A Field of Red Page 23

It was never good to leap to that conclusion too early. If a kidnapper or other criminal involved with the case had an inside source, it did answer a lot of the outstanding issues, not the least of which that every single lead that came along seemed to dry up with frightening speed.

  But Frank was going to hold off on that theory for a while. Going down that path was a one-way trip. Frank had only been on the case since Wednesday. It was too soon to start burning bridges.

  So he was working theory #2 for the moment. Others had mentioned that something else was going on in the Martin’s marriage, based on a few clues that he’d gotten over the last few days. King had said something off the cuff after they left the psychic. And Frank had noticed that the Martins almost never stood together when talking to the police, and rarely looked at each other or comforted each other. Frank had never seen them hold hands.

  When the second ransom call had come in, Nick had joined the policemen in the kitchen to review the call again, but Glenda had stayed away, content to nurse her drink and listen to the conversation from the next room. She’d not gotten involved until she’d decided to come into the kitchen to let everyone know that the psychic would be arriving.

  The woman Frank was meeting owned a small coffee shop and art gallery in downtown New Stanton. Frank found the place with ease. New Stanton was smaller than Cooper’s Mill and consisted of nothing but one main street surrounded by a small neighborhood of homes.

  From the outside, the gallery wasn’t very impressive. The rest of the town also seemed a little worse for wear. But inside, the space opened up into a large room with brick walls that held dozens of large paintings and photographs. The art gallery was light and airy and, in the back, there was a coffee bar and small bakery. The woman found him looking at the art, and they sat at a small table in the main room.

  “Hi, I’m Jackie,” the woman said. She was in her late fifties and brimming with youthful energy. Her hair was streaked with a playful stripe of blue, and Frank got the distinct impression that the woman had once counted herself among the hippies. He had noticed her bustling around inside the gallery before she’d approached him.

  “I’m Frank, Frank Harper,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m working with the police on the Martin kidnapping.”

  She nodded, her face turning somber. “I saw it on the news. Just terrible. I hope they get those little girls back,” she said and suddenly stood and excused herself. Moments later, she returned with two coffees.

  “Here we go,” she said, putting a mug in front of him and sipping at her own. “I was waiting on a fresh pot to brew.”

  He nodded and sipped, thanking her. The coffee was hot and very strong, with a hint of cinnamon or something.

  “Hmm, that’s interesting,” Frank said, nodding at the mug.

  “Oh, it’s chicory,” she said. “I’m from Texas, and we usually throw a little in there for spice.”

  Frank took another sip and nodded, then put the coffee down. “That is good. So, you know Glenda Martin, right?”

  Jackie nodded again. “Yes, she’s over here about once a week for painting and photography lessons, usually on Thursday afternoons.”

  Frank looked up from his notes.

  “Oh,” Frank said, surprised. “I was under the impression that she was coming over here regularly, but there was some talk about her meeting a friend for coffee. A male friend.”

  “Oh, my,” Jackie laughed loudly, loud enough to draw the attention of the other people in the shop. “I have no idea about that—but I doubt it. She’s had some trouble with her husband over the years, but as far as I can tell, it has nothing to do with infidelity. He’s just not very supportive of her.”

  “What do you mean?” Frank asked.

  Jackie leaned back on the couch. “Oh, you know how it is, sugar. Men can be threatened by a powerful woman, or a woman who doesn’t derive her strength through her looks,” she said, smiling. “Don’t you agree? Glenda is passionate, and beautiful to boot, but Nick has rarely supported her choices. To most people, she’s just a pretty face. She gave up photography after several years, after Nick made some comment about one of her shots. It’s too bad—she had a great talent for it,” Jackie said, pointing at the wall.

  Frank turned and looked. There was a three-picture grouping of wheat fields surrounded by fall colors, trees in red and yellow and fallen leaves. The photos were beautiful.

  He was surprised again. “Glenda did those?” he asked.

