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“Wouldn’t you have?” Fred asked. “If they talked about your wife that way?”
Matt made a mental note to talk to the notorious Badger brothers, two former little punks who had grown into bigger punks. “Probably, but go on.”
“Fortunately, Eddie split us up before we could do any real damage to his place. I stormed out and went home to confront Denise. She wasn’t back from the shop yet. Before you ask, no one saw me come home.”
“And everyone at Pat’s assumed you were going to the Hatfield Gallery.”
“What was I supposed to do? Carry a sign?”
“Why didn’t you just walk over to the jewelry shop?”
“Because I didn’t want to make a scene. I was never much for airing my dirty laundry in public. And while I was home, Steven was being murdered.”
“With your gun.” When Fred remained silent, Matt added, “Mind telling me how it ended up in the flower bed of the Hatfield Gallery?”
“If you mean, do I have an idea who could have planted it there, no, I don’t. And make no mistake, it is a plant, made to look as if I dropped it in my haste to get away. As if I would do a dumb thing like that.”
“Who knows where you keep your gun?”
“It’s no secret to those who know me well that I keep my guns locked up in the bedroom armoire.”
“So whoever framed you not only had the key to your house, but the key to the armoire as well? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“When I come home, I’m in the habit of dropping my keys on the kitchen hutch. The kitchen is where I read my paper and have coffee with my friends, or whoever feels like dropping in. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to make an impression of both keys at the first opportune moment.”
“Any idea who that someone might be?”
Fred shook his head. “Nope. Some weeks I can’t even tell you how many people stop by, especially now that I’m retired.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. Fred Baxter had been just as popular when Matt was growing up. The house was always filled with friends and neighbors who came to chat, to tell the chief their troubles, or to just play a few rounds of poker.
“So the question is, who hated Hatfield enough to kill him?”
“He wasn’t very well-liked, especially by the men. Did they hate him enough to kill him?” Fred shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wanted to kill him myself when I heard about him and Denise.”
“Who would you put at the top of that list?”
Fred was thoughtful for a moment. “Once I would have said Buzz Brown, but too much time has gone by. He was pissed off, though, blamed Steven for his wife’s death.”
“Why was Steven so set on not having that land developed?” Matt asked.
“Oh, the usual reasons—traffic, taxes, overpopulated schools. Buzz didn’t buy it, though. He thought it was personal.”
“Personal how?”
“Don’t know. You can ask Buzz when he comes back from his trip to Kansas in a few days. Or you could talk to Duke Ridgeway. He sits on the planning board and played golf with Steven. He might know something.”
“I’ll give him a call, and talk to Buzz as well when he gets back. Who else is on your list?”
“Hatfield was the town’s heartthrob. He got in trouble at the local college where he taught a weekly art appreciation course. A sexual harassment complaint from a young coed almost got him fired. And then there was this artist from Milford. Steven had promised to feature her in a one-woman show but never did. Witnesses saw them at the gallery, shouting at each other.”
“Do you have her name?”
“Elizabeth Runyon. She works part-time at her aunt’s antique shop on Church Street.”
Matt wrote the information down. “It won’t hurt to check her out, but I wouldn’t hold too much hope with those two,” Matt warned. “There isn’t much of a motive for murder with either one.”
“And that’s why I’m the only viable suspect. With me, they’ve got it all, Matty—motive, opportunity and the kind of evidence not even Clarence Darrow could dismiss.”
Matt tried to stay optimistic. The last thing his father needed right now was for his own son to tell him that his case was hopeless. But the truth was, the killer had engineered and executed what looked, at least on the surface, like the perfect crime.
“Something odd happened last night, though,” Fred said as an afterthought.
Matt’s antennae went up. “I’m listening.”
“You may not know this yet, but in his will, Steven left the gallery to his ex-fiancée, a curator at some Boston museum. She arrived in town last night, presumably to take over, and surprised an intruder inside the gallery. Foolishly, she tried to stop him and got pretty banged up in the process. She spent the night in the hospital and was released this morning. Her name is Grace McKenzie. She was engaged to Steven about ten years ago and apparently, they had remained friends.”
“Was anything taken from the gallery?”
“The police don’t know yet. A few paintings were thrown to the floor, but the rest of the place was undisturbed, so Josh ruled out vandalism.”
“It sounds to me like the robber was looking for a particular painting.”
“Maybe. Miss McKenzie will be able to tell what’s missing after she does an inventory.”
“That break-in could be important, Pop. Is Josh investigating it?”
“He has to. The news is out and a few people in town want the investigation into Steven’s murder reopened.”
“What is she like, this Grace McKenzie? Do you know?”
