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Suspect of My Heart by Pamela Griffin

Raine E. Wells has no problem sketching a group of suspicious characters for her mystery-writing exercise, but on her return to her hometown she’s shocked to encounter them in the flesh. Mysterious incidents make her think that one—or more—of her five acquaintances is after her newly inherited art collection. As much as she hates to admit it, the prime suspect is her new friend Lance. Is he simply a kind maintenance man with a strong love of art—or is he a thief with hidden motives?

“The Lord is good, a refuge in times of trouble. He cares for those who trust in him.” (Nahum 1:7)

one

Cold-blooded murder wasn’t Raine’s style. She couldn’t even stand to watch some unsuspecting soul gunned down or stabbed in the back in an old ’30s mystery movie. Foreign espionage with a 007 flair was a possibility. But it would take more than the usual research, and there wasn’t enough time. Maybe a jewel heist. . .yes, that had merit.

            Studying the baggage claim area, Raine pressed the bottom of her ballpoint pen to her chin. She repeatedly clicked the silver button, thinking. In the constant flow of airport passengers toting luggage, surely she could find one among them for her most likely suspect. No, make that four, since she needed at least three red herrings to make her plot work, according to Drake Axelrod’s lecture on how to write a mystery novel.

            A bouncing brown spot under a connecting row of chairs opposite hers snagged her attention. She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, gazed at the spot harder, then smiled. Of all things. A small sparrow had found its way into the airport and was merrily hopping about on the blue carpeting.

            “Mommy—ook!”

            Raine turned her head to see a toddler drop her doll—almost as big as the child herself—and run for the bird. “Petty bewd!” she exclaimed, falling onto her hands and knees in front of the chairs. With a panicky fluttering of wings, the sparrow flew a short distance to another set of chairs, eliciting a complaint from the dark-haired tot.

            “Bandy get the bewd,” she said decisively and trotted to pick up her doll. She ran, then threw the doll at the bird, just missing it. The sparrow rustled a few feet away in a flurry of feathers.

            A husky security guard suddenly appeared and smiled at the child. “Do you like our little bird? He’s become something of a mascot since he flew into our waiting room two days ago.”

            With wide eyes, the tot backed away from the gray-haired man.

            He turned his attention to the bird and slowly approached it. Raine saw that he held a small carton from a nearby Chinese fast-food restaurant. “Come on, little fellow. I won’t hurt you.”

            The bird gave several flutters of his wings but otherwise offered little resistance, as though knowing it would be safe, and allowed the large hands to scoop him gently into the box. Raine watched the guard walk to a nearby exit door.

            The child started to cry. She ran to a nervous-looking woman with dark hair. “Bandy want the bewd!” she yelled.

            “Shh, Brandy, everyone’s looking! Hush now. Aunt Kara doesn’t want to see you crying.”

            The child wouldn’t be consoled and continued to sob against her mother’s jean-clad legs. Embarrassed for the mother, Raine focused on her notepad and the doodles she’d made in place of the words that should be there. She sighed. Why was it so hard to think up good characters?

            “You must be Brandy! Come here, Hon, and give your Auntie Kara a hug.”

            At the sugarcoated words, Raine lifted her head. A woman with a pink-and-purple, tie-dyed and fringed jacket had joined the child and her mother. Huge gold loops dangled from the woman’s ears, with shimmering earrings running up the entire lobe and over the top. Her dyed hair—resembling the color of days-old red carnations fading to black—looked as if someone had gone cut-happy with a pair of scissors and uniformity wasn’t the name of the game. A tattoo of some sort could be seen below the collarbone, above her turquoise T-shirt. Yet her smile seemed genuine, and her violet-colored eyes sparkled with fun.

            If Raine wanted an unusual character for her heroine’s buddy, she need look no further. She had to fit this woman into her novel! She jotted down as many characteristics as she could in the short time it took the trio to walk to the exit. She gave up words for pictures and hurriedly penned an adequate drawing. As she stared at it, another idea came to mind, and she sketched a face that would have done Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple proud, complete with a floppy flowered hat, and next to that, the face of an elderly gentleman with a white walrus mustache.

            Her pen seemed to take off without her as she flipped the notebook’s page and set to work on her fourth character suspect. This one had something of a pretty face, though she made sure the jaw was strong. She didn’t like men with weak jaws. To her, a weak jaw denoted weak character. The nose was narrow, but a pair of frameless glasses sat nicely upon it—the type that used illusion wire to hold the bottom of the lenses in place so the eyes could be seen clearly. And the eyes. . .jade green. Oh, yes. Definitely jade green—like the fathomless waters of the South Seas. The face should be tanned so as to see the eyes even better. Too bad she didn’t have colored pencils handy. She made a note to the side for eye color.

            Now for the hair. . .hmmm. . .long, pulled back in a ponytail reaching just below the neck. Sandy blond—almost brown—wavy. She added a small gold loop dangling from his right ear, like a pirate would wear, and smiled at her composite. Perfect! Attractive, with a heady mix of boy-next-door and devil-may-care rogue. He would make a nice counterpart for her female character with the wild clothes. A peculiar sense of awareness hit. She stared at the drawing a little longer, gave a mental shrug, and forced herself to move from it and sketch her last character.

            “Hello! Earth to Raine—or is it Raine to earth?” a joking voice said loudly.

            Startled, she raised her head. “Chris!” She shot up to give her teenaged brother a hug. “It’s good to see you! Have you been waiting long?”

            “I pulled up front, spotted you through the glass wall, and honked—but you were in another world.”

            Heat rushed to her face. “I’m gathering information for my mystery novella.”

