Where Truth Lies (10 page)
“Y
ou like him, don’t you?” Denise asked after Grace had sent Bernie into Steven’s room for a shower and some fresh clothes. She had changed first, and was just starting to warm up, thanks to the crackling fire Denise had lit.
“I do, although I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he was so honest with me earlier, or because I sense genuine grief for Steven’s death.”
“He lost his best and only friend.”
“And now he’s lost his car. How will he go to work?”
“I might be able to help him with that,” Denise said. “Fred has an old Firebird that he drives from time to time. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind letting Bernie use it until the poor guy figures something out.” She looked down at her crimson fingernails. “I can’t ask him
personally,
but I’ll talk to Rob.”
“Your husband still refuses to see you?”
Denise shook her head. “I go to the jail every day, hoping he’ll change his mind, but I’m just kidding myself.”
“I’m sorry, Denise.”
She heard footsteps behind her and turned around. Bernie was back. He had chosen gray Dockers and a gray sweatshirt that fit him remarkably well.
“You look great,” Denise said.
“Thank you. And thank you, Ms. McKenzie, for letting me wear these.”
“You can keep them if you’d like. Are you warm enough?” She patted the chair across from the sofa. “Come and sit here, near the fire.”
He laughed, but did as she asked. “You mustn’t fuss over me.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so overbearing. It’s just that I feel responsible. I shouldn’t have asked you to come over in this weather.”
“I wanted to come.” His gaze shifted to the tackle box on the coffee table. “Is that it?”
“Yes. Go ahead,” she said. “Open it. It’s yours.”
As Bernie flipped the latch, Denise stood up. “I’d like to stay, but I’ve had enough excitement for one night. And those lures might just put me over the top,” she added with a teasing smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Grace?”
“Definitely.” Grace walked her to the door and watched her back out of the driveway before walking back into the living room.
Bernie was admiring one of the lures, holding it to the light. “A Wigg-Lure,” he said, sounding like a little boy on Christmas morning. “He remembered.”
Grace sat back on the sofa. “I had no idea that Steven was such a fishing enthusiast.”
“He wasn’t really, but he was interested, so I taught him a few things. In return, he taught me about art.”
“He did?”
He seemed more at ease now, and the words came out willingly, without any prompting on Grace’s part. “I used to spend a lot of time at the gallery, learning about the various artists Steven represented and their respective techniques. He also taught me about important nineteenth-century artists. My favorites are Johann Berthelsen and Guy A. Wiggins.”
Grace smiled. “You like New York City landscapes.”
“Yes, I do.” He looked up. “What about you? What do you like?”
“My specialty is American Impressionism of the late 1800s and early 1900s.”
“Like William Merritt Chase, Childe Hassam and William Leroy Metcalf?”
She looked at him with renewed interest. “Why, Bernie. I feel as though
you
should be running the Hatfield Gallery instead of me. I’m amazed at how much you know.”
“Steven was a good teacher.”
“Have you ever thought of finding a job in the art field?”
“I don’t like to be around people much, although I was starting to get better, thanks to Steven.” Gently, he laid the lure in a compartment of its own, and picked up another. “Sometimes, on my days off, he’d let me fill in for him at the gallery if he had errands to run, or a class to teach. Once, I sold a painting.” His face glowed with pride. “A Doug Emmerson still life. Steven insisted on giving me a percentage of the sale, as a commission.”
“You earned it.” A thought suddenly occurred to her. “Did you ever hear the name Victor Lorry?” she asked.
Bernie was thoughtful for a moment. “No. Is he an artist?”
“A dealer with whom Steven was doing business. I thought perhaps he had mentioned him to you.”
“Why are you interested in him?”
“Oh, no particular reason,” she said lightly. “Steven took one of his paintings on consignment and Mr. Lorry wanted to know if it had been sold.”
“Which painting?”
