Where Truth Lies (6 page)

W
ell-fed and equally well-informed on the habits and eccentricities of a small town after her walking tour with Denise, Grace returned to the Hatfield Gallery, ready to work. She sat behind Steven’s large desk, palms on the leather blotter and waited a few seconds before opening the file cabinet, where, hopefully, she’d find the names and phone numbers of the people she needed to contact.

Steven’s system of record-keeping was nothing short of pathetic. Lacking proper space, he had bulked his client files in a single cabinet without bothering to label them. Also in the cabinet were dozens of bills for a variety of services—framing, dry cleaning, wood refinishing and landscaping, all clipped together in a system only Steven could understand. Some of the bills had been paid promptly, others had needed a second and third notice. Paying bills on time had never been one of Steven’s priorities.

Amid this mumble-jumble, Grace found a list of the paintings currently on display in the gallery, along with copies of letters to clients, proof of authenticity on the work he took on consignment, and provenance papers. Sorting everything out and identifying the paintings proved to be time-consuming and often frustrating, but she managed to put everything into some sort of order.

At the same time, she kept searching for information on the Eduardo Arroyo painting. Eventually, she found an agreement between the Hatfield Gallery and a Philadelphia art dealer by the name of Victor Lorry. The document stated that the painting was to be displayed for a period of fifteen days, starting on October 5th. If, after that period, the painting remained unsold, the dealer would take it back.

Puzzled, Grace reread the contract, signed by Steven and Lorry. The short consignment period bothered her. Why only fifteen days, when all the other paintings were on consignment for thirty, sixty and even ninety days?

The folder still open in front of her, she took out her cell phone and dialed Angie’s home. After four rings, her friend’s cheerful message clicked on. “Hi, folks. Sorry I can’t pick up right now, but you know what to do.” Grace left a detailed message and hung up. Then, with the name and phone number of the various artists whose work was on consignment, she started making her calls.

Many of the people she talked to already knew about Steven’s death, while others had no idea that he had been killed. All expressed concern about their respective art work, but seemed relieved when they found out that Grace was a curator at the Griff Museum and that the conditions spelled out in their agreements with the Hatfield Gallery would stand.

She wasn’t as lucky with Victor Lorry. After calling him twice and getting nothing but an answering machine, she left a message, asking him to call her back at his convenience. While she waited for his call, and Angie’s, she went through the invoices, bank statements and income tax returns the police had returned.

It didn’t take her long to realize that business wasn’t exactly booming. That surprised her. She had talked to Steven three or four times a year in the four years he’d had the gallery, and each time he had boasted about its huge success. Yet, his overhead expenses took a big chunk of his profits, leaving him with enough to live comfortably but not as grandly as he had claimed.

By nightfall, neither Victor Lorry or Angie had returned her calls. Remembering her date with the Baxters, she looked up and glanced at the clock above the backroom doorway, and let out a gasp.

Framed in the small side window and illuminated by the streetlight was a man’s face.

He had bright red hair, shaved high on the sides and ending up in thick curls at the top. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but could have been younger. His eyes, big and round, turned fearful when she wrapped her hand around the first weapon she could find—a letter opener shaped like a dagger.

The face disappeared.

Weapon in hand, Grace ran to the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the peeping Tom or his car, but he had vanished.

Shaken, she hurried back into the gallery, locked the door and flipped the closed sign over. Then, searching through her bag, she found the number Chief Nader had left with her that morning, and dialed it.

A deputy she didn’t know answered and took the information down. “We’ll come and take a look, Miss McKenzie,” he told her. “Are you at the gallery now?”

“I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. The chief can reach me on my cell phone or at Denise Baxter’s house. I’ll be there for the next couple of hours.”

“Maybe you should stay where you are until we get there.”

“The Baxters’ house is just two blocks away.” She looked at the letter opener, which she intended to take with her. “I’ll be all right.”

After hanging up, she slipped into her red leather jacket, set the alarm and turned off the lights, leaving only the desk lamp turned on. Then, after making sure that no one was lurking in the shadows, she left.