            He looked in amusement to the drawing in her hands. “Oh, is that what they call it—gathering information, huh? Well, let’s get out of here. I’m double-parked. Got any luggage?”

            “Just those two cases.”

            She slipped her carry-on over her shoulder and followed her tall, football player of a brother out of the baggage claim area. He hurried through the automatic doors, his breathing not the least bit labored though he carried two heavy weights.

            “There’s something you should know before we get home,” he said once they were in his beat-up Ford. “Mom phoned you about Great-uncle Harold dying last week, right?”

            Raine sobered. “Yes. I’ll miss him.”

            “Well, did she tell you in the letter she sent that it’s rumored he left you something?”

            “No. But I haven’t gone through all my mail yet. I brought it with me. I’m a few weeks behind.”

            Chris looked at her strangely. “You don’t open your mail every day?”

            “Things have been crazy, what with getting canned, then going to that writer’s conference—I paid in advance and didn’t want to lose the money—and then moving out of the apartment. I haven’t had time to sit and wade through all the junk mail and stuff. Kathy took care of the bills, though.”

            “I’ll bet Mom will be interested to know her mail is junk.”

            Raine hit him on the arm. “Oh—you know what I mean! Now, tell me about Great-uncle Harold before there’s one less brother in the world to worry about.”

            He grinned. “Threats, huh? Well, what else should I expect but flack from a soon-to-be millionaire. Of course you’ll have to be at the reading of the will this weekend to collect.”

            Raine stared at him. “Pardon?”

            “If you check that stack of ‘junk mail,’ you’ll probably find an envelope from Mom containing something from the law offices of Uncle Harold’s attorney.”

            Raine suddenly felt dizzy and was glad she was sitting down. “It’s probably nothing. Just a token gift he left me.”

            Chris snorted. “From a guy with his cash flow? I doubt it. Dad didn’t get a summons, and he’s Uncle Harold’s nephew.” He looked her way. “So, how’s it feel to be filthy rich, Sis? Care to lend me a twenty to tide me over ’til payday?”

            “Don’t be a doofus.” Raine couldn’t think. Chris was assuming a lot. If Uncle Harold had left her anything, it was probably something of sentimental value. Yet why should her grandfather’s brother single her out at all?

                                                                        ****

One week later, her mind a hodgepodge of jumbled thoughts resembling the painted shapes streaked across the canvas before her, Raine stood inside the cavernous Gladney Fine Arts Museum, with its almost cathedral-like silence, and waited to see a museum curator. She still couldn’t believe it. Uncle Harold had left her something sentimental, all right—his entire art collection. An announcement that hadn’t made his only child, Drew, at all happy.

            Why? Why had he done it? True, Raine was as strong an art lover as her uncle had been. It had been the glue that bonded them together during her yearly visits with her parents to his seaside manor. Drew only cared about any money he could get his hands on to supplement his drug lifestyle, Raine was sure. Perhaps that's why Uncle Harold left the collection to her and not to his son.

            Wondering what was taking so long, Raine moved to the next painting. To keep the collection was impossible. She couldn’t afford insurance on such priceless art, though at least her uncle had left her enough funds to cover the inheritance tax, something he’d worked out with his lawyer ahead of time. Raine fluctuated between thinking she should loan the entire collection to the museum and wondering if she should sell one of the items and using the money to tide her over until she found a job. Uncle Harold stated in the letter he’d left her that the collection was hers to do with as she pleased, though he preferred it remain in the family. Raine wasn’t mercenary; but she did need to eat and eventually find a place to live. Still, it would be difficult to let go of even one piece of the lovely art.

            “Did you hear about the burglary in Melleville?” A woman’s voice came from beyond a bronze sculpture of modern art, which sat on a pedestal on the marble floor. “They took off with the woman’s wedding rings and their antique silver and collectibles.”

            “No?” another woman intoned. “How horrible!”

            “Isn’t it though? My daughter lives in Melleville—in the same neighborhood as the people robbed—and is privy to information the reporters don’t know. For instance, a brown van was sitting near the Thorntons’ home two days before the burglary. Just sitting there. Whoever was inside never got out. And Nan’s sure they were watching the Thorntons’ place.”

            “Oh, my word. Did she tell the police?”

            “She doesn’t like to get involved. She’s shy, you know.”

            “But I should think they’d want to know about that!”

            As Raine listened to the women talk about the clues discovered at the robbery and the shy Nan, an idea came to mind for a scene in her mystery novella. Excited, wanting to jot down the concept while it was still fresh, she reached into her large hobo bag for the three-by-five notebook she always carried, but she couldn’t find it.

            Brow furrowing, she sorted through things, located a gel pen, and snatched that up. Still digging through the many items she’d stuffed in her bag, which hadn’t been cleaned out since her move back home, Raine trudged to a row of cushioned chairs along the stucco wall and took a seat. She darted a glance around the alcove. No one stood nearby. Quickly, she began to grab items from her purse, one handful at a time, and pile them on the chair beside her.

            “Is everything all right?”

            The warm, masculine voice coming so suddenly at her elbow startled Raine. She jerked her head up—to meet a pair of jade green eyes behind illusion-wire glasses. His thick, sandy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, hitting just below the neck, and a small gold loop dangled from his right ear.

            Her purse, already in a precarious position, fell from her lap, scattering loose change, breath mints, and all the rest of the handbag’s contents onto the polished floor and around his tan loafers. She hardly noticed.

            “Ma’am?”

            Shock held her speechless. Her pirate, boy-next-door, mystery-novella suspect had come to life!

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