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I said, “What about Meagin’s clothes?”
“Untouched. Whatisdifferent is that little studio of hers. Her easel and supplies are still there but the paintings are in the trash bins outside. Where I spent a pleasant chunk of my time even though no serious smell told me I was wasting my time.”
“Could I have a look at the paintings?”
“Why?”
“There’s one in particular that I’d like to see.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the screen shot I’d taken of the gray-white stalky thing. Ambiguous, maybe unfinished, topped by a starburst, pincer-like extensions at the bottom.
He said, “Oh, yeah, the ugly one. When you snapped it March got miffed and you said art was personal expression or something like that. Why’re you still interested?”
I said, “It’s different from the others. Exceptions can be interesting. Maybe it meant something to her.”
He studied the image. “Don’t see what good it can do, but why not? You’ve been admirably patient.”
Six oversized trash bins stood alongside the northern wall of the mansion. Three were green and filled with lawn clippings, the others,black. Two of the black ones were empty, one was packed with three untied industrial-sized silvery plastic bags. Milo having a look.
He said, “Checked out the yard waste, too, nothing but grass clippings down to the bottom.”
I pulled out the bags and laid them on the ground. The first two were crammed with the decently rendered but banal oils we’d seen the first time. Stacked but intact.
The last one, retrieved from the bottom, yielded one painting: twelve-by-sixteen canvas covered in shades of gray.
Anything but intact.
The image of the stalky thing had been sliced twice diagonally, from corner to corner. Destroyed by a perfect X.
Milo’s eyes had grown wide. “Musta missed it. Guess it meant something to him, too.”
He removed the other paintings and restacked them on the ground. Bent and lifted them as a group and held them close to his chest.
“Let’s go. Maybe I’ll start a gallery.”
—
As we neared the gate, he said, “Art appreciation’s fine but back to basics. Irma and Adelita cleared out because they’re scared. Which puts it right back on Doug.”
“He’s the obvious choice,” I said.
“But…”
“There could’ve been another lover of Meagin’s they’d seen before. Someone she brought to the house.”
“Not Gio? One lothario offs another?”
“She’s shaping up as someone with lots of secrets.”
“Gio she kept at arm’s length but Lover Boy Number Two got to use the marital bed?”
“It’s possible,” I said, “if he was someone with whom she had a longer, more serious relationship.”
“She was that blatant in front of the maids?” he said. “Not worried they’d rat her out?”
“Maybe she was confident they’d be on her side. Or she was oblivious to their presence. People can get that way with the help, start treating them like furniture. Alternatively, she paid them off to keep quiet. Then she gets murdered and they start thinking knowledge can be dangerous.”
He chewed on that. “Only way to find out is to findthem.” He phoned Alicia and told her to start calling domestic agencies.
That accomplished, we resumed walking. Reached the gate, where Milo laid the paintings down, extracted the clicker, and created our exit route.
