He shows his first sign of aggression, stepping toward me. “Did someone hurt her?”
I get a waft of musky sweat. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Then why are you accusing me?” His forehead knots, and his fists tighten. “I loved her. I would have protected her. But she just laughed.” He glowers from under the fall of his bangs. “But I’d kill anyone else who’d hurt her. Are you saying that’s what happened?”
I take an involuntary step back. “Did you offer to protect her? When was this? When did you last see her?”
It’s too many questions at once. As he pauses to sort them out, an angry voice comes from the warehouse.
“Morganstern!” A burly brown man starts walking toward us. “What the hell are you doing out here? Get back to work!”
Jason looks at me with reproach before spitting on the ground and heading back inside. He dons his heavy gloves and mask and picks up his torch without speaking to the foreman, or whoever the authority figure is, who stands waiting for him to resume, hands on hips. His scowling attitude toward Jason gives me the impression that Morganstern isn’t an ideal employee. When the foreman comes toward me, probably to order me off the premises, I beat him to the punch.
“Are you in charge here? My name is Audrey Lake. I’ve been hired to investigate a crime. What can you tell me about missing tools?” A bona fide reason for being here.
He blinks, and scratches his head. “The only tools that can’t be accounted for are a welding torch and goggles.”
“When did they disappear?”
“Couple of weeks now.” He nods toward the main building. “Report’s in the office.”
I nod. “Who’s in charge of equipment?”
He straightens up. “I am.” He tops me by a good eight inches.
I ignore the loom. “How are the torches secured when not in use?”
“All the tools are kept locked in the shed. It’s unlocked when the workday begins and the men are issued the tools they need for the day’s work. I review the sign-out sheet at the end of each day. The torch was signed out, but not returned. It’s not in the shed, or anywhere I can find it.”
“Who had it last?”
The foreman’s voice is a growl. “Morganstern.”
“I see. What’s the value of a welding torch? I mean, could someone sell it or what?”
“Not that much.” The foreman snorts. “I mean, some guys will take anything. Someone probably has a home project going on and they don’t want to spring for their own welder.” He shakes his head. “Go back to the front office and talk to the owner. I gotta get back to work.”
I nod, and set off briskly for the office. But I don’t go in — instead, I circle around the building and back to the parking lot, amazed and a teensy bit smug by how far an official manner and a tailored blazer can take you. But really, I haven’t gotten much that’s useful. No indication that Morganstern is anything other than a possibly light-fingered employee. He doesn’t seem particularly smart, but it would be idiocy to sign out a piece of equipment and then just keep it, with the paper trail pointing straight to him. And even if he did take the torch, so what? Maybe he was using it to make a metal sculpture to impress her.
But. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has murdered a woman he says he loves.
My next stop is the studio of Eric North above an art supply store on Marine Drive. He’s not on Daniel’s list, but he spoke at the service so I figure he’s fair game. I knock on the door and enter at his gruff acknowledgement. Tall windows admit a cool and clear north light. Canvases populate the perimeter, some half-finished, some with only pencil sketches, some drying on their easels. The smell of mineral spirits and oil paints makes an almost physical curtain between myself and the artist.
“Who are you?” he says, eyebrows raised. “I was expecting someone else.”
He’s extraordinarily good looking. Yeah, I know — another one. But unlike Seth Takahashi, Eric’s appeal lies in his rough untidiness, and an energy that leaps from his face and hands. His eyes are large and deep, their brown depths a place where a woman could get lost, or at the very least, get compliant. He’s dressed in paint-stained sweats, a torn t-shirt under an unbuttoned denim shirt. The cuffs are rolled up to his elbows, and his forearms flex under a light pelt of dark hair that matches the three-day stubble on his chin. His dark brows knit into a frown.
I’ve been glowered at by too many perps to let him cow me that easily. “My name is Audrey Lake. I’ve been hired by the Chandlers to investigate the death of Victoria Harkness.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“It has to do with everyone in the congregation of the Church of the Spirit.”
“Well, Audrey, I’m not a member.”
“You spoke at the service. You painted one of the pictures in the sanctuary.”
“I did those things for Victoria, not for her church.”
“Is there a difference, then?”
He scoffs. “I knew V. back when she was a little kid. I don’t associate her with spiritual salvation. She lived next door to us. She’s younger than me. I used to draw her.”
“How much younger?”
“Five years. Although she was always old for her age.”
“What does that mean?” It sounds creepy.
“It means that she was precocious, mature.” His need to define his terms is irritating. He adds a daub of color to the canvas he’s working on. “The first time I saw her, I was sketching in the back yard. Birds, flowers, that kind of thing. I heard someone calling, saying ‘hey boy’ and I looked around. I saw V. up in the tree, looking down on me. The light was behind her. She looked like
