The Art of Love and Murder (22 page)

My chest
.

She crossed the threshold and frantically examined the room for the Aztec treasury he’d mentioned in his note. Nothing on the shelves or the floor fit what she assumed an Aztec treasury would look like: something somewhat larger than her chest and carved with Aztec figures.

Lacy’s scan landed on a stone side table next to the overstuffed chair facing the desk. The carvings looked Aztec to her, so she stooped beside the table for a closer look. Only when she squatted eye-level with the tabletop did she see it. The double ridge around the top edge gave it away. This was no average table.

With difficulty, she pulled up on the heavy edge, but it didn’t appear to move. Her fingers felt around to the adjoining edge. About ready to give up, thinking she’d mistaken this table for something else, the lid slid opened. And there rested Kaya’s chest.

If someone had been looking for the chest, Archibald had hidden it successfully. But why had he felt the need to hide it? She lifted the precious box out from its stone hiding place and stood. As she did, she turned toward the far side of his mammoth desk and started at the sight of a man’s legs.

A quake of fear tripped up her spine. She jerked her head around, scanning the office for a lurking attacker then hastened to the body.

John Archibald.

She dropped to her knees beside the prone man and set the chest beside her. Her hand went to his chest. Still. Fingertips searched for the pulse on his neck. Warm, sticky wetness greeted her.

“Oh, my God.” She lurched back on her haunches, knocking her chest over before she could grab it. Not thinking, she clutched it, smearing blood from her fingertips. “Oh!”

With a wiggle of her shoulder, her purse fell to her lap. Her clean hand dug for Chance’s card and her cell.

“Hold it right there.”

Lacy jumped, jerked her chin sideways and found herself staring into the barrel of a gun.

Chapter Thirteen

“So, you didn’t hear any conversation pertaining to any of the suspects as far as where they were staying or if they were locals?” Carlos asked Chance.

“No. The two guys were silent. The couple was concerned about finding a gift, and I got the impression they were tourists. If they charged their purchases—”

“Yeah, we’ll go back to the store when Chief gets the all clear,” Carlos said. “He wasn’t very lucid and couldn’t remember how they paid. Figured we could have him go through his receipts later.”

“These sketches...what makes them so valuable?” Pete asked.

“They’re the work of an artist named Muuyaw.”

Carlos stopped writing and his head snapped up. “The same one? From the gallery murder?”

“Can’t be more than one Muuyaw, but yeah. Lacy’s her daughter.”

The officer stared at him. Pete cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. The question they wanted to ask, he asked himself. How the hell did he get mixed up with the daughter of the artist tied to his wife’s murder? He’d questioned this before. Hard to find an answer when he didn’t believe in coincidence. He ran a hand through his hair. All he could muster, a silence breaking chuckle, held no mirth.

The cop flipped the page on his notebook. “Well, okay, Chance. Let’s see—”

Pete’s radio came on, and he jumped up to take the call as he walked to another part of the room.

Carlos made a note. “I guess we’ll have to find out from Ms. Dahl how many others knew she had the sketches in the bag.”

“But how many of them would’ve known she’d left the sketches with Chief? Stands to reason, the few in the shop knew. She’d been vocal about the contents of the bag.” Did Clark’s presence mean anything? “She could’ve been followed—”

“Hey, Carlos. We need to head out to the museum.”

“Another theft?” The cop closed his pad and rose.

“Apparently more than that.” Pete stepped close, but addressed Chance when he spoke. “The curator’s dead.” He kept his voice low. “The security guard found a lady with blood on her hands.”

His stomach flipped. “What lady?”

“Yours.”

****

“Am I a suspect?” Lacy sat on the edge of a cold, metal chair at the Flagstaff police station. Still tense from finding the body, her nerves wound tighter in the presence of the dull-faced detective.

“We haven’t ruled John Archibald a murder victim yet, Ms. Dahl.”

“You think it could be an accident? He fell so hard he died?” First he messed up his office then tripped and fell. Who was the officer trying to kid?

“We can’t make any assumptions.”

“Then why am I here?” Her head ached and she rubbed her temples.

“We have to consider anyone and everyone a person of interest if they were at the museum around the time of his death.”