The Baxters’ house was a lovely Colonial with several carved pumpkins and corn stalks decorating the front porch. In a corner, an antique wheelbarrow held a brilliant assortment of golden mums. Grace looked down at the yellow mums in her hands. She hadn’t been very imaginative, but at least they wouldn’t clash.

Denise opened the door, wearing a welcome smile and an apron that invited guests to kiss the cook. She made a big fuss over the mums. “Thank you, Grace. How did you know yellow was my favorite color?”

“You have a lot of yellow in your shop. I made a wild guess.”

“Aren’t you observant.”

She led Grace into a large, eat-in kitchen where a bright fire crackled. The smell of tomatoes, garlic and olive oil was enough to make Grace’s stomach growl with anticipation.

A young woman, no older than twenty, was at the sink, shredding romaine lettuce into a salad bowl.

“You must be Lucy,” Grace said, not waiting for Denise to introduce her.

The girl, a pretty blonde with shimmering blue eyes, took the offered hand and shook it. “And you’re Grace.” She took Grace’s jacket and hung it on a peg near the window. “You don’t look like a museum curator. None that I know, anyway.”

Grace laughed. “If that’s a compliment, thank you.”

“It is and you’re welcome.”

Denise poured red wine into waiting long-stemmed glasses. She handed one to Grace and one to Lucy before picking up her own. “Welcome to our home, Grace.” Lucy echoed the salute and the three women clinked glasses.

“You wore the necklace,” Denise said, looking pleased. “I was right. It looks perfect on you.”

Grace touched the stone. “I love it. Thank you again, Denise.”

The wine was good, an Italian Ruffino that slid down Grace’s throat easily, erasing the tension of the last several hours.

Denise was observing her above the rim of her glass. “What’s the matter, Grace? You seem out of sorts.”

Grace let out a nervous laugh. “Does it show?”

“You keep looking out the window.”

Seeing no reason to hide what had just happened, Grace told the two women about the incident at the gallery.

“It’s probably the same man who attacked you last night,” Denise said, outraged. “The nerve of him to—”

“It wasn’t,” Grace interrupted. “This man was much smaller. And I would have noticed the red hair last night, even in the dark.”

“Red hair?” Lucy and Denise said in unison. They looked at each other.

“Big blue eyes?” Denise asked.

“I couldn’t see the color, but he did have big, round eyes.”

Denise nodded. “That’s Bernie Buckman. He is—was—a friend of Steven’s. Don’t ask me why. We were all baffled when we found out they were spending so much time together. Those two had as much in common as knitting and pole dancing.”

Grace smiled at the metaphor.

“And not to mention,” Denise continued, “that Bernie is a loner. He has no friends and no relatives except his sister. That’s why Steven’s death hit him so hard.”

“What would he want with me?”

“He’s probably curious about the gallery’s new owner, like the rest of the town.”

“Why didn’t he come in if he wanted to talk to me?”

“He’s much too shy to do anything so bold,” Lucy said. “That letter opener probably scared the daylights out of him.”

“I feel terrible,” Grace said, shaking her head to a wine refill. “Is he going to get in trouble with the chief?”

“Why should he?” Denise said. “He didn’t do any harm. Just play it down when the chief questions you. Say that you’ve been a little jittery since last night and made too much out of nothing.”

“I’ll do that.” She put her glass down. “You said that Bernie and Steven had nothing in common?”

Denise swirled her wine. “Unless you count fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“You know.” Denise made a casting gesture.

Grace thought of the tackle box she had found in the gallery. “That’s odd, because Steven didn’t fish.”

“That’s what I thought, too. He was too finicky to gut fish or hook live bait.” Denise took a lasagna out of the oven and set it on a trivet. Golden-brown cheese, mixed with tomato sauce, bubbled invitingly. “Yet he walked over to the river every morning to talk to Bernie. That’s how they became friends.” She shrugged. “Maybe he did learn how to fish for all I know, but if he did, he never said anything to me. I certainly never saw any fishing gear at the gallery, or at the cottage.”

