CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Moira~
She was getting used to being a dragon. The more she flew, the more connected she felt to Quinn. If she could only get rid of the constant dull throbbing in her veins and pussy, she would be able to concentrate on business. She had no idea what Ray Cornish was telling her. With an effort, she dismissed her reminiscences of last night, and gave her customer her attention.
“I could use another couple of those three-by-four canvases, Moira. I’ll take the paint and the brushes with me, but could you bring the turpentine and the canvases on Wednesday? I got a lift into town, but Shelly caught the ferry, and I’m going to have to scrounge up a ride home, so I can’t take the heavy stuff with me.”
“I’ll get those canvases out to you, no problem,” she replied. “I saw Ted Fisher drive past twenty minutes ago. He’s probably in the Wheel House mainlining shots of espresso.”
Ray nodded somberly. “We’re all pretty uptight out at the colony. No one’s sleeping much. It’s agony waiting to hear what the judges will say.” He lowered his voice. “I heard that last night Whitlock was in the Tidewater dining room, giving it as his opinion that outside of a fifth-rate motel, he had never encountered such unmitigated crap as the Art Fair entries.”
Moira’s heart sank. She knew that Adrian was in town, but she had made it her business to keep out of his path. Which wasn’t difficult, as this year she had no official connection to the Tidewater Art Fair. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“Unprofessional – if it’s true,” pronounced Ray gloomily. “But the story probably has some foundation.”
“Agreed.” Why was Adrian going out of his way to be unpleasant? He normally buffed his polished image as an affable, knowledgeable connoisseur. She had never known him to be knowingly abrasive. Was he trying to score points with the other judges? Or had he decided the function of an art critic was to ruthlessly criticize?
“I better go see if I can find old Ted.” Ray cut into her thoughts.
Moira rang up Ray’s sale, put his paint tubes and brushes into a small sack, and handed it to him. “I’ll be out on Wednesday, for sure.”
“Listen, Moira,” Ray leaned forward confidentially. “You be careful of Quinn.” He paused. “He’s a hunter.”
That made eleven separate warnings since her marriage. Although Ray was the first off-islander to caution her. She summoned a smile. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said dryly.
She heard Ray’s hearty voice say, “Pardon me,” as he left, and then someone walked in. She looked up hopefully, even though she knew Quinn was working in his studio this morning. It was Adrian. He walked around the shop picking things up and setting them down with an air of disdain. Eventually he sauntered to the counter.
“How’s it going, Moira? Bit of a comedown for you, isn’t it? Not that it’s not a nice little place you have here.” His voice suggested the opposite.
She pasted her best screw-you smile to her face and responded to his words and not his intonation. “Thank you. What brings you to Mystic Bay?”
Adrian’s handsome face clouded. Her ignorance and indifference had jabbed his pride. “I’m one of the judges of the Art Show,” he bragged.
“How nice,” she said.
Something malevolent shimmered between them. On instinct, she reached into the pocket of her skirt for her cell phone. Of course, she could always escape if she had to. But it wouldn’t hurt to have backup.
“Pity the art is such schlock,” he returned. “Strictly amateur hour. But what can you expect out here in the boonies?”
“Do you really think so?” she asked politely. “I think we have some wonderful talent in this year’s entries.”
“Cheesy, two-bit stuff,” he dismissed the show with a wave of his hand. “But I didn’t come in here to discuss that pedestrian junk. I came to warn you.” He bent forward.
Waves of evil rolled over her, but she stood her ground and smiled. Even though he posed no physical threat to her, she was glad she had the width of the counter between them. The hostility she perceived in his aura beat at hers. What was he up to?
“About what?” she asked.
“I understand you’re sleeping with one of the artists,” he said pityingly.
She raised her eyebrows. That was certainly none of his business.
Her silence made Adrian’s face contort in a mini-sneer before it again smoothed out into glossy urbanity. “You know who Quinn is, don’t you?” he said as if he was sure she didn’t. “Aside from a talentless hack? Those ridiculous forest scenes are entirely derivative. Barely hot-sheet motel worthy.” He shuddered theatrically.
Moira folded her hands on the counter. She covered her rings, even though they were invisible, shielding them from Adrian’s ill will. “Why don’t you just spit it out?”
“He’s a Drake. One of the Seattle Drakes. As in Drake Investments. And practically a married man,” Adrian purred. “Quinn Drake is engaged to a former model. He may be willing to screw you, but rest assured he isn’t going to marry a fat fairy. You’re nowhere near his tax bracket. And the minute he finds out that you’re Fae, he’ll drop you like a hot potato.”
“It was kind of you to stop by my little shop to tell me so,” she said. “But perhaps it’s time for you to go.”
His smile became even more sympathetic as he sent waves of persuasion at her. “I know it’s been a shock, Moira. And I’m sorry. But I had to inform you. Can’t allow my former partner to be taken advantage of.”
“It was kind of you to fit gossip into your busy schedule,” she returned.
He lowered his voice but the ripples of deceit in his aura got stronger. They engulfed her and it was an effort to hold them off. “You’re going to be a laughingstock when this little village finds out about your lover. However,” he paused dramatically, “I might be persuaded to hold my tongue – even to ignore the quality of Drake’s artwork – for a consideration. Your little mid-life crisis ruined my projected income for this year. You owe me.”
Fire. I could breathe fire and immolate the wretch. Might burn down the store, however, and that would never do. Self-control, Moi. She laughed instead of engulfing him in flames. “I don’t owe you a living,” she said. “And I don’t pay bribes or hush money.”
He reached for her hands. “You think about what I’ve said. I’ll be back later when you’ve had a chance to think about my offer.”
