CHAPTER 12

I was on the couch in the living room, craving sleep and fading fast, when thumping noises at the back of the house stirred me. I padded across the floor to the back door, the cold seeping through my socks. I pulled aside the curtain. Gilroy was on the step, stomping snow from his shoes.

Stating the obvious, I informed him that it was after ten o’clock and he looked beat. Then I kissed him, took his coat, and told him to sit—right now—on the couch.

A few minutes later we were sitting together, Gilroy’s arm around me, both of us sipping hot herbal tea. Neither one of us were the sort who could shut if off just like that and go to bed. We both needed down time before sleep, Gilroy especially. And especially when dealing with two unsolved murders.

We sat in silence for some time. I felt the soft rise and fall of his chest and thanked God—hoping He hadn’t grown tired of me thanking him for the umpteenth time—that this man was in my life. That he was with me. With me on the couch, with me when I slept at night, with me on dark January mornings, with me when we shoveled snow together and did the thousand mundane things of life that I used to do on my own.

My mind drifted back to our wedding day. It had snowed the night before. The church steps and grounds were dusted in white. White and pale pink roses were ribboned to the pews, and everywhere I looked were milk-colored vases overflowing with white roses, white freesias, and green foliage. Flowers in December.

I wore a long, ivory-colored skirt and beaded ivory top. James wore a dark suit, though Julia, before coming to her senses, had suggested he wear white in order to “match.” Holly had been my maid of honor, with no hard feelings on Julia’s part because, as she’d pointed out, “At my age I refuse to be a maid of anything.” Instead she’d handled the flower duties. And done beautifully.

What’s the protocol? Are brides supposed to take vases of flowers home with them after the ceremony? I did. More than one. Gilroy and I weren’t going on a honeymoon and I wanted to fill the house with flowers. The honeymoon would come in April.

“Any Mystery Gang breakthroughs?” Gilroy suddenly asked.

He was in a mood to talk. Good. I told him everything, starting with our conclusion that Charlotte was snooping in town records for Brodie but that the two lovebirds probably weren’t Mary’s blackmailers. “I talked to Joan Hudson in the Records Section at Town Hall.”

His arm came off my shoulder.

“Town Hall, James. I wasn’t alone in the forest at night. We also found Brodie’s accident and Isak’s so-called misconduct online, so anyone else could have too.”

He nodded. “Turner found both. It’s still unclear exactly what Karlsen did.”

“Misconduct.”

“Eamon Keegan almost died.”

“At the bakery Holly told Brodie about the car accident in the painting and she said he was genuinely shocked. He’d never seen it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Even if he’d seen the painting, he wouldn’t have examined it that closely.”

“You know what Turner couldn’t have found but we did? The addition Dalton made to Hidden Little Town Number 8.” I paused briefly to milk the moment. “It was a red and white cane like blind people use, lying in the grass next to Laura.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“We compared the image of the painting on his website with the photo I took of it at the brunch. Holly saw it, actually.”

“Great idea.”

I wrapped my hands around my cup to warm them. One way or another, we were replacing our leaky windows in the spring. “Why add one more visual allegory on Laura’s lack of artistry or inability to observe?”

“Whoever requested the change could tell us that.”

“Holly suggested I talk to Shelly Todd, Laura’s neighbor. She gave me her number.”

“Shelly Todd found the body.”

I angled in my seat to face him. “I’d really like to talk with her, James.”

“She’s not a suspect.”

Gilroy’s code for I can’t stop you. “Laura wasn’t blind. She was staring at Dalton’s painting at the brunch, she was driving a car. So why did she go ballistic over a cane and why did Dalton add it to his magnum opus?”

“Try not to ask her about the crime itself, okay? If she offers, fine. Remember you’re a civilian.”

“I’ll remember.” I faced forward again and rested my head on his shoulder. “Laura knew Dalton used his paintings to spread gossip.”

“I remember what she said. How it was amazing he’d found so much to gossip about.”

“But painting Brodie’s car accident was cruel, even for him.”

“The two had no connection prior to Keegan moving to Juniper Grove. Not family or friends, not work, nothing. I don’t know why Taylor would harbor that level of animosity. Seems like he was a bitter man.”

“When we talked, I saw a glimmer or two of kindness in him.” Suddenly I remembered Gilroy hadn’t seen the winter landscape. I put my cup on the coffee table, hurried into the kitchen, and returned with the painting, holding it in front of me, waiting for his judgment.

“Taylor painted that?”

“I know, right? It’s so different. It’s even different from his other landscapes.”

“It’s not half bad.”

“Half bad? It’s beautiful. He captured winter itself on canvas. I’d like to hang it in the house. In my office, if you’d rather.”

Gilroy sat forward and held out his hands. I relinquished the painting.

He studied it, at first taking in the whole thing, then focusing on its parts.

“What do you think?” I asked.

He took a moment to answer. “This reminds me of something.”

“That’s the feeling I get too. Nostalgia, almost. Do you know this place?”

“I don’t think so. There aren’t any mountains.”

I sat next to him. Why did the painting affect me so? Perhaps it was its melancholy aspect: the perfectly executed clouds, the winter-gray fields, the huddling birds. “Isak and Charlotte want me to sell it through Aspen Leaf Gallery. And before you ask, I went to see how Shasta was doing. Isak was there, and Charlotte came over with a letter from Roche and White stating that it’s legal for the gallery to show Dalton’s paintings.”

