Ruthless Cross Page 8

  "There were a number of calls between her and Arthur," he admitted.

  "Then why are you talking to me instead of her?"

  "Savannah spoke to her last night, but I'm planning to do a follow-up interview."

  "Savannah is the agent you brought as your date. Are you two involved?"

  "No. She works for me. Savannah was there because Arthur requested that I bring a date for cover. He wanted anyone who saw us talking to think we were just having a casual conversation."

  "I wonder what he wanted to ask you."

  "I wish I knew."

  "You should talk to this Gretchen person. We should go find her after this. I'd like to know why she was calling my mother's husband, too."

  He smiled at the new light in her eyes. "I don't know how Arthur could have ever thought you were not a fighter, Callie."

  "I do fight for people I love."

  "Is there someone else you love, besides your mother?" It probably wasn't a question he should have asked, but he was curious.

  "I love my friends, but if you're asking about a boyfriend, I don't have one at the moment. Actually, I haven't had one in a while. I've been busy building my career. And when I'm not cooking, I'm usually dealing with my mom. Although, I have to admit that while I didn't want her to fall for Arthur and marry him so fast, her marriage did give me some freedom."

  "Why didn't you want her to love Arthur?" he asked curiously. "He's a good man."

  "He might be. He might not be. I'm not sure either of us knows anymore. But it wasn't just about that. When my mom falls in love, her emotions run wild. It's like the love endorphins make her crazy. And that's when her mental health starts to fall apart. Her romance with Arthur was a whirlwind; it felt chaotic. I didn't believe she was thinking things through, but when it comes to love, nothing can stop her."

  He thought about her comments. "Was she that way with your dad, too?"

  "They met when they were young, so it wasn't as fast. They dated for four or five years before they got married. But she was very much in love with him. And she could get a little obsessive about it."

  "In what way?"

  She hesitated. "It doesn't matter."

  "I'm not going to use it against her," he said, hoping that he was telling the truth.

  "I'm not sure I believe you."

  "Did she think your dad was cheating on her, too?"

  She stared back at him, a troubled gleam in her eyes. "Yes, she did. It's what she thinks when she feels insecure, and she often feels that way. She had a difficult childhood. Her father left the family when she was eight, and I think she always felt abandoned by him. That feeling extended to other men. At least, that's what one of her doctors told me."

  "Her first breakdown came after your dad's death. What about the second one, when you were in high school?"

  "That was after a bad breakup. She'd been seeing this man, Martin, for almost a year when he decided to end it. She went off the deep end. It took her over a year to get back to herself. Now, Arthur is dead, and she's alone again. I just don't know how many times I can bring her back from the brink."

  "I know you think that's your job, but it's really not."

  "It is. I'm the only one she has."

  "What about her sister?"

  "She lives far away, and she's finally in remission after a battle with breast cancer. I can't dump any more on her. To be honest, after the last time my mom fell apart, my aunt pretty much told me she just couldn't do it anymore. She felt like she'd been taking care of my mom her whole life. I was really angry with her, but there was a part of me that could understand her feeling."

  Juliette had certainly had problems with the men in her life. He sipped his wine as he contemplated what he wanted to say next, something he was sure would bring the tension back between them, but the words were bouncing around inside his head, begging to come out.

  "What?" she asked. "I can see the wheels turning, Flynn. You want to say something. Say it."

  "You won't like it."

  "I haven't liked a lot of what you've said; that hasn't stopped you. Go ahead. I can take it."

  "All right. Have you ever wondered if the car accident was just an accident?"

  She sucked in a quick breath, her gaze darkening. "I read the police report. It was determined to be a skid caused by the rain."

  "When did you read that? You were ten years old when your dad died."

  "I read it when I was sixteen, after my mom went to the hospital for the second time."

  "You were afraid." He could see the truth in her eyes.

  "After the way she reacted to Martin leaving, it made me wonder," she said, a defensive note in her voice. "My mom was saying the same things to me that she'd said about my dad—that he didn't love her enough, that she was sure he was cheating, and that people always left her. I not only read the report, I also talked to the patrol officer who had been the first one on the scene. He reassured me that my mother was completely sober at the time, that the rain was bad, that there was simply no evidence that she'd deliberately run into the tree. There were signs that she attempted to brake. If she'd done it on purpose, she wouldn't have tried to stop."

  "Well, good," he said, hoping she was right. "Then we don't need to discuss that."

  "We don't. I'm not blind, Flynn."

  She looked him straight in the eye, and he felt something twist inside him. She was defiantly beautiful, and he didn't think he ever wanted to stop looking at her. Not that she was thinking about him. She was fired up over her mom.

  "I know who my mother is," she continued, "faults and all, but she's not a killer. She didn't kill my dad, and she didn't kill Arthur. I know her better than anyone, Flynn. You have to believe me."

  "I want to," he said.

  "What else can I say?"

  "You've said enough—for now. And I want you to know that I heard you."

  "Okay." She paused as the waiter brought over their salads. When he left, she said, "Since we're done with my mom, let's get back to the woman my mother was concerned about most recently—Gretchen Vale. What do you know about her?"

