CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

Stefan was closing out the cash register when I arrived.

"I just heard about Gil," he said. "It's a travesty. They'll never find anyone better for the museum than she is."

"Did you also hear that they've put the brakes on acquiring any quilts?"

"It's a shame," he said, nodding. "The museum really is the right place for my four-patch, but I can't wait six months for them to change their mind. I have to place it on the open market now. Unfortunately, other buyers are going to be just as skittish about the risk of fakes as the museum is. That's going to drive the price down."

Assuming Stefan didn't have anything to do with Tremain's death, it seemed particularly unfair that Tremain was still able to damage Stefan's business from the grave. "I'll see if the museum will release their rights to my appraisal so you can have it."

Stefan brightened. "Thanks. If there's ever anything I can do in return, just let me know."

"There is, actually." I couldn't have asked for a better setup if I'd prepared our conversation as thoroughly as I used to prepare for a cross-examination. My cell phone rang, and I glanced at it just long enough to see that Matt was calling. I let it go to voice mail so I wouldn't lose the leverage I had on Stefan right now. I gave him a moment to dwell on the fact that he was indebted to me and then went in for the kill. "Tell me what you were doing inside Monograms when Tremain was killed."

His eyes went wide, and I thought he might faint. He glanced at the door as if he might make a run for it, but then seemed to realize he was trapped, both by the counter that hemmed him in and by his own failure to be forthright about his having been near Tremain's office at the time of the murder.

He slumped back onto the stool and buried his face in his sleeve-covered hands. His voice was muffled. "I'm sorry. I should have told you before."

"Was it all a lie? You didn't actually see Matt in his truck?"

"No, no." He emerged from behind his hands with a credibly indignant expression. "It was just like I told you, except I saw everything from the Monograms side of the street. I wasn't hiding from Matt here in my shop but over in the alley outside Monograms. I couldn't stand the suspense after you all disappeared inside for your meeting. I knew Alyse left the back door unlocked for her cigarette breaks, and I figured I could open it just a crack and listen for the end of the meeting so I'd be able to question you before you left. That's as far as I meant to go, but the door was propped wide open with a contractor's pail, and I couldn't resist going inside. The next thing I knew, I was halfway across the shop, and then the door to the conference room flew open and Tremain stomped off to his office. I ducked back into the corridor and saw everyone else leave. I was partly hidden by the side door, and Alyse was so distracted by her need for a cigarette that she didn't even notice me when she went by. I waited until she was gone and then slipped through the shop and out the front door to go back to my own gallery. I was practically right behind Matt and Dee and Emma. When I saw Matt start over here a couple of minutes later, I thought he'd seen me at Monograms, and he was going to tell me how stupid I'd been. I stayed out of sight until he left, and when I looked again, I saw Wolfe going into Monograms, and Matt was heading for his truck, just like I told you before."

That chronology put Stefan at the crime scene right at the time of the murder.

He buried his face in his sleeve-covered hands again. "The police are going to arrest me now, aren't they? It's my punishment for clinging to my obsession with seeing Tremain punished."

"No one's arresting anyone right now," I said. "The fact that you were at the scene is troubling, but it's not enough to get Emma released or to put you in jail in her place. You ought to talk to your attorney though."

"I will." Stefan's fingertips emerged from his sleeve as he reached for the phone. "And I'm going to let go of my remaining anger at Tremain right now. He's dead, and it won't do anyone any good to prove I was right about his frauds all along."

"Good idea." Unfortunately, I knew how hard it was to let go of stressful emotions.

"What about you?" Stefan asked. "Are you going to tell the police about me?"

"Not until you've had a chance to do it yourself. Between the quilt show and what's happened to Gil, I'll be too busy to go to the police station until at least tomorrow afternoon. I'm on my way now to talk to Nancy Grant at the museum. She's been made the interim director."

Stefan shook his head. "I can't believe they think Nancy would make an acceptable director. For one thing, she doesn't know anything about antique textiles, or she wouldn't have spent more than two minutes at Monograms."

"Are we talking about the same person? Nancy Grant, from the museum's board? She told me she'd never met Tremain."

"Then she lied. She's been visiting Monograms at least once a week for the last month or two."