“That was fast.”

“Charlotte’s fast. She said Harry Davis, the attorney, wanted to put the Karlsens’ minds at ease so she volunteered to bring the letter. Roche and White didn’t send her. They easily could’ve called or emailed or even sent a courier. The only hitch is, Roche and White don’t know for sure if the gallery can sell any of the paintings.”

“I imagine that would depend on Taylor’s will.”

“Exactly.”

“But they could sell your landscape.”

“I’d get seventy-five percent.”

“Are you tempted?”

“Nah. I’d like to help Clay and Isak, but this was a gift, and I really like it.”

“Keep it. Hang it anywhere you want.”

I smiled and grabbed my cup—my leaky-window handwarmer—again. “I’ll have to think about where.”

“Over the other couch?”

“Mmm. It’s a bare wall, so . . .” My mind had ricocheted, landing on Dalton’s murder. “Shasta said it looked like there’d been a fight in Dalton’s studio, or someone had gone crazy, breaking his paint jars, throwing his paintings everywhere.”

He laid Dalton’s painting on the coffee table. “It didn’t look like a fight.”

“He didn’t struggle, then.”

“Blood evidence shows that when Taylor was stabbed, he fell backward into an easel and hit the floor. No defense wounds. He didn’t fight back.”

“Was he stabbed with a palette knife? Shasta described something with a wood handle.”

“Yes.”

“Palette knives in both cases.”

“It’s not the best weapon. It’s unwieldy, inefficient.”

“Could a woman have done it?”

“We don’t have the medical examiner’s reports yet, but the neck is soft tissue. I don’t see why not.”

“So why did the killer dig through Dalton’s studio? They even smashed his Buddha statue.”

“No idea. Anger? It appears the damage happened either as he was dying but unable to move or after he died. Someone he knew took him by surprise. Same thing with Laura Patchett.” Gilroy stopped and looked sideways at me, pulling in his chin. “Shasta Karlsen told you about the Buddha statue?”

“Yeah, she did. The paintings thrown around too. I wouldn’t have remembered anything but the knife and blood.”

“Makes me wonder if she went through his things before calling. Or took photos of the scene.”

“She was seriously shaken, though. Unlike Isak, whose only worry is the gallery.”

“That’s Clay’s worry too. Their relationship with Dalton was based on business, not friendship.”

“Dalton didn’t have any friends.”

My words hung in the air like a tolling bell. To be friendless because everyone he met fell short of his absurd standards. To have an ex-wife who hated him, even left the state because of him—and apparently with reason. To know that people wanted to associate with him solely because he could make them money. And he believed his paintings could compensate for all that. It was sad, I thought, but the word didn’t begin to describe the loss.

“I’m not sure he wanted any friends,” Gilroy said.

I cast my mind back to Dalton in his studio. Proud of the paintings in his Hidden Little Town series. Filets mignons. Ashamed of his landscapes and smaller paintings. Cheeseburgers. Clay’s paintings were cheeseburgers, too, according to Dalton, but I’d never seen Clay’s work. Clay wasn’t slow and meticulous, Dalton said. He went for quantity.

“Did you know Clay paints?”

“No,” Gilroy said. “I haven’t seen a painting of his.”

“Dalton told me. He said Clay isn’t meticulous in his work. He goes for quantity. Funny thing, though, when I was in Dalton’s studio, he was working on three paintings simultaneously. If that’s not going for quantity, I don’t know what is.”

“He could crank them out as well as anyone.” Gilroy’s expression changed. “How do you know he was working on three paintings?”

“There were three easels, a painting on each of them.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. There was his tenth Hidden painting, an unfinished landscape, and a third painting covered with a drop cloth.”

Gilroy bounded from the couch and returned seconds later with his phone. He sat down on the coffee table, facing me. “Do you think you could look at a photo of the scene? I want you to point to where you saw the easels.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not pleasant. But it’s a wide shot and his body’s not the main focus.”

“I can do it.”

Gilroy found the photo and gave me his phone. He pointed. “This is the one he knocked over during the attack.”

Dalton’s body was in the lower left portion of the photo. I partially covered it with my thumb. “That was his Hidden painting.”

“Right. And the unfinished landscape is over here. Is that the one you saw? In that same place?”

“Yeah, that’s it, and that’s where it was.”

“The third?”

“It was right here.” I tapped the screen, on the spot by the window where Dalton had placed his third painting. “The third easel was here. The canvas was rectangular, but more square than his other two canvases. Almost a square.”

“Did he say what he was working on?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. But it was the only painting in his studio that was covered. Now that I think of it, it’s strange. If anything he would’ve covered the unfinished landscape. He wasn’t proud of those.”

“Anything else stand out?”

I studied the photo. “Someone made a mess. They tossed his paintbrushes and landscapes everywhere. Did they damage the Hidden painting?”

“It has blood on it, but it didn’t appear to have been deliberately damaged. The landscape wasn’t touched.”

“Do you know how many landscapes were in the studio? Dalton said he’d finished four and was working on that fifth one. Mine was one of the four finished paintings.” I handed back the phone. “That left three against the wall and the unfinished one on the easel.”

Gilroy tapped and swiped. He read. “There were three landscapes total, including the unfinished one on the easel.”

“Then the killer took one of the landscapes Dalton had propped against the wall. And he took the covered canvas.”

“Or someone who came in after the killer did. I think another interview with Shasta Karlsen is in order.”