I checked on Declan. He was happily puttering away in his workshop, organizing screws and nails by size in itty-bitty bins. I kissed his still-rough cheek and went back inside to call Aldo.
Settling on the couch, with a sweating glass of iced tea on the coffee table, I took a deep breath and made the call. After several rings, he didn’t answer. I hung up when his voice-mail message came on.
This is getting old.
Of course, he didn’t know my number. I often let calls go to voice mail when I didn’t know the number, and most of the time they were telemarketing calls. I’d try again, and if he still didn’t answer, I planned to text him and say I knew someone who might be interested in his art. He might even believe me.
However, he answered the second time around. “Yeah?”
As the day had gone on, I’d decided how to question Aldo Bracket. It was one of the reasons I’d wanted to make sure Declan was out of earshot.
I was going to use my Voice.
“Aldo, this is Katie Lightfoot. Do you remember me?”
“Maybe.”
“We met at the Markes Gallery. Twice.”
“How did you get this number?” He didn’t sound very happy to hear from me.
I gathered and focused power behind my Voice but tried to keep it subtle. I’d never be as good as Mimsey, but I hoped to one day not be such a bull in a china shop with that element of my witchy talent.
“Who did you tell that Leigh Markes was having an affair?”
“Leigh Markes . . .” He was struggling against answering the question.
I asked it again, adding a little more ginger to the words.
“Jo,” he said, as if he couldn’t help it. Which, let’s face it, he couldn’t.
“Who did you tell Jo Leigh was involved with?”
There was a long silence. I was about to ask the question again when he said dreamily, “Her husband.”
Leigh was seeing Walker? What? No, wait. Leigh was seeing Jo’s husband.
The handsome Rhett.
Oh, Lordy.
I had to confirm. “Jo Sterling’s husband, Rhett, was having an affair with Leigh Markes.”
“Yeah . . .” He groaned as if with great effort, and the line went dead.
Well, that was one way to stop my Voice from working. But I had what I needed.
“I hate it when you do that,” Declan said from the doorway that led out to the backyard. We’d left it open all day. “It makes me feel like ants are crawling in my brain.”
“Stop sneaking up on me,” I snapped.
He gave me a look.
“Sorry.” I was. He’d scared me, though. I took a deep breath to calm my heart rate and told him what I’d found out.
“But I thought this Aldo character said he hadn’t told anyone,” Declan said. “That he wanted to use the information as blackmail.”
“That’s what he told me when we were at the gallery.” I considered. “But he must have been lying.”
Things are not always as they seem.
“I wonder . . .” I squinted in thought. “I wonder why he would tell Jo at all? I mean, Aldo isn’t the kind of guy who does something like that out of altruism. What if he’d already tried to blackmail Leigh, and it hadn’t worked? I can certainly see her telling him to go fly a kite if he threatened her. She wasn’t a woman to take any guff.” I sighed. “But if it’s true, I can see why she’d want to keep it secret from her best friend.” I rubbed hands over my face. “What a mess.”
I dropped my hands in my lap. “What if by telling Jo, he was trying to cause upheaval in Leigh’s life?”
Declan dropped into his old rocking chair. “Why?”
“Maybe he thought that the more distracted she was, the more likely he’d get his show.”
Or the more dead she was.
As I changed out the laundry again, I thought about whether to call Quinn with what I’d found out or make one more call. I decided on the latter.
“Sterling Fitness. How may I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “Is Jo Sterling available?”
“Just a minute. I’ll get her.” Suddenly, I was on hold listening to Olivia Newton John singing “Physical.”
It seemed like a lot longer than a minute before the voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry. Jo can’t come to the phone. She got a phone call and says she has to leave in a few minutes. I might be able to snag her on her way out if you want to leave a message.”
I cursed to myself. “No, thank you. Can you tell me when she’ll be back?”
“I’m not sure. She was scheduled to work until nine tonight.”
“Okay. I’ll call again later.”
Only I wouldn’t. Something had frightened Jo, and I had a feeling it was one Alessandro Bracket telling her I’d called him asking questions.
Great. Quinn is going to kill me.
I braced myself and called the detective anyway. At least I’d figured out a better suspect than Walker Stokes.
Quinn didn’t answer his phone. Figuring I’d lucked out, I left a lengthy voice mail.
“How do caprese BLTs sound for supper?” Declan asked after I hung up.
A glance at my watch informed me it was already five thirty. I grinned at my husband. “Really good. I can’t believe we’re even talking about eating again after that breakfast, though.”