She stopped massaging and let her hand drop to the desk, glaring at the man. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“That’s your decision.” He didn’t look up from the paper on which he busily wrote.

“Did you call Sheriff Meadowlark like I asked?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He said he’d be here when he could.”

When he could? She’d expected he’d drop everything and hurry to her. They hadn’t exactly formed a lifelong bond, but he’d certainly expressed concern about her ties to Muuyaw. Maybe he wanted nothing to do with anything related to his wife’s death...nothing to do with her. She sighed as dispirited loneliness crept over her.

“Wait here,” the young, plain-clothes officer commanded.

Did
she need a lawyer? Maybe she should call Mark. Surely, he’d have a recommendation among his lawyer friends. She’d hoped Chance would be able to cut through the cop-speak and help. Her chest tightened and the air thinned in the room.

She’d answered all their questions. Twice. Now the detective had left her alone, at last, still sitting on a hard, metal chair next to his gunmetal gray desk. The TV shows had the decor right. Maybe if he left her alone long enough to ponder her fate, she’d grow weary and spill the beans. Oh, hell, now her thoughts ran to clichés. She rubbed her temples again and wondered how long they could hold her.

She couldn’t believe John Archibald was dead. For her chest? Surely they’d find something missing from the museum. Something more valuable than Kaya’s—Muuyaw’s—first known sculpture.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” a woman one desk over asked her.

“Do you have any tea?”

“There might be a bag somewhere. I’ll go look. Cream and sugar?”

Lacy nodded thanks and glanced around the station. Six desks, all identical, stood in the center of this brightly lit room. Windows to her left looked out onto the parking lot and another city building of some sort. To her right was a wall, the bottom half made of red brick and the top a room-length window. A long counter lay on the other side. They’d stopped there on her way in, took her name and looked at her ID before entering this communal office.

“Here you go. Sorry if you like the herbal variety. It’s plain old black tea, but I doused it with cream and sugar.”

“That’s fine.” She sipped as the woman smiled and sat back at her desk.

When the lady looked beyond her and her smile turned warmer, Lacy turned.

Sheriff Chance Meadowlark stood beyond the glass partition, speaking to the cop manning the front area. He looked in her direction, but his face remained neutral, no sign of recognition.

Her hand trembled as she set her tea mug on the desk. Until that moment, she’d been numb, answering questions like an onlooker. Seeing Chance brought the reality down on her for some reason, and she shivered from the inside out.

Murder.

And she sat smack dab in the middle of this nightmare.

She gripped her hands together in her lap and took a deep breath. He moved toward the door, but the two cops that had taken her from the museum to the station stopped him. They spoke a moment. She wrung her hands.

At last, he came through the door and headed straight for her. She jumped up, but he shook his head. “Stay seated a bit, Lacy.”

So much for a warm hug and reassurance. The inside shivers intensified.

“Are you okay?” He sat on the desk chair and pulled it to the side, closer to her.

“A little shaken up. They won’t say they think he was murdered, although they’re sure as hell acting like it. Am I a suspect, Chance? I didn’t do anything except find him.”

“There was blood on the wooden box you were holding. Blood on you.”

“I know. I explained that. I kneeled beside Archibald to see... I checked his pulse. I set the chest down and picked it back up with my bloody hand. I told them this.”

“You come off pretty cool at the sight of a dead man.”

“I didn’t know he was dead until...” Anger rose at his neutral expression and his cop voice. She’d expected an entirely different attitude from him than everyone else.

“I was a surgeon’s wife, you know. I’m not timid when it comes to injury or blood.” She waved a hand in the air, but quickly returned it to her lap when she saw her trembling fingers. “Or death for that matter.”

“He was struck on the head.”

“Well, not with my chest. I got it out of the Aztec treasury.” She twisted her hands together. Although hot with irritation, the trembling wouldn’t stop. “And why does his death have to have anything to do with my chest?” She glared at him. “He could have tripped and fell. Hit his head.” Her pitch rose, and the woman who brought her tea glanced from her computer. “Or if someone did strike him, maybe they were after something else. They might have taken something else. After all, the chest was
right
where his note said it would be.”