“I did.”

Both women looked at Grace.

“I found a tackle box filled with lures in the gallery’s back room earlier today,” Grace explained. “Everything looked new.”

Denise nodded. “Steven told me he was going to buy a tackle box for Bernie’s birthday. He loves fancy lures, but with the salary he makes working as a caretaker at the cemetery, live bait is about all he can afford.”

“In that case, I’ll make sure that he gets it.”

They were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Denise rolled her eyes. “That would be Chief Nader. God forbid he should use the bell like everyone else.”

She walked away and came back a few seconds later, Chief Nader in tow.

“Good evening, Lucy. Miss McKenzie.” He removed his hat. “You reported another intruder?” Was it her imagination or did he sound a little skeptical?

“No. I mean yes,” Grace amended when he raised a brow. “Actually, it was all a mistake.”

“A mistake?” He frowned. “You didn’t see a man outside your window?”

“I did, but it turned out to be nothing.” She laughed nervously. “Last night left me a little jittery,” she said, borrowing Denise’s words. “I jumped to conclusions. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” He took out his little notebook again. “Can you describe him this time? Or was it too dark again?”

This time she hadn’t imagined it—his tone was clearly sarcastic. “It wasn’t the same man. Please don’t do anything to him, Chief. I’m not pressing charges.”

“Do you know his identity?”

She glanced at Denise, who jumped right in.

“It was Bernie.”

Josh turned back to Grace. “Carrot hair, short on the sides, thick on top? Big blue eyes?”

Grace nodded. The chief sighed and tucked his notebook back in his pocket. “That’s Bernie all right.”

“We figured he was curious about Grace,” Denise offered as an explanation. “So let him be, you hear. The kid’s been through enough.”

“Give me a little credit, will you, Denise?”

Denise raised a defiant chin. “I will when you let Fred go.”

Chief Nader put his hat on. “Good evening, ladies. Stay out of trouble.”

Grace waited until he had left before asking, “Bernie’s not going to get in trouble, is he?”

“No. Josh’s a big pain in the behind, but he’s a man of his word.” She picked up the dish of lasagna and carried it to the table. “Anyone hungry?”

“Starving,” Grace said, her mouth watering.

“In that case, take a seat and, as they say in Rome,
mangiamo!
”

A cold wind blew in from the river when Grace left the Baxters’ house a little after ten that night. Dinner had been wonderful, and Lucy was a delight—a little quiet, but that was understandable, considering that her father was facing a murder charge.

An art student, and encouraged by Steven, she had had aspirations of moving to Provence for an entire summer to do nothing but paint. But with the events of the past few days, those plans had come to a screeching halt.

In spite of Denise’s infidelity, the two women seemed to have a good relationship, understandably, since Lucy had been only ten when her father had remarried. Snippets of conversation, however, had told Grace that the relationship between Denise and Lucy’s older brother, Matt, wasn’t as pleasant.

She had just taken her car keys out of her bag when she heard a faint rustling coming from the path that paralleled the canal behind the building. At the same time, she caught a thin beam of light, arcing from side to side.

“Not again,” Grace mumbled under her breath.

She started to take the letter opener out of her bag when her gaze fell on a shovel propped against the side of the building. Trying not to make a sound, she gripped it hard and held her breath as she approached the path. Enough light came from the lamppost to allow her to see the intruder.

Standing with his back to her, he held a penlight in his right hand, and moved it back and forth across the leafy ground. He seemed totally absorbed in his task. He was tall, broad-shouldered and, except for that faint noise she’d heard a moment ago, quiet as a mouse.

He was definitely not Bernie Buckman, but he
could
be the man who had given her that nasty bump on the head.

Grace raised the shovel above her shoulder and held it as she would a baseball bat. “Don’t move,” she warned, trying to sound tough, “or this time,
I’ll
be the one to give you a concussion.”