34. Death to Square Dancing

Declan went back to work and I was feeling stronger, better. Having someone I could call who'd quite literally run over to check on me was a strange and amazing gift. Another was the earrings my father had given me. I went into my closet, opened the small box, and felt that same rush of wonder I'd had when I first saw them.

Spelling them first against paint, I put them on and went down to work on the gallery. I had too much work to do to wallow all day.

It was late in the afternoon when I finished the far wall and took a quick break to eat something and move the scaffolding to the wall in common with the studio. This wall would be more complicated because of the little tea shop area and the built-in shelves. I had to take down the weathered-looking gray wooden shelves before I began to paint. Arranging them on the floor in the order I'd taken them from the wall would hopefully make putting this all back together easier.

I went out on the deck to sit on a bench and feel the ocean breeze as I ate a sandwich, one hastily assembled and rather bland. I had to remember to order more groceries. A seagull flew toward me and my food and then abruptly flew in another direction.

"That's right. Keep moving," I mumbled. I hadn't been a fan of seagulls to begin with, but after Calliope and her demon had sent a horde of them to attack me, I'd spelled against them. A side benefit of the spell was no bird poop on my beautiful deck.

I finished, filled up my water bottle, and got back to work. Arms already hurting before hours of painting, I decided to start moving some of the display cases, pedestals, and tables into place. They were the same light gray wood as the cash wrap and tea shop. The countertops in both spots were stained concrete, like the floor, but in a light seafoam.

Spelling the fixtures into place was taxing in a different way, one I could live with, as my muscles were sore. When I was mostly done—I wasn't doing anything on the studio side of the gallery because I was afraid the scaffolding would knock things over—I went into the fire room and started loading up a cart and rolling my glass sculptures out. I'd been mulling over placements for months, so it went quickly.

I knew I'd be tweaking the setup right until the grand opening, but I'd been dying to get started on this part for so long, I couldn't tamp down the giddy. My own gallery. I brought out the octopuses first. As the Sea Wicche, the glass octopus was kind of my signature piece. I'd made a hundred, at least. Depending on intricacy, size, and price, some needed to be displayed in locked cases, while others were arranged on tiered tables.

At the top of the table, on an elevated platform, was a five-foot glass octopus. His head was a deep indigo, his irises gold. The color slid down his body, blue to purple to raspberry to orange to tentacles tipped in yellow. The suckers were pearlized. He was one of my favorite things I'd ever made. I'd have to put Don't touch signs everywhere, but I wanted him to be out where people could see him, where he could glow in the light.

Flicking my fingers, I turned on one of the spotlights on the ceiling, training it on my octopus. Perfect.

I filled in the lower shelves with far smaller and more affordable octopuses. I brought out starfish and whales, mermaids and jellyfish, sea anemones and rays. I had a collection of ocean waves, as well as an array of bowls and vases. After training spotlights on those displays, I went back to start hauling out my pottery.

I hadn't realized how late it had become until I heard a gruff and grumbly, "Oh my God." I almost dropped the huge vase I was holding when I spun at the words.

Declan held up his hands, staring at my work through the open windows to the deck. "I had no idea you already had all of this made."

I placed the vase and then went to the back door to unlock it for him. I gave him a kiss and said, "I've been working for years, selling some along the way to support myself, stockpiling the rest for the gallery I knew I'd have some day."

"I'd wondered how you could possibly fill up this entire space and now I'm not sure you have enough room." He glanced at the watery walls. "You don't even have your paintings and photographs up yet." Patting his chest, he said, "It's racing. Your gift…" His gaze continued to travel around the gallery. "This must be how da Vinci's boyfriend felt."

"Oh, stop," I said, glowing on the inside.

"I came to measure that reading room and take you to dinner. Now I just want to study everything you've made." And he did just that, strolling around cases and pedestals, watching the light change the pieces.

While he perused, I went back to the shelves in the fire room and brought out another cart of pottery, including an oversized bowl I'd sculpted to resemble a cresting wave.

"Amazing. It looks heavy, though." Declan was beside me again.

"Not as heavy as the octopus, but, yeah, it's heavy."

"I can't do any of this, but I can lift heavy things. Where do you want it?"

I pointed to the center of a tiered table in the pottery section of the gallery. The warning to be careful was on the tip of my tongue, but it was unnecessary. He held my work with the care one would an infant.

"I'll measure while you finish up," he said, heading to the reading room corner. "Think about what you're hungry for."

I waited for him to hear what he'd said.

"Besides me," he called from inside the room.

Grinning, I pushed the cart to the tiered display and arranged a series of vases in graduating sizes.

"Whoa."

I turned at the deep voice and found Osso and Hernández staring through the open windows. Flicking my fingers, I said, "It's unlocked."

They came in and wandered the gallery much as Declan had, with Osso carrying a black bag.

"I knew you were good," Hernández began. "I've seen the paintings and the tentacles." She gestured out the windows. "But—holy crap—I had no idea."

It was funny. The art world knew my name. My pieces sold for a lot of money. My agent told me that the legend around me was of a recluse who occasionally popped her head up to introduce some new masterpiece into the world. The people who knew me, though, were forever surprised that the odd, curly-haired psychic in overalls was actually a successful artist. I supposed it had to do with perspective, which was something I understood quite well.

"How much is this?" Osso asked, pointing to a glass mermaid with dark skin and long, curly black hair fanned out around her face. "My daughter would love this."

