A Drunkard's Path (34 page)

Greg nodded. “It’s just that you have gotten really involved in this investigation and I’m wondering what you found out.”

He sat on the bench, only inches from me. I tried to move but there was nowhere to go.

“Unfortunately,” I admitted, “I haven’t really found out anything. Powell can tell you.”

“You’ve been talking to Powell?”

“Yeah. So have you,” I pointed out.

Greg looked at me, then at the open cell door. We could both hear footsteps in the hallway.

Jesse leaned against the door. “Nell, you’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“Do you really care? You’ll be out of here.”

I got up and walked into the main police station. Rich mouthed a thank-you, and I mouthed back, “Tell Susanne.” He nodded and headed out of the station. I followed Jesse to a police car. Greg walked behind us, and in a moment that struck me as both odd and funny. Greg got in the back of the squad car while I, still technically under arrest, got in the front passenger seat next to Jesse.

“Where are we going?”

“To the site of your latest break-in.”

“And where would that be?”

Jesse glanced at me. “You can drop it, Nell. Rich told me all about it.”

I nodded. I couldn’t believe how easily Jesse had fallen into my trap.

“I do have one question,” Jesse said. “Why do you want Susanne to know we’re on our way to Oliver’s house?”

There was no point in pretending anymore. “Get ready to build a bigger jail, because they’ve all been helping me try to solve the case.”

“The whole group?”

“Except Eleanor and Kennette.”

“You have a bigger investigative department than I do,” Jesse laughed. “Though you should probably call Eleanor and Kennette and get them over here as well. We might as well have the whole gang in on the fun.”

He was in a strangely happy mood for a man who had been ready to wring my neck not twenty minutes before. I decided I was better off not asking why. I might as well enjoy the freedom while I had it.

Oliver answered the door, looking tired and confused. Three Morristown Police cars were parked out front when we arrived. Powell and his men were standing outside the house. Jesse didn’t seem surprised or even interested in their presence. Greg, though, immediately went over to say hello.

“I have reason to believe that Nell broke into your house looking for clues,” Jesse told Oliver. “I’m wondering if I can fingerprint your place.”

Oliver looked at me. “No need. If you find fingerprints it’s because Nell has been an invited guest to my home and my studio.”

I smiled a half smile at Oliver. Why he was protecting me, I couldn’t guess, but it didn’t matter.

“So there you go,” I said to Jesse. “No break-in.”

“And therefore no permission to enter his home and conduct a search, so neither of us got what we wanted,” Jesse said.

“You knew?”

“I’m not as bad a detective as you think.”

“Powell must think so, otherwise he wouldn’t have his guys watching the house.”

“Yes,” Oliver said. “Why are they here? None of them will tell me.”

“Powell’s waiting for a search warrant based on the DNA match he found from a cigarette you discarded at Carrie’s party,” Jesse told him.

Oliver immediately looked at me, first confused and then disappointed. “I suppose that just seals it, doesn’t it.”

“Except you aren’t guilty of either murder,” Jesse said.

Oliver smiled. “Not according to our girl here.”

“So let us in for a search and maybe we’ll get to the truth,” Jesse offered.

Oliver opened the door wide, and as he did, Natalie’s van pulled up with the rest of the quilt club inside. Eleanor pulled up behind them in her car, with Kennette in the passenger seat.

“What’s going on?” Eleanor demanded as she got out of the car.

“Oliver’s agreed to let us look through his house,” I told her.

At that Powell and his officers ran up the pathway and into the house, ahead of me, Jesse, and Oliver.

It took about a half hour for the police to go through Oliver’s house. Like Natalie and me, they found nothing unusual. Then Oliver offered Jesse the key to his studio, and we all walked out and watched the men open the doors widely, letting light into his dark, private space.

For about ten minutes the police searched Oliver’s studio, while the rest of us stood in the driveway and watched. I could see Natalie looking over at Kennette, waiting for any sign that she might be nervous. The painting of her had been safely tucked back behind the desk, but it was only a matter of time.

I watched as the cops spread out across the room, each taking a corner and meticulously searching it. Jesse was looking through Oliver’s paints and prop box—items he used in the backgrounds of his paintings. Greg was going through paintings that had been piled up against the wall, and Powell was staring at the one misfit in the group, Julie’s collage, which I’d accidentally left in the open when Natalie and I searched the studio.

“I found something,” Greg shouted.

He held up a small painting, and Jesse, Powell, and the other cops rushed over. I strained to see what it was, but I couldn’t imagine what would make that one painting significant.

Jesse grabbed Greg’s sleeve and walked him out to the driveway.

“Hold it up,” he told him.

Greg held up a painting that seemed oddly familiar. Certainly nothing special but something I knew I had seen before.

“It’s not mine,” Oliver said. “I think that’s fairly obvious.”

“It’s Sandra’s,” I suddenly realized.

“What’s Sandra’s painting doing here?” Oliver asked.

“Maybe she was here,” Powell said. “You were close. Nell can testify to that. And you gave her money. Maybe Sandra was conning an old man for his money, which would have been perfect except that your granddaughter showed up. Your fortune and your paintings were now going to go to Lily. Sandra killed Lily. You killed Sandra.”

“That’s absurd,” Eleanor said. “You really have no idea what kind of man this is.”

Oliver smiled at her. “Even if all of that is true, why would I have a painting of Sandra’s?”

“A souvenir,” Greg offered. “Maybe she gave it to you as a gift.”

I looked at the painting again. “After she was dead?” I asked. “Besides, it wasn’t here when Natalie and I . . . , well, when we searched the place. And I know that painting was in Sandra’s apartment when I . . . looked through her apartment. It was something she painted in class. I’d swear to it.”

