Murder Had a Little Lamb (34 page)

“But this was his studio,” Beanie pointed out. “I’ve never actually been in here before, since it was always kept locked, but I know that—”

Her voice trailed off as she focused on the painting of Campbell posed as Botticelli’s
Venus
.

“Is that—is that
Campbell?”
she asked, her tone filled with disbelief.

I didn’t answer. There was no need to. Not when she could see for herself that that was exactly who it was.

I, in turn, could see that all the blood had drained out of her face.

“But she’s naked!” Beanie cried. “You mean Mr. Stibbins painted her without any clothes on?”

I didn’t answer that question, either.

“Are people going to see this?” she demanded, her expression panicked.

“Not anymore,” I said.

Sounding puzzled, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“I’m pretty sure these were the paintings that were going to be in Mr. Stibbins’s upcoming exhibition,” I explained. “But the gallery only exhibits the work of living artists, so they’ve canceled his show.”

“Good thing!” Beanie cried. “Campbell would have freaked!”

Frankly, I was a little surprised by how relieved she appeared to be. “I know it might have been embarrassing for Campbell,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “but from the looks of things, she did pose for him.”

“But she couldn’t have known that Mr. Stibbins planned to show this painting to anyone!” Beanie insisted. “Otherwise, she never would have done it. Not with
her
father!”

Startled, I asked, “Do you think he’d be that upset?”

“Upset?” She let out a loud, abrupt laugh.
“Upset?
Are you
kidding
me? I’ve never met anybody more straitlaced in my entire life! Mr. Atwater has incredibly high standards for Campbell. He’s very clear about how he wants her to act—and how he wants other people to see her. That time she was mentioned in that gossip column in the
New York Post
, he grounded her for a month. He totally disapproves of his daughter being in the news—unless it’s because she’s been doing some charity work or something.”

Her eyes drifted back to the canvas. “If Campbell’s dad ever saw this painting of her in the nude, I bet anything he’d pull her out of this school and send her to a—a
convent
. I mean, can you imagine the way the press would have jumped on this? Not only the tabloids, but even the legitimate press? This story would have been all over the news! TV, newspapers, magazines … Everybody in the entire world would have been talking about Campbell Atwater!”

She turned back to me. “And do you know what her father would have done?”

“No,” I replied.

“He would have cut her off,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Closed out her trust fund, written her out of his will, done whatever he needed to do to keep her from getting a single penny.”

“But Campbell’s father loves her!” I protested. “She’s his daughter, for heaven’s sake!”

Beanie grimaced. “You obviously don’t know Mr. Atwater very well.”

She was right; I didn’t. But I had met him, and I’d seen for myself what a hardnose he was. Heard about it, too—for example, from Vondra Garcia, who’d characterized him as “ruthless.”

So Claude Molter
was
trying to protect his students by murdering Nathaniel, I thought.

I felt as if the room was whirling around me. But I reminded myself that I wasn’t alone—and that Beanie had undoubtedly seen enough.

“Goodness, it’s getting late!” I said, making a big show of glancing at my watch. “I didn’t realize it was so close to starting time. I’d better get going.” Remembering that neither of us was supposed to be in here, I added, “In fact, we both should.”

Beanie lingered in front of the painting of Campbell, her eyes still glued to it.

“Beanie?” I finally asked. “Are you coming?”

“Sorry,” she said, her face reddening as she reluctantly tore herself away.

When I saw how slowly she was moving, I figured
she was still in shock. I also realized I was in too much of a hurry to wait for her.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to run ahead,” I told her as I locked the door behind us. “I’ll see you at the chapel.”

“Okay,” she said.

I left her behind as I dragged Max out of the building, then broke into a jog as soon as I hit the paved walkway. Yet the speed with which my heart was pumping had more to do with what was going on inside my head than with any physical exertion.

All the pieces had snapped into place. Not only had I finally seen Nathaniel’s paintings, I’d also heard from Beanie what a devastating effect they could have had on his students’ lives. I was more convinced than ever that Claude Molter had killed Nathaniel.

