Nathan picked me up at the house an hour later.
“So how do you plan on handling this?” he asked after we’d pulled out of the driveway.
“I’ll be friendly but direct. I’m not going to let her distract me with accusations or insults. Once we’re inside, I’ll calmly ask her a few questions.”
“Sure, that would be great. But you can’t be sure what we’re going to find out there,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“A kook like her could have a dozen cats or garbage piled up to the ceiling. You never know.”
“I think we can handle small animals or garbage.” I settled back in my seat.
“What if she sics that big guy of hers on us?”
“Hank? He spends all his time at the gym; he probably won’t even be there.”
“Well just in case . . .” Nathan patted the shoulder holster concealed beneath his jacket.
What the Pierce family referred to as a guesthouse would have been more than adequate for a family of four. It was a bungalow, built in the same style as the mansion. But while the estate had been made of brick and stained glass, the small house had been constructed of wood, featuring beveled windows. A thick grove of trees surrounded it, creating a forest setting. Heavy drapes covered the windows.
We didn’t speak as we approached.
An Adirondack chair had been dragged out to the front of the house. Grooves in the dirt around the patio told me it had to have been moved by Jackie. Hank would have just picked it up, so logically it followed that Jackie was living there alone.
As we got closer, I could hear voices inside. “Someone’s in there,” I whispered to Nathan.
He nodded.
I walked to the door and knocked. Nathan stood behind me, covering my back.
The voices stopped.
Nathan and I waited, but no one came.
I knocked again. “Jackie? This is Katherine Sullivan and Nathan Walker. We want to talk to you.”
Still no response.
Then I pounded on the door with my fist. “I’m trying to prove that your nephew didn’t kill Stacey Jordan. Don’t you want to help me get him out of jail?” Maybe that would get her attention.
The door opened a crack.
Jackie’s wrinkled face looked up at me. “Mrs. Sullivan. My, my, you certainly are persistent, aren’t you? Just like an old dog hanging onto his favorite bone for dear life.”
“Do you think you can put aside your dislike for me just long enough to answer a few questions? I know we both want to clear Randolph of this murder charge.”
She opened the door slightly wider and I could see Hank inside. “My nephew’s the only reason I came back to this godforsaken town. I’d do anything for that darling boy. How dare you act as though you and Elizabeth are the only people who care about his welfare.”
Nathan stepped forward. “We just need a few minutes and then we’ll get out of your hair. Being difficult will only make this drag on longer than it has to.”
“The guy makes sense, babe,” Hank said. “Let ’em in so we can get this the hell over with.”
Grudgingly, Jackie opened the door completely. Turning her back on us, she walked into the house and we followed.
The floor in the entryway was gray granite. To the right was a black wooden bench, next to that an umbrella stand. To the left, in the middle of the wall, was a small table. It had also been painted black, and on top of it was a 1950s-style phone, which probably had been put there more for its style than function.
A large fireplace took up the bottom half of a back wall in the main room; embers glowed around a single log. Along the wide mantle were clusters of photographs in gold and silver frames, sharing space with a collection of glass vases. The floor and baseboards had been made from rich dark wood. Above the mantle was a large oil painting of purple and white wildflowers in a field of green. An oversized couch covered in red and navy tapestry was turned toward the fireplace. Someone was sitting on it, and I could see the back of a head as we walked further into the room. When he heard us, he stood up. I don’t know why, but I was surprised to see Antoine Rousseau . . . again.
“Mrs. Sullivan, what an unexpected pleasure.” Then, looking at Nathan, he held out his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor; I am Antoine Rousseau.”
While the men shook hands, I said, “This is Officer Nathan Walker. We worked together on the force; he was my husband’s partner.” I was hoping by throwing in an official title that maybe Nathan would command more respect than I had been getting. I also wanted to intimidate Rousseau.
