Artistic License to Kill Read online

  Other Books by Paula Darnell

  DIY Diva Mystery Series

  Death by Association

  Death by Design

  Death by Proxy

  Historical Mystery

  The Six-Week Solution

  Campbell and Rogers Press

  Las Vegas

  Campbell and Rogers Press

  Copyright © 2021 by Paula Darnell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. For permission to use material from the book, other than for reviews, please contact [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, events, places, incidents, business establishments, and organizations portrayed in this novel are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020906680

  ISBN: 978-1-887402-11-8

  Publisher's Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  provided by Five Rainbows Cataloging Services

  Names: Darnell, Paula, author.

  Title: Artistic license to kill / Paula Darnell.

  Description: Las Vegas : Campbell and Rogers Press, 2020. | Series: A fine art mystery, bk. 1.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020906680 (print) | ISBN 978-1-887402-12-5 (paperback) | ISBN 978-1-887402-13-2 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-887402-11-8 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Fiction. | Artists—Fiction. | Art—Fiction. | Women—Fiction. | Arizona—Fiction. | Mystery fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Amateur Sleuth. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Cozy / Crafts. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Cozy / Cats & Dogs. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.A7478 A78 2020 (print) | LCC PS3604.A7478 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23.

  Cover design by Nicole Hutton of Cover Shot Creations

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  First Edition

  Published by Campbell and Rogers Press

  www.campbellandrogerspress.com

  Dedicated, with love, to the memory of my parents,

  Doris May Lindsey Darnell and James Roderick Darnell,

  whose lifelong enjoyment of reading continues to inspire me

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Recipes

  Excerpt: Vanished into Plein Air

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  I squirmed in the hard metal chair as the three committee members examined the paintings I'd brought for their review.

  The cordial, collegial chat I'd imagined when I'd applied to join the Roadrunner, a cooperative art gallery, had never happened. Instead, the director, a tall woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, had greeted me with a frown as I'd set up my canvases on the easels she'd provided.

  The other two committee members—Travis Baxter, a wiry young man with long blond hair, and Pamela Smith, a tiny bird-like woman with sharp features—hadn't been any friendlier than the director. After glancing at my artist's statement and resumé, they'd peppered me with pointed questions that seemed framed to put me on the defensive. If that was their strategy, they'd succeeded.

  As the three of them examined my paintings in silence, I clasped my hands firmly together so they wouldn't notice that I was trembling. Finally, the long-haired man cleared his throat and looked at the two women. They all returned to their seats behind a long table and looked at me solemnly.

  Janice Warren, the gallery director, informed me that they'd take my application for membership under advisement and that I'd be notified by mail as to whether or not I'd been approved to join the cooperative artists' group that ran the Roadrunner Gallery.

  I managed to stammer a thank-you before I began gathering my canvases. I felt like running out of the gallery, but I restrained myself, knowing that I had to make two trips to my SUV to stow my paintings in the back.

  The three committee members watched as I toted my canvases from the gallery's meeting room. Nobody offered to help me carry them. Nobody smiled at me.

  As soon as I'd secured the last two paintings in my Toyota, I started the engine and peeled away from the curb. I couldn't wait to escape.

  As I sped down Main Street, not bothering to glance in my rearview mirror, I heard the wail of a siren behind me. My tires screeched as I braked a little too hard.

  A police car came alongside me, and the officer signaled me to pull over. Groaning, I slowly moved to the nearest parking space and stopped my SUV. It was still early in the morning, and the shops weren't open yet, so the street was nearly deserted.

  While the police car parked in back of me, I reached into my purse and took out my Missouri driver's license; then I dug around inside the console next to me until I found my auto registration card. I put my window down and braced for a stern lecture.

  “License and registration, please, ma'am.”

  I handed them to him. At least he'd said “please.” Although I didn't much like being called “ma'am,” since I would be reaching the big mid-century mark on my next birthday, I guessed it wouldn't be the last time it would happen.

  “You must be in a big hurry to get back to Kansas City,” he commented, staring at my license.

  “Well, no. I'm sorry. I was upset, and I just wanted to put some distance between myself and the gallery.”

  “Oh?”

  “I, uh, I applied to become a member, and I just had my interview there. It didn't go very well.”

  “You must live here now if you're joining the co-op.”

  I could have kicked myself for saying too much. Now, he'd probably cite me for not having an Arizona driver's license and not registering my SUV in my new state.

  “Yes, I do. I moved here a few months ago.” Again, too much information. I couldn't seem to stop babbling.

  “If that's a permanent move, you should get your Arizona license and registration right away.”

  Great, I thought. Could this day get any worse? I wasn't looking forward to having more charges added to my speeding ticket.

  “I'm not going to issue you a citation this time, but please watch your speed, ma'am. And don't forget to take care of your license and registration.”