“Not just eating again, but eating bacon again.”
We had sourdough from the Honeybee, leftover bacon from breakfast, and tomato and basil fresh from the garden. However, one of us had to run to the store for fresh mozzarella.
“I need to wash up,” Declan said. “Then I’ll go.”
“No worries. I’ll go right now, while you’re showering,” I said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly because Declan gave me a puzzled look.
I ignored it. “Want to go for a ride, Mungo?”
Yip!
I grabbed my wallet and hurried out to the Bug. Mungo jumped into the passenger seat. I buckled him in before backing out of the driveway.
“We’re going to take a little detour,” I said.
My familiar cocked his head and looked at me quizzically.
“Jo Sterling was at her gym a few minutes ago. Maybe I can still catch her.”
He made a noise in the back of his throat.
“At the gym,” I clarified. “I’m not going to confront her on the street, for heaven’s sake.”
He huffed and looked out the window.
I drove to Sterling Fitness, admittedly a bit too fast. When I ran through a very stale yellow light at West 37th Street, Mungo gave me a stern look.
“Sorry,” I said. There was a sense of urgency running under my skin, a feeling of crisis boiling up on the horizon like a thundercloud despite the reality of easy autumn light beginning to slant across the city toward sunset. It had begun when I remembered Connell telling us things weren’t always as they appeared and had grown exponentially as the day wore on and I thought about the case.
I careened into the Sterling Fitness parking lot and buzzed around the outside loop of the lot toward the front of the building. As I did, Jo came out of the front door and strode to a white Jeep Wrangler.
Squinting, I tried to make out the license plate number. I made out the letters and numbers and read them off to Mungo, which helped me to remember them. Not only that, I saw it was a custom tag, an uncommon one that I’d nevertheless seen around town on a few cars. It said play golf georgia on the bottom and had a picture of a golf ball and a gold flag with the number 18 on it.
Quickly, I grabbed my phone and texted Quinn.
He responded right away.
In a meeting. Got your voice mail. Will follow up later.
Frustrated, I put my phone down. He wasn’t taking me seriously. Should I just go home?
No. See which direction she’s going, at least. Maybe she’s on her way home, and I’m overreacting.
On the other hand, if Aldo had called her, she could be running—on the lam, as it were.
However, it quickly became apparent Jo Sterling was not trying to skip town. Keeping as far back as I could, I followed her down Lathrop Avenue to Louisville Road. She turned left toward downtown, and we stayed on Louisville until it turned into Liberty Street. By then, I had a notion where she might be going, and sure enough, she turned right onto Whitaker. I fell back even farther as we arrowed straight through the Historic District, drove along the edge of Forsyth Park, and headed toward Midtown. I was pretty sure Jo had never seen my car but figured a celery green Volkswagen Bug might stand out in someone’s rearview mirror after a few miles. When she reached the side street that led to the Markes Gallery, I slowed to a crawl, waiting until I was sure she was well down the block before making the turn myself.
Jo parked half a block away from the gallery, got out of her car, and sauntered along the sidewalk as if out for a casual stroll. I made a U-turn and parked a full block away and on the other side of the street, then twisted to watch her through my back window. As Jo walked, she kept looking up, turning her head, searching the light poles and buildings. A couple of times, she looked over her shoulder, toward her car.
What’s she doing?
When she got to the gallery, I rolled down all the windows and asked Mungo to stay in the car. His eyebrows drew together in a doggy scowl.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, getting out of the car.
Slowly, I walked toward the gallery along the opposite sidewalk. She turned up the walk to the door and pulled on the handle, but it didn’t open. I looked at my watch. It was after six o’clock. The gallery was likely closed for the day. I prepared to duck down if she turned around, but instead she went around the corner and along the side of the building.
I scooted across the street and peered around the corner as she went around the back. I ran lightly along the side of the building and stopped to listen. I heard the sound of a key turning in a lock and peeked around the corner just in time to see the door closing behind Jo.
She was inside the Markes Gallery.
My first thought was to find an unobtrusive place to wait and then see where she went next. But what was she doing in there? My curiosity felt like an itch under my skin. Could she be stealing something? Could she be planting some kind of evidence that would implicate someone else? Or maybe she was just . . . no. I couldn’t think of a good reason for Jo Sterling to be in the Markes Gallery after it closed.
She does have a key, though.
I didn’t know what to think. Leigh had been her best friend, she’d said. Had that really been true? Could she have really killed her if she thought Leigh was betraying her? Most women would take revenge on their cheating spouse. I could be completely wrong about Jo. Maybe she was innocent, and Quinn was right about Walker.
