Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [94]
There were a few businesses in and around the village, but they were not the usual array of gas stations, diners, and motels found in small towns. There was a bed-and-breakfast inn with an excellent restaurant, a riding and horse-boarding stable, an herbalist’s shop, an upscale spa resort, a new age spiritual awareness center, and of course the Stover-Driscoll Gallery, which had to be somewhere nearby.
Kerney stopped at a lighted house behind the church to ask where the gallery was, and was directed to the old territorial-style schoolhouse on the county road that cut west toward the Cerrillos Hills.
Two cars were parked in front, and warm light poured out into the silvery night through the tall, open windows. From deep inside came the soft sounds of a piano sonata. Kerney’s heavy knock on the original double doors brought a quick response by a woman whose expression of anticipation changed to one of surprise.
She was dark-haired with widely spaced eyes and a softly rounded face that matched the attractive curves of her frame. The plain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand signaled to Kerney that if she was indeed Jennifer Stover, she had remarried.
“Are you Jennifer Stover?” Kerney asked, after introducing himself.
“I am,” Stover said. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. I thought you were Dennis and Marie.”
“There’s no cause to apologize,” Kerney said. “Have I come at a bad time?”
Stover stepped back and motioned Kerney to enter. “I can spare a few minutes.”
“That’s all I need.”
The inside guts of the schoolhouse lobby had been ripped out, enlarged, and renovated, creating a great room of considerable size that spanned the width of the building. Thick posts and beams had been installed to bear the weight of the roof, a rectangular stone fireplace had been added along one wall, and the old oak floors gleamed with a satiny patina.
A fluffy, overweight cat scurried past Kerney’s feet and out the open door. Five seating areas filled the room, each large enough to accommodate six to eight people, strategically arranged for viewing the artwork on the walls, all of it modern, abstract, large canvases.
“I’m looking for an employee,” Kerney said, “who once worked in your Canyon Road gallery. Her first name is Helen.”
Stover smiled. “Helen Randell is my partner.”
“Can you put me in touch with her?” Kerney asked.
“She’s my partner in life as well as business,” Stover added without hesitation. “Why do you need to speak with her?”
“I’m looking for someone she knew a long time ago, and I hope she might be able to help me.”
“She’s in the kitchen. Follow me.”
Stover led Kerney to a converted classroom off the great room, where Randell stood at a counter in front of a bank of kitchen cabinets. Tall, with curly golden hair, she turned when Stover called her name.
“Who do we have here?” she asked, eyeing Kerney.
“A police officer who is trying to find someone,” Stover replied.
“Has someone we know gone missing?”
“Debbie Calderwood,” Kerney said.
Randell laughed. “Isn’t it odd that you can go for years without ever thinking about or seeing someone and then suddenly they repeatedly reappear in your life, one way or another? Debbie is hardly missing, at least not anymore.”
“You’ve seen her or heard from her?”
Randell nodded. “Less than a month ago, at the opera. I was standing in line at the bar before the performance getting drinks and Debbie was right in front of me. At first I didn’t recognize her, but it was Debbie.”
“You know that for sure?”
“Of course. We talked.”
“What did you talk about?” Kerney asked
“We caught up briefly with each other. She’s living in Calgary, Canada, and is married to a man who runs a philanthropic foundation of one sort or another.”
“Did she tell you her married