Cheryl Bradshaw - Sinnerman

“Do you recognize it?”

“It looks like its intended use was for artists so you’re on the right track there, but we’ve never used this at our school. Not as long as I’ve been here.”

Her words gripped me like a noose around my neck. This was the oldest art school in town. Maybe my hunch had steered me in the wrong direction.

“Well,” I said, taking the paper back from her, “it was worth a try. It was nice to meet you. Thanks for your time.”

“You bet, dear.”

Giovanni headed for the door and I followed and then turned back to ask one final question.

“One more thing before I go,” I said. “I know it’s a long shot, but are there any other schools around here from a couple decades ago?”

She took some time to think about it and then said, “Well, yes. There is one. But it’s been closed for many years.”

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“Right behind the library. It’s an old yellow building. Hasn’t been used for much of anything that I know of since it shut down.”

“Do you know the name of the owner or why it closed?” I said.

She laughed. “You’re really testing my memory today. Seems like the woman’s name was Laurel or Lauren if I remember right. And as to why it closed, well…all I can tell you is the rumor back then was that the owner up and left town with her new beau.”

“She was married at the time?”

The woman nodded.

“Had a child too. Can’t tell you whether the rumor was true or not, but I do know this—she never came back.”

Ten minutes later I stood with Giovanni in front of an old wood house and one thing was clear—it hadn’t been occupied for some time. A white picket fence in desperate need of a splash of color surrounded the perimeter of the property. A couple of the double-pane windows had holes in the glass about the size of a golf ball, and the front walk was overrun with weeds. From a distance I could see the door knob had been broken off and was sealed shut by a couple rusty nails that had been drilled into the frame.

I turned to Giovanni. “Are you up to this, because I’d understand if you wanted to wait in the car.”

His response was swift. He walked in front of me and squared off with the front door. After he gripped it with his fingers and pulled back a few times he said, “The door is sealed shut. Let’s try this another way.”

The first two windows Giovanni yanked on wouldn’t budge, so we went around to the back of the house, but it was to no avail. The windows were sealed so tight it was like they’d become one with the walls that surrounded them. Giovanni grabbed a rock the size of his fist and looked at me.

“Do you object?”

“Not at all. Clearly this isn’t a place of business anymore.”

I pulled my zip-up sweater from around my waist and held it out. “Here, use this. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

At first I thought he was going to tell me what a tough guy he was, but then he grabbed me and propelled me forward and the next thing I knew I was enveloped in his arms, and I had no desire to disengage anytime soon.

Several seconds later he released me, and within a minute we were inside the decrepit building. From the moment we entered the place I was overcome by two things: a sensation of sheer exhilaration and the overwhelming smell of a dingy, stuffy old house. I sheathed my nose with my hand and looked around. Papers were scattered across the floor, paintings had been overturned, and the desk in the corner of the room had been deprived of its three pull-out drawers.

The place had been ransacked—and I guessed on more than one occasion. Just the sight of the destruction filled me with sadness, and I thought about what it must have been like back in its heyday when it was filled with the hopes and dreams of aspiring young artists who lined the halls with their work.

Giovanni reached down and scooped up a pile of papers. “The old woman was right,” he said. “There was a Laurel here at one time.”

He handed the stack of papers over to me. The one on top of the pile looked like an enrollment agreement for one of the students, and at the bottom of the page was a box with typed letters that said administrator and above it a signature that read Laurel Reids.

I set the papers on top of a thick layer of dust that had collected on the desk and scavenged around to see what else I could find. In the next room stacked against the wall, I noticed a row of several easels and a few wooden chairs. A few paintings remained, but they were ruined and haphazardly thrown to the floor. One rested with the painted side down. I scooped it up and turned it over, but it was too dirty to make out the picture at first. I brushed it off with the palm of my hand and then wiped my hands on my jeans. It wasn’t the most sanitary thing to do, but it was my only option. The oil painting was of a girl who couldn’t have been more than seven years old at the time. Her dark bangs felt in a loose manner along her forehead and into her eyes, but not so much that I couldn’t see them. She looked so young and innocent, but her eyes didn’t tell the story of a child filled with happiness, they reflected something else—a sadness of some kind, and I imagined tears welled up in those enormous brown eyes of hers.

I rubbed the bottom of the corner of the picture with my thumb and read the signature of the artist: L. Reids.

From the other end of the room Giovanni shouted that he’d found a cabinet housed with supplies.

“Come take a look at this,” he said.

I made my way over to him and pulled the cabinet door back until it was all the way open. There, on the second shelf in the center of the cabinet, was a wire basket and inside, a ream of white parchment paper. I pulled the basket toward me and lifted up the paper and took a look at it, and then I noticed another type of paper on the bottom of the stack. It was pink.

CHAPTER 42

“What would you like to do now?” Giovanni said.

I shrugged and looked at the pink paper I’d taken from the art house.

“I suppose we need to let your brother know about this.”

He nodded.

“That would be wise.”

“I’d like to have some time first before I make the call—I want to dig around a little bit on the internet and see what I can find. I’m sure your brother wishes I wasn’t involved in this, but I am, and this is the only way I can stay a step ahead of everyone. Otherwise, they would leave me out, I’m sure of it.”

“No need to explain,” he said. “I understand.”

Was there anything about this guy that wasn’t perfect?

We stopped by my place so I could grab my laptop and some clothes and then drove back to Giovanni’s place for dinner.

My internet search proved profitable, and with a few keywords I was able to find some additional information on Laurel Reids. Ms. Reids was the wife of a wealthy oil tycoon by the name of Decklan Reids, until she bailed on their relationship. She left behind not only a thriving art institute, but her husband and son, and just like the old woman said earlier, I found no indication that she ever returned. I wondered why.

From what I could tell, Decklan Reids stayed in the area and still lived in the same house in Park Meadows. I jotted down the address. I wasn’t sure where all of this would lead, but something stirred inside me that had been unmoved since Gabrielle’s death, and I felt my whole body burn in unison at the prospect of one thing: achieving my goal.

After an unforgettable dinner with Giovanni and his sister which included Lord Berkeley eating out of a marble dog bowl that seemed to be purchased just for the occasion, I set out to see whether Decklan Reids still occupied the house on 3873 Pinedale Street. A part of me wanted to go it alone. I did my best PI work in solitary, but I knew even a person like Giovanni couldn’t grant me that, even with all the leniency I’d already been given.