If Nancy had lied about knowing Tremain, had she lied about knowing any politicians who might have been scammed by him? That didn't make any sense though. Neither her name nor her husband's had been on Tremain's list of clients. Still, I needed to know why she'd lied, just in case it was useful to the murder investigation.

 

*   *   *

 

The woman at the museum's ticket desk had her back to me, closing out her register. Without turning, she said, "The museum's closing in a few minutes."

"I'll be quick."

The woman glanced over at her shoulder at me. "Oh, sorry. Gil isn't here."

"I know. I'm looking for Nancy Grant."

"She's in Gil's office."

I started for the stairs.

"Wait! Ms. Grant isn't seeing anyone."

"I'll only take a minute of her time. We'll be done before the museum closes." I hurried up the stairs, grateful that the security guards were apparently off doing their closing routine and wouldn't get in my way.

As I approached the director's waiting room, the official closing announcement was broadcast through the museum. I didn't recognize the voice, although it was obviously not Gil's, or there would have been at least a few musical notes included in the message.

The inner office door was ajar, and Nancy, like the woman at the ticket counter, was engrossed in the paperwork in front of her and didn't look up before speaking. "Is everything secured?"

"I have no idea." I pulled my messenger bag strap over my head and set the bag on the chair in front of me. "We need to talk."

Nancy leaned back in the chair that was far too large for her, a visual reminder that she did not belong in this office. "I'm sorry the board decided not to go forward with the acquisition you recommended. I was hoping we could expand our quilt collection, but now is not the right time."

"I don't care about that." I unzipped my bag and withdrew my camera. "I need to talk to you about Randall Tremain."

"Now is not the time." Nancy reached for her desk phone, presumably to call the security guards. "The museum is closing, and I have other commitments this evening."

"I know. I looked up your itinerary on the way over here. You can either be late for your appearances, or I can ask my questions at those public events instead of here in private. And before you start thinking there's no way a simple appraiser can get into those events, you should know that until recently, I was a partner in a Seattle law firm. If I can't get tickets myself within minutes, I'm sure one of my erstwhile colleagues can."

Nancy hesitated before placing the phone back in the receiver. "That's not necessary. I'd be glad to tell you whatever I know about Tremain. It shouldn't take long, since I don't have any firsthand knowledge."

One of the tricks to cross-examination was knowing when to call a witness on a lie. I thought it would be better to let Nancy dig her hole a bit deeper before confronting her on her relationship with Tremain, so I simply said, "Thank you," and I pulled up the picture of the stolen quilt on my camera. I placed the camera on the desk so the screen was facing Nancy. "Have you ever seen this quilt? Maybe someone in your husband's political circles has one like it?"

Nancy's eyes flickered in obvious recognition, but she shook her head in denial.

"You have seen it," I said. "Where was it?"

Nancy took a moment to look at the picture more closely. "I'm not sure. Isn't that the quilt you appraised? The one the museum declined to purchase?"

"I appraised it, but it's not the one that was offered to the museum."

"That's too bad. It's got some of the same prints as another quilt already in our collection."

She was right, but there was no way she could have recognized the prints from that tiny picture. No, Nancy had seen this quilt before, up close and in detail. The final lie convinced me that Nancy definitely knew something about Tremain and his death and was covering up the truth. Emma's freedom could depend on my getting some truthful answers.

At the thought, I felt the first indication that my system was reacting badly to the stress. My head grew light, and my stomach rolled, the precursor to nausea. It was time to take the metaphorical cotton gloves off and get some answers before my symptoms worsened and I had to stop or pass out.

"You're lying." I placed my hands on the edge of the desk and leaned over it. "You lied about not knowing Tremain too. Did he scam your husband?"

"My husband has nothing to do with any of this."

There was something about Nancy's voice that convinced me she was finally telling the truth about something. "If not your husband, then who are you protecting?" I straightened and delved into my back pocket to get my phone. I found the file with Tremain's clients and set the phone in front of Nancy. "Maybe someone on this list?"

"I'm not covering up anything for anyone. And I haven't done anything. I'm as much a victim of the events as Gil is." I could tell that Nancy truly believed she'd been a victim, but her concern for Gil was less credible.

