Page 46 of The Murder Club

Bailey wasn’t an artist, but she could understand Ford’s obvious enthusiasm. The large windows would not only let in tons of natural light but they offered a stunning view of the rolling meadows in one direction and a swath of towering pine trees in the opposite direction.

“You’re an artist,” Dom murmured, casually strolling around the empty room.

“You don’t sound impressed.” Ford’s lips twisted into a mocking smile. “I don’t blame you. I tried several times to settle down and get a regular job. Unfortunately, the attempts ended up with everyone involved being miserable. I’ve at last accepted a life of being a nomad, without friends or roots.”

Bailey watched Dom study the stack of canvases before moving toward the empty bookshelves built into the wall. Was he searching for something?

Stepping forward, Bailey deliberately placed herself in front of Ford, blocking his view.

“You have at least one friend,” she said.

Ford arched a brow. “Do I?”

“I assume so.” She forced herself to smile. “You gave Eric Criswell a new phone. It’s a very generous gift if he isn’t a friend.”

Ford frowned, almost as if he was having difficulty remembering the name Eric Creswell and why he would give him a phone.

“Oh. Right.” Ford snapped his fingers. “The computer guy.”

She allowed her smile to disappear. “He also told me that you asked him to take pictures of me.”

“Of you?” Ford held up a hand. “Wait a minute. That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?” she demanded, keeping him distracted to give Dom the opportunity to look around.

“A week or so ago I was having trouble with my laptop and someone suggested that I ask Eric Criswell to come over and get it straightened out.” He glanced toward the computer that was precariously balanced on a pile of dirty laundry. “While he was here, he happened to notice the phone that had just come in the mail. It was a present from my parents.” A sneer touched his lips. “A less-than-subtle dig that I don’t stay in contact like they want me to. Anyway, Eric mentioned how much he wanted one.”

“And you just gave him the phone?”

“Not then.” Ford lifted his head to meet her suspicious gaze. “I was finishing up a series of landscapes when I decided I wanted my next painting to include a local person.” He shrugged. “That’s when I decided to offer the phone to Eric in return for taking a few candid shots around town. It must have been a couple of days ago.”

“Of me?” Bailey demanded.

“Of anyone he thought might stir my muse.”

“Anyone?” Bailey’s self-righteous anger faltered. “You didn’t ask Eric to specifically take pictures of me?”

Ford cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I don’t mean to be rude, but honestly, I have no idea who you are. I mean . . . I might have seen you around town, but I don’t think we’ve ever spoken. And I certainly didn’t know your name. Not until you showed up at my door this morning.”

Bailey studied him, frustration bubbling inside her. His arms were folded over his chest, but he appeared thoroughly relaxed as he stood in front of her. Too relaxed? Bailey liked to think she was intuitive when it came to people, but she wasn’t trained to read body language.

She knew someone was lying. Either Eric or this man. But how the hell was she supposed to know which one?

“I found Eric parked in front of my house taking pictures of me. He claimed you wanted them.”

“Seriously?” The green eyes narrowed. “I swear, I would never have asked him to become a stalker. I just wanted a few candid shots. I’ll tell him to stop.”

“If you wanted pictures of people, why not take them yourself?” Bailey pressed, far from convinced this man was as innocent as he wanted her to believe.

“I had to finish the landscapes and have them delivered to a gallery in Minneapolis before the owner canceled my showing, I was running late as usual and I hoped to start the new project when I returned.” He wrinkled his nose, looking ridiculously charming. “And to be honest, I wanted to do something for Eric. He seemed kind of pathetic and lost when he was here.”

“You didn’t think it was creepy to take pictures of people without their knowledge?”

“No.” He glanced toward the empty canvases in the corner. “I’m an artist. The people in my paintings aren’t individuals to me. They’re a mixture of light and shadows that blend into the background.” He glanced back at Bailey. “There would be no way anyone could be recognized in my paintings.”

“Then why do you need a muse?”

He looked shocked by the question. “Every artist needs inspiration.”

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