скачать книгу бесплатно
“It’ll be fine. In spite of what you’ve just experienced, New Hope is really a peaceful, law-abiding town.”
Tell that to Steven, Grace thought as she closed her eyes.
* * *
Following another thorough examination, Grace was released from the hospital the next morning, and escorted to the police station by Deputy Rob Montgomery, who had arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. Once there, she had given the chief the same statement she had given the night before, signed it and had accepted the deputy’s offer to walk her to the gallery, which was only a few blocks away.
She felt well rested, and except for the tenderness in the back of her skull, there were no symptoms from last night’s attack.
Standing alone in the gallery’s showroom, Grace took her first good look around. The crime scene team had left the place a mess. White dust was everywhere, furniture had been overturned, and a large, L-shaped desk was in complete disarray.
Grace picked up a chair that had been knocked down and put it back in an upright position as she let her gaze sweep from one end of the room to the other. Steven had made the most of the fifty-by-thirty-foot space by hanging paintings of various sizes close together. Larger works were propped up on easels placed throughout the room. She counted forty-five paintings ranging in price from fifteen hundred to fifteen thousand dollars. A small portion of the work displayed was devoted to western art and established artists. The rest of the inventory was comprised of colorful Bucks County landscapes signed by names she didn’t recognize.
She walked across the room to the desk where art catalogs, correspondence, newspapers and invoices were scattered across it. Behind the desk was an archway that led to the back room.
There, too, she found evidence of police work, as well as minor damage left by the alleged robber. Several paintings lay on the floor, facedown, as if somebody, presumably her aggressor, had gone through the stack, one by one, before letting each painting fall. Half a dozen were still standing, suggesting that he hadn’t had time to examine them.
Regardless of what the intruder had been looking for, one thing was certain. He had no respect for art.
Except for the white dust used to collect fingerprints, the rest of the room was intact. A Formica counter held a microwave and a Braun coffeemaker, as well as an assortment of frame samples and more art catalogs. A small cupboard housed containers of coffee, sugar and creamer.
A quick check of an upper shelf revealed, of all things, a tackle box, also dusted for fingerprints. To her recollection, Steven hadn’t been much of a fisherman. In fact, he had hated the sport.
Curious, she opened the box. It was filled with lures. Not just any lures, but some of the best available in today’s market. She should know. Her father was an avid fisherman and had introduced Grace to the sport at an early age.
She looked at the selection in front of her. There were squid manglers, glow-in-the-dark spoons, crank baits, litterbugs, walleyes and bomber flats. She even spotted a Wigg-Lure, which die-hard fishermen claimed was the most phenomenal fishing lure ever invented.
What in the world was Steven doing with state-of-the-art lures?
She put the Wigg-Lure back in its compartment and the tackle box back on the shelf. Steven’s new hobbies were none of her business. She had more pressing matters to tend to.
She walked over to the paintings and started to pick them up, one by one, inspecting them carefully as she went. Each painting had a Post-it stuck to it with the name of the artist, the title of the work and the price. Only the last painting sparked instant recognition. It was from Eduardo Arroyo, an early twentieth-century artist who had produced more than a hundred paintings in his lifetime. This particular canvas, about twenty-eight by twenty-three inches, was the sixth and last of his Santa Fe series. Showing a typical day in the town square, with merchants displaying their ware on colorful blankets, it was entitled Market Day.
What was the work of one of the country’s premiere American West artists doing in a back room, instead of being displayed along with the other western paintings in the showroom?
She looked at the Post-it, and blinked. Twenty-five thousand dollars? For a painting that was worth at least four times that?
Steven had been fond of western art, but not particularly knowledgeable, which might explain his underpricing. But what about the dealer, or the collector who owned the painting? Didn’t they know what they were selling? And what it was worth?
Fortunately, Sarah had given her carte blanche to do as she saw fit and that’s what she would do. She planned to start by taking all sixteen paintings to the front room, including the Arroyo, and check Steven’s paperwork for more information on the latter.
She was dusting a frame when someone behind her said, “So you’re Grace McKenzie.”
Five
A woman stood on the threshold of the gallery, leaning against the doorjamb. One hand was on her hip, while the other played with a long, blond curl. She was in her early thirties, no taller than five-three or four, with almond-shaped blue eyes and a small petulant mouth painted a bright red. She wore a celery-green denim jacket with embroidered lapels, snug jeans tucked into ankle boots, and chandelier earrings that shimmered in the October sunlight.