The swinging doors to the back room opened. Little Walter Babcock stepped out. His truncheon swung at his hip like a third leg. He held a small device in one hand. He spread his legs and fixed his watery eyes on Adrian. “You step away from that counter,” he said. “Get right away from Miss Moira.”
Adrian’s grip tightened on Moira’s hands. He laughed at the shorter man. “Miss Fairchild and I are old friends. Why don’t you run along, before I teach you some manners.”
Wally squared his shoulders and raised his arm. Adrian covered his eyes with both hands as the laser hit them. As soon as he released her, Moira stepped backward out of range. Walter, however, continued to chase Adrian’s eyes with his laser pointer.
“Stop that, you fool,” bleated Adrian.
“I’ll turn this off the minute you leave this store,” Wally said firmly.
“Don’t run him off yet, Mr. Babcock,” said an amused and cultured voice. “I want to hear what it is that makes the artwork submitted to the show beneath Mr. Whitlock’s consideration.” The owner of the voice was a tall, gray-haired woman that Moira recognized as Elena Androvitch. Standing behind her was the equally famous Jasper Salinas.
Adrian lost his debonair assurance. He stammered something and marched to the door and directly into Quinn. Quinn looked ferocious. Huge and implacable. He filled the doorway and blocked Adrian’s retreat.
“You can’t keep me here,” Adrian sputtered. “I’m going to report that man to the police for assaulting me.”
“That does it,” said Wally. “Mr. Whitlock, you are under arrest.” Walter pulled out a sheet and began to read Whitlock his Miranda rights.
Adrian looked stunned. Apparently he had missed Wally’s deputy badge which hung from his belt.
“If you will just hold onto him, Quinn, I’ll get these cuffs on him.” Walter produced a pair of plastic wrist restraints and briskly secured Adrian’s arms behind him.
“What am I charged with?” demanded Adrian.
“Uttering threats, bribery, battery, and I’ll think up a few more when I get to the jail,” Walter Babcock said firmly.
“I think we can work this out, Mr. Babcock,” interrupted Elena Androvitch. “Without putting the town of Mystic Bay to the trouble of providing room and board for Mr. Whitlock.” She turned to Salinas. “What do you say, Jasper? Did you know that Mr. Whitlock is disappointed that an emergency prevents him from continuing as a juror at the Tidewater Art Fair?”
Salinas gave a barking laugh. “Damned shame. He hardly has time to pack before he has to return to Seattle. What about it Whitlock? Jail or resigning from the jury?”
Adrian’s face was a mask of rage, but he nodded.
“Speak up,” Salinas said curtly.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay with releasing Mr. Whitlock if he gets on the next ferry?” Salinas courteously asked Wally.
“Yes, sir. He and I are going to take a walk back to the inn to get his stuff right this minute. Next ferry leaves in twenty-two minutes. But we got time. If we hurry. You coming, Quinn?”
Moira could see her husband was of two minds as to whether or not he wished to provide backup to a rabbit shifter, but what he said was, “I’d be honored. I owe you one, Babcock.”
Walter nodded and snipped the wrist restraints with his pocket knife. He and Quinn escorted Adrian from the store. Moira muttered a quick spell to dissipate the evil Adrian left in his wake. She turned off her phone, which was still connected to Quinn’s.
“Sorry about that, Ms. Androvitch,” she held out her hand to the older woman.
“You know my colleague, Jasper Salinas?”
“I do, and it’s an honor to have you in my store.” Moira shook hands with Salinas.
“Mr. Babcock said you wouldn’t mind if we cut through your stock room to Main Street,” Salinas said in a voice roughened by too many cigarettes. “We didn’t expect to find that tasteless wonder harassing you. Although I am delighted to have him off the jury. His negativity was poisoning the atmosphere.”
“It was indeed,” Elena agreed. “This is a very different enterprise than your galleries, Ms. Fairchild. When you closed the Fairchild Galleries, a great many promising artists lost a place to show their work and a chance to be discovered.”
“I couldn’t continue in business with Adrian,” Moira explained.
“I can see why,” Salinas said dryly. “But this island could use a proper gallery. No disrespect to the Greene Gallery. But it is more of a souvenir shop than a true art gallery. It’s certainly not a suitable showplace for artists of the caliber we are judging. You should employ your talents to provide a venue for the winners of the Art Fair.”
“Their work will go on sale, as soon as the prizes have been awarded,” Moira said. “The art sale is part of the festivities. And I did help the committee with the hanging.”
“But what about when the Fourth is over, and the Art Fair closes?” continued Salinas. “If the art colony is going to be taken seriously, collectors need to know that if they trek to West Haven – and picturesque as the island and town are, it’s a trek – that they will be able to buy art without having to negotiate with individual artists.”
“Nothing puts buyers off more than dealing with artists,” Elena said wryly. “I think we get too intense, or too shy, or something. But I’ve never managed to sell a piece on my own.”
Moira nodded. She had advised many new clients to keep their mouths shut and smile – no matter what buyers said. “I don’t know if I am the one to provide that service in Mystic Bay,” she demurred.
“You think about it,” Elena said. “Art is your calling, not just your living.”
“I’ll think about it,” Moira returned weakly. Could she start another gallery so soon? Or were Whitlock’s underhanded dealings going to bite her if she tried?
“We have to be on our way. We’re already ten minutes late for our meeting with the mayor.” Elena and Jasper slipped out the door and were gone.
Ten minutes later, Quinn stalked back into the store. “Whitlock’s gone,” he said. “Ferry left right on time with him and his luggage. I think we’ve seen the last of that grifter. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Because you owe me. Looks like Hop-along and I are now best buddies.”
She smiled. “You have to admit Wally’s a good man in a pinch.”
“He’s okay for a bunny shifter.”
Moira laughed. “You know that idea you had that I should start a gallery?”