mojito murder

The evening wasn’t without incident, and one of the incidents went by the name of Socks.

Everything started off well enough, a little surprisingly. Amy and I hadn’t expected many people to arrive at our opening at Gallery Two Eleven given how cold and windy it was that night. If it weren’t our opening, I would have chosen to stay home myself, ensconced in a blanket with a cup of hot chocolate. 

It was the first joint exhibition of our artwork since our student days in New York and, while the small-town venue wasn’t what the two of us had dreamed about during our ambitious twenties, it felt right. It seemed half of Lincoln County showed up for our opening at that Victorian house-turned-gallery despite the unforgiving weather. 

“This is a great show,” Laura Mitchell, the gallery owner, told Amy and me as the three of us watched the crowd of people circling the room, balancing plastic wine glasses and small plates of cheese in their hands. 

Amy smiled. She had moved to Maple Creek only two months before, which hadn’t left us a lot of time to put the exhibit together. The previous week was a constant back and forth between Maple Creek and Linnville, where Two Eleven was located.  

I had no idea how she found time to paint between packing everything up in New York and getting settled in Maple Creek. What’s more, it had become obvious that she would be a mother in just a few months. But Amy and Grams had a lot in common—neither readily backed down in the face of a challenges. 

I split up with her so the two of us could work the room, an important part of selling our paintings. I had a sneaking suspicion that many people at the gallery that night were there because Grams had invited them, even if she used the term “invite” loosely. I knew she was happy for Amy and me, and she probably used everything in her bag of persuasive tricks to get as many people to the gallery that night as she could. 

Everyone seemed to be having a good time looking at our paintings and visiting. I had forgotten that if it’s cold long enough in Lincoln County, people develop cabin fever and come out in pretty dismal conditions for some sort of human contact. 

As I was talking to an older couple from Dawson City, Dave came in, saw me, and waved. His eyes radiated excitement. I knew he was happy for Amy and proud of her for her part in our first art exhibition in the county. “Have you seen Amy?” he asked after apologizing for interrupting. 

“She was just here a moment ago,” I replied. “Maybe she’s upstairs?” 

During our brief interaction, Socks, Laura’s cat and a fixture at the gallery, circled around Dave’s legs, rubbing her head on his jeans. I believed animals had a good sense of people, and in Dave’s case, Socks was on the mark. He was one of the kindest and most thoughtful men I had met since coming back to Maple Creek. I was overjoyed that he and Amy were getting along so well. 

From outward appearances, one might not have expected them to be a couple. Dave looked a little rough around the edges, often casually dressed in faded blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and his black leather jacket. Amy dressed like she was planning to adorn the pages of a fashion magazine, always pulled together with taste and style. 

One didn’t have to spend a long time around them to realize their different appearances mattered very little. They were in love, and they were perfect for each other. 

Dave picked Socks up, holding her in his arms while rubbing the top of her head with his finger. We chuckled at the cat’s pulsating purring and closed eyes. She was in heaven. 

“You made it!” Amy exclaimed when she saw Dave.

“Of course,” he said with a wide smile. “I’m sorry I’m late.” 

“Nonsense! You’re just in time. And I see you’ve made a new friend.” Socks opened one eye and looked at Amy as if to say, “Nope. My human.” 

“I’ll let you two adore the cat for a while,” I joked. “I’m going to go find Grams and make sure she’s not up to anything ornery.” 

It didn’t take me long to find my grandmother. Midway up the stairs, I could hear her cackling over the din of conversation from the second floor. Grams, I imagined, was the center of attention and therefore a hundred percent in her element. 

“There’s the famous artist!” she called when I entered the room. A small group of people, mostly her poker friends, circled around her, enjoying each other’s company. 

One of the friends, Irma, commented about the exhibition and how naturally Amy’s and my artwork seemed to go together. 

“They should,” Grams boasted. “Those two have been friends since they were in art school in New York!” 

I knew I was fortunate to have such a supportive relative when it came to my work. If Mom and Dad were still alive, I knew they, too, would have nurtured my dreams without question, but I doubted either of them would have gone to the lengths that Grams did in ensuring half the county showed up for the opening. “I noticed the two of you have quite a few sales,” she proudly stated. “That’s my girl.” 

I had always felt funny being the center of attention, and normally Grams’ boasting would have made me uncomfortable. But she was among her friends, and they knew her well enough to know she made it a habit to brag about me. 

Grams started to say something but was interrupted by a crash from downstairs. “What was that?” she exclaimed. 

“I have no idea,” I replied before dashing down the stairs to investigate. 

Socks, spooked by a friend of Laura’s, Phyllis Moore, had darted across the room, landing on a small table with cheese platters and other finger foods, knocking a several trays onto the floor. 

