Gillian nodded.
“Then I’d watch my back, Miss Gray.”
She met the cold certainty in his eyes head-on.
“What are you saying?” Chip demanded.
“He’s saying the murder might not have anything to do with the actual victim,” Ray said, “and everything to do with who she’s supposed to be.”
Every gaze swiveled to Gillian. She rose. Walked over to the window and crossed her arms protectively over her middle. Stared out at the terrace. Pots of pansies were strategically placed and winked yellow, purple, and white. So pert and pretty.
Behind her, Genevra emitted a strangled gasp. “Are you saying my granddaughter could be in even more danger?”
She heard her grandfather’s heavy tread as he crossed the room to her. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Don’t treat me like a child,” Genevra snapped. “Is that what you are saying, Detective? That my granddaughter could be a target for this, this . . . ?” The word “killer” seemed stuck in her throat.
Burke rescued her. “The murderer didn’t set this up accidentally. He replicated the photograph for a reason. Could be he’s practicing.”
“Practicing for what?”
“The real thing.”
Another warbled cry.
“Detective, I think you should leave.” That was Chip being firm and decisive.
And still the detective lingered. “Miss Gray, is there anyone out there who’d want to harm you?”
“There’s Matthew Dobie and his crowd,” Ray said.
“We’re checking on that. Anyone else?”
Gillian stared out at the bright sunny day and shook her head. Because how could she say otherwise? Not in front of her grandmother, who’d spent years refusing to say anything. Not to the short, squat muscular detective who only dealt in practical, tangible realities.
How could she tell him there
was
someone out there who wanted to hurt her?
That the someone was the monster from her childhood. The bogeyman under her bed. In the closet. He was real. He was out there.
And he was coming for her.
The story hit the air running. Matthew Dobie made it to all three mainstream networks, as well as cable, in time for the five o’clock news. In his office on the third floor of the Gray Museum, Will Davenport stared at the TV with a sinking feeling.
“This is exactly my point,” Dobie was saying in his easy, round voice. Smoothed down through years of radio work, his voice gave the overall impression of great warmth and caring. But Will heard the self-important satisfaction below the tone. “Miss Gray and her work encourage the violence she claims she wants to prevent.”
They had him in a studio in front of a blue background. They cut away to
Kitchen in Suburbia,
read the Gray statement. And cut back to the reporter.
“Miss Gray’s statement denies any connection to this tragedy.”
Dobie shook his head sadly. “She can deny all she likes, but the truth is there in front of us.”
“But isn’t it an artist’s job to push out boundaries? To provoke, even offend?”
“In some airy, theoretical world, perhaps. But here on the ground, a woman is dead. Can’t hide from that.”
Davenport clicked off the TV. Bad enough the morning
Tennessean
had splashed Benton James’s Death Diva headline all over the front page. At least no one had died in the museum attack last night. Besides, no one read the paper anymore. But now this . . . this killing was all over the television.
He’d already fielded phone calls from two board members. Two others who usually couldn’t wait to talk to him suddenly had meetings and never called him back. And the exhibit hadn’t even opened.
He went to the window and stared out at the scene below. The blur of colored dots meant Matthew Dobie and his followers were still camped outside. He’d promised to ramp up attendance tomorrow for the opening. Anyone wishing to enter the museum would have to run through a gauntlet to get there.
Will cursed silently. Forget tomorrow. What was going to happen next week and next month? The anniversary celebration was supposed to be the kickoff for next year’s development campaign. And from where he stood, the museum’s budget was about to be as dead as the woman in the photograph.
A knock on the door.
“Can I come in?”
It was Stephanie Bower, the head curator. A short, compact woman, she had thick blond hair, which framed her blunt face. “How you holding up?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been better.”
Grimly, “Yeah.”
For a few minutes, they sat in moody silence, each staring at their hands.
Finally, Will said, “Think we should cancel?”
Shocked, Stephanie raised her head to look at Will. “Before we even open?”
In repose, Will Davenport could appear dim-witted behind his thick glasses, but once his attention turned to you and he opened his mouth, the impression disappeared. He had an elite Southern education with a BA from Davidson and an MBA from the Owen School at Vanderbilt.
Appearances aside, he was no dummy. He’d attended the top prep school in the city, started his career working for Lamar Alexander when he was governor, and still maintained a relationship with him now that Lamar had moved on to Washington. Will had contacts all over the city, and as development director, he’d used them to get the museum’s endowment established. Nashville still had many of the trappings of a small town, and his name and his future were now inextricably linked to its success. Which might explain why he was motivated more by worry than confidence, and why just now, it showed.
“It’s been done,” Will said.
“Not by anyone as new as us.”
“Better a cancellation than loss of local dollars.”
“You don’t know that’s going to happen.”
Glumly, Will shook his head. “The story made national news, Stephanie. Nashville doesn’t get covered by CNN.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Truth was, her head was on the line, too. Bringing Gillian Gray to Nashville and making her name the center of the museum’s anniversary celebration had been her idea. She’d ignored Will’s misgivings, pretended the lukewarm reception the Grays had given the idea was a modest attempt not to toot their own horn. She’d plowed ahead, confident the city would leap at the chance to honor one of its own. Never mind the baggage, the unsolved murder of her mother that was at the root of Gillian Gray’s work, even the impact of the work itself, which forced people to confront the violence around them. Few people liked looking that closely at themselves.