She liked his curiosity. “
Market Day
by Eduardo Arroyo. He’s a nineteenth-century western artist. He had it in the back room, with several others.”
“I don’t know the painting, but Steven liked western art. He often said that if there had been more interest from the public, he would take more in consignment, but in this area, western doesn’t sell well.”
“I put the Arroyo on display, so anytime you want to stop by and look at it, you’re more than welcome. In fact,” she added on impulse, “I rearranged the showroom in order to put more paintings on the walls. I’d love to know what you think.”
His cheeks colored with pleasure. “You mean it?”
“Absolutely. Come any time.”
“I will. Thank you.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Are you sure you don’t mind my waiting here for my sister? She’s a nurse at Doylestown General and sometimes she gets delayed.”
“I don’t mind at all, Bernie. I enjoy talking to you.” Then, realizing the late hour, she asked, “Have you eaten?”
He shook his head. “I usually eat when I get home.”
“Then you must be starving.” She stood up. “Why don’t I see if I can find something in the kitchen?”
“No, no, you’ve done too much already. I don’t want to be a bother.”
“It’s no bother. I’m a little hungry myself.”
She went into the kitchen and checked the freezer, hoping to find a couple of Swanson frozen dinners she could pop into the microwave. No such luck. The freezer was full of packaged meats and frozen vegetables.
The cupboards were equally disappointing. All she found was an assortment of cereals, coffee, jam, herbs and spices. Behind those few staples were two large boxes of Velveeta macaroni and cheese.
She picked up one of the boxes which, according to the manufacturer, contained everything needed for a quick, hearty meal, and read the instructions.
Boil one quart of water.
She could handle that.
Stir one packet of shell pasta into boiling water.
So far, so good.
Cook for ten minutes, drain and stir in cheese sauce.
How hard could that be?
Leaving the box on the counter, she walked back into the living room. “How does mac and cheese sound?”
Bernie was still admiring his new lures. “Great.”
Even though they were about the same age, she felt like a mother looking after her child. He was a shy but gentle man, and she could see why Steven had liked him.
Back in the kitchen, she found a large pot and filled it with water before setting it on the stove. While she waited for the water to boil, she took a paring knife, cut the strip of Scotch tape that held the box closed and pulled up the lid.
At the look of what was inside, she let out a quiet “oh.”
Bundles of hundred-dollar bills, each held with a rubber band, were tightly packed into the box.
After glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Bernie had not followed her, she took out one of the bundles and fanned it out, counting the bills. Fifty bills in each of the twenty-two bundles. A total of one hundred and ten thousand dollars, plus a few loose hundred-dollar bills, suggesting that there may have been more.
Her heart racing, she took out the other box of Velveeta and opened it up the same way she had the first. There was money in there as well, the bundles packed as tight as a sardine can.
And there was one other item. Sitting on top of all that cash was a gun.
S
tunned, Grace stared at the gun. To her knowledge, Steven had never owned any kind of weapon. He wasn’t a hunter or a target shooter, and he had never given a single thought to personal safety. Nor was he in the habit of keeping large sums of cash hidden in a kitchen cabinet. Only drug dealers did that. And if there was one thing of which she was certain, it was Steven’s contempt for drug trafficking and all it represented.
But something was clearly wrong here. With the discovery of what she could only assume was unreported income, she now understood Steven’s trips to Europe, the expensive suits, the Rolex and the Porsche.
If the money hadn’t come from drugs, where had it come from?
As if on cue, Matt’s comment about Victor Lorry came back to her.
“He looks more like a two-bit hood than an art dealer.”
What if Lorry
was
an art trafficker? And Steven had found out about it and threatened to expose him, unless he gave him a cut? Not the thirty-five percent commission specified in the contract, but cash that Steven wouldn’t have to report?
Oh, Steven, Grace thought with a sinking feeling in her stomach. What have you gotten yourself into? And what have you gotten
me
into?
