A Gift for Murder

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

I pushed past a couple more people to get closer and halted a few feet away. Two men stood almost nose to nose, exchanging words in loud voices.

A tall, red-headed man in a beautifully cut suit appeared to be defending himself from an onslaught of verbal abuse from a shorter, dark-haired man in shirt sleeves and loosened tie. Both vibrated with tension.

The shorter man reached out to grab the lapel of the other man's suit. Several people from the booth pressed forward, trying to calm the men down. The tall red-head signaled them to move back. It only seemed to further inflame the attacker. His body shook with fury barely held in check. I could hear his harsh breathing from several feet away.

"You cheating son of a bitch," the attacker yelled. "I'm an artist! You made my design into a cheap, pathetic knick-knack." He spat the last word as though it were the worst curse he could think of. "You turned my art into trinkets. How dare you?" His face was so red, I was afraid he'd burst a blood vessel.

The red-haired man tried to jerk back but couldn't pull free of the hold the other man had on his jacket. "You signed the agreement. Didn't you read the damn thing before you signed? It said right there in the contract we had the right to use the design in whatever way we wanted."

The artist took a deep breath. "I knew you'd gone with cheap production, so I was prepared for that, but I didn't imagine you'd do this to my work, that you'd produce this travesty." He held up something, but I wasn't close enough to get a good look at it. "I thought you had more sense. More integrity!" By the time he got to the last few words he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

"We elected to do what we thought best for the business. You should be pleased. They're selling very well."

"Pleased! Pleased? I should be thrilled that you've turned my masterpieces into-" His hand closed into a fist.

I stepped forward. "Gentlemen," I said, "Please. Calm down."

They paid no attention, probably didn't hear me. In truth, I could barely hear myself over the racket.

"You've made a mockery of me and my designs," Artist proclaimed.

"Take your hands off me, or I'll have you arrested," Redhead threatened. His people began pushing forward again, maneuvering their way between the two men until Artist had to let go.

A couple of our security people showed up at the same time. One of them was Howie Harper, a heavy-set man in his early sixties. I hoped he wouldn't have to do anything too strenuous. He had heart problems. We rarely had this kind of trouble, so Janelle hadn't wanted to make him retire.

Fortunately, Scott Brandon accompanied him.

Brandon sized up the situation, met my eyes for a moment, long enough for me to give him a nod, and then he moved between the two men. He had to elbow and shoulder a few other well-meaning souls out of the way.

"That's enough," he said. "Step back, both of you."

The way he said it-loud enough to be heard, forceful enough that no one would ignore it-left no doubt in my mind he'd once been a cop. No one questioned his authority. Everyone backed away from him.

"Which one of you started this?" he asked.

Both men spoke at once, and a couple of bystanders added their opinions. Scott looked around and settled his gaze on mine, asking for help.

I stepped forward. "I don't know who started it and it doesn't matter. I'm Heather McNeil, assistant to the director of the Center," I said for the benefit of the crowd. "This has to stop right now."