Then I realized what she’d been doing as she walked down the street. She’d been looking for cameras—traffic cameras, surveillance cameras, and security cameras on buildings.
Security cameras. Like the ones inside the gallery. I’d noticed them the first time I’d been there, with Bianca.
I wasn’t wrong. Jo was acting hinky because she was guilty of something.
Quickly, I texted Quinn again, telling him where I was and that Jo had gone into the gallery. After a few seconds of hesitation, I texted Declan, too. I didn’t want to worry him, but I was alone, and Jo was a killer. I’d certainly proved that I could defend myself before, and from some pretty scary people—having the power of a lightwitch had its advantages in tight situations—but there was no need to be stupid.
Still, I had to know what she was doing in there. Taking a deep breath, I turned my phone ringer off and the camera on. I needed some kind of evidence. My hope was to snap a few pics of whatever Jo was doing and hightail it out of there. Gathering all my intuition and asking for aid from the four elements, I slowly opened the back door and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind me.
The sound of raised voices made me freeze. The door opened onto a small hallway with an office on one side and a bathroom on the other. The alarm keypad by the door showed the security alarm was off. I tiptoed to the office and peeked inside. Another door led to the gallery proper. It was open, and I could see Paisley Long standing with her hands on her hips.
“I’m clearing out my stuff,” she said. “I’m quitting tomorrow. Right now, though, I’m still an employee of this gallery, and I have a right to be here. You don’t, and you shouldn’t have that key.”
“Oh, relax. Leigh gave me the key.” Jo’s tone was dismissive.
“Why would she do that?” Paisley demanded.
“She wanted me to pick something up for her a while ago.”
“So why are you here now?”
“There’s something in the office I need. I’ll get it and be on my way.”
I saw Paisley’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “What is it?”
“None of your business!” Jo’s voice sounded closer, and I moved to duck back into the hallway.
“I think you should just be on your way. Come back when the gallery is open tomorrow and Walker is here,” Paisley said.
Jo swore at her.
“That’s it. I’m calling the police.”
“Put that down!” There was real anger in Jo’s voice.
Paisley cried out.
I ran through the office and out to the gallery. Jo was standing over Paisley, who was sitting on the floor with her arm up in a defensive position. Their heads turned as I barreled in. When they saw me, they both gaped.
“I’ve already called the police,” I said and held up my phone as if that were proof, then took a picture of them.
Fury infused Jo’s face. In a flash, she strode over and knocked my phone out of my hand.
“Hey!” I said.
She ignored me, leaning down to pick it up. I groaned to myself as I saw the camera was still on, so Jo didn’t need my passcode. Barely sparing me a glance, she tapped the screen.
“You haven’t called anyone since earlier this afternoon. Somebody named Peter. Nice try.”
“Detective Quinn’s first name is Peter,” I said. “You remember him questioning you about Leigh Markes’ murder, don’t you?”
“Sure,” she said. “And you’re on a first-name basis with him? I don’t think so.”
“Katie’s solved murders before.” Paisley scrambled to her feet. “She was in the paper.”
I silently cursed her.
“I thought I recognized you when Ms. Devereaux brought you in, and looked online,” she explained.
Great.
Jo was watching me warily. She looked down at the phone, tapped again.
“You didn’t call, but you did text this Peter just a few minutes ago. And someone named Deck.”
“He’s my husband. They both know I’m here—and that you’re here.”
Her wariness increased.
“You might as well give up,” I said.
Jo put my phone in her pocket and looked around the gallery, eyes intense with desperation. Her gaze fixed on the display of Aldo Bracket’s outsider art. Two strides with those long legs took her to the one I’d seen the day before with the arrangements of screws and nuts—and the rusty screwdriver in the center. She grabbed the whole thing off the wall, then ripped the screwdriver away from the background it was mounted on and held it out in front of her.
“What are you doing?” Paisley sounded bewildered. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Because she killed Leigh Markes,” I said, looking up at the camera on the wall, hoping it was recording all this. At the same time, I felt myself pulling energy from around me, concentrating it in case I needed to defend myself against Jo.
Paisley shook her head. “But why on earth would she kill Leigh? They were friends.”
