The Mosaic Murder. Lonni Lees
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been raised. She’d booked the kid, gone back to visit with her friend Carlos, and filled out the necessary paperwork. Now the punk was somebody else’s problem and it was time to relax. She unbuckled her gun belt, placed in on the side table and collapsed into the overstuffed chair her father had sat in as far back as she could remember. She missed him. She missed them both. Her overweight black cat jumped onto her lap, meowing impatiently for his dinner. She pushed him off and onto the floor, where he sat glaring at her.
“Just hold on there, Prowler,” she said to him. “Your turn’s coming.”
As she was pulling off her shoes the phone rang. She tossed a shoe onto the floor, barely missing the cat, who puffed up his fur in protest but didn’t budge. She debated not answering. All she wanted was an Irish whiskey and a relaxed smoke. But the ringing wouldn’t stop . She reached across to the phone on the side table and as she picked up the receiver she removed the second shoe with her other hand and dropped it to the floor. It hit the tiles with a thud. Prowler voiced his disapproval with a low growl, but refused to move even an inch out of the path of her missiles.
“What,” she said into the phone, impatience and exhaustion in her voice.
It was Marty, her latest ex-boyfriend.
“We really need to talk, Maggie,” he said.
“We did talk, remember?”
“But I miss you.” The same annoying whine was in his voice, the sound of a child determined to get his way.
She said nothing. His voice grated on her and made her bristle. But it also conjured images of his wavy blonde hair and sky blue eyes and the smell of his cologne and the feel of his touch. She found herself weighing the pros and cons of their relationship just as she had weeks before. The right decision was made, even if he had been the instigator. It was a done deal.
“Talk to me, baby. Please. We can work this out.”
“We did work it out.”
“You know it was a mistake. You’ve gotta miss me as much as I miss you.”
“No, I don’t gotta. It was best for us both. You know that, Marty.”
Maggie only half listened as Marty stated his well-rehearsed argument. He told her how good they were together. Good for who, exactly? Somewhere during his monologue she interjected something about him needing a mother rather than a lover, but her truthful gem either went over his head or he’d chosen to ignore it.
“Marty, we were good in bed, that’s all,” she interrupted. It had taken her awhile to figure out that a man could be a great lover but not be good for much else. Initially, all those flying hormones had fogged her judgment, but when all was said and done, being proficient in the bedroom didn’t produce enough glue to hold the rest of the relationship together. So sad, so true.
He droned on, making point after weak point, until she reached the end of her patience.
“I’m tired,” she said and hung up.
When the phone rang again Maggie Reardon ignored it. Instead of answering she walked into the kitchen, Prowler at her heels, and opened a can of cat food. That was about all the nurturing she had the stomach for.
* * * *
Barbara Atwell turned on the window air conditioning units in the gallery’s three public rooms on her way to unlock the front door. She flipped on the exterior lights and set ashtrays on the porch for the smokers. The artist’s reception was a half hour away and things still had to be put in order. Some days she was overwhelmed and today was no exception. Armando hadn’t come downstairs yet to set up bottles of Chianti and champagne for the bar. The folding table was waiting for food, but Rocco and Adrian hadn’t yet arrived with bags from The Trader’s. Barbara placed paper plates and plastic forks on the table, along with napkins, then stacked cocktail napkins at the bar alongside plastic cups. Beads of perspiration gathered above her top lip and impatience knotted her stomach. Where was help when she needed it? It had eased slightly, but the day’s heat promised a warm night magnified by a room filled with people. The air conditioners churned out what coolness they could, but upgrading wasn’t in the budget.
She was ready to snap.
Wine bottles in hand, Armando entered the room. He walked across the floor and put the champagne in the mini-fridge behind the counter and placed two bottles of Chianti on the bar. He turned and gave Barbara a well-practiced apologetic grin. “That should get things started,,” he said. There was no way she could get angry when he flashed that smile. He played her like a honky-tonk piano and she gladly tap danced to his tune. And oh, what a glorious dance it was.
“About time,” she said. She wanted to say more, maybe scold him a little, but his presence calmed her mood and helped her relax. She let it go. They were holding hands like honeymooners when Rocco and Adrian came through the front door, laden with grocery bags and giggling at some off-color joke.
“Oh, you can be so naughty,” Adrian laughed, her stocky body shaking so hard she almost dropped one of the bags.
“That’s why you love me, baby.”
“Permit me to help, mi amiga,” Armando said as he rushed over to Adrian, freeing a bag from her grasp.
“Gracias, but I’m not your amiga.” Then she added: “You sure know how to shovel it, don’t you Arrr-mando?”
“Ah, mi amiga es inteligente as well as bonita,” he said with a flash of his white teeth, returning the sarcasm. Even when he’s being nasty he can’t help flirting, Adrian thought to herself as he gave her his best dimpled smile. He was probably born flirting with the midwife who delivered him. He was incurable, a real piece of work.
The three of them walked over to the table and began emptying the bags, putting cheese squares in one dish and assorted snacks in the rest. It took less than five minutes and everything was in order and ready for the reception. Adrian and Rocco ignored Barbara’s sideways glances as they worked. At least her dark mood had lifted somewhat since Armando’s return from Nogales.
Rocco clapped his hands together and addressing Barbara said: “Anything else?”
“Just thank you. I appreciate all you do to help around here. You too, Adrian.”
Adrian gave her a half-smile, sadness in her eyes as she looked at her friend. Barbara was wearing a long, teal blue dress and high heels that added three more inches to her already statuesque height. Her blonde hair caressed her shoulders and touched the blue sapphires she wore around her long neck. She was exquisite. But she was Armando’s. For the most part anyway.
Rocco turned at the sound of loud banging and headed towards the door.
“My god, don’t they know it’s unlocked?” Barbara said.
Rocco opened the door just as Belinda Blume, facing away from him, prepared to give it one more kick with the sole of her shoe. In her hands she held her heavy contribution to the show. Frizzy light brown hair fell in her face as she turned at the sound of the door opening and lowered her foot to the ground.
“Darn near gotcha,” she said. “Thanks. I was afraid I’d drop it.”
She walked inside to where Adrian, Barbara and Armando stood talking. “Hi all,” she said. “Barb, baby doll, where do you want this?”
Barbara pointed to a pedestal sandwiched between Armando’s shelf and the display case that held the Paloma Blanca jewelry. Belinda was tempted to say something about not wanting her beautiful sculpture next to Armando’s knickknacks, but being next to his crap actually made her piece look all the better. With calloused hands, he placed her artwork on the pedestal then stood back, looking at it with admiration.
“I topped myself,” she said.
Adrian walked over to take a closer look.
“It’s magical,” she said. “Gaia! It’s the goddess.” She reached out and felt its soft, round stomach bursting with child, then lifted