"That's another lie." I was about to violate a critical rule of cross-examination—never ask a question without knowing the answer first—but sometimes it was worth the risk. "You got Gil fired, didn't you? She thinks you were lobbying on her behalf, but you actually rallied the rest of the board to fire her. You've always gotten your way with them in the past. I can't believe they would have gone against you this time if you'd really thrown your full weight against Gil's firing."

"That's ridiculous," Nancy said. "I respect Gil, and I was looking forward to supporting her efforts to expand the museum's quilt collection. Why would I want to get rid of her?"

Why, indeed? I really wasn't any good at winging an interrogation.

My glance fell on the camera screen showing the stolen quilt. The one that had not been offered to the museum. Unless, perhaps, it had been offered indirectly through a certain board member.

"How were you planning to help Gil's acquisition program? Did you buy a quilt from Tremain, intending to donate it, only to find out it was a fake? You must have been furious, especially if you'd already promised Gil a quilt for the museum and you couldn't find a comparable one to donate. Was that why you got her fired? So you wouldn't have to look bad for backing out on your offer? Once she'd been terminated, anything she said about the board members, including you, would be viewed as sour grapes. No one would believe her."

"An interesting theory," Nancy said, "but it doesn't prove anything. You're wasting my time."

"You didn't have to ruin Gil's career to protect your reputation. If you'd admitted the truth to her, I'm sure she would have kept it quiet."

Nancy shook her head. "Nothing can ever be kept quiet these days. I'm a senator's wife, so I have to be above reproach. Caesar's wife didn't have half the pressure that political spouses have today. We can't make mistakes. Ever. How do you think it would look if people found out that a senator's wife, active in the art community, got conned in her own area of expertise? People would be wondering how foolish he was to have married a woman who was that stupid. The only thing he could have done was divorce me, and trust me, he wouldn't have waited ten seconds before racing to the courthouse. He's been looking for a reason to dump me for a while now, and I've invested far too much in his career to let him go now."

"I'm sorry, but I won't let you salvage your marriage by ruining Gil's career. If she won't go to the press, I will."

"I can't let you do that." Nancy fumbled in the space behind her in the overlarge chair. "You should have listened to my friend. The one who warned you to stay out of this."

At least now I knew who had sent the thug to threaten me. "Your messenger wasn't very persuasive."

"Sad to say, you're right. He used to be my campaign manager, and he wasn't very good at that either." She tossed a tiny purse onto the desk and brandished a gun that looked several sizes larger than the purse, although that was probably just my imagination. "I thought he could handle a minor nuisance like you, but apparently I need to take care of it myself."

At the sight of the gun, nausea rose into my throat. I tried to remain calm with the logic that the gun couldn't possibly be as big as it appeared. Of course, everyone knew that size didn't really matter. I recognized my incipient descent into hysteria and forced myself to look at Nancy's face, not what she gripped with both hands. I needed to remain as calm as possible. Otherwise, incapacitating dizziness would rob me of any chance of escape.

"You'd kill someone just to stay married to someone who wants to divorce you?"

"I've already killed once to save my marriage," Nancy said. "Another death won't be that big a deal."

My syncope warning signs jumped past nausea all the way to clammy skin. It was hard to speak, and I had to lean heavily against the front of the desk to remain upright. It took a moment for my head to catch up to my body. Had Nancy just confessed to killing Tremain? It was still possible she'd been scammed, possibly even unintentionally, by another quilt dealer. After all, her name hadn't been on the list of Tremain's clients.

I needed to be sure I wasn't reading more into Nancy's statement than she'd intended. "You killed Tremain."

"I didn't mean to, but he was no big loss. He thought he could talk his way out of the situation. He showed me the real antique and then gave me a fake, knowing I planned to donate it to the museum. It was supposed to be good publicity for my husband, the philanthropist, and he'd lose all the goodwill if he filed for divorce from the person who'd arranged it. It was supposed to give me at least another six months or a year before I needed to put together something equally impressive to buy another reprieve. And then your friends in the quilt guild started talking about fakes, and I had to be sure mine wasn't one of them. I did some research in the archives here and realized he'd sold me a fake."

That was what Gil had known and that had gotten her fired. Gil hadn't seen the quilt that Nancy bought, but she'd known about Nancy's sudden fascination with the archives. Eventually, Gil would have put the whole story together. "So you took the fake back to Tremain and confronted him."

