waiter duties and sat on the other side of the table next to Mary.
“So I heard,” Dalton said. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“You suppose?” Charlotte said. “What a way to put it.”
Mary reached out for the carafe and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Charlotte, dear child.” Dalton palmed back wisps of gray hair and pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “Considering how difficult marriage is, congratulations should be carefully dispensed.”
“Here’s an idea,” Laura said. “Why not say congrats like a normal person?”
“And marriage increases in difficulty the older you get,” Dalton went on, tearing the curved end from a croissant. “You get used to living life your way, not compromising. Everyone knows that. Still, I wish you both luck and happiness. I’m sure if anyone can make a go of it, you can.”
“Oh, brother,” Shasta said, exasperation in her tone.
“Wait a minute.” Charlotte sat straight, set down her fork, and turned her blue eyes on me.
“I just figured it out. You’re the writer in the painting. I thought so when I saw it at the Christmas party. Did you know that according to Dalton you’re a murderer?” She jabbed a thumb toward the living room. “In one of his paintings. You’re killing a woman. In someone’s front yard, with a knife.”
Clay forced a laugh. “It’s like that old game. Colonel Mustard, in the parlor, with a knife.”
“Me?” I turned to Dalton.
He sniffed. “It’s art. Fiction, not history. And thank you, Charlotte, for your observational skills.”
Laura guffawed.
“How does everyone like the fruit?” Clay asked brightly. “It’s hard to get good melons this time of year.”
“Very nice,” Gilroy said. “It wasn’t that long ago people couldn’t get fruit in winter. Or not such a variety, anyway.”
“Exactly, James,” Clay said.
“You had to drive to Fort Collins, didn’t you?” Mary asked.
The light from the windows behind her lit her long, golden red hair, and though she was talking to Clay, her gaze was distant, parked somewhere between Shasta and Gilroy. With her strong jawline and full upper lip, she reminded me of a pre-Raphaelite model: willowy, pale, pensive.
“I did,” Clay said. “The new King Soopers.”
“Well, it’s very good,” I said. “The whole brunch is lovely.”
I asked Laura to pass me the chocolate croissants, thereby successfully squelching further discussion of Dalton’s idiotic portrayal of me as murderer. Honestly, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my interest. If he wanted to paint me as a killer, fine. I’d known the man for five minutes and already I didn’t like him.