The crashing frightened the poor cat more, and she raced across the room, almost knocking a small sculpture from its pedestal. 

“She never does that,” Laura exclaimed in disbelief.

Dave tried to coax Socks out from one of the storage shelves, but the cat was still too upset to move. 

“Poor baby,” Amy said. “All I saw was a flash of fur racing across the room!” 

Phyllis said Socks had approached her and started rubbing against her legs. 

“I must have moved too quickly,” she explained. “I hope I didn’t step on her tail.” 

“I’m sure you just spooked her,” Amy replied. “Cats are funny creatures.” 

Phyllis took a bite out of one of the date balls on her small plastic plate, then leaned closer to Amy and me. “I don’t want to sound mean,” she said quietly, “but I have no idea why Laura lets that cat roam around during openings. Something like this was bound to happen.” 

“It was just an accident,” I replied. “Socks is normally a pretty calm cat.” 

Phyllis’ expression said she didn’t agree with me, but she didn’t argue. 

“The two of you should say a few words,” she said, changing the subject. “I’m sure everyone would enjoy hearing from the artists!” 

“What do you think?” Amy asked. I agreed. 

“Excuse me,” Phyllis yelled. “Everyone! Excuse me!” The room fell quiet, and Phyllis announced that Amy and I would like to say a few words. 

I thanked everyone for coming out and said how honored I was to have a show together with such a good friend. 

Amy’s comments mirrored mine before she said she wanted to talk about a certain painting she had in the exhibition. “This one means a lot to me,” she said, pointing to a postcard-sized oil on canvas of the view from the lake. The two of us had gone there when she first visited from New York. “It’s the first work I painted after I moved to Maple Creek. I see it as a tribute to the warm welcome I’ve received from everyone around the county and to all my new friends—like you—who have made me feel so special.” 

Laura hugged Amy as everyone clapped enthusiastically. 

“It looks like we missed the entertainment!” Spider looked both amused and a little horrified when we told him what happened.  He had come to the show with several of the mechanics from his custom auto shop. The group, dressed in the only button-down shirts they kept for special occasions, arrived a little later than Dave because Spider had let Dave off early to support Amy.  

Spider said he was going to make his rounds to look at our paintings, and Amy and Dave continued to try to coax Socks from her hiding place. 

“Nice show.” 

I didn’t have to turn around to know who would make such a sarcastic comment to me. It was Eric Grant, another artist Laura represented and possibly one of the bitterest men I had ever met. 

“Thank you,” I replied, ignoring the tone in his voice, knowing that doing so would get under his skin. “I’m glad you like it.” 

Eric huffed and rolled his eyes. “Seems like everyone gets a show here,” he complained, “but only if you kiss up enough.” 

“Will you excuse me?” I replied in the sweetest voice I could muster. “But I see some pleasant people over there I would like to say hi to.” He waved me away like a fly. I felt my blood pressure rise, but I told myself he wasn’t worth it. Especially on our opening night. 

I joined Amy and quietly warned her about Eric. I didn’t want to sound catty. “I’ve heard about him,” she quietly remarked. “Artists like him seem to always show up, angry that the world doesn’t revolve around them as much as they think it should.” 

Eric, however, wasted no time in coming over to us. 

“I imagine the two of you think you’re special?” he sneered. “Big New York artists. Big deal. I worked in New York too.” The people around us self-consciously backed away, and Dave cleared his throat. 

“You need to take this somewhere else,” Dave stated firmly. 

“Or what?” Eric taunted. 

Dave stared him down without saying anything. A wave of common sense must have come over Eric because he muttered that he didn’t want anything to do with us and wandered off. 

“Is he drunk?” Amy asked quietly. 

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “That’s the way he normally is.” 

I knew Eric had some success in New York City twenty-some years ago. At least that’s what he kept insisting in almost every conversation he had. Maple Creek and Lincoln County were just some backwater hickfest in his mind, far beneath his talent and background. 

“Don’t let that bozo ruin your evening,” Dave told Amy as he put his arm around her shoulder. “He’s not worth it.” 

For a moment, I was a little envious. I knew Dave’s comment was meant for both Amy and me, but I realized, for a brief moment, that I missed dating. Fortunately, Michael came in at just the right time. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he apologized as he rubbed his hands on his arms, trying to massage the cold away. “I had an emergency come in at the last minute.” 

No one was going to fault him for being late. As one of the two veterinarians in Maple Creek, his emergencies usually consisted of an unfortunate cat, dog, or horse. 

“I’m glad you could make it,” I replied. “Is everything okay?” 

He nodded and explained that the Thompson’s dog, Buddy, got out of their yard and was hit by a car. “Fortunately, the car wasn’t going that fast, and it was just a broken leg.” 