  "More than I want to know."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Gretchen was my father's assistant for several years before he disappeared. Even though my dad was running his stolen art through the gallery, somehow, Gretchen came away with clean hands. I thought she might have turned him in or bargained for immunity, but I found no trace of that in the FBI files. At any rate, she and her husband Stephen now run the gallery. They've changed the name and the style, but it's the same place I used to go after school, where I used to work, where my father had some of his best moments and some of his worst."

  "What is your relationship with her now?"

  "I don't have one. Until last night, I hadn't seen her since my dad left. At that time, I was sixteen, and she was probably about thirty. Back then, she felt like a big sister to me. She was nice to me when I was in the gallery. We had some good talks, but I never heard from her after my dad took off."

  "What about her husband?"

  "I was never a fan of Stephen, who was her boyfriend when I knew her. He was a wannabe artist, but he wasn't any good. My dad then hired him to do pickups and deliveries for the gallery. I think Stephen was probably involved in my dad’s schemes, but there was no evidence to prove that."

  “It seems strange that no one in your dad's circle was involved. He was a one-man operation. Seems unbelievable."

  "I've always thought so.”

  "Maybe they were both just clever enough to hide their crimes. You've asked me a number of times why I don't seem to like Arthur. There was something about him I just didn't trust, but I also had no facts to back up my instincts. I know you liked him and respected him. In fact, everyone I know feels that way about him, so maybe I was wrong."

  "Or he was also very clever. We should eat. This salad looks good."

  "I'm sure it's delicious," she said, picking up her fork. "Melissa is an incredible
chef. We met in cooking school and became instant friends. We've worked in some of the same restaurants and followed each other's careers. She became the executive chef here six months ago, and the crowds have doubled since then. She's really great with seafood. She brings out unbelievable flavor."

  "When did you decide you wanted to be a chef?" he asked curiously, taking a forkful of salad that was bursting with flavor.

  "I started cooking a long time ago. My mom, even on her good days, was not great in the kitchen, so I took over that job. I was making all our meals from about age twelve on. It was a good distraction for me. It also made me feel like I was in control of a small part of my life. Cooking became my stress reducer, my escape, my passion, and I was good at it. When my mom ate well, she was less erratic. I felt like if I could get some good meals into her every day, our lives would be better. It probably wasn't ever about that, but it made me feel good to think so."

  "You mentioned you have an apartment. When did you stop living with your mom?"

  "I moved out three years ago, after she started working at the Piquard Museum. She was really happy and riding a wave of good health and sanity. It felt like she was normal, and I could leave her. But I didn't move too far away. I still saw her a lot, at least until she met Arthur, and then it was all about him. She has always been a person who needs a lot of love. I think she had that…for a while, anyway."

  He saw the sad glimmer in her eyes and wanted to chase it away. "Let's get back to food. What's your specialty?"

  "Well, I work at Bouffage, which is a French restaurant, and I'm very good at classical French dishes."

  "But…"

  "How did you know there was a but?"

  "Because I'm starting to know you. So, continue…"

  "I'd like to have my own restaurant one day, and not the vegan restaurant Arthur was trying to get me into. If I was going to run my own kitchen, it would be a mix of California and Italy."

  "What does that mean exactly?"

  "I fell in love with Italian cooking when I spent a month in Italy. But I also love California and its devotion to farm-to-table, fresh, organic ingredients. I want to blend the two. I can see my restaurant in my head. It will have a magnificent pizza oven in an open kitchen and the dining room will be lined with brick and wood. On the menu will be incredible pasta, of course. But I'll contrast the earthy dishes with fresh, light, seafood entrees."

  "It sounds amazing. When can I go?"

  "Right now, it's just a dream. Maybe it always will be. I probably should have taken the offer I had."

  "No. You have to stick to your dreams."

  "That's what I think, too. Maybe one day I'll be more willing to settle, but not yet."

  "You'll never settle, Callie. It's not who you are."

  "You've known me for a day."

  "And yet I'm right, aren't I?" he challenged.

  She gave a helpless shrug. "I guess I'll find out."

  Chapter Eight

  The salmon had been just as delicious as she'd expected, and with her stomach full, Callie felt a lot better than when she'd left the hospital. She could always count on a good meal to change her mood, even one she hadn't cooked herself. But it wasn't just the food that had lessened her stress; it was Flynn.

  He was an interesting man, far more complicated than his blond good looks and charming smile might imply. He'd been abandoned by his father and suffered tragedy in the loss of his girlfriend. Those were two horrific events that she wouldn't wish on anyone. But Flynn had taken control of his life. He'd turned his father's bad deeds into his own good ones. And then he'd found a way to let go of the past.

  But now he was back in the art world and she had a feeling his respect for Arthur was also going to take a big hit. She hated that the man who had been a second father figure to Flynn might disappoint him, too, but she couldn't stop whatever revelations were coming. In fact, she needed to bring those revelations to light so they could find Arthur's killer and get her mother off the suspect list.