Turning to Nathan, I said, “You remember me talking about Mr. Rousseau, don’t you? He’s an art conservationist. He was hired by the board of directors at Buckhorn to oversee the restoration.”
“Sure, I remember,” he told me. Then to Rousseau he said, “I’ve heard a lot about you from Mrs. Sullivan and Mr. Pierce as well.”
It obviously pleased the Frenchman knowing that he had been the main topic of several conversations. Smiling, he nodded smugly and straightened his tie.
Watching him, I realized I had never seen Antoine dressed casually. He wore a business suit like a coat of armor, making him always seem guarded, prepared for any occasion. That day was no exception. His brown suit was perfectly pressed; every single button of the taupe shirt beneath was fastened. His tie was chocolate brown and taupe plaid. Sticking out of a breast pocket was a handkerchief that matched the tie. When he moved his hands, expensive-looking gold cuff links glimmered. His highly polished shoes reflected the light from a Tiffany lamp on a small table near the window.
“And I, you.” Antoine said, then looked perplexed as to what to do next.
“I’m glad to find you here, too, Mr. Rousseau, I’ve got a few questions for you as well.”
“I told you everything I could that day at my hotel.”
“Well, during my investigation, I’ve come up with some more questions.”
Even Hank was dressed more formally. He’d put on his big-boy pants that day: clean khakis with a sharp crease running down the front of each leg. A pale yellow polo shirt sporting a designer logo made his tan pop. But he still couldn’t bring himself to buy the correct size. This one was a few sizes too small, making his bulging biceps look like a mountain range beneath the fabric.
Jackie slowly walked toward a chair by the fireplace. It was strange that I’d never noticed she had a slight limp. As she passed by me, her sweet, floral perfume polluted the air. She scuffed her shoes—black satin ballet slippers—across the Persian rug. The hem of each leg of her white jumpsuit dragged along the floor, collecting dust as she walked. A purple cardigan trimmed with pink ribbon flowers hung around her shoulders.
“Sit!” Jackie barked and pointed to a love seat covered in the same tapestry as the couch.
As I came around the sofa, I could see a mahogany table in front of it. Three wine glasses were spread across its surface. Two of the glasses were half full of a ruby liquid; one was empty. A bottle of Merlot sat in the middle. It was too early in the day to start drinking, which meant the glasses and wine were still there from the night before or the three of them had been celebrating something when we interrupted.
While I walked to a seat, I calculated my next move. Who should I question first? But Jackie took charge and eliminated any further planning on my part.
“Before we begin, I want to make it clear that it is only because of my concern for my nephew that I’ve let you in my home. And believe me, this is indeed my home. The authorities have granted me access. You, on the other hand, are trespassing on private property. And if Mr. Walker is indeed an officer of the law,” she cocked an eyebrow at Nathan, “I could have him arrest you whenever it pleases me.”
Nathan started to reach for his wallet to produce his official, expired police ID, but she waved him off.
“From what I’ve learned during my investigation, none of you has any right being here.” I glanced around the room at the three of them. “But why quibble over technicalities?”
Jackie stuck out her jaw, looking at me with disdain.
“My sources tell me that Stacey Jordan was getting a little too . . . nosey? Is that the right word, Mr. Rousseau?” I turned toward Antoine. “Was she getting in your way?”
The man looked shocked. “Are you trying to say that maybe I would have harmed that beautiful girl?”
“You were with her that day—her last day at the mansion.”
“Why the very thought . . . that I could ever . . . this is preposterous!”
Hank came over and sat on the arm of Jackie’s chair. He started to laugh. “If you think Frenchie over there has the guts to kill someone, think again,” he said to me.
Antoine looked insulted at first but then joined in the laughing, realizing Hank had just handed him an excuse. “Oui, it is true. I work with my brain, not my muscles. Physical labor is for uneducated men.” He shot a look back at Hank who seemed to take the remark as a compliment.
But could Slater really be that dumb? Or was it an act?