“According to Rob, she is pretty, sassy, smart and gutsy. Not too many women would try to stop an intruder in the middle of the night.” He chuckled. “I heard that she packs a nasty kick.”
“She hurt the guy?”
“I’ll say. She hit him in the balls with the heel of her boot.”
“Ouch.”
“My sentiments exactly. Josh was impressed, and as you know, he doesn’t impress easily.”
Matt smiled. “You’re pretty well informed for a guy who spends all his time behind bars.”
Fred looked smug. “My former deputy keeps me au courant.”
“Is that okay with Josh?”
“Hell no, but who cares?”
Eight
“Sarah, please.” Grace switched her cell phone to her left ear as she stopped at a traffic light. “There is no need for you to come to New Hope. The gallery is fine. I’d like to tell you that nothing was taken, but the truth is, I haven’t had a chance to check the inventory yet. As soon as I do—”
“For heaven’s sake, Grace, I’m not worried about the inventory. Chief Nader told me you had a concussion. That’s why I called. I’m concerned about you.”
Was she? Really? “The doctor gave me a clean bill of health before I left the hospital.” The light turned green. “I’ve got to go, Sarah. I hate to talk on the phone while I drive. Is it okay if we talk later?”
“Call me anytime.”
After saying goodbye, Grace snapped her phone shut and dropped it on the seat next to her. Sarah had mellowed over the years, or maybe it was Steven’s death that had changed her. Grief had a way of doing that to people. Grace made a mental note to call her tonight, not because she had a sudden yearning to talk to the woman, but because she felt sorry for her. For all her money, her busy social life and a houseful of servants, Sarah was a very lonely woman.
Grace left the town behind and followed North River Road, a narrow, winding thoroughfare that led deeper into the heart of Bucks County. As the morning mist lifted, making way for bright sunshine, she understood why Steven, who had an eye for beauty, had chosen this part of Pennsylvania as his new home. And why local artists never tired of painting those magnificent landscapes.
Grace raised her visor so she could feast on the scenery. Ancient oaks and red maples bordered the road, forming a brilliant canopy of yellow, orange and russet. Tucked behind those majestic trees, centuries-old homes overlooked the Delaware River, one of the most historic waterways in the nation. It was difficult to look at this setting and not recall how history was made, right here in Bucks County.
Steven’s cottage, although small, took her breath away. Half-timbered and Northern European in style, it was barely fifteen feet wide, with wood beams on the exterior walls and cedar shingles on the roof. The windows, all leaded glass, were small, but in perfect balance with the rest of the house.
Grace pulled her car onto the graveled driveway, half of which was covered with dry leaves, and went to unlock the door. She found herself in an attractive living room with comfortable sofas and chairs in a plain navy fabric, and plush wall-to-wall carpeting in a neutral shade. A corner of the room had been made into a dining area, with a round maple table and four chairs. The high ceilings and natural flow from one room to the next made the cottage seem bigger than it was. A flight of stairs in the middle of the living room led to a second floor.
She put her suitcase down and took time to look at the mementos Steven had accumulated over the years—an antique peg hook where he had hung art work, a whimsical white gourd lamp and a garden urn that served as a side table. Family photographs were everywhere; some she had seen before, others she didn’t know. On the mantel, above the stone fireplace, was one photograph she knew very well. It had been taken in Santa Barbara, where she and Steven had attended an art festival a few months before their breakup.
The snapshot brought back vivid memories of their two years as a couple, the plans they had made to someday own an art gallery together and the young artists they hoped to discover, all in spite of Sarah’s strong objections.
As the wedding date drew near, however, Grace began to fear that as much as she tried to ignore her future mother-in-law’s criticism, the strain of that relationship would eventually affect her and Steven’s marriage.
“That’s what we call getting cold feet,” her father had cautioned. “If you’re not ready to get married, don’t do it.”
Maybe that’s why Steven’s betrayal hadn’t hurt her as deeply as she had expected. Although wounded at first, after a few days, she was able to look at the breakup as a blessing rather than a tragedy. A few months later, when Steven had called to ask if she could take a look at a sculpture he was thinking of buying, she had surprised herself by saying yes.
She was glad that he had fulfilled his dreams, Grace thought as she kept gazing at the photograph, and saddened that he had enjoyed his success for such a short time. She wasn’t sure why he had kept this snapshot, though. Sentimentality? A memento of what could have been?
After putting the snapshot back, she picked up her suitcase and carried it upstairs. The single bedroom was large and mostly white, with a four-poster brass bed and an adjoining bathroom in the same color scheme. The look was clean and uncluttered without being harsh.