“Hold it up again,” Jesse said to Greg. “Take another look, Nell, just to be sure.”

Greg shifted his arms and held the painting up again. I looked at the painting but it was something else that caught my eye. Greg’s sleeve had moved slightly down his arm to reveal a light blue plastic bracelet, the kind worn to show support or raise money for causes.

There it was. The sign about the police fund-raiser. The bottle of scotch. The dead mother. The intense desire to “solve” the case. And the perfect patsy—me.

“It wasn’t Oliver,” I said. “He’s being framed. And I guess I’ve been helping.”

Jesse walked over and stood directly in front of me as if shielding me from everyone else. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know why I didn’t see it. Julie is your mother,” I said. I looked at Powell. “The woman in the painting
Nobody
, the woman who made that collage you were looking at.”

Everyone’s eyes instinctively went to the collage. Powell laughed.

“Nell, you’ve gone off the deep end,” he said.

Oliver walked over to collage and picked it up. Powell grabbed it from his hands. He held it close, then took a deep breath and let it slide to the floor.

“He shouldn’t have it,” Powell said quietly. “He shouldn’t have anything that belongs to her. He murdered her.”

“You’re Marty?” Oliver said. “When I knew your mother, you were such a slight boy. I didn’t recognize you.”

“Why do you think Oliver murdered your mother?” Maggie stepped in.

“They were drunks together. My mother became an addict, out of control, and he just left. Just like he walked out on his wife. My mother had no one to help her. I tried but it wasn’t enough.”

“She died of a drug overdose more than ten years later,” Oliver said.

Powell nodded.

“That’s not murder,” I said. “And it doesn’t justify your killing Lily for revenge.”

“
He
killed my granddaughter?” Oliver lunged at Powell, but Jesse stopped him.

“She was just like you,” Powell spit out. “She was a nothing. I picked her up for shoplifting, and she had a backpack full of stuff about you: pictures, articles. It was pathetic. She told me her grandfather was a rich artist and he’d pay the bail.”

“So you dosed her with sleeping pills?” Jesse asked.

“I needed to think,” Powell said. “I needed to bring this man to justice and I needed time to figure out how to do it.”

“By what . . . stealing his money?” Bernie asked.

“I don’t care about his money. He took my family away from me. Why should he get to have a granddaughter, when I lost my mother because of him? I wanted him to suffer, to think he had a chance of finding her and then to know that she was gone forever.”

“And to go to jail for it as well,” Susanne chimed in. “So you killed that poor girl?”

“But you had a family,” Oliver said, tears rolling down his eyes. “You had Alessandra. I remember hearing that she was born months before your mother died.”

Powell shook his head. “My sister had my mother’s weak character. She was supposed to get you so excited about a family reunion that the truth would be devastating. But she couldn’t go through with it. She even started to think you were a good man.”

“Sandra,” I said. “Sandra was your sister?”

“Half sister.” He nodded. “She decided to tell you everything, Nell. To get you to help put me away. She thought I was obsessed.” He laughed. “She was too young to remember what it was like when Mom was well. She only remembered the bad stuff. She thought we were better off without her.”

“Was that your watch in her bedroom?” I asked, but I almost didn’t want to know the answer.

“She stole it.” Powell spat out the words. “She was always stealing. She even stole the photo from Lily’s body that was supposed to frame White. She was a worthless thief and liar. And then suddenly she wanted to tell the truth.” Powell let out a hollow laugh. “I had to stop her before she ruined everything.”

“So now you spend the rest of your life in jail?” Eleanor said sadly. “And what did you gain?”

Powell smiled. “The great Oliver White lives the rest of his life knowing that his granddaughter drowned in a cold river because of him.”

I looked at Oliver, who seemed on the verge of collapse.

“But she didn’t,” Kennette said suddenly. “I’m his granddaughter.”

Oliver spun around and looked at Kennette, in her bright teal coat and brown plaid pants. “I’m Violet’s granddaughter and Rachel’s daughter. I came looking for you because I wanted to be an artist just like you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Oliver stared at her, seemingly unable to take it all in.

“I didn’t think that you could love me, because you didn’t love my mom,” she said. “My grandmother said you were incapable of love, but when I saw how much you loved Eleanor, I knew that wasn’t true.”

Oliver wrapped his arms around Kennette and held her for a long time; both were crying and causing the rest of the quilt club to cry as well. I looked over at Powell, completely destroyed by the reunion. Jesse cuffed him and handed the prisoner over to Greg, who smiled happily but kept a firm grip on Powell.

“How did Lily get your stuff?” I asked Kennette once Oliver had let her go.

“I rented a room from her in an apartment in Peekskill and she stole everything I had. I couldn’t pay the rent or even buy food. I would have gone home but I wanted to prove to my mom that I could be an artist.”

“You can be,” Oliver said. “You are.”

“I don’t think my mom will agree,” Kennette said. “She thinks that being an artist will make me a bad person, and when she found out I was taking classes from you, she told me you would ruin my life.”

“She’s pretty angry but I think she’ll understand if the two of you talk to her,” Jesse offered.

I turned to Jesse. It took me a moment to realize what he had said. “You knew?” I asked. “When did you know?”

“I found out that Violet was living with her daughter in Kitchener. Lily had a surgical scar on her right side. Rachel confirmed her daughter never had surgery. She also told me her daughter’s name was Violet Kennette Campbell,” Jesse said. “I knew Powell was going to lie about the DNA and I wanted to be able to counter him.”

“You knew Powell was the killer?” I couldn’t believe Jesse had figured it out before I had.