Nancy used the gun to indicate that I should back out of the office.

Through my light-headedness, I recalled hearing once that a crime victim should never voluntarily leave the place where they were first confronted. Nancy wouldn't want to kill me here. So as long as I stayed in the museum and stayed conscious, I had a chance of survival.

Instead of backing up, I let myself succumb to the light-headedness and dropped into the closest chair. "I don't feel very well."

"You can lie down when we leave here."

"In a shallow grave?"

"Something like that," Nancy said. "Now get up."

"I can't." It was only partly a lie. My legs were rubbery, and my brain was getting foggy. I made a show of trying to stand and then slipped back down into my seat. From past experience, I knew I was close to unconsciousness. I tried to focus on how important it was to stay here in the museum so I could be rescued.

I took a deep breath, and my head cleared slightly, just enough to realize that no one actually knew I was at the museum. The woman at the ticket counter did, but I'd promised to be gone by closing time, and she was busy enough to not notice whether I'd left. I hadn't told anyone else that I was coming here since I hadn't wanted to create any more unrealistic expectations about what I could do to help Gil.

No, wait. There was one person who knew I was here: Stefan. Unfortunately, he wouldn't notice I was missing until the quilt show luncheon tomorrow.

Nancy waved her gun again.

I needed more time. "Just give me a minute, and then we can leave."

She gave a huff of frustration but didn't make any more threatening moves.

I focused on my breathing until my head cleared enough to consider my options. Even if I were at full capacity, I couldn't outrun a bullet. I couldn't even risk trying to overpower her. The woman was small, but she had to be strong if she'd killed Tremain with nothing but a quilt.

I cast about for something to distract Nancy. "I'm surprised Tremain didn't just give you your money back. He had more to lose than you did. You could have gotten him cut off from the political circles where he liked to mingle."

"I'm not stupid. I tried that. I told him I was taking the real antique in exchange for the fake and if he said one word about what had happened, I'd make sure no one at the statehouse ever took his calls. I could have done it too. If I asked my husband's friends' staff members to lose someone's messages, they'd make sure the calls never got through to their bosses."

That would have hurt Tremain badly. "You didn't need to kill him."

"He deserved it." Nancy's voice revealed only contempt without a shred of remorse. "When I threatened to cut him off from his idols, he started screaming. No one treats me like that. I only threw the quilt on top of him to shut him up, but it didn't work. He screamed right through it, saying he'd have me arrested if I so much as looked at the real quilt."

"And that's when you killed him?"

"It was his own fault. I pushed him out of my way so I could leave to get my quilt, the one I was supposed to have, but he came after me. I finally gathered the ends of the worthless quilt and used it as leverage to knock his head against the wall paneling. I was just trying to shut him up. It worked too. He finally stopped yelling at me and slid to the floor."

The reproduction quilt had been Tremain's undoing in more ways than one. If it had been a real antique, the fibers would have been too fragile for Nancy to use as a weapon. It would have torn, rather than giving Nancy the leverage to kill Tremain.

"Why didn't you take the real quilt then?"

"I was going to, but then I heard someone at the back door, and I figured Alyse was returning from her cigarette break, so I ran out the front before she came in."

Too bad Stefan had been hiding from Matt instead of being his usual nosy self, watching out his window. It would have saved everyone so much trouble if he'd seen Nancy leaving Monograms then.

"How'd you get back into the shop to steal the real antique?"

"A key was still in the front door when I left," Nancy said. "I grabbed it on my way out. I knew I'd have to come back for the real quilt, and I wasn't letting a stupid lock get in my way. I'd paid good money for that quilt, and I wasn't going to let it go, even if I couldn't get any real political mileage out of it. It is a beautiful work of art, after all, and no one would ever need to know where it came from. Lots of old quilts are missing their provenance, so all I had to do was wait until everyone forgot about Tremain's frauds, and then I could sell it for a nice profit. After everything I did to get that quilt, I deserved it."

I finally had the confession Wolfe had challenged me to get, but I had no way to let him know.