She was way too much for a police officer to afford, unless he had hidden wealth and just worked for fun. "I'll make her a smaller version."

He looked at the mermaid again. "Was that a stupid question?"

"Not at all, but she'll go for at least ten thousand. Maybe more." I hated the idea of putting price tags on my work, but it had to be done. My agent had been publicizing the opening and said there were quite a few collectors flying in for it. Since she was afraid that left to my own devices, I'd undervalue my work, she said she'd visit next week and we'd decide on prices together.

Osso took a step away from the expensive mermaid, eyeing it warily.

"Did your kids like the octopuses I made them?"

"Yeah," he said, watching where he moved, now hyperaware of being surrounded by expensive art. "They love them. Thanks."

"The mermaid's pretty tricky to make and I'm going to be swamped for a while, but I will make one for her."

He held up a hand. "That's okay. Never mind."

"I'll do it. Just give me some time. When's her birthday?" I asked.

"September ninth."

Nodding, I pushed the empty cart back toward the studio. "I'll have her made by then. Let's go sit down and you can tell me why you guys are back."

When I returned from the fire room, Osso and Hernández were on the couch and Declan was sitting on the wobbly stool, pulled up beside my chair. "I'm going to need to buy more furniture, aren't I?"

"Probably a good idea," Hernández said.

I sat down, kicked off my shoes, and pulled up my feet, sitting cross-legged. "So what's up? Am I in trouble for the stalker?"

Osso glared at me. "Why would you be?" he said slowly, like he was talking to a child. "He shot himself. You're the innocent victim."

I nodded solemnly. "I am."

"One might even say helpless," Declan added with a grin.

"Let's not go too far," I protested. "I took a self-defense class."

"You did?" Hernández asked. "But you can…" She wiggled her fingers.

"I do have excellent finger dexterity. That's true," I said, causing Osso and Declan to laugh. "I had a great P.E. teacher who taught self-defense instead of tumbling or square dancing or whatever."

"I had to square dance," Hernández said, outraged.

"Did you have Ms. Smith in seventh grade?"

She shook her head. "Mr. Gillespe."

"There you go. She was a first-year teacher and more progressive than the rest. My cousins had Gillespe and said he was super old-school."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Sexist old creep. If a guy showed up late, he was told to hustle. If a girl was late, she was told to stop wasting time fixing her makeup or to deal with period stuff on her own time, not his."

I'm not sure what look I had on my face, but Hernández nodded in agreement.

"I wanted to punch that guy in the gut so bad," she said. "I hear he finally retired. Anyway, no, we're not here about the stalker."

Osso picked up the black bag on the floor and placed it on the coffee table. "We think we found the dean's murder weapon." He pulled out a plastic evidence pouch holding a glass award.

I felt a jolt of recognition. "That's it. Where did you find it?"

"It had been thrown in the school pool," Hernández explained, "which was actually a great hiding place. You couldn't see it down there. Thankfully, a girl had lost a very expensive ring and was running her hands along the bottom, trying to find it. She found a heavy glass award instead."

"It's already been fingerprinted, right?" I asked.

Both detectives nodded.

I picked up the plastic bag, put it in my lap, and slipped off a glove.

"My father will kill me. You said you could get me an A on that paper. I paid you for that A. Now, not only did I get an F—an F!—but the dean is going to fail me for the whole semester? Harvard is going to rescind their acceptance." The teen paces the small room, his pale face flushed with anger and fear. He wears the uniform of a Cypress Academy student, though his tie is loose at his neck and his blond hair disheveled from being yanked at.

A man stands in the shadows, arms crossed, leaning against the wall and watching the frantic boy. "I'll take care of it."

"How? How can you take care of it? The report's been submitted. The dean already knows." He pulls at his hair again and then stops. "Plagiarized? I could have plagiarized the paper myself. I paid you three thousand dollars to get me an A so I can make up the assignment and get my diploma. What. The. Fuck?"

"As I've now said multiple times, I'll take care of it."

The teen resumes his pacing. "You can't. People know. The dean is calling my father in the morning. He's already furious he had to contribute to the building fund to get them to let me walk at graduation with my class. I have to pass this class with an A. The only reason Harvard is waiting for this grade, that they haven't rescinded my acceptance yet, is because my family has attended Harvard for generations. My family's name is on the damn pool," the teen whines, causing the man to smirk, not that the teen notices in his agitation. "And I'm sure Father had to make another donation for this too." He wipes at his face. "Now it's all fucked up because that damn teacher had to be such a hardass."

"The best thing you can do is go back to your room and act naturally," the man says. "Relax. Nothing bad has happened. You'll pass the class. You'll get your diploma. You'll attend Harvard in the fall. Leave it to me."

"I already left it to you once and now I'm fucked."

He steps out of the shadows. "Enough. I said I'd take care of it, and I will. You don't see that teacher scurrying around causing problems anymore, do you?"

"Ms. Lopez? She was out sick today," the teen says, confusion clear on his face.

"It's quite a bit more permanent than that."

The teen takes a step back. "What?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with. I'll persuade the dean or, if that proves too difficult, I'll have the headmaster overrule him. You come from a good family that has always supported this school. He won't allow one paper to ruin your future. Or his Ivy League stats. Go now. I have work to do."

The teen walks to the door, the rage he was feeling just moments before is subsumed by fear. What happened to Ms. Lopez? What has Dorian done?