I continued. “And my sources tell me that you’ve had several run-ins with the law, Mr. Slater”
“I know all about Hank’s . . . indiscretions, Mrs. Sullivan. If you’re trying to shock me, you’ll have to try harder,” Jackie grumbled.
“Okay, how about this?” I asked. “Would you be shocked to learn that your father’s stories about there being a Klimt hidden in Buckhorn were true? And that the painting has been found?” I never flinched, waiting for her reaction to my bluff.
Jackie’s fingers worked nervously, twisting a too large bracelet around her bony wrist. “And where exactly is the painting now?”
“In a safe place. With the authorities.”
Hank started to say something but Jackie squeezed his knee, signaling him to shut up.
Antoine picked up one of the wineglasses and emptied it in two gulps. The four of us watched in silence as he wiped the bottom of the goblet with a napkin before setting it back on the table.
Watching him fuss that way, I suddenly believed Hank. This fastidious man could never stain his hands with a victim’s blood. Murder always involved some degree of passion, which he seemed to lack altogether. No, Antoine Rousseau was an instigator, a calculating planner, not a murderer.
“So, in your esteemed opinion, the only reason someone would have to murder Miss Jordan was to steal the painting from her,” Jackie said in a matter-of-fact way. “But if the police have the Klimt now, they must have tracked down the killer to get it. And since none of us have set eyes on it—”
“—I certainly have not,” Antoine said.
Hank smiled. “Me neither.”
“Then I don’t understand why you and Mr. Walker are here at all.”
She thought she had me with her lopsided logic. I nodded, hoping that if I stayed quiet, she’d take the chance to gloat a little more and incriminate herself or her friends.
“And if that poor girl was still alive, I’m sure she would have sold the painting as soon as possible. Because she needed money desperately,” Jackie said.
And there it was. I grabbed the clue and ran with it.
“How do you know anything about Stacey’s financial affairs?” I asked.
“Well . . . I could tell from the way she dressed. You know, breeding shows in everything about a person.” She stuck her nose in the air. “Besides, why on earth would she be working at Buckhorn as well as at Randolph’s gallery if it wasn’t for the money?”
“Maybe she was having it off with her boss?” Hank laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time a girl tried to sleep her way to the top.”
I could feel my jaw clenching. “And just where would the top be in this situation, Mr. Slater?”
“Come on, you know what I mean. Don’t act insulted. We’re all adults here.”
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let Jackie get to me, and now it was Hank who was pushing my buttons. Nathan caught my eye, shooting me a look that warned me to calm down.
“Is there anything else?” Jackie asked.
“Oh yes, we’re far from done here,” I said.
“You’re trying my patience, Mrs. Sullivan.”
“Yeah, we don’t have all day, ya know,” Hank complained.
Ignoring both of them, I continued. “I’m having trouble with your logic. Why would you assume that finding the painting means also finding the killer? The police could have located the Klimt while investigating the murder scene, after Stacey had been killed and was found—alone—at the mansion.”
“I never claimed to be a private investigator. I believe that’s your job. And it seems to me that you’re just grabbing at straws. You came here looking for someone else to blame Miss Jordan’s death on instead of examining the facts.”
“Okay, here’s a fact, Ms. Pierce. You arrived in Edina before Stacey was killed, correct?”
“No, I came afterwards, when Randolph was arrested.” I didn’t bother correcting her.
“Funny, I know for a fact you were in town several days before. Owen Branson, the manager at First National, said that you’d been in to see him about a legal matter.”
“He has his dates wrong, that’s all.”
“Well, there aren’t that many flights from Las Vegas each day. I can always check with the airlines.”
“What does any of this matter?” Jackie asked. “None of us in this room killed Stacey Jordan. Why on earth would we?”
“Let’s suppose she found the Klimt and wouldn’t give it to you,” Nathan said.
“Now you’re just inventing a story, Mr. Walker. I think we’re finished here.”