“They have to investigate, Lacy. Cover every scenario.” His words were level, but a hint of warmth came through in his tone.

“And not believe me.” She lowered her voice, grasped at a calm she didn’t feel. A little support from her only friend in town would help. His body language gave her nothing, although his face softened with a glimmer of concern. “When can I leave, Chance? They aren’t going to arrest me, are they?”

He glanced around then covered her hands with his. “I’m going to take you with me. Now.”

Relief flooded her, washed over her like a cold shower tingling every nerve ending. She jumped to her feet.

“Not too fond of our local precinct, huh?” A corner of his mouth ticked up, and he stood.

“Hey, Sheriff, how’s Chief doing?” the woman who’d brought her tea asked.

“He’s fine, Jody. Mild concussion. He’s a tough one.”

“What?” she asked. “What happened to Chief?”

“I’ll tell you about it outside.” Chance clasped her upper arm and turned her toward the door.

A nod to the front counter officer, and they left the bright lights for the softness of dusk.

The air had cooled considerably, and she hugged her arms for warmth. Chance’s arm circled around her shoulders as he guided her to his jeep. She sighed, releasing the tension that had built over the last few hours.

“I thought you’d be on your motorcycle.”

“That’s what took me so long to get here. I had to get Chief’s truck back, then go home and get my jeep.”

He
did
come as soon as he could.

“What about my car? The cops brought me here and left mine at the museum.”

“They’ll have it brought here. I think it’ll be safe.” He smiled. “We’ll get it later.”

Whatever he had in mind, wherever they were going, right then she didn’t care. She leaned into him. He kept his arm around her until she slid onto the seat of his Cherokee.

When he climbed into the driver’s side and closed the door, he turned to her. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m...shaken. There has to be some other reason for his murder. I can’t believe someone would murder him for my chest.”

“Muuyaw’s.”

“Well, yes, but before Muuyaw, it was Kaya’s. This is crazy, Chance. It’s not like she’s a world famous artist.”

“Famous enough.”

She shook her head, sighed and rubbed her hands against her jeans. “I can’t believe all of this. I can’t... Chief. What happened to Chief?”

“Someone stole your bag. They clobbered Chief.”

“Oh, no!” Her hands went to her face. That sweet, old man had gotten hurt because of her? Fogginess swirled, a dizzy sensation sent her back against the seat.

“He’s okay.” His hand touched her arm. “But your sketches and the wolf are gone.”

Tears burned her eyes. She choked a sob.

He clasped her shoulder and skimmed his fingertips in a comforting motion. “I know they were all you had of your mother—”

“No.” She wiped away the tears. “I mean, yes, they were. I’m just glad Chief’s okay. I’d never forgive myself for putting him in danger if...”

He leaned over, pulled her as close as he could across the console and rubbed her back. His hands brought rich comfort.

“He’s fine. And so are you,” he whispered against her cheek. He held her from him and put a hand to her chin. “Okay?”

She nodded and relished the roughness of his palm on her hot face. When he released her, she wanted to protest.

“I have to think there’s only one thing you really need right now.” His hands went back to the steering wheel.

“What?”

He cocked a brow. “Food.”

“Oh, Chance.” She had to chuckle.

“Hey, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you...” He started the truck. “You are hungry, right?”

“Not until you mentioned it. But, yeah, I can eat.” She smiled at Chance the man. He’d left the sheriff at the precinct. Having him near meant everything would work out for the best.

“Okay. First we eat, and then we go to your room so you can get some things for the night.”

“For the night?” This day felt like a damned rollercoaster. “Where am I going?”

“You can’t go back to your room. You told them Archibald’s note was there, and they’ll want to search. Your room is off limits for now. I didn’t think you’d want to be up half the night, so I told them you wouldn’t go back there until tomorrow some time, after they’ve searched. I’ve got permission to take you to get your things.”

“Guess it helps to know the sheriff.”

“It does.” He smiled. “And I know a little place we can have a quiet meal.”

“Sounds good.” She rested her head back against the seat, exhausted, aching to go home, be in her own bed, safe, tonight. Although she had nothing more to steal, she didn’t relish the idea of being alone in a strange room. “First dinner, then get my things and find another hotel.”