Her expression was curious as she inspected Grace from head to toe. “I’ll say this for Steven. He had good taste in women.” She gestured toward the door. “I knocked. Guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Guess I didn’t,” Grace replied, matching the woman’s casual tone.
The visitor moved aside as Grace walked back into the showroom. “I’m Denise Baxter, by the way.”
Baxter. That made her the wife of Fred Baxter, the man charged with Steven’s murder.
“I figured I’d come and tell you the dirt about me before you heard it from the townspeople. That way you’ll know the real scoop.”
Grace wiped her hands on a paper towel. “You don’t need to tell me anything, Mrs. Baxter—”
“Please, call me Denise. Everybody does.”
“All right, Denise. As I was saying, you don’t owe me any explanation. And if it makes you feel better, I was never big on gossip, idle or otherwise.”
The young woman studied her for a moment more, then bobbed her head. “Yup, you’re exactly like Steven described you—straight to the point.” Her gaze shifted to a spot on the floor, halfway between the desk and the front door. “It feels strange being here. It’s my first time since…” She stopped, as though she couldn’t say the words.
Grace followed her gaze. “Is that where they found Steven’s body?”
Denise nodded. “Nobody was allowed near the place while the yellow tape was on. All I saw, a couple of days later, was the chalk outline. Then the investigation was over and Mrs. Hatfield had the entire gallery scrubbed clean.” She returned her gaze to Grace. “She hated me on sight.”
Grace smiled. “Don’t take it personally. Sarah is very hard to please. Trust me on that.”
“Steven blamed her for the breakup between the two of you.”
How like Steven to put the blame on someone else. “Did he really?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He told me how he messed up, but he felt that if it hadn’t been for his mother being so hard on you, you would have forgiven him and stuck around.”
“In that case, he was deluding himself. I broke up with Steven because he cheated on me. Pure and simple. Call me old-fashioned, but trust and loyalty rank high on my list of priorities, especially between a man and a woman about to be married. As for Sarah, she had nothing to do with my decision. I had come to terms with her attitude toward me by simply ignoring it.”
Denise looked at her with undisguised admiration. “You have more guts than I have. One look at the woman and my knees turned to jelly.” She paused before adding, “I can see why Steven was so fond of you. You don’t take any crap from anyone.”
Grace smiled. “Is that what he told you?”
“No, that’s what I’ve been hearing all morning. The way you fought back that robber last night is the talk of the town. Where did you learn to kick like that?”
“In kickboxing class. When you live in the city and work until late at night, self-defense becomes a necessity.”
“Do you have to defend yourself often?”
“Actually, this was my first time. Hopefully my last.”
“Are you all right? Lorraine at the café says that you spent the night in the hospital.”
News traveled fast in a small town. “I’m fine. Just some bumps and bruises.”
Denise sat on the stool in front of the desk, making herself at home. “You seem like a good person.”
“You can tell that after only a few minutes?”
“I’m a good judge of character. How about you? Are you a good judge of character?”
“I like to think so.”
“Let’s put you to the test. What do you think of me?”
Grace laughed. The woman was relentless, and yet, there was something about her that was endearing. “I think you’re very pretty.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“All right.” Grace sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk and put her arms on the armrests. “I think you’re honest—a little insecure, perhaps, but that doesn’t seem to interfere with your candor. And in spite of what you say, I think you’re very gutsy. The fact that you’re here proves it.”
“Hmm.”
“Am I right?”
“Pretty much. You and I could be friends, you know. God knows I could use a friend. As you’ll soon find out, I’m not the most popular person in town these days.”
“Because of your affair with Steven?”
“That, but mostly because of Fred’s arrest. The people in New Hope worship him. He was so much more than their police chief. He was their friend, their champion, their advisor. They could talk to him about anything. Fred was always there, ready to help. I can’t even tell you how many marriages he saved, just by making each couple talk to each other. The residents revered him almost as much as they do Father Donnelly, who’s pretty much of a saint in these parts. And now, Fred’s in jail and it’s all my fault.”
“Guilt is a heavy burden to carry, Denise. And it doesn’t change anything. All it does is make you feel bad.”
“I wouldn’t feel half as bad if Fred was guilty, but he isn’t. He didn’t kill Steven!”
