Despite the crowds, the café on Main Street was relatively clear. Mel and Stuart were able to find a small table for two secluded near the end of the restaurant. Mel held the Styrofoam cup of coffee in both her hands. She was staring down at the dark brown murky depths, perhaps trying to scry out the future. Warm steam caressed her nose. She took a tentative sip. It wasn’t too bad, but there was better coffee elsewhere, particularly back in New Halis.
Stuart adjusted his glasses and seriously contemplated the list of names that Mel gave him. His own coffee cup was sitting by his hand, but he wasn’t touching it. “I don’t particularly recognize any of these names.”
“They’re all out of town painters or artists, I’d gather,” she replied. “We could probably look them up, if we had a connection to the internet.”
“No such luck. This is just a regular café, not an internet one.”
“Too bad.” She took another sip of her coffee. “Back at square one, I guess. Unless we want to get back into her office and copy her hard disk?”
“Judging from the kind of computer in her office, that would take a while,” he replied. “Want to break into the community center tonight?”
“No thanks.”
Stuart finally took a sip from his coffee and slid the slip of paper with the list of names back toward Mel. “So any ideas as to where we should go now?”
She took the piece of paper and glanced down at it. “I don’t know. Hm. How about this name?”
“What name?”
“Laurent de Matheus.”
“That guy at the bed and breakfast, you suppose?”
“It would have to be him, even though we never got his last name. How many people do you know are named Laurent?”
“I know plenty of Lawrences and Larrys. Who is to know what their actual variation is? But you’re right, not very many people go by Laurent.”
“And it does seem kind of fancy, as Elsie Grandbury mentioned,” she murmured. “You don’t think he was involved with Mad Dog in any way, do you?”
“At this point, I’m going to try not to be surprised at anything.”
“Wise words.”
* * *
When they arrived back at the bed and breakfast, one cat spirit was on the welcome mat to greet them as they came in. The owners’ niece, Rebecca, was sitting in her usual place at the reception desk, engrossed in another novel. The rest of the cat spirits in the room were sitting beside her looking at the novel over her shoulder. The owners themselves were nowhere in sight. Mel ventured up the stairs to put her tote bag away. Stuart walked into the living room to look out the window. The neighborhood in the late afternoon was quiet. All the crowds were still at Main Street celebrating the Harvest Festival.
“Back so soon?”
Stuart slowly turned around at the sound of the man’s voice. The painter was sitting on one of the couches in the living room, the black of his close-fitting clothes starkly contrasting with the cream-colored cushions. His arms were spread out like an eagle, his legs crossed in a practiced negligence. His dark hair, which had always been tied back before, was splayed and free, the long locks tumbling around his shoulders. This was a man practiced at seduction. Stuart scowled, thinking how his poor editor probably fell head first into this louse’s wiles.
“The Townsends said that their cook was going to be making dinner today.”
“There’s going to be food at the festival on Main Street too.”
“Aren’t you going?”
“Sometimes I like to be away from crowds.” The painter gave a dramatic sigh. “I suppose it’s my loner personality.”
“Huh.”
The painter gave him a hurt look. “You think I’m just being overly emotional.”
“You’re entitled to feel whatever you want,” he replied coolly. “I heard that you were to sell some paintings while you were here. Make any sales?”
“I got some sold. Which is nice. But it isn’t reliable enough to pay the bills, you know. I also work at an art gallery.”
“Really.”
He smiled, his lips turning up to reveal the gleam of his teeth. “You’re not really into art, are you?”
Stuart adjusted his glasses. “I’m a reporter, first. In my spare time, I’m a computer gamer. The only art I really appreciate is the computer-generated kind.”
“Oh, too bad.” He pursed his lips, as if thinking. “I went to the second Harvest Festival competition today. The foot races. I didn’t see you there.”
“I didn’t go.”
“Afraid that you would be beaten?”
“I’m not the competitive type.”
“Except when it comes to computer games?”
“Well, perhaps that’s an exception.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “I assume the bingo club was also in charge of that competition?”
“Hm. That’s correct. A bunch of drunken old ladies, aren’t they? One wonders if they’re like that all the time. If you’re curious, the same guy who won the swimming competition also won this one. It looks as if he’s going to be the reining Horned King again this year.”
“Good for him.”
The painter got up from the couch and paced towards him like a sleek panther, eyeing prey. Stuart stood his ground. “If you were at the foot races today, you could have beaten him,” he said, his voice pitched lowly. “There’s still a chance that you can beat him. The final competition is tomorrow, for climbing. The bingo club has hired a company to erect a climbing wall for the contestants.”
“I told you I wasn’t the competitive type.”
“Hm.” The painter was leaning close now, invading his personal space.
Stuart deliberately took one step back. “You know you’re not fooling anyone with your funny poses.”
“I know I’m not,” he grinned. “But aren’t you even a little…intrigued?”
“No.”
The painter gave a pout. “That little photographer is your girlfriend, isn’t she?”
Stuart didn’t reply.
“I knew it!” The painter’s lascivious grin widened and he lunged towards the reporter before he had any time to react. “I have a wonderful proposal for you. A wonderfully indecent proposal.” He whispered his thoughts into the reporter’s ear.
Stuart blanched and managed to peel the painter away from him. “No. Just no. Ask someone else to satisfy your own kink.”
“You just need a little convincing,” the painter declared. “My previous lover was just as hesitant, but…”
“He didn’t happen to be someone named Mad Dog, hm?”
The painter suddenly staggered backward as if Stuart had sucker punched him. “What?”
“Mad Dog. You know, Ralph Bartlett, the editor of the magazine that Mel and I work at. Obviously, you know who he is.”
Laurent de Matheus grabbed hold of a nearby couch to steady himself. He looked at the reporter warily. “What do you mean?”
“This isn’t the first time that you’ve been to Gavot.” Stuart said it as a statement, in sure, firm tones. Actually, he wasn’t really sure if the painter had been to Gavot before, but sometimes, when one wanted answer, one had to take things into one’s hands.
The painter sank down into one of the couch’s arms. “Of course I’ve been to Gavot before. There was an artists’ workshop at the community center. I met Mad Dog there. He was larger than life. How could anyone not want him? How did you find that out? I thought we were discrete.”
Stuart rolled his eyes. “You can’t be discrete in a small town like this. Everyone knows what everyone else is doing—even if they don’t know what they’re doing themselves. Surely you know that rule about small towns. Or have you been too sheltered by big city life to pay attention to that bit of common wisdom?”
“I’m an artist,” he declared. “I can do whatever I want. Anyways, who cares about my past lovers? Right now, I have my sights set on you.”
“Sorry, but I’m not available,” the reporter replied dispassionately. “I was just curious about you and Mad Dog anyway. Mad Dog was showing off these beads that he was wearing. Did you give them to him? They looked a lot like the ones that are given to the winners of the competition.”
The painter waved a hand. “Pah. Mad Dog probably just got it from a jewelry shop around here. Why on earth would I want to hand out trinkets when I have myself?”
Stuart frowned at Laurent de Matheus’ breezy words, but he didn’t miss the shuttered expression that immediately came over the painter’s eyes when he mentioned Mad Dog’s necklace.
