"They say it takes a couple of years to recover from a divorce." He tried to put the ring of authority into his voice. "The trauma, you see. Takes a while to get past it, and experts advise people not to make serious relationship commitments during that time."
"Nonsense." Edith snorted. "What do the so-called experts know when it comes to love and marriage? Besides, it's been a year and a half now, and I'm sure Jeremy doesn't need another six months to recover. He just needs the right woman to help him forget. I think Octavia is doing him a world of good. She's pulling him out of his shell. He's been a little down since the divorce, you know. I was worried about him."
Under any other circumstances, Nick thought, he would have avoided the topic of Jeremy's divorce the same way he would have gone out of his way to sidestep a cobra in his path. But the fact that Edith thought that Octavia looked like a good candidate to take the place of Jeremy's ex was an irritating goad that he could not ignore.
"I'm surprised to hear you say that," he began coolly. "Personally I wouldn't have thought they'd have much—" He was interrupted by the blare of a horn. He glanced toward the street and saw a familiar battered pickup truck rumbling past. There was no mistaking the driver. Arizona Snow was garbed in her customary camouflage-patterned fatigues. A military-style beret slanted across her gray hair in a jaunty fashion.
He raised a hand in greeting. Carson waved madly. Arizona waved back, but she did not pause. A woman on a mission.
That was the great thing about being a professional conspiracy theorist, he thought. You always had a mission.
The pickup continued down the block and pulled into the parking lot in front of the Incandescent Body bakery.
Edith sighed. "Expect you heard the news about old Tom Thurgarton's will?"
"Rafe said something about Thurgarton having left all his worldly possessions to Virgil Nash, Arizona, and the New Age crowd running the bakery."
"Yes." Edith shook her head. "Of all the ridiculous notions. Just like Thurgarton to do something so bizarre. He was such an odd man."
Nick nodded. "Yeah, he was always a little weird, wasn't he? A real recluse. He lived here in town all the time I was growing up but I doubt if I saw him more than half a dozen times a year."
"They say that Thurgarton's phobia about leaving his house got worse as time went on. Everyone was so accustomed to not seeing him that no one even knew he was dead until Jake down at the post office finally noticed that he hadn't picked up his mail in over two months. When Sean Valentine went out to see what was going on, he found Thurgarton's body in the kitchen. Heart attack, they say."
"Wonder if he left anything valuable to Virgil and A.Z. and the Heralds," Nick mused.
"I doubt it." Edith sniffed as they came to a halt in front of the door of Seaton's Antiques. "The way Chief Valentine tells it, that old cabin was crammed with over forty years' worth of junk. A real firetrap, he said. Old newspapers and magazines stacked to the ceiling. Boxes full of unopened mail. Cartons of things he'd ordered from catalogs that had never been unpacked."
"Going to be interesting to see what kind of conspiracy theory A.Z. will weave out of this," Nick said with a smile. "She's nothing if not inventive."
"I'm afraid A.Z. is one brick shy of a load, and hanging out with the crowd from the bakery isn't improving the situation." Edith turned the key in the lock and stepped into her shop. "Goodbye, you two. Good luck with your pictures, Carson."
"Bye, Mrs. Seaton." Carson was struggling to be polite, but he was already edging off toward the neighboring shop door.
"See you later," Nick said.
He and Carson continued on to the front door of Bright Visions. Instead of rushing inside, Carson paused.
"Maybe you could stay out here on the sidewalk while I show my pictures to Miss Brightwell," he suggested hopefully.
"Not a chance."
Carson heaved a sigh, resigned. "Okay, but promise me again that you won't say anything to make her mad."
"I already said that I'd do my best not to annoy her." Nick glanced through the window into the gallery showroom. The Open sign showed through the glass, but he could not see Octavia. She was probably in her cluttered back room, he decided.
He wrapped his hand around the knob and twisted. The now-familiar sense of anticipation sleeted through him.
The door swung inward, revealing a universe of intense color and light. The artwork that hung on the walls ran the gamut from landscapes to the abstract, but the pictures were grouped in some inexplicably magical fashion that somehow managed to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. A sense of connection and coherence pervaded the scene. The viewer was drawn from one to another in a subtle progression that took him deeper into the little cosmos.
There was an art to displaying paintings to their best advantage, Nick thought. Octavia knew what she was doing. No wonder she prospered. It was hard not to buy a picture when you were in this gallery.
Carson hurried inside, clutching his drawings in both hands.
"Miss Brightwell?" he called. "Where are you? I've got my pictures."
Octavia came to stand in the open doorway behind the counter. The sweeping hemline of a long, full skirt in the palest possible shade of ice blue swirled around her shapely calves. She wore a matching silk blouse. A tiny blue belt studded with small chunks of clear crystal encircled her trim waist. Her fiery hair was held back off her face by a pale aqua scarf that had been folded to form a narrow headband.
People in the art world were supposed to wear black, Nick thought. Until he'd met Octavia, he had always assumed it was a rule.
As always, he felt his insides clench at the sight of her. He ought to be getting used to this sensation, he thought. But the appearance of the Fairy Queen never failed to steal his breath for a few seconds.
When she met his gaze across the showroom, Nick could almost see the familiar, concealing veil slip into place. But when she looked at Carson, she was all smiles.
"Good morning," she said, speaking more to the boy than the man.
"Hi, Miss Brightwell." Carson blossomed in the warmth of her smile. "I brought my pictures to show you."
"You may have noticed that we're here a little early," Nick said dryly. "And we came without coffee and muffins. Carson was in a hurry."
"We'll get you some coffee and a muffin right after you see my pictures," Carson assured her, looking a little worried because of the oversight.