  “I won't. I'll get it done right away. Thank you.”

  “Welcome to Arizona, ma'am,” he said as he tipped his hat before returning to his cruiser.

  Thankful to have at least dodged one bullet, I waited until his car was out of sight before driving slowly and cautiously home, where I knew I could count on a warm welcome from my golden retriever Laddie and tolerance, at least, from my calico cat Mona Lisa.

  As I turned into my driveway, I saw my next-door neighbor, Belle, and her canine companion, Mr. Big, coming out of her house. By the time I parked in my carport
and jumped out of my Toyota, Belle and Mr. Big were standing next to my driveway, waiting for me.

  “Hi, Amanda,” she said. “We were just on our way to the park. Would you and Laddie like to join us?”

  Although I felt more like going into my hermit mode for the day than taking a walk with my neighbor, I realized that isolating myself wouldn't be very productive, and it certainly wouldn't make me feel any better about my botched interview.

  “Sure,” I agreed as I stooped to pet Mr. Big. Weighing in at a mere fifteen pounds, the energetic little white dog was, in fact, not so very big, and Laddie looked like a giant beside him. With his laid-back, sunny temperament, Laddie got along well with everyone, people and dogs alike, even cats, although they didn't always return the favor, and he and Mr. Big had become good pals in the two months since I'd moved to Lonesome Valley.

  Assuring Belle that I wouldn't be a minute, I went inside, greeted my prancing dog, and quickly changed shoes as Mona Lisa watched us from atop her kitty tree. As soon as Laddie saw me grab his collar and leash, he ran to me and waited patiently while I snapped on his collar and attached his leash to it.

  “That was quick,” Belle said as we headed toward our neighborhood park, a short four-block walk away. “Are you feeling all right, Amanda? You look a little pale.”

  “Oh, do I? I'm not sick, but it's not even nine o'clock yet, and already it's been a stressful morning.” As I told her about my disappointing interview and the traffic stop, Laddie and Mr. Big walked companionably in front of us, Mr. Big taking four steps for every one of Laddie's.

  “Amanda, that's terrible!” Belle exclaimed. “I've always thought the Roadrunner was such a nice gallery, and the artists are always friendly and helpful whenever I pop in. I buy a lot of artists' greeting cards there.”

  I nodded. “That's what I thought, too, the very first time I went into the gallery. In fact, it was one of the reasons I moved here. I never imagined they might turn me down, and I was counting on some sales from the Roadrunner to bolster my income. With my budget as tight as it is, I guess I'll have to come up with a Plan B soon.”

  “Don't give up hope yet,” my neighbor advised me. “They haven't actually turned you down. Who knows? They may accept your application.”

  “Hmm, like that's going to happen,” I said glumly. I knew Belle was trying to cheer me up, but I didn't feel very cheerful. I mentally kicked myself for counting on the Roadrunner as another venue to sell my paintings before my membership had been approved.

  Belle gently squeezed my arm, and a look of sympathy crossed her face. “I know it can be tough, moving and getting established in a new place. When Dennis and I moved here ten years ago, we thought we could retire early and never have to work again, but we miscalculated. We were lucky, though, because Dennis was so bored with retirement that he wanted to go back to work, anyway.” Belle's husband Dennis managed a local feed store. I'd assumed he'd been there for decades.

  “You make a good point,” I said. “Our plans don't always work out the way we hope. I'll figure something out.” I was afraid that Plan B might mean getting a job, instead of earning my living as a full-time artist. The one thing I knew about having a boss and working for someone else all day was that it spoiled everything.

  Chapter 2

  I didn't share that thought with Belle, but as we continued our walk, circling the park. I remembered how little time I'd had to paint during all the years I'd worked full-time in my ex-husband's insurance agency.

  “Maybe I could get a part-time job,” I mused aloud.

  “Dennis can always use another clerk at the feed store,” Belle said, “if it comes to that. All you need to do is say the word, but don't you think you should wait to hear from the Roadrunner?”

  “I guess so, but I can't imagine they'll invite me to join. Not one committee member so much as cracked a shadow of a smile the whole time I was there.”

  Belle and I were so engrossed in our conversation that we didn't hear a runner coming up behind us. At about the same time, Mr. Big spotted a pair of terriers on the other side of the park, and he ran toward them, jerking his leash from Belle's hand. Leaving the path, she started to run after Mr. Big when the jogger collided with her, and they both went down hard.

  “Ouch!” Belle exclaimed as the jogger, a teenage girl, bounced back up as though she had springs on her feet, muttered “sorry,” and took off running.

  “Hey!” I shouted after her, but she kept on running without a backward glance.

  In the meantime, Mr. Big had approached the terriers, and the three dogs were engaged in a barking contest.

