“One thing we know for sure,” I said. “Angus and Amanda have an alibi – each other. That leaves us with Brian Letterman and Danny’s wife, Penny who don’t have alibis. Both of them had a reason to hate Danny, and both had ample opportunity to follow him out of the hotel. And that’s not to mention Jim Mathis, or any other suspects we haven’t come up with.”
Heathcliff snorted. “Of course, there’s another possibility – that Beverly Ingram really did kill Danny.”
I shook my head. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Fine, fine,” Heathcliff muttered. “We’ll continue this wild goose chase. How much longer are we going to stay at this party? All the Champagne is gone.”
I glanced around. The party looked like it was winding up. The only one still dancing was Quoth, who stood behind the mixing desk, his black hair flying around his face as he headbanged to Blur.
I grinned. “Fine. I guess it’s time to wind up. You find Jo. I’ll grab Funkmaster Quoth. He needs to get a good sleep tonight because we’re going to visit that art school in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nerves tugged at me as Quoth and I boarded the bus in front of the Argleton Arms Hotel. I wanted so badly for everything to go well for him today. This was the first time he’d ever done something for himself, on his own initiative, and if anything went wrong, he’d retreat back into his shell and that bright smile of his would be even rarer than ever.
Beside me, Quoth burst with excitement. His joy radiated off him, and I felt that every eye on the bus was drawn to him. How could they not, when he was shifting in his seat, tossing his luscious hair?
The bus dropped us off right in front of the campus. Quoth fidgeted with his clothes as we walked through the gates toward the administration building. I reached for his hand and squeezed it.
We walked into a light, airy atrium. An enormous abstract triptych covered one entire wall, the giant panels stretching two stories. Glossy paint had been streaked so thick that it stuck out in sharp ridges, giving the panels a tactile quality that begged to be touched. Students shuffled back and forth, swinging book bags and chatting in loud, excitable voices.
“Hi,” I told the woman behind the counter. “We’re Mina Wilde and Allan Poe. We’re here for a tour of the art department.”
“Of course. Mrs. Anders is expecting you. She’ll be down in a moment.”
A few moments later, a woman with bright pink hair dressed in a flowing multicolored maxi dress and bright purple knitted shawl appeared. She clasped each of our hands in turn. “Welcome. I’m Charlotte Anders and I’m so excited to show you around campus, Allan. I’ve seen your portfolio. Your work isarresting. Not my taste – a bit too dark for me, I’m afraid – but I think you’ll fit in well here.”
Quoth’s features lit up at her words. She turned to me. “Are you also applying, Mina?”
“No, I—”
“Mina’s an amazing creative,” Quoth cut in. “She made the clothes she’s wearing. She studied fashion at the New York Fashion School, and worked for Marcus Ribald.”
Now it was my turn to blush. At the mention of Ribald’s name, Mrs. Anders face lit up. “Wow, that’s amazing. I love Ribald’s work. That gown he did at the 2017 New York Fashion Week, made out of nails and screws? Obviously, we’re nothing on the Fashion School, but I’d be happy to show you our fashion and textile workshops—”
“Actually, I’m just here to support Quoth— er, Allan,” I said. “I might consider returning to school, but it won’t be for fashion. I need a career change.”
“Well, we have lots of great programs – especially in the arts – and we’re a lot closer than New York City. Come, I’ll show you the art department.” Mrs. Anders ushered us through to a bright, airy studio space. Students worked at individual stations on large canvases or tinkered with steel sculptures. In the far corner, a girl had dabbed her naked body with rainbow paints, then rolled around on a large canvas covering half the floor. Every inch of the walls was covered with paintings and prints and etchings and photographs, each more interesting than the last.
Down another hall were smaller private studios, each one with enormous windows looking out into the park. Quoth’s eyes were as large as saucers as he surveyed the beautiful spaces and the storage cabinets filled with art supplies. We saw a wood- and metal-working studio, the pottery kilns, and the photography suite.
“What do you think, Allan?” Mrs. Anders asked as we wandered through the faculty wing, where smaller tutorials were held and lecturers had their offices. “Will we be seeing you next semester?”
Quoth’s fingers squeezed mine. “I think so.”
“Excellent. I can give you our enrollment forms before you leave… Oh, I’d love for you to meet someone special,” Mrs. Anders knocked on a door at the end of the hall. “Marjorie? I’ve got two prospective students for you.”
“New victims?” The woman behind the door cackled like a storybook witch. “Bring them in.”
Mrs. Anders pushed the door open and ushered us inside. The first thing I noticed was the round woman with rosy cheeks and glassy eyes swiveling in her chair to greet us. A white walking stick rested against her desk and a black Labrador in a harness napped at her feet.
The room was filled with the most remarkable artwork. Bold slashes of color seemed to leap from the walls. Sculptures sat on every surface – sinuous clay forms, polished driftwood carvings, and lots of beaten metal contraptions that looked like they moved. The window was crowded with chimes and hanging sculptures. Even her wrap dress was loud and vivacious – bright colored squares like a Mondrian painting. Lime green triangles dangled from her ears and a matching bracelet circled her wrist. My eyes reacted to the color and light, dancing their own patterns across my vision.
The woman tapped a button on her keyboard to mute her computer, which was belting out a list of email addresses in a robotic voice. “Welcome, welcome,” she said, clasped her hands together and staring at a spot just to the left of Quoth.
It was then that I realized this woman was blind.
Chapter Twenty-Four
