“And you know this how?” Harvey asked, licking powdered sugar from hisfingers.
“My parents were artists. They had long involved discussions with other artists and insisted on showing me every ancient painting that ever existed in our corner of the world.” Which was a curiosity in itself since she’d never shown anyinterest in art. Sam shoved that thought aside for laterreflection.
She removed pots hanging over the mural and pushed the juice machine to the side. “Mostly, tempera is a medieval medium, but Andrew Wyeth and a few other twentieth-century artists dabbled in the stuff, probably as a back-to-naturestatement.”
“The hippies,” Harvey said, finishing his last beignet and dusting offhis fingers. “They were into living off the land. Doesn’t get more natural than eggs.Yuck.”
“They make a modern tempera now, and I’m not expert enough to know if this is from a jar or the real egg yolk kind. The natural kind can be dangerous, since natural color additives can bepoisonous.”
The minute she saidpoisonous, the café grew quiet. Dinah joined Mariah in studying whatlittle they could see of the muted colors of thepainting.
“It’s kinda pretty,” Dinah said, stepping back to admire the representation of the café and its customers in a different era. “Not real bright but quiet and peaceful like. Like in the churches,” she added insurprise.
Sam didn’t dare touch the mural again but nodded. “The old church artists knew tempera works best with solidobjects like stone, so they used it on church walls or painted on boards for religious icons. It lasts forever.” Sam rapped her knuckles against the wall, but she was no expert in construction either. She didn’t know what was underit.
“Is the painting valuable?” Mariahasked.
“I have no idea.” Sam stepped back to admire what she’d uncovered. “I could call around and see if anyonewould be interested in looking at it. Do you have any famous artists from this area? That would lure someone up herefaster.”
She turned around to greet a customer just entering—one of the sheriff’s men, she guessed, even though he was in plainclothes.
He simply asked for eggs and coffee, but the mural conversation ended. The Lucys didn’t talk in front of authority—except for Walker,who had apparently gained theirtrust.
The hiker, however, didn’t know to keep his mouth shut. “Didn’t Lucinda Malcolm live up here in the sixties? We had an art teacher who knew her and never shut up abouther.”
“Seventies,” Sam said automatically, because Jade claimed she was a relation to the famous artist. “I’d think she must have been pretty old by then. Her work dates backto the early twentieth century, but she didn’t become well known untillate.”
“Yeah, that’s her,” the hiker said, satisfied. “Do you think she could have painted thatmural?”
Sam was about to say the painting looked as if it had been done in the seventies, if only judging by hairstyles. But Mariah untied Sam’s apron and shoved her toward the door. “Time to go play in your planters.We can take it fromhere.”
More secrets. Sam scowled and tossed her apron under the counter where she kept the walking stick. Harvey got up to accompany herout.
“I’ll tell Cass,” he said quietly as they walked out together. “No one tells me anything either, but there’s rumors about the artists who lived up here over the years. Not just artists, but writers and musicians and othercreatives. It’s one of the reasons I’mhere.”
“If they all turn out like Daisy, you’d be better off going back where you came from,” Sam said irritably. “I don’t like secrets and gossip. I’d go with you to talk to Cass but she isn’thome.”
“It’s okay. We’ll know when she is. Keep the staff with you, though. There’s something funky happening here, and you do seem to be the eye ofthestorm.”
“Oh, thanks for that.” She glared and then peeled off to go down the alley to the compost pile Walker had hauled down for her. She’d rather plunge her hands into manure than keepsecrets.
Maybe she’d confront Cass when she got back, and then leave Hillvaleforever.
Or maybe she’d go back to the studio and call the art gallery that showed Jade’s art. The owner wasthe one who had talked so fervently of Lucinda Malcolm’s work—and the mystery of who Lucinda really was, since the name was apseudonym.
At least she’d left the diner before disclosingthatsecret to thehiker.
At the endof his shift, Walker drove into Hillvale and parked his car. He paid particular attention to Sam’s planters. As hegot out, he could smell the malodorous gunk she’d put into them. The damned flowers seemed to have doubled in size since yesterday. He couldn’t believe Mariah had told the whole damned town that Sam was a Lucy because ofthem.
He’d just thought the blooming pots were artistic and the Lucys should appreciate her. But now that he really looked at them... The tiled and painted planters werefilled with an amazing collection of exuberantly colored plants that spilled over the sides as if they’d been growing formonths.
Flowers were flowers, and he didn’t have a scale to judge their growth by. But that shed of Cass’s... that he knew wasallwrong. If he hung around Hillvale much longer, he’d be as crazy as the Lucys. He’d have to check the back of the shed sometime and seeif it was an optical illusion built into ahill.
As he’d hoped, he found Sam helping with the dinner rush. She acknowledged him by lifting one plate-filled hand but went on to deliver her orders. He settled on a counter stool towait.
Tarot-reading Amber had set up her cards in a booth and was doing a reading for Dinah, who ran out of her kitchen to flip a card, then ran back tofinish whatever wascooking.
Ever-nosy Mariah came over to bring him water and take his order. “So, did the sheriff find anything interesting up at thelodge?”