"It's time to go now," Nancy said. "I've got commitments. If you don't want to do this the easy way, we'll just have to do it here. It's my office now, and I get to say who comes in and out. I'll just tell everyone I'd rather work elsewhere because it breaks my heart to work in an office that should have been occupied by Gil, and I'm going to have the place completely gutted and redecorated for our new director. I'll have plenty of time to come back another day and clean up the blood enough that the demolition crew won't notice it. They wouldn't have any reason to inspect the stains as closely as a forensics team would."

So much for counting on Nancy's unwillingness to leave evidence of a murder here in the museum. Time for a new plan. My phone was out of reach on Gil's desk, and the desk phone was even farther away. Nancy could kill me before I could grab either one and dial the three necessary digits.

What about fire alarms? I couldn't recall seeing any in the corridor outside the office, but I was certain the rest of the museum had them, along with regular security stations.

Security. That was the answer.

All I had to do was trigger one of the panic buttons Gil had mentioned. There was probably one in here behind the desk, but I didn't know where exactly. The only ones I knew about for sure were in the archive room and at the ticket desk. I couldn't think of a reason to go to the archives, but we had to go through the lobby and past the ticket desk to leave the museum. The lobby would also be a good place to stall again. It would be harder for Nancy to hide any bloodstains there, so she might at least hesitate before pulling the trigger, giving me a chance to escape.

"I think I can walk now." I didn't have to fake my shakiness as I stood and headed out into the corridor. To cover my search for fire alarms or security boxes as we walked, I said, "The woman at the ticket desk knows I was in your office. When I go missing, she'll tell the police, and they'll question you."

"She won't be a problem," Nancy said curtly. "I can take care of her."

"The way you took care of Tremain?"

Nancy didn't answer, her silence serving as an admission. There was a growing darkness around the edges of my vision, threatening an imminent loss of consciousness. I took a deep breath, determined not to pass out now, not with the ticket taker's life on the line too. I had to fight the adrenaline-fueled urge to hyperventilate, and as we went down the stairs, I concentrated on the slow, deep breathing I'd been practicing since my diagnosis. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

I panted.

No, no, not like that. Slow and deep.

I tried again, slowing my breathing, even though my lungs were screaming that they needed more air, more air, more air. Now, now, now.

At the bottom of the stairs, I kept my walking pace steady, trying not to signal my intent as we approached the ticket desk. The woman was gone, so at least I didn't have to worry about her getting caught in the cross fire.

Where would the button be? Back where the ticket seller sat, no doubt. I pretended to stumble and flopped across the desktop as if I'd passed out on it, the way I feared I might do for real. Trying not to be obvious about it, I desperately ran my fingers beneath the edge of the desktop. I hit something, but it was just some sort of structural support. I remained slumped there, my visible body still, but my hidden fingers racing as fast as my pulse.

"Cut it out," Nancy said. "I know you're faking it."

Sirens shrieked, and for a moment, my foggy brain thought I'd pressed the panic button without realizing it.

No, the sounds were outside and were coming toward the museum. Police sirens? Had I hit a silent alarm somewhere along the way?

"Don't move." Nancy snapped. "Just stay there and don't say anything. One sound and I'll shoot." Her heels clicked across the lobby.

I continued my frantic search for the panic button. Finally, my fingers hit something plastic and ergonomically shaped to match the pad of a finger.

Footsteps raced up the exterior steps to the main entrance, and there was a pounding on the front doors. "Police. Open up."

Nancy kept the gun trained on me as she continued to the security guard's desk, presumably to check the monitor for the cameras trained on the entrance. "I mean it," she whispered. "Don't make a sound."

The police probably wouldn't use force and come inside just because no one answered the door after hours. If I screamed, they might have reasonable cause to break down the door, but probably not before Nancy killed me.

The voice outside repeated its demand for entrance.

I figured I only had a couple of seconds more before the officer left. I took one last deep breath, gathered what energy I could find, and pressed what I hoped was the panic button. An unholy wailing siren pierced the air, and I launched myself under the dubious protection of the desk.

A moment later, the front doors were forced open. Fred Fields ran inside with his gun drawn and tackled the frozen Nancy Grant.

I knew I should slide out from under the desk and say something, but it all seemed too complicated. Instead, I simply curled up on my side, pillowing my head on my arm before I gave in to the demands of my nervous system and passed out.