Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

Krista, off at four, stuck her head in and asked if he was ready to head home.

“I want to stick with this till around five,” he said.

The station locked up to the public at four-thirty, but activity in the building continued. “I’m going to drop in on Tyler Dale around his gallery’s closing time. Catch him for a quick interview, unless you already have.”

“No, do that, would you?”

“Glad to.”

He asked if he could hold on to her Toyota, but she preferred to take it and got him the keys for the unmarked car.

“Use the Impala,” she said, “as long as you’re working this case with us. Fill it up when need be, keep track of your mileage, and we’ll reimburse.”

“Decent of you, considering I’m pro bono.”

“Anything for you, Pop. You want me to heat up the rest of that sailor’s stew?”

“Please. See you at home around six.”

They exchanged smiles and nods, and Keith got back to it. He took a few more notes but still didn’t feel he had much of anything new. Maybe talking to Chris Hope’s partner, Tyler, would be more productive.

The walk from the station to Galena’s Own Artworks on South Main took only five minutes, but the temperature had dropped even more and Keith was still without a topcoat. He walked quickly, chasing his own smoking breath, and got to the gallery just as Tyler was hanging the CLOSED sign in the door’s window.

Keith raised a forefinger and caught the shop owner’s attention. Tyler in his signature black — the usual Tom Waits porkpie hat and vintage music T-shirt (Elvis Costello and the Attractions this time) — frowned for a moment, then recognized Keith, worked up a smile, and unlocked the door.

“You’re our police chief’s daddy, right?” he said, waving Keith in. Tyler’s voice was deep and with a little gravel. Maybe the Tom Waits hat was catching.

“I am,” Keith said, as the shop owner locked them back in. “I’ve stopped in a few times, just to browse. But we haven’t met — you’re Tyler Dale, right?”

“Right. Christopher said somebody would be around to talk to me. You’re it, huh?”

“I’m it.”

“More I’m it, as in tag. Come along, would you, Mr. Larson? While I lock up in back?”

Like many of the stores on the west side of Main, where the buildings fell to North and South Commerce below, Galena’s Own Artworks took up a narrow space that seemed to go on forever. The bright, cheery gallery sported beautiful hardwood flooring, brick walls, and a vintage tin ceiling painted silver-gray. The central space was given over to spinner racks of hip greeting cards, the walls home to high-riding framed paintings and prints and low-riding white shelving of craft items. Near the front register was a long display case of funky jewelry, and here and there were bins of unframed, plastic-covered art. The overall effect was fun and eclectic, the wall art a mix of landscapes and more free-spirited styles.

Locking up the rear entrance, Tyler said, “Shall we talk in my office? Or I could treat you to a beer at the Log Cabin, if you don’t consider that a bribe. I don’t have much help working with me, this time of year, and I could use it... a beer, I mean.”

“Beer sounds fine,” Keith said. “But I’m buying.”

They walked back through the colorful shop, pausing at half a dozen paintings of various ’80s rock stars depicted with heavy black outlines and bright, unrealistic colors.

“What do you think of my latest mini-exhibit?” Tyler asked.

“Very good,” Keith said, not giving away that he’d noticed the artist’s signature was that of his host.

“They’re mine,” the flattered artist said. “The Galena landscapes sell better, though. We did sell quite a few of Bowie and Prince, right after they died. Then things slowed down.”

“For them especially,” Keith said.

Tyler smiled at the darkly comic remark. His mouth was somewhat Jagger-ish and he had pockmarked cheeks that lent him a rough-hewn charm.

They strolled one block south on Main to the Log Cabin, a steakhouse with the faux-rustic trappings its name implied and a Rat Pack feel like walking into 1960, including signed celebrity photos up front. The horseshoe bar, beyond which was a dining room, was a favorite of locals. About a third of the stools were taken as a dark-haired waiter of maybe thirty-five, clean-cut in a crisp white shirt with black-and-white-striped tie, was over tending to regulars with cheerful familiarity.

Keith and Tyler found a spot with no one immediately nearby, ordered their beers; this was a Greek steakhouse, so they both had the Hillas. The bartender poured for them as Keith set his phone on the counter.

“I’ll be recording the interview,” he said.

Tyler seemed to find that off-putting. “What am I, a suspect? I didn’t even know that Astrid what’s-her-face.”

“You’re not a suspect. You’re not even a person of interest.”

Tyler shrugged a shoulder. “Some people find me interesting.”

“I’m not surprised. But you were at the reunion Saturday night, and while Chris isn’t a suspect either, he did know Astrid. He took her under his wing, encouraged her, when she was a student of his.”

“From what I saw of her,” Tyler said with a smirk, “she didn’t look like she needed much encouragement. Not with those looks, and that poise.”

“Agreed. But it sounds like you did notice her well enough to make that observation.”

Tyler’s voice lowered to a whisper, barely audible above Dean Martin singing “An Evening in Roma” on the Greek restaurant’s sound system.

“Well... I’ll tell you something,” he said, nodding to the phone on the counter, “if you turn that thing off.”

Keith said, “All right,” and paused the app.

Tyler sipped beer, then looked sideways at Keith. “I don’t have any reason to think that Christopher ever did anything inappropriate with a student, okay? I want that understood.”

“All right.”

Now he looked right at Keith, still barely audible. “But what you almost certainly do not know... because it’s personal, and private... is that Christopher, before we got together, over a dozen years ago now... had a few relationships, sexual ones, with women.”

“He’s bisexual.”

Firmness came into Tyler’s voice, though not volume. “No. He’s gay. But when he was younger, he hadn’t come to terms with that. So when he’d talk fondly about this Astrid person, I never really read anything sexual into it. He was proud that someone he’d seen potential in had gone so far. He thought she’d make it as an actress, and wasn’t he right? Isn’t the news just another venue for pretty people who don’t stutter to perform in?”

Keith sipped beer. “No offense meant, but you almost sound jealous.”

Tyler laughed silently. Had his own sip of the Hillas. “I think anybody in a relationship is always at least a little jealous when their lover talks with dewy eyes about... look. All I’m saying is, I’d heard all about how special Astrid Lund was, so I scoped her out. Watched her when we first got to that reunion. That’s all.”

“Did you notice Astrid talking to anyone in particular? Maybe arguing with someone?” Keith had seen one such instance himself that night, when Astrid and David Landry seemed to be exchanging heated words down the lodge corridor.

But Tyler only shook his head. “No. She didn’t mind being the center of attention at the affair, only I don’t think she enjoyed being crowded. She wasn’t courting that, certainly. I didn’t make her for stuck-up, either — just somebody who, once she got there, wished she could duck under the radar and maybe enjoy herself a little.”

“Really? Dressed to the nines like that?”