But even to think the word “cancellation” shortened Stephanie’s breath. In her world, it was the greatest sin. Those who bowed to censorship were ostracized and shunned. She did not want to stay in Nashville forever. She enjoyed the Gray Center and was grateful for her job, but some days she longed for real Italian food and not just the latest at Olive Garden, or real theater and not just the second coming of Cathy Rigby in
Peter Pan.
She wanted more to do on Sunday than go to church, and she ached for the sound of waves.
So no cancellation. She was not going to have that on her résumé.
“Look, this murder is not our fault. It’s not Gillian Gray’s fault. It sucks, but it could work for us, too.” She leaned forward, trying to persuade him as much as herself.
“Well, that’s a little callous,” Will said.
“It’s realistic. The more people hear about the show, the more they’ll come. It’s sick, but true. Like rubbernecking at a train wreck.”
“I don’t want the train wreck to be the Gray Center.”
She grimaced. “Me neither. But have a little faith. Who knows? Maybe the police will catch the guy before tomorrow’s opening, and this will all go away.”
Will leaned back in his chair and sighed. “We live in hope.”
Gillian stared at the bathroom mirror. The glass was covered in steam from her shower, and she could just make out the vague outline of a face. It was her face, but because of the haze she couldn’t see it. Did it matter? She thought of Margaret Anne Pulley’s face. Did it make a difference whose face was dead on the kitchen floor?
A tear skated over her cheek, and instantly she scraped it away. Jerked open the cabinet and looked inside. Toothpaste, brush. Deodorant. The products gleamed in their packaging, all fresh and newly bought for her stay. Genevra always swept away the old and repopulated it with new.
She rummaged around, thinking about who was outside the closed door. A man, fully clothed. Sitting, waiting for her to come out in one piece. Should she walk out as she was, give him an eyeful?
If the man had been Ray, now . . .
But it wasn’t Ray. It was someone Ray had assigned to sit there while he was downstairs with Carlson and her grandfather and a team of security advisors. They were making what Carlson had called a “threat assessment.” Which meant tramping over the grounds, opening doors, poking into closets, starting background checks, and the like.
She closed the cabinet on her grandmother’s brand-new toiletries. Thought about what she knew she was going to do. Then did it.
Just above the rim was a loose tile. She felt around, carefully wiggled it out. Behind it was a small cavern. Years ago she’d hidden a pair of manicuring scissors there.
Now she brought the little tool down and gazed at it. Examined the clean point, tiny and sharp.
She couldn’t say why she hadn’t thrown them away long ago. Did she know there would be a moment like this one? That ten years after she stopped carving into her own body she’d be tempted again?
She clutched at the sink and closed her eyes, the scissors point cutting into her palm. She could still dredge up the excitement, the satisfaction of the pain. When she thought she would explode, she’d etch a line in her skin, and the blood would leach the rage.
She’d probably be dead by now if the camera hadn’t saved her. If she hadn’t learned to show that rage on film.
In her head she repeated the mantra she’d learned so long ago she’d forgotten where.
It isn’t my fault. It isn’t my fault.
But the words didn’t stick.
A knock on the door made her jump. The scissors clattered into the sink.
“Miss Gray?”
She swallowed. She was sweating in the heat. “Yes?”
“They’re asking for you downstairs.”
“Be right there.”
She looked at the scars on her arm. At the metal point that glittered against the porcelain bowl. It took great strength, but slowly she picked up the scissors. Forced herself to put them back in their hiding place. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to set the tile in place.
Then she slipped on her bathrobe and went to get dressed.
Ray leaned against the sideboard in the dining room and watched Carlson work Chip Gray. The two men were standing over charts and papers on the dining room table, and if he didn’t know before, Ray knew now why Carlson owned the company. Because he could sell the hell out of it.
Gillian entered, barefoot and encased in tattered jeans slung low on her hips. The house was warm from the afternoon sun, but sleeves covered her arms from shoulder to wrist. Her shirt, tight enough to outline a pair of small, lush breasts, was cropped to reveal a line of skin that winked in and out as she moved.
Against the formality of the room, the clothes seemed as much a “screw you” as anything else about her. She brushed past him, leaving the smell of soap and shampoo in her wake. Nothing floral and girly, but spicy and sharp. Sexy. Another way of thumbing her nose at the grandparents. Or him. Either way, the bare skin and the fragrance reeled him in, more strands in the sticky web around him.
She cut him a small, private look, as though she knew exactly what he was feeling and why, then padded to her grandfather like a jungle cat creeping up on its prey.
“We’ll get the gate off its hinges and set up a remote opener—you really should have done that years ago— with a camera system. We’ll put motion detectors here.” Carlson was pointing to a rough map of the estate. “Install cameras here and here. We’ll have to cut down some trees, of course. Rewire the house. Refit the windows for more efficient electronic alarms—”
“This is ridiculous,” Gillian said. “You’re suggesting permanent changes. Turning everything into a prison camp. They could catch whoever it is tonight, and this will all be wasted effort.”
Chip’s aging broad body stiffened as he rose from bending over the table. “We’re not relying on the police for your safety.”
“You don’t even use the security system you have.”
An indignant flush tainted Chip’s cheeks. “That will have to change.”
“I’m just saying that all this”—Gillian waved an arm to indicate Carlson’s reams of paper—“is unnecessary.”
Ray agreed. And though Carlson was salivating over the job, Ray voiced his concurrence. “Solution is simple.” Keeping his expression neutral, he looked straight at her. “Get on a plane and go back to New York.”
She raised her chin. “The police said not to.”
He crossed his arms. Shrugged. “The hell with the police. They can ask. But they can’t hold you here.”