There was a conviction in her voice as she spoke those words that made Grace pay instant attention. “I don’t understand. From what I heard—”
“I know what you heard. None of it is true. My husband did not kill Steven Hatfield.”
“Wasn’t his gun found outside the gallery? With his fingerprints on it?”
“Pft.” Denise gave a disdainful toss of her blond curls. “Do you think for one second that anyone with an ounce of intelligence would drop the murder weapon as he fled? Which is what Chief Nader says happened.”
“It does sound a little…”
“Sloppy. And Fred is anything but sloppy. That’s what I told Josh. The man worked with Fred since the day he got out of the army. He knows him better than anyone.”
“But you said there was an investigation.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you can call that an investigation. The little Josh did, he did for show.”
“What do you think happened?”
Looking restless, Denise stood up and started walking around the gallery, stopping to look at a painting every now and then. “It all started at Pat’s Pub, where Fred likes to stop for a beer every evening, you know, just to shoot the bull with his friends. That evening, he walked in on a conversation that sent him into orbit. Cal and Lou Badger, two hopeless morons, were talking about me and Steven, apparently in vivid details.
“Fred would have killed them with his bare hands if Eddie—that’s the pub’s owner—hadn’t stopped him. Then he stormed out, and because he was in such a rage, everyone assumed he was on his way here, to the gallery.”
“He wasn’t?”
“Fred isn’t the type to make a scene in a place of business. He’s much too decent to do that. He went home to wait for me.”
“So you can vouch for him? You can give him an alibi?”
“No.” Denise’s shoulders slumped. “I was working on a new line. I make jewelry,” she explained. “And I didn’t leave my shop until about seven. When I got home, the police were there, handcuffing Fred.”
“If your husband didn’t do it, then who did?”
“Take your pick.”
That was a strange comment. Steven wasn’t the type to have enemies. “What do you mean by that?”
“Steven had his share of enemies in this town, starting with Buzz Brown.”
“Who is Buzz Brown?”
“He owns a large farm on Route 232. Six months ago his wife became very ill. Buzz tried to sell his property to a developer so he could move Alma to Arizona, but Steven, who was a member of the township planning board, strongly objected to the developer’s plan to build three hundred single-family homes on the site.
“When the township residents heard that the subdivision would destroy the character of the area, increase traffic and raise taxes, they started attending the planning board meetings and voiced their concerns. As a result, the application was denied and a few weeks later, Alma died. Buzz held Steven personally responsible for his wife’s death. They never spoke after that.”
“Six months is a long time, don’t you think?” Grace asked. “Assuming that Buzz Brown was mad enough to kill, why didn’t he do it right away?”
“Because if he had, he would have been the number one suspect.”
Obviously, Denise had given the case a lot of thought. “You said that Steven had his share of enemies? Who are the others?”
“The dean of the local college, John Amos.”
“The same college where Steven taught an art course twice a week?”
Denise nodded. “As you know only too well, Steven was a hopeless womanizer. One of the coeds reported him for sexual harassment. The dean wanted to fire Steven on the spot, but the faculty intervened in his favor and he was allowed to stay. The dean was furious.”
“Why was he allowed to stay?”
“Why do you think? Steven’s mother stepped in, made a generous donation to the college, and that was that. John Amos is lucky he didn’t get fired.”
The incident must have been humiliating for the dean, but hardly a reason for murder. “Who else?”
“I can’t name anyone specifically,” Denise said. “But the way Steven flirted with the women here in town…” She rolled her eyes again. “They all loved the attention, but the husbands and boyfriends, well, that was another matter.”
“Was he sleeping with any of the women?”
For the first time, Denise’s gaze faltered. “No.” She looked away. “He wasn’t.”
Grace gave her a long look. The question had made Denise uncomfortable.
Perhaps sensing Grace’s doubts, Denise turned around. “If you think that I killed Steven,” she said, “forget it. I can’t shoot to save my life. Ask Carmine, who runs the shooting range. He’ll tell you. Fred took me target shooting a few times, before he finally gave up. Besides, like I said, I was at the shop. A lot of people saw me there.”
Like art, people were never quite the way they seemed. There were layers to be peeled and angles to study. Denise’s seemingly forthright manner had taken a different turn. She was hiding something, perhaps to protect herself, perhaps to protect her husband.