The more agitated she became, the calmer I got. “I’m sure Chief Bostwick has warned you not to leave town?”
“Yes,” she said. The only color on her face were her flushed cheeks.
“Okay then.” I turned away from her. “Mr. Rousseau, I mentioned finding out some new information. If you’d be so kind to indulge me?”
“But of course.”
I took my time getting the note pad out of my bag. Tension hovered over the room like a storm cloud. “Was this the first time you worked with Stacey Jordan? During the renovation at Buckhorn?”
Rousseau looked at Jackie, uncertain how to answer. When she didn’t say anything, he answered, “No . . . not exactly.”
I flipped through my notes. “If my sources are correct, you worked with her last year in Chicago, at a similar job.” There—I’d laid it out for him and he knew he couldn’t lie about his past associations with Stacey.
As if suddenly remembering, he said, “Yes, I must have forgotten.”
“And how did you happen to be working with her again?”
“Oh . . .” He brushed off his pant leg even though there wasn’t anything to brush off. “Let me see . . . I was hired to work here and asked if I could recommend someone to assist me. Mademoiselle Jordan was just one of many I mentioned. So I guess it was a coincidence.”
Nathan snickered. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Mr. Rousseau. At least not in a police investigation.”
“Well, in life there certainly is.” Antoine smiled at him.
I pretended to be confused. “I can certainly understand if that last job slipped your mind. You are a busy man and your job takes you all over the world.”
“This is true.”
“But you’ve worked with Stacey on at least three other occasions. In fact, over the past few years you, personally, have made several large deposits to her account here in Edina.” I looked up, waiting for his reaction.
“My accountant handles such things through my foundation.”
I couldn’t believe my luck and decided to go for broke. “So L’Etoile du Nord was set up by you?”
“Oui.”
“Why would a French citizen, living in Paris, name a foundation after the state motto of Minnesota?” Nathan asked. “Another coincidence, Mr. Rousseau?”
“In a way . . . I guess. My accountant is American . . .” He seemed to be making his story up as he went along. And he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
“Well what are the chances of that happening?” I asked.
Antoine shrugged. “’Tis a very small world indeed.”
I checked my notes again, just for show, and looked up as if I’d suddenly remembered something. “Oh, did I mention that among Miss Jordan’s belongings was a book with a list of names? My office is going through it now. I think it may be people you worked for on other projects as well. The dollar amount next to their names must have to do with expenses or something like that?” I looked at him quizzically. “Do you have any idea what that might be about?”
There it was, at last. His cool veneer was slipping, and he looked startled and a little alarmed.
“I would have to see this book before commenting.”
“I understand.” Then, looking at Nathan, I asked, “Is there anything you’d like to ask?”
“Yes.” He glared at Hank.
“A few nights ago we were on the grounds and were accosted by three men.”
“Are you accusing me of somethin’?” Hank asked. “’Cause if you are . . .” He jumped up, coming at Nathan.
Like an obedient pet, Hank sat back down next to his mistress.
“Now, Mr. Walker, as I’ve told you before, this is private property. You had no right being here, especially in the dead of night. And may I ask why you were here to begin with?”
“Searching for the murder weapon,” he lied without hesitation.
Jackie looked at him, scrutinizing his face. “Now we’re done here.”
I stood up, eager to be out of there. “Thank you all for your cooperation.”
Jackie led the way to the door. As she reached out to grab the knob, her bracelet fell to the floor. Hank bent down to pick it up.
“What a beautiful piece,” I said. “I remember admiring it that day in front of the gallery.”
Her face twisted up into a smile. She rubbed Hank’s arm. “It’s a present from my teddy bear.”
“Wherever did you buy it?” I asked Hank. “My daughter’s birthday is coming up and I’d love to get her—”
“Can’t remember,” he said and put the bracelet back on Jackie’s wrist, kissing her hand. “But nothing’s too good for my girl.”