The next step was convincing everyone else.

Fortunately, the Blessing of the Animals provided me with the perfect opportunity. Not only would Claude be there, so would hundreds of spectators, the school’s faculty and administrators, members of the press, and the police.

The trick would be figuring out a way to pull it off.

•   •   •

As I neared the chapel, I was struck by the festive feeling that electrified the campus on this perfect summer day. All kinds of people from tiny babies to senior citizens were streaming toward the small building, accompanied by dogs on leashes, cats in carriers, and other assorted animals in cages, tanks, or cardboard
boxes. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, laughing and chattering and taking pictures. More than a dozen Worth students were handing out programs or running the refreshment stands—two rows of folding tables that straddled the walkway leading up to the chapel’s front door.

Max and I passed through the open double doors into the building. As I distractedly accepted a program, I was pleased to spot two uniformed police officers standing together just inside the front entrance.

Just as I’d anticipated, the back wall was lined with members of the press, even though the three or four reporters appeared to be more interested in chatting with one another than taking notes. The group included two videographers with gigantic cameras balanced on their shoulders, no doubt camera crews from a couple of local cable stations.

I scanned their faces, looking for Forrester’s. He wasn’t there.

As I scooped Max into my arms, I surveyed the interior of the chapel, a small building with white walls, wooden pews, and colorful stained-glass windows. The single room was already crowded, not only with hundreds of people but also with at least as many animals. Dogs of all shapes and sizes were either nestled in people’s arms or straining at their leashes, their eyes bright and their muscular bodies quivering with excitement. Some wagged their tails and strained to sniff the other canines. Others looked tense, as if a low growl was sitting in their throats, just waiting for the right moment to come out.

At first glance, it appeared that just about every
breed imaginable was represented. At one end of the spectrum was the pair of tiny Chihuahuas checking out every four-legged being in the room from the safety of an oversize designer purse. At the other extreme was a sleek Great Dane that was almost as tall as his bearded bear-size owner, who wore a sleek leather jacket with the Harley-Davidson logo emblazoned on the back. It was hard to tell who deserved the prize for Biggest Dog, the Great Dane or the amiable-looking Saint Bernard panting contentedly, his massive body taking up half the aisle in which he sat. There were also many of the None of the Above variety, mixtures that resulted in dogs of every size, color, body type, fur type—and from the varying ways in which they were behaving, disposition.

All kinds of cats were in attendance, as well. A few were curled up in their owners’ laps wearing every expression from curiosity to disdain as they eyed the proceedings. But most were in carriers. Still, even they couldn’t resist peeking out, marveling over what for most of them was probably the largest congregation of fellow furry creatures they had ever seen.

Beyond the usual dogs and cats, there were birds in cages, hamsters and gerbils in tanks, quite a few rabbits, two or three lizards, a few fish in a small glass globe, and a couple of downy ducks. There was even a goat standing at the back. Tied around her neck was a pink satin ribbon as well as a rope with ragged ends.

I was actually pretty surprised at how well behaved the animals were. That included my own canine—at least, so far. I did notice one dog who appeared to be primarily wire fox terrier yapping away nonstop while
his nervous-looking owner, a teenage girl, desperately clutched his collar. And there were lots of paws skittering around as dogs struggled to reach one another across the pews, over the backs of the pews, and even underneath the pews.

But while it would normally have been great fun to watch the animals’ antics, at the moment I was too focused on my mission to linger. I wove through the crowd, my eyes darting around as I sought out the familiar face that I now knew belonged to Nathaniel’s killer.

He’s got to be here, I thought anxiously.

I still hadn’t spotted Claude when Reverend Evans took his place at the podium. Chach sat next to him contentedly, tethered to his master’s wrist by a bright red leash.

“Would everyone please take a seat so we can get started?” Reverend Evans boomed.