Steven’s clothes hung neatly on the rack in the walk-in closet. There were shirts from Savile Row, cashmere jackets, custom-made suits and designer ties. Shoes and boots in various styles and colors were on an upper shelf.
Glad that she hadn’t packed much, she hung her clothes in the facing rack. Then, remembering that she had a date with Denise Baxter, she stripped and went into the bathroom to shower.
“Believe it or not,” Denise said, taking her role of tour guide seriously. “New Hope started as an industrial town, with mills that were busy manufacturing paper, quarrying stone and grinding grain.”
She unwrapped a sandwich and gave half to Grace. “But even in those early days,” she continued, “the beauty of Bucks County did not go unnoticed. Soon artists began settling along the Delaware River and New Hope became an artists’ colony.”
“I can see why,” Grace said. “The scenery from North River Road is nothing short of spectacular.”
“And it only gets better.”
As she ate her tuna salad on rye, Grace took in the many shops along Main Street, all filled with an assortment of merchandise—candy, antiques, rare books, gourmet food, garden decorations. Business owners had welcomed fall with planters of colorful mums outside their doors and huge corn stalks wrapped around the telephone poles.
“Some of the architecture is beautiful,” she remarked. “Do any of those buildings come with a pedigree?”
“Lots of them. For example, the Logan Inn we passed a moment ago is on the National Register of Historic Places. In fact, New Hope itself is registered as a National Historic Site. That big stone house over there—” she pointed “—is the Parry Mansion, and was once the home of Benjamin Parry, a wealthy mill owner.”
“I’ve already counted five art galleries. Wasn’t Steven worried about the competition?”
“All the time. The one that concerned him most, though, was the Haas-Muth Gallery, just up the street from the Hatfield Gallery. The owner is an artist, but he doesn’t just display paintings. He also sells Oriental rugs, which brings a lot of traffic. Steven was thinking of doing something similar, not with rugs, but maybe with antique clocks.” Her voice turned a little somber. “He never had the chance.”
“Who is that?” Grace asked, nodding in the direction of a twin-spiraled church.
“Father Donnelly. He’s our pastor. He first came here as a young priest many years ago, but the church likes to move their people around and he was sent to another parish. Now he’s back.”
She smiled at the handsome, fortysomething man watching them approach. He wore black pants and a black jacket with a white collar peeking through. “Hello, Father. Were your ears ringing? I was talking about you.”
“I’m flattered.” He rested his gaze on Grace. “You must be Miss McKenzie.”
She extended her hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Father.”
“Welcome to New Hope. I hope you’re recovered from that unfortunate incident last night.”
“Completely, thank you.”
“In that case, you might find time to attend Sunday mass?” His eyes shone with youthful mischief as he talked.
Grace wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but how could she refuse such a gracious request? “I’ll make a point to do that,” she promised.
“You’re incorrigible, Father,” Denise said. “Always trying to garner more parishioners.”
“That’s my job, Denise, as well as my pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to make my hospital rounds. You both have a good day.”
“There goes a good man,” Denise said as the pastor walked away. “He’s been a huge comfort to me. He never preaches, never criticizes and he never pushes you to say anything you don’t want to say. He sits with me and we just talk. He gives me the strength I need to face the day.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “This morning I asked him to look at some earrings I made and give me his opinion.”
“Did he try them on, too?”
Denise laughed. “No, silly, but he would have if I had asked him to. That’s how he is. And speaking of earrings, here’s my shop.”
They had stopped in front of a store named, appropriately, Baubles. Denise unlocked the front door and Grace found herself in a bright, colorful store that was a perfect reflection of its owner. Two glass cases held an assortment of beaded necklaces, rings, bracelets and earrings of every shape and color. On the counters, yards of silver and gold chains hung on small racks, competing for space.
Grace walked around, admiring Denise’s work. “You’re very talented,” she said as she picked up a necklace with a small citrine pear hanging from it. “And very versatile. There’s something for every taste.”
“Thank you. I love my work. It keeps me busy, especially now that Fred is…away.”
Grace kept moving along the cases, studying the delicate workmanship. “How did you learn to do all this?”
“A friend of mine used to own this store. She gave me a job as a salesgirl the day I graduated from high school. I learned a lot from her over the years, not to mention that we got along like two sisters. That’s why I continued to work after I married Fred, for the love of it. Then one day, Alice announced that she was selling the store and moving to upstate New York. She was hoping I’d make her an offer, but I wasn’t about to ask Fred for that kind of money. A week later, Fred handed me the keys and told me the store was mine. I thought I would faint.”
“Seems to me like he made a sound investment.”
“Go ahead.” Denise came to stand behind her. “Pick something. As my welcome gift to you.”
“That’s very kind of you, Denise, but I can’t accept.”