  “See how she’s framed the field with the trees,” Jackie said, nodding and standing to point at the group of photographs. “The leaves along the bottom and in the second photo pull it all together nicely, don’t you think? And that branch in the foreground gives the photo a nice depth.”

  Frank looked at it and nodded, trying to follow what Jackie was saying. It was a beautiful shot, but it was difficult for him to explain why—it just was.

  “I’ve sold a lot of her work,” Jackie said. “But Nick thought she was just out ‘taking pictures’ and didn’t bother to notice how good she was. She still has a bunch up in her house, I think.”

  Frank nodded, remembering the large landscape photographs on canvas in the Martin’s living room. He turned back to Jackie. “So, she’s moved on to painting?”

  “Yes, and she’s working through the different techniques, trying to figure out what she likes,” Jackie said. “She’s thrown herself into it. I doubt she’s got time for a man on the side. Might not have time for the man already in her life. She said she wanted to take courses out of town, mostly for the privacy. Everyone in that town knows her. Of course, she’s not been back since the kidnapping.”

  Frank wrote it all down and remembered how dismissive Nick Martin had been in their first interview when Frank had brought up his wife’s photography.

  He turned back to look at the photos again, and another painting caught his eye. It was an abstract painting of what looked like a house. Frank knew dick about art, but he knew enough to know that if you liked it, and your eye was drawn back to it, that was the kind of art you bought. Not that he had any money.

  She turned and followed his eyes up to the painting. “You like that? Me too. It’s a Hochstetter.”

  “I’m just a cop,” Frank said, smiling and turning to her. “I don’t know anything about art, but I do like it.”

  She nodded.

  “That’s how I got into it—my husband and I were traveling in Mexico, on a vacation,” she said, remembering. “I saw a painting of a palm tree hanging in the hotel restaurant, and I was hooked. Before that, I couldn’t care less about art. Now, I’m in the business.”

  Frank looked at the painting again. “How much is it?”

  “Well, if you have to ask…” she started to say, then smiled and slapped him on the knee. “Oh, I’m just kidding you, sugar. That’s what we always say. It’s $150. It’s not an original, but a print.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Frank said, looking at the painting.

  Jackie smiled. “Oh, Louis lives here in town, but he has quite a following. His original paintings go for upward of $1,000 or even $2,000. That’s a print, which is essentially an oversized photograph stretched over canvas,” she said, pointing at the painting and others nearby for comparison. “If you touch it, there are no brush strokes, but that’s about the only difference.”

  Frank nodded and then looked at Jackie. “Thank you for meeting me. I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He stood and shook her hand.

  “Did you want to get the piece?” she asked, smiling.

  “No, no,” he said. “I’m just in town for a few more days,” he said, but his eyes were drawn to it again. After he said goodbye and walked to the door, Frank couldn’t help himself and looked again.

  Driving back to Cooper’s Mill, he thought about the painting again and what Jackie had said. The art “spoke” to him, bringing out an emotional reaction in him that he had not expected. It was much like when the psychic lady had brou
ght up what happened during Katrina—it had spun him off in an entirely new and different direction from what he’d been expecting.

  That little smirk on the young man’s face hadn’t helped Frank’s mood at the time, either.

  Of course, they had looked up Frank. The psychic and her little helper had done the work, probably pulling together files on everyone involved in the investigation. He would have done the same thing in their position. But to have it just thrown out there like that had taken Frank by surprise. He should have known better, been more prepared. Instead, he’d looked like an idiot, standing there clenching his fists and then storming out like a pissed off little kid.

  But making progress on the investigation had turned his mood around. He had poked a few large holes in theory #2 and, at this stage in the investigation, any progress was good. From all the files he’d poured through, it didn’t feel like this case would end up centered around infidelity, but it was good to eliminate that as a motivator.

  And the painting had cheered Frank up. Maybe that was all it meant, or all it was good for. But it had worked, one way or the other.