  “Are you OK?” I asked, kneeling next to Belle, who was rubbing her right ankle and hadn't made a move to stand up.

  “I'm not sure. My ankle really hurts. I guess I should try to stand up and see if I can put any weight on it.”

  Belle attempted to get up, but her ankle wasn't cooperating, and I feared she might have broken it.

  “I guess that's a 'no,'” she said ruefully, as the owner of the terriers came over to us, with Mr. Big and his own dogs in tow.

  “I saw what happened,” the dog walker, a husky bald man of about sixty, said. “It's hard to believe that young girl didn't stop to help. I'm Greg Winters, by the way.” He nodded toward the houses on the other side of the street. “I live right over there. May I offer you ladies a ride home?”

  After we'd introduced ourselves and our dogs, Greg and I helped Belle to her feet. Leaning on us, she hopped to a nearby park bench, and I sat beside her, keeping a firm grip on Mr. Big's leash, while Greg took his terriers home. He returned, along with his wife Rebecca, and parked his car on the street near the bench.

  After we supported Belle while she hopped over to the car, Belle and I squeezed into the back seat. Laddie sandwiched himself between Belle and me, and Mr. Big curled up on Belle's lap for the short ride home.

  I looked at her ankle, and I could see that it had swollen considerably. Rebecca must have noticed it, too, because she suggested that we go directly to the emergency room at our local hospital.

  “But I don't have my license and insurance card or even my cell phone with me,” Belle protested. “I need to go home and get them. Anyway, I think my own doctor can probably see me, so I shouldn't have to go to the hospital. I'll call her office as soon as we get home.”

  “I can take you to your doctor's office,” I volunteered. “And I'm afraid we'd better pick up some crutches for you, too.”

  Belle sighed. “You're right. I have a feeling I'm going to need them for a while.”

  As we'd feared, Belle's doctor confirmed that she'd sprained her ankle and predicted it would take several weeks for a full recovery. She instructed Belle to ice her ankle, elevate it, wear a compression bandage, and stay off her feet as much as possible for the next two days. She recommended over-the-counter pain relievers, too. After we left the doctor's office, we drove to the drug store, and Belle waited in the car while I went in and rented a pair of aluminum crutches and purchased a compression bandage. Belle said she had an ice pack and ibuprofen at home.

  “Thanks, Amanda,” Belle said. “I really appreciate your help.”

  “No problem. Let's get you home where you can put your feet up.”

  By this time, it was noon. Since I'd been too nervous before my interview to eat breakfast, I felt hungry, so I suggested picking up some fast food or ordering a pizza. Belle opted for a pizza. After we decided on a large veggie supreme, she called in our order for delivery while I drove back to her house.

  “Half an hour,” she said as she put her cell phone in her purse. “I hope I can maneuver with those crutches.”

  “You'll get the hang of it. I twisted my ankle once when I was in college, and I had to use crutches for a week or so. By the way, have you called Dennis yet?”

  “Yes, and he wanted to rush home, but I told him I'll be hanging out on the couch for the afternoon, and there's really no need. I think I convinced him that he might as well
stay at work until the store closes.”

  “Home at last,” I said as I parked in her driveway.

  “Well, here goes nothing,” Belle said.

  I helped her out of the car, and handed her the crutches. She steadied herself as she gripped the crutches and swung forward with a little hop.

  “You're doing fine,” I assured her as she slowly made her way to the house, only a few yards away.

  Mr. Big greeted us at the door. The wiggling little dog ran around in circles, and I was afraid Belle might trip over her excited canine, so I picked him up and cuddled him in my arms while she settled herself on the sofa, placing the crutches on the side of the couch so that she could reach them.

  She held her arms out for Mr. Big, and he happily curled up on her lap while she petted him. I propped a pillow under her ankle, put the ice pack in the freezer, and handed her a bottle of water along with an ibuprofen tablet.

  “Thanks, Amanda,” she said, popping the pill into her mouth and taking a few sips of water. When she was done, she flashed me a weak grin. “I'll be glad when my ankle stops throbbing.”

  “The ice pack should help,” I told her. “It'll be cold enough soon. Would you like a soft drink with your pizza?”

  “No, thanks. I'll stick to water,” she said, raising the bottle. “But help yourself to whatever you'd like. I have cold iced tea, soft drinks, and plenty of water in the fridge. When the pizza comes, could you please give Mr. Big a chewy? That'll keep him distracted while we eat. They're in the pantry on the bottom shelf.”

  “Sure, and I'll grab some plates and napkins for us, too.”

  I was on my way back to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Mr. Big jumped down and, barking, ran to the door. I didn't want him to run outside when I opened the door, so I picked him up again and cradled him in one arm while I opened the door.