  She sipped the last of her wine as she shook off thoughts of her mother alone in the hospital room. She was safe. And she was probably asleep.

  Flynn had certainly asked her some brutal questions about her mother. No one had ever dared to question the accident that had taken her dad's life. Maybe some had thought it, but certainly no one had ever asked her point blank the way Flynn had.

  She should hate him for that. She should be angry with him for a lot of his assumptions. But, oddly, she found herself liking him.

  For all his tough questions, he'd also been incredibly kind. And he respected her for her fight. It was warming to have someone see how hard she was battling to keep her mom sane.

  Not that she let many people see the private war she'd been engaged in for her entire life. She'd built a wall around her very small family and no one saw over that wall. She didn't think even Arthur had really understood the depth of her mom's problems.

  But Flynn had battered through her wall and there was no kicking him out now. She just needed to remember that no matter how nice he was being, if her mother had had anything to do with Arthur's death, Flynn would make her pay.

  So, she had to stay close to Flynn and help him find a lead to somewhere else. Fighting him, trying to keep him away from him, was the wrong approach.

  "I'm going to help you," she said aloud.

  "Is that what you've been thinking about the last fifteen minutes? You've been very quiet," he commented.

  "I was also enjoying my salmon, but, yes, I have been thinking about our rather odd relationship."

  He smiled. "I've never been in an odd relationship before."

  "It's a first for me, too." She paused and then took the plunge. "On that note, I've also been pondering what I might know that could be helpful, and I think there might be something."

  "What's that?"

  "There was a barbecue at Arthur's house a few weeks ago. My mom sent me to look for him, because their guests were arriving, and he was nowhere to be found. He was in Olivia's room. The door was partly ajar, and he was talking on the phone. I didn’t hear him say anything that strange. But when he ended the call, I pushed the door open and I saw him put his phone in his pocket. He gave me a startled, angry look and told me I was never to come in there. I apologized, and then he immediately backed down and said he was sorry for snapping at me."

  "Okay," Flynn said, his brows knitting together. "Why is that helpful? What am I missing?"

  "I haven't gotten to the helpful part yet. When Arthur and I walked downstairs, my mom met us on the landing. She handed Arthur a phone and said it had been ringing for the last fifteen minutes."

  A light entered his eyes. "Arthur had two phones."

  "Yes. I don't know if that matters."

  "We need to find that other phone. There wasn't another line registered to his name. It might have been a prepaid phone."

  "It did look cheap and small, not like his other smartphone. I didn't think that much about it at the time, because I know he liked to keep work separate from his personal life. He rarely spoke about the cases in his court. He said that it was his duty to maintain confidentiality, and, frankly, I didn't care that much, so I never pressed him about his job or what cases he was overseeing." She paused. "Are you sure his death doesn't have to do with a case? Don't judges get threatened all the time?"

  "Savannah is looking into that angle. I'm focused on the art, because that's the world I know well. I didn't see a second phone in the study. Where would Arthur have kept it?"

  "Maybe Olivia's room. It was the one room in the house that no one ever went into but him." Discomfort entered Flynn's eyes. "Looks like you might have to open that door after all," she said. "Or I can look."

  "I can do it. Thanks for telling me about the phone. Are you ready to go?"

  "I'll just pop my head in the kitchen and say goodbye to Melissa."

  "I'll meet you out front."

  After driving Callie back to the hospital parking lot so
she could get her mother's car, Flynn followed her to Arthur's house. He was happy to have a few minutes alone. He'd enjoyed having dinner with Callie. Talking to her had been surprisingly easy. When she wasn't on guard about her mother, she was very forthcoming. He'd found himself sharing far more than he usually did about his father and his past and even about Olivia.

  He'd wanted to open up to get Callie to trust him, and he'd succeeded. But through their very personal conversation, he had also begun to trust her. And he felt a very strong emotional connection to her. He was more than a little impressed at her strength in dealing with her mother, and not just now, but since she was ten years old. He could imagine her as a little girl taking charge of the house and the kitchen. She stepped up when she had to. Her mom might be a fragile flower, but Callie was sweet steel.

  He knew it was probably a mistake to get so close to her, but he couldn't stop himself. She'd caught his eye the first second he'd seen her, and since then he hadn't really been able to look away. He kept wanting to see her again, to know more about her, to keep talking to her for as long as he could.

  But he couldn't afford that kind of distraction.

  He needed to find Arthur's killer. That should be his only focus. And his only interest in Callie should be to further that goal.

  Turning the corner, he drove down Arthur's street, happy to see that the press had disappeared. It was almost seven now and completely dark. There wasn't one light on in the house, and for some reason it felt a little foreboding, maybe because he knew Arthur would never come back to the home he'd lived in for forty plus years.

  Callie drove into the garage, while he stopped on the circular drive in front of the house. As he got out of the car, he realized that the porch was filled with not only floral arrangements but also boxes of chocolates, gourmet cookies, fruit baskets, and even bottles of wine. Arthur's friends were showing their love to his family.

  When Callie opened the front door, she stared at the offerings in astonishment. "Wow, I wasn't expecting this."