“I’m glad it wasn’t worse,” I replied.

“He’ll be fine,” Michael assured me. “Are you going to show me around?” 

I wandered with him through the rooms, looking at our work on the walls. As I had when we were dating in high school, I felt comfortable with him. I was grateful that we were able to renew our friendship after I returned to Maple Creek. 

“I haven’t seen this one before,” he commented, pointing out one of my recent paintings. 

“I just finished it a couple days ago. Just don’t touch it,” I warned. “The paint probably hasn’t dried all the way.” 

He chuckled and started to say something but was interrupted by shouting. 

Eric.

He had cornered Laura, upset that she hadn’t given him such a big exhibition. Michael and I raced towards her, along with Dave and a couple other people, but she waved us off and calmly told Eric that they should go into the back room to continue their conversation. 

It didn’t help. 

The two were shouting at each other so loudly, their voices could be heard throughout the first floor. Most people politely tried to ignore the scene and carried on as if nothing were happening. But you could see it on everyone’s face—it was uncomfortable. 

“Excuse me, everyone,” Amy announced over the din. “Kelly and I would like to thank everyone for coming out this evening and seeing our work. We know how tempting it must have been to stay home in your jammies with a cup of hot tea on such a cold night.” 

Amy’s ease in front of people distracted everyone from the shouting coming from the back room, and she shared the story of when the two of us had our first show together, our BFA exhibition before our graduation. “Say what you will about Linnville and Maple Creek,” she continued, “but this tops any snooty New York art opening any day. You all have made us feel so special.”

Seconds later, Eric pushed his way through the crowd and left. Laura came out from the back room just seconds later, trying to look like nothing had happened. She began circulating through the crowd, talking to people, attempting to convey a sense of normalcy after such a weird scene. 

“Are you going to be all right?” I discreetly asked her. 

She rolled her eyes and nodded. “Eric is an unusual character,” she said in what was the understatement of the day. “I’m so sorry he ruined your opening.” 

“He didn’t ruin the opening. We’re having a great time. Second, it’s not your fault, so you don’t have anything to apologize for.” 

She smiled appreciatively, but the look in her eyes hinted that she was still shaken by the confrontation. 

“My friends and I are going to the Feisty Goat in a little while,” I said. “Grams is throwing a celebratory get-together. I hope you can come.” 

“I’m going to have to take a rain check,” Laura apologized. “It’s been a long day, and I’m looking forward to a quiet night at home.” 

“Understood,” I said. 

The crowd at the Feisty Goat looked remarkably similar to the crowd at the opening, which wasn’t a surprise. If one of the bar’s regulars had missed the opening, he or she would have been subjected to the Granish Inquisition. Even though it was a cold thirty-minute drive from the gallery in Linnville back to Maple Creek, most people dropped by the Feisty Goat to have one of Flo’s special Irish coffees before heading home. 

Grams knew the best way to keep hearts warm was a string of good sing-along songs on the jukebox. Unfortunately, she was the one singing, sounding like a female Bob Dylan with a head cold. If anything, the Feisty Goat crowd is a forgiving lot, and everyone had a great time despite Grams’ out-of-tune crooning. 

Michael, Amy, Dave, and I sat in our usual booth, picking at a plate of nachos, talking about how successful the evening was despite Eric’s appearance. Spider arrived for a few moments, downed his usual root beer then excused himself, saying it was best “to give you kids a chance to visit.” 

The excitement about our first show together since we’d been in school, however, quickly wore off, and the four of us decided to call it an early night. 

I must have been more tired than I realized, as I barely remembered falling asleep. The next thing I knew, the sun was streaming through the curtains Grams had made sometime in the ’70s, and my cell phone was ringing. I raced around the apartment, trying to remember where I had placed it the night before, reminding myself yet again that I needed to put it in a regular spot to put an end to my frantic searches. 

The phone stopped ringing before I could find it. 

It was Grams, I thought. She probably forgot that we moved our breakfast to ten this morning. 

The phone started ringing again, which helped me locate it. 

“You do remember we decided to sleep in this morning?” I answered. 

“I don’t think we actually discussed that, to be honest.” It wasn’t Grams. It was Sheriff Nick King. 

“Well, you should be sleeping in too,” I joked. “It’s Saturday after all.” 

“I wish I could,” he replied. “What happened at the gallery last night?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“There was an argument?” 

“Yes,” I said. “One of the artists came in complaining that he never got his own show. He and the gallery owner had a heated discussion, and he left.” I paused for a moment. “I assume that’s what you’re asking about.” 

“Yes,” the sheriff replied. “Was the artist Eric Grant?” 

“It was. Why?” 

“Eric Grant is dead.”