Suddenly aware that the water had come to a brisk boil, she quickly turned off the burner and went to peek around the doorway. Bernie wasn’t paying attention to anything but his new lures.
She found a roll of Scotch tape in a drawer, resealed the two boxes, and returned them to their original places. She would have to decide what to do with their contents, but not now, with Bernie only a few feet away.
After some more rummaging, she found a can of Hormel chili, a pack of Saltine crackers and a can opener. Not exactly what she had promised Bernie, but he was hungry and hopefully wouldn’t mind the substitution.
A few minutes later, she walked back into the living room, carrying a tray. After assuring her that he loved chili, Bernie wolfed it down while they talked like two old friends. Grace learned that he had lived in New Hope all his life. He had met Steven one early morning about six months ago while he was fishing at his favorite spot, a couple of hundred feet from the cottage. Steven, who had been jogging, had stopped to introduce himself. They had quickly become friends, which Bernie agreed was unusual since he didn’t make friends easily.
“I guess you could say that he brought me out of my shell,” he said as he finished the last cracker.
“But if he knew nothing about fishing, and you didn’t know anything about art, what did the two of you talk about those first few days?”
For the first time since they had met, Bernie seemed uncomfortable. “Oh, this and that.” He stood up and picked up the tray. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”
“You don’t need…”
“Please. I’d like to.”
Grace watched the kitchen doorway for a while, listening to the sounds he made as he filled the sink with water. The fact that he seemed to have no problem finding what he needed, suggested that he had been here before, and while he wasn’t trying to hide his familiarity with Steven’s home, he seemed uncomfortable discussing certain aspects of their relationship. Why? He had been open enough about everything else. So what was it about that last question that had made him so uneasy?
A knock on the door cut her speculations short. An attractive woman in her fifties stood outside. She had Bernie’s fiery red hair, which she wore in a neat ponytail, a small oval face and inquisitive dark eyes. Under the tan raincoat, Grace caught a glimpse of a colorful top over white pants.
“You must be Judy,” she said, opening the door wide to let the woman in. “I’m Grace. Please come in. Here, let me take your coat.”
“Thank you.” She glanced toward the living room. “I feel so guilty,” she said. “I should have come right away, but he swore that he was all right, and the pediatric floor was particularly busy tonight.”
“He’s fine.” Grace hung the raincoat on a hook. “Go see for yourself.”
Bernie walked back into the living room at the same time Judy did. He grinned and came to give her a hug. “Hi, sis.”
“I’m sorry I’m late, honey.” She immediately saw the Band-Aids on his hands. “What happened here? You told me you hadn’t been hurt.”
“I wasn’t. Those are just scratches. Ms. McKenzie had to break the car window to get me out.”
Judy turned around. “Where are my manners? I haven’t thanked you for what you did.” Emotion filled her voice. “You were amazing. It’s true,” she added, when Grace shook her head. “Chief Nader filled me in. I don’t know how Bernie and I can ever repay you.”
“If I fall into the river sometime, you can come and rescue me. How’s that?”
Judy’s serious face broke into a lovely smile. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” Her gaze fell on the coffee table. “Are those the famous lures Bernie told me about?”
“Aren’t they something?” Bernie’s eyes lit up again. “Look at this one, sis. It’s the Wigg-Lure.”
“I’m sure you’ll put it to good use. Right now, we’d better go. We don’t want to abuse Ms. McKenzie’s hospitality. I also want to stop at the police station and talk to Deputy Montgomery.”
“Why?” Bernie asked.
“I want to make sure they’re doing everything they can to find the driver of that pickup truck.”
“I’m not sure they believe my story, sis.”
“We’ll see about that.” She watched her brother close the tackle box before turning to Grace. “Who would want to do something so awful to him?” she asked, low enough so Bernie wouldn’t hear. “And why? Bernie has never hurt anyone.”
Later that night, as Grace went to bed, she wondered the same thing.