  The CD ended, and he flipped through the CDs, finding another jazz favorite. This one was “Easy Does It” from Sonny Stitt and Oscar Peterson. Nice relaxing piano with a standing bass. Great for driving in the rain, or late on a summer evening.

  As he drove back into Cooper’s Mill, he thought about the psychic. It had been stupid, allowing himself to be surprised like that. But the worst part was letting himself get so angry. Clearly, he was frustrated with the case, but he needed to remind himself that he was making progress. Or, at least, he needed others to think he was making progress.

  Especially with that third option looking more and more tangible with each passing hour.

  He’d essentially eliminated the infidelity theory with his drive to New Stanton. She seemed like an angry wife, distant, but if what Jackie had said was true, it explained the distance and the lack of comfort. Nick didn’t support her, something Frank had witnessed directly. And it explained all the pictures and photographs in the Martin house—she was always taking photos.

  Photos.

  Maybe she had more photos, photos that she took that morning, the morning of the kidnapping. No, if she’d had photos, she would have mentioned it, right? Frank jotted it down on his notepad propped on the Taurus steering wheel.

  Frank followed the road, crossing the open expanse of fields that stretched between the river and Cooper’s Mill proper, which sat on a rise. Stitt and Peterson played, the piano and soft drums carrying the tune as he drove. Frank pondered about all of the facets of the case, how they wound back and forth, in and out of each other like a complicated song.

  He was heading west on 571, the road that entered Cooper’s Mill from the east after crossing the river. As he approached the rise that marked Cooper’s Mill, Frank drove past a large field on his right. A large sign reading “Freeman Prairie” stood near the road and, beyond, Frank saw a group of volunteers walking through the tall grasses and mud that stretched from the edge of the road to the distant river. Another volunteer search, checking the tall bushes and scrub for any sign of the girls.

  He followed the road as it sloped up, passing Canal Lock Park on the way to First Street, going from open fields and farmland into downtown Cooper’s Mill in the blink of an eye. Frank slowed and stopped at the light at the corner of First and Main, and then, when the light turned green, he pulled into a parking spot across from Ricky’s, the bar he’d visited on his first night in town.

  39

  Frank grabbed his notepad and walked across the street, heading inside.

  Ricky’s looked different in the daylight—and when it wasn’t packed. Eight or ten sad customers sat at the tables in the back, and one lone guy sat at the bar. The rough rock music they were playing was a jolt after the calming jazz he’d been enjoying.

  Frank recognized the woman behind the bar. It was the same woman who’d been in here the first night he’d arrived, long before he knew anything about the case. She was the one who’d chastised him for not helping out with the drunk customers.

  “Rosie, right?” he asked her.

  She looked up. “Ah, I thought that was you on the phone.” He had called earlier from the car to set up an appointment. “Have a seat.”

  Frank wanted to talk privately, but it looked like she was the only one working, so he sat at the bar and took out his notepad, setting it on the counter.

  “Get you something?” she asked.

  “Coffee, if you have some,” he said. “Just you in today?”

  Rosie looked around. “Queen of the castle.”

  “I’m Frank, Frank Harper,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m working with the police on the Martin kidnapping.”

  “I know,” she said. “Glenda’s my sister. I hope you find Charlie, and soon. She’s a very special little girl.”

  Frank should’ve learned by now to not be surprised. It seemed like everyone in this town was related to someone else.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “It’s fine—her last name is Martin now, but I’m still Hanks. Rosie Hanks. Hang on,” she said and went away to help a customer, an old gentleman who had his hand raised at one of the tables.

  While she was gone, Frank looked around the bar. He located the shotgun—he’d guessed it was behind the counter and now could see the butt of the gun sticking out next to an ice machine. Along the walls, the paint looked more faded and the TV screens cheaper in the daylight. But the place looked clean, at least. He’d been in enough dirty bars to know the difference.

