Page 38 of The Aura Answer
Gracie almost melted in relief. “I wasn’t seeing it in political context, just property. Except for the Corvette image, these are all properties on the east end of town, even the one of the men strolling Main Street. I suppose the group images might have nothing to do with property, but these others... If the Turlocks were at every one of these places, even if they’re not in the sketch, why was the mayor’s lawyer scouting the east side?”
Pris entered bearing more food. “Are we turning the library into a buffet? The kids are missing you.”
Nick took the tray. Dante circled Pris’s waist and pressed a kiss to her forehead—toPris’shead, grumpy, witchy, spiky Pris. Gracie squashed a surge of envy.
“Who’s watching the kids?” Evie munched a cheese cracker Jax handed her and continued examining the sketches.
Gracie gave up. She wasn’t needed here. “I’ll keep an eye on them. You solve the mystery.”
Nick picked up an empty plate and followed her. “I’m useless. I’ll go back to tent building. I gather I won’t be framing those prints any time soon.”
“Mavis is with the kids,” Pris called. “Dark clouds and all that. You might want to hang more Christmas lights.”
“Right,” Gracie muttered. “Let the teacher deal with the children. I’m sooo good with them.”
“Well, you are,” Nick agreed. “That doesn’t mean you’re any less important. You were the one who looked for the sketches and saw the pattern. But I gather Evie doesn’t have any other job but snooping, so let her snoop.”
She didn’t want to feel grateful for that sop to her ego, but she did. “Fine, then. We’ll take photos of the sketches, front and back, and then you can frame the originals and do your salesman thing.”
Her mother was in the kitchen, ignoring the children in the breakfast booth, leaving Loretta to mop up spills, while Mavis perused a dusty tome from the kitchen shelf.
“No eye of newts here, Mom. Who’s minding the store?”
Mavis glanced up. “Not Evie. I had to close up for lunch. Tell Jax he’s sitting on a time bomb and Toby should probably leave town.” She slid off the stool, tucking the tome under her arm.
Unfazed by this dire prediction, Nick asked, “May I help with anything?”
Mavis raised her eyebrows. Short, stout, wearing her graying hair in a frazzled bun, and cloaked in a red-and-green Christmascaftan, she studied him, then waved her hand regally. “Frame the sketch of me and Larraine. I’ll hang it over my counter with your card in it.”
She sauntered out without farewells. Gracie had to pry her mouth shut. That was Mavis giving her blessing—to Nick? Why? What had her mother seen in her crystal ball?
“I’ll have to have cards made,” Nick muttered. “Should have thought of that. Can’t use the boutique cards anymore.”
“A man’s just been murdered, and you’re worried about business cards?” She was trying to convince herself he was just as bad as the next man.
He looked her straight in the eyes. His were a gorgeous golden brown. “If you will donate your family frames, I can donate my time. What happens if we hold a public auction of Bertie’s works, giving the proceeds to his brother’s family? We could even put it online.”
Gracie felt that look straight to her soul, striking every impossibility she’d ever envisioned. She didn’t want to like him. She had to remember men were dangerous to her safety. “A public display of all those evil people presumably doing evil?”
“Precisely.” That wasn’t his genial salesman smile.
Monday evening,after dinner, Nick joined Jax and the Solutions crew in the cellar man cave. The women had objected to his auction proposal as too dangerous. The men had other plans.
Nick was having his own second thoughts. He’d never been a Santa Claus sort of fellow. He needed cash. He didn’t know why he’d made that offer—except a grieving widow and children and a mother who had already lost one son should know otherscared. Someone was killing people for a reason. He could hope maybe Bertie’s sketches would draw the cockroaches into plain sight.
He’d developed a dislike of manipulative cockroaches and a burning desire to stomp them all. His cousins would be first in line, but they were already in jail.
“What have you found on Layman?” Jax asked, slapping a photo of the cowboy-booted man on the cellar wall.
Above it were images of Bertie the artist, his brother Sammy, the late Mayor Arthur Block, and Patel’s burned out fruit stand—all recent victims of violent crime. Well, in Bertie’s case, maybe not violent.
“It would take a squad of Secret Service, FBI, IRS, and forensic accountants to penetrate the thicket of bribery, theft, mysterious mishaps, and blackmail related to Layman.” Roark, the muscled Cajun wearing a tank top in midwinter, sipped a beer and leaned back on a gaming chair. “So far, he’s remained untouched by the law. Ariel is picking apart local finances, but he’s not laid down much money that can be traced. He’s flying under the radar.”
Jax turned to the scarred, professorial Black man working his way through computer files. “Reuben?”
“Layman and Block go way back. Not old school. Block graduated USC and Layman is Yale. Well, barely. Rumors say daddy bought him the degree. Layman inherited money. Block inherited overworked cotton fields he’s been selling off piece by piece in his effort to build a rural empire. When you yanked the Witch Hill deal from under our ex-mayor, his empire started collapsing. He owed a lot of people. Looks like Layman is one of them.” He printed out an image of the elusive businessman.
Nick frowned and hit a cue ball. He knew about back scratching. If the late mayor had something Layman wanted...