“Because she had an affair with my husband,” Jo grated out. “She met him right here.” She looked around in disgust. “My best friend. Oh, I know people think my husband’s a player, and he’s a terrible flirt, but he’s never strayed. Not once. Not until Leigh. I’ve lost my career, my income from endorsements, and all I have now is my husband and our business together. I even put off having kids for my career, and now he thinks it’s too late to start a family. Rhett is—”
Paisley gasped and put her hands over her face. She stared over her fingertips at Jo, who had stopped speaking. Leigh’s assistant dropped her hands and suddenly bent over, breathing in huge gasps, hyperventilating.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jo demanded sharply.
A terrible thought came to me.
Things are not always as they seem.
I went over to Paisley, pointedly ignoring the weapon Jo held in her hand.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Paisley straightened and nodded. “I’m okay. It’s just—” She met Jo’s puzzled gaze. “Rhett’s married?”
Jo frowned at Paisley, then suddenly her face cleared. “You were the one who was here with him those nights.” She sounded stunned.
“Your husband didn’t have an affair with Leigh,” I said. “She didn’t betray you.”
“But Rhett did!” Paisley’s horror had morphed into righteous anger. “He told me he was in the middle of a divorce. That his wife was a shrew, and they’d been separated for years.”
Jo lifted the screwdriver, and for an instant, I thought she was going to come after us. However, she looked at it for a long moment, then let it drop to the floor. She sat down, her back against the wall beneath Aldo’s art.
“I killed her for no reason.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I killed the wrong person.”
Paisley looked alarmed.
“She’s innocent, too,” I said. “Rhett lied to you, and he lied to her.”
Jo put her head in her hands.
I went over and moved the screwdriver farther away from her with my foot.
“May I have my phone back?”
Sighing, she leaned her head back against the wall and reached in her pocket. I took the phone and called Quinn.
“Katie, you have to stop—”
“Jo Sterling has confessed to murdering Leigh Markes. We’re at the Markes Gallery now. I’m pretty sure the security cameras caught everything, and she seems ready to turn herself in.”
“Oh, good Lord,” he said. “We’ll be there right away.”
“Good. The back door’s open.”
I called Declan next. He’d just seen my text and was heading out the door to come to the gallery. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything is copacetic, and Quinn is on the way.”
He insisted on coming over anyway.
I hung up and sat down beside Jo to wait. After a few moments, Paisley joined us.
“That’s why you were here, isn’t it?” I asked Jo. “To erase the security footage from Monday night?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Leigh and I came by the gallery after the book club meeting. I’d been trying to decide what to do about her and Rhett. How to approach her. I was going to beg her to stop.”
This was not the story I’d expected.
“But when I asked her about it, she acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
Because she didn’t.
Beside me, Paisley started breathing fast again.
“We argued here, but then I dropped it. I couldn’t figure out why she’d lie right to my face like that. It wasn’t until after we’d had dinner that I brought it up again. In her car. She not only denied it again, but she laughed at me. It was so humiliating. I kind of—” She rubbed her face with both hands. “I kind of lost my mind. The scarf was already around her neck and . . .” She trailed off.
“And you knew you’d been seen together at dinner, so you left the heater on in Leigh’s car to fudge the time of death.”
Jo looked at me in surprise. “How do you know about that?”
“The forensics techs figured it out pretty quickly,” I said, and then added, “Alessandro Bracket told you about the affair.”
Jo nodded. “He told me he lives near here and drives by the gallery a lot. He belongs to our gym, so he knew Rhett, and he knew his car. He told me I could see for myself how my husband’s car was here after hours. I came by twice, and sure enough, Rhett’s car was parked across the street.”
“I wonder if Aldo knew it wasn’t Leigh in here,” I mused out loud.
“What?”
“The guy practically stalked Leigh,” I said. “Bugging her, trying to get his show so his father would take him seriously. Don’t you think he knew whether it was really her in the gallery or not?”
“You mean you think he . . . wanted Jo to go after Leigh?” Paisley asked.
Jo looked sick.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure I’d put it past him, though.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Paisley?”
“Yeah?”
“Where were you the Friday night before Labor Day?”
She thought and then must have remembered because she swallowed hard. “I was here for a while.”
“Alone?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “Not alone.”
“It’s been going on that long?” Jo whispered.
“I’m so sorry,” Paisley said.
We all fell silent then, deep in our own thoughts. Mine consisted of what Zoe had told me about hearing her mother in an intimate conversation with a man that night. She’d been right about the conversation she’d overheard through the back door of the gallery, just not about who had been having it.
The sound of voices came from the office, and Quinn strode in followed by two uniformed officers, and then Declan. The three of us got to our feet, Jo moving slower than Paisley and me.
She walked toward the man who was there to arrest her and held out her wrists to be cuffed.