The chatter immediately died down, and the people and animals who were still milling around hastily made a beeline for one of the few empty places that still remained. It was as if someone had suddenly initiated a massive game of musical chairs. Some of the people in the aisles headed toward the front of the chapel. As for me, I scanned the back rows, looking for a seat that would enable me to survey the entire room without having to turn around every two seconds.

Fortunately, I spotted a narrow space on a pew that looked just wide enough for me to squeeze into. Unfortunately, it was smack in the middle of the row.
And it was between an elderly woman who was constantly stroking the nervous-looking Persian cat in her lap and a beefy man whose sausagelike fingers were clamped around a leash with an equally beefy English bulldog panting at the other end. While the man and the woman barely seemed to notice each other, the Persian and the bulldog couldn’t keep their eyes off each other—and not in a good way, either.

Not exactly an ideal situation, I thought, hoping the two animals wouldn’t suddenly decide to demonstrate that old expression about “fighting like cats and dogs”—especially when mine would have been only too happy to cheer them on.

Still carrying Max in my arms, I jockeyed my way around the knees and heads of the people and pets who were already sitting. I must have mumbled “excuse me” and “sorry” about a million times. Once I finally reached the vacant seat, somehow I managed to wedge myself into it, minimizing the amount of space Max took up by keeping him in my lap.

The chapel was so charged that it felt as if it were about to explode. So I was relieved that Reverend Evans didn’t waste any time before getting the service under way.

“I’d like to begin by welcoming all the pets who came today,” he began, “as well as all the humans they brought with them.” He paused to smile at the audience. “As most of you know, this is the first time the Worth School has hosted this Blessing of the Animals, which we hope will become an annual event. In large part, we see it as a means of inviting to our campus all the members of the community—including
those with fur, feathers, scales, and gills. But it’s also an excellent time to step back and appreciate the things in life that bring us joy, especially the animals that play such an important role in our lives …”

I glanced around again, but I still didn’t see Claude Molter. I was beginning to experience a sinking feeling. Was it was possible that he’d opted out—even though this was one of those “command performances” he’d mentioned?

Nervously I checked the back of the room. The reporters and photographers were still lined up—which was the perfect setup for the moment I finally figured out a way of revealing the identity of Nathaniel Stibbins’s murderer.

I was still looking around when I heard a low growl emerge from Max’s throat.

“Max, sh-h-h!” I whispered. But I saw that the woman sitting in front of us was holding a large cage in her lap—and inside it was a rabbit.

Terriers hate rabbits.

“Max, be quiet!” I commanded, more loudly this time.

This is the last time you play Starsky to my Hutch, I thought, glaring at my Westie.

Then I remembered that I’d brought a distraction. Squirming in my narrow seat, I somehow managed to wrest the Ziploc bag from my pocket and pull out a Milk-Bone.

I was congratulating myself on my success when I noticed that Beanie had finally come into the chapel and was lurking in the aisle. She studied the crowd,
frowning. Then her face lit up and she headed across the room.

I guess Campbell saved her a seat, I thought. I sure hope Esmeralda and Snowflake are handling this better than Max is.

The seat Beanie took was just a few rows in front of me. In fact, I had a surprisingly good view of her and the back of a head of silky blond hair that did indeed look as if it belonged to her friend. Peeking over her shoulder was a snow-white Maltese. Snowflake, no doubt, the dog she’d talked about so lovingly on the very first day of class. And I could see a tan rump that I assumed belonged to Beanie’s pug.

“Let’s start with a hymn,” Reverend Evans was saying as I tuned back in. “Please rise and join me. You’ll find the words to ‘All Creatures of Our God and King’ printed in the program …”

Inwardly I groaned. Once everyone in the room was standing, it would be that much more difficult to maneuver my way out of the row and toward the killer.

Yet within about three seconds, all the people in attendance were on their feet, still holding the animals they had brought with them, whether they were in their arms, on a leash, or in a pet carrier. I glanced to the right and then the left, picturing how difficult it would be to get myself out of there.

And then hundreds of voices came together as one to sing,
“All creatures of our God and King, lift up your voice and with us sing…!”