  Rosie came back, setting a coffee in front of him. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem,” he said. “So, what can you tell me about Nick Martin?”

  “First, I’ve got a question,” she said.

  Frank looked up and nodded. “Shoot.”

  “Why didn’t you help me out the other night?” she asked, nodding at the table where he’d been sitting. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m just curious.”

  Frank thought about it for a second. He was surprised she’d asked and that she could remember the exact place he’d been sitting. “I didn’t want to get involved. I’m really just in town to see my daughter.”

  “Oh? She lives in town?”

  Frank nodded. “She works at the hair place around the corner. I was just here to see her and didn’t want any trouble. But now I’ve gotten pulled into the case.” He thought about it for a second and then added, “I’m sorry about that.”

  Rosie shook her head. “Like I said, no big deal. I was just curious. What was your question?”

  Frank looked back at his notes.

  “So tell me about Nick.”

  “Nothing you probably don’t already know,” she said, picking up a clean towel and drying the counter. “He’s a good dad and good to Glenda. Pretty good. She got lucky. Charlie adores him, though I wouldn’t say the same about some folks in town. He’s let people go before, at Martin Construction, but cutting the budget at the City pissed off a lot of people. A couple of well-known people in town ended up out of work. It was quite the topic of conversation in here for a while.”

  Frank nodded, jotting it all down.

  “‘Did it all blow over?”

  “I thought so,” she said sadly. “It looked like things were getting better, and then Charlie disappeared. Some people think he’s getting his karmic due, but nobody thinks it’s payback for the budget cuts or layoffs or whatever. I can’t believe anyone would do that.”

  A young man, one of the ones from the bar fight that first night, came out of the backroom and set a large toolbox on the counter. He was in his late twenties, thin, and covered in sweat. His shirt was streaked with mud.

  “Well, Rosie, it’s not the breaker.”

  Rosie nodded. “Jake, this is Frank, Frank Harper. He’s an ex-cop, helping the police.”

  Jake smiled and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Hi, Mr. H
arper,” he said, shaking Frank’s hand. “Working on the kidnapping?”

  Frank nodded. “Just helping out.”

  Jake turned to Rosie. “I checked in the crawlspace, and you were right. But the jukebox—it’s not the breaker.”

  Rosie made a face. “I just bought that from one of the antique stores—it was working yesterday, after they delivered it. I hope it’s sturdy,” Rosie said. “It can get a little rough in here, and I can’t have it quitting every time it gets bumped.”

  “That’s a good point—maybe it’s just a loose connection inside, or something,” Jake said, nodding. “Frank, nice to meet you, and good luck with your case.”

  Frank nodded as Jake gathered up his toolbox and walked over, pulling out the jukebox and getting to work on the back of the machine.

  “He seems handy,” Frank said.

  Rosie smiled. “You have no idea.”

  Frank nodded, getting it.

  “OK, I won’t ask. So, nobody you know would have a grudge against the Martins bad enough to do something like this?”

  “No, not really,” she said.

  “Anything you can think of the cops might’ve missed?”

  She started to say something but then shook her head. “No, not really,” she said. “Those guys are really good,” she said, and then a customer called her over. She excused herself, and Frank sat back, relaxing. He watched the crowd for a few minutes, and then, the jukebox powered up and started playing music that competed with the rock music already playing over the speakers. Rosie gave out a little cheer from across the room.

  Jake Delancy joined Frank at the bar, setting his bag of tools down on the seat next to Frank.

  Rosie came over. “Jake, you’re good.”

  Jake put some tools back into his bag. “Oh, it was nothing. Loose connecting wire. What happened, anyway?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Rosie said, sliding a beer in front of Jake and a refill of coffee to Frank. “There was a scuffle in here the other night, and a guy got thrown against the jukebox. It just stopped working after that.”

  “Well, something got knocked loose in the back,” Jake said. “I tightened up everything. I think the power cord has a bad connection. I’ll see if I can dummy up something to replace it.”