The Fine Art of Murder (15 page)

“The girl was just scraping by. Her mother has cancer; there’s thousands of dollars in medical bills and she owed credit card companies—she had to work two jobs just to make it.”

“Okay, let’s go with the obvious then,” Nathan suggested. “The name is our state motto because it was either started by someone originally from Minnesota or someone who currently lives here. You know, for sentimental reasons. People
do that all the time. They name a boat after a girlfriend or a racehorse after their favorite food.”

“Or . . . it’s called that because the person behind it is French. Like Antoine Rousseau. And there’s something else. Mrs. Davidson’s nurse told me that Antoine’s a collector. When he gets wind of a painting he wants, he becomes obsessed. I bet that he took the job at the mansion because he’d heard about the Klimt.”

“Wow.” Nathan sat back to think a moment. “That makes perfect sense. So he meets Stacey who’s desperate for money and, if we assume the ledger represents illegal activity, easily convinces her to help him find and then steal the painting.”

“He’ll add it to his collection and pay her for helping him.”

“With some extra thrown in to keep her mouth shut,” Nathan added.

“Wait a minute. I have a printout Cynthia gave me.” I reached in my purse. Then I smoothed out the paper on top of Nathan’s desk and pointed. “Three deposits from L’Etoile du Nord within the
last year
. But if they’d found the Klimt, that would account for only one deposit. And, according to what I heard, Stacey had only been working for Randolph for eight months. So what about the deposits before then?”

“Guess we’ve gone as far as we can for now. Let me show this to Rosie and we’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

“Great,” I said and went to get my jacket. “I have to go home. I need a shower and a nice hot cup of tea. I’m pooped.”

Nathan walked me to the front door. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

At two o’clock the next afternoon, I was in Dean Bostwick’s office.

But he wasn’t.

I figured he was still on some power trip, trying to show me who the real boss here was. But he forgot I had a lot more time than he did and a lot more patience. So I leaned back, sipped the cup of coffee I’d brought with me, and waited.

By 2:15, I’d finished my coffee.

A young officer walked by the open door then turned around to look in on me. “How’re you doing, Mrs. Sullivan?”

“I’m fine.”

“If there’s anything you need, my name’s Ben.”

“Thanks, but I’m sure you have more important things to do than take care of me.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. It’s kinda slow around here today.”

“That’s a good thing . . . right?”

“Sure is.” He smiled, then continued down the hall.

I decided to sit there all day if I had to. Luckily I’d tossed the latest issue of
Southwest Art
magazine in my tote bag before leaving home. I pulled it out and began reading about the La Quinta Art Festival.

Dean Bostwick came rushing in. “Have you been waiting long?”

I held up my right index finger. “Give me a minute. I’m almost done with this article.”

He stood there, looking more confused than annoyed. Then he took off his suit jacket, draped it over the back of his desk chair, and sat quietly.

Score one for the retired lady police chief!

Slowly, I closed the magazine and put it back in my tote. I prolonged the simple task, enjoying being in control. Then I sat back. “So what do you have for me?”

Dean reached over to a pile of files on the right corner of his desk and removed the top one. “The coroner’s report came in yesterday.” He pushed it toward me.

I couldn’t let on that I already knew what was in the report. So I picked up the file. As I read through it, I stopped every now and then, feigning interest.

Dean sat back, his hands clasped behind his head. “So what do you think?”

“I think it corroborates what I saw at the murder scene. Other than the part about metallic flakes being in the wound, there’s not much new here.”

“Any idea what the murder weapon could have been?”

“Are you asking for my opinion, Dean?”

“Look, I know I rode you pretty hard back then. You just took everything too personally. This is a young man’s game, Katherine. Everyday it’s more crazy and dangerous out there. Cops are getting shot left and right.”

He was right about it being a crazy world, but I didn’t tell him so.

Then, as if trying to redeem himself, he said, “Did you know Stacey Jordan and Antoine Rousseau had worked together before? He hired her to evaluate a private art collection belonging to a family he was working for in Chicago.”

“When was this?”

Bostwick picked up another file that had been underneath the coroner’s report. Opening it, he flipped through two pages, then stopped. “From April to June of last year.”

I reached for my note pad. “How do you know this?”

“Pierce’s polygraph. He was asked how he first became acquainted with Stacey. He answered that she was recommended by Rousseau. He was then asked what exactly Rousseau had said about her. You know, ask the same question in a few different ways to try and trip him up.”

“And did you?”

“Nope. Like I told you on the phone; he passed with flying colors. He met Stacey through Rousseau. Since he was also opening an art gallery and there wasn’t enough full-time work for her at the estate, he also had her fill in at the gallery.”

“What exactly was she working on at the estate?”

“Cataloguing paintings, taking inventory of the various collections, things like that.”

“And do you think there were other jobs before the one in Chicago?” I asked.

“Pierce didn’t know of any. But she did work at a museum here in town for a while.”

“The Miller Art Center.”

He checked his file. “The Miller, yeah that’s it.”

I started to put my note pad back in my tote. “Well I have places to be, and even though it’s a slow day around here, I’m sure you can find something to do.” I couldn’t leave without letting him know I was aware he’d kept me waiting for no good reason.

But he didn’t acknowledge my remark. “So we’re square now, right?”

“And you’re not going to interfere with my investigation?”

“If you don’t mess with mine . . . we’re good,” he said.

Lizzie was in front of the TV, arms folded in front of her. The redness of her eyes revealed she had been crying. “Where are the kids? Why are you home now? What’s wrong?” I couldn’t stop the questions from flying out of my mouth.

She looked up at me with those red eyes. “Daddy Dearest flew into town. He called telling me—not asking—that he’d be picking the kids up from school and keeping them overnight.”

“When was this?”

“Around two.”

I walked into the living room and sat next to her.

“I had to drop everything, come home, pack a bag for each of them, and take it to school. Then I had to ask Mr. Edstrom, the principal, to call them to his office so I could tell them what the heck was going on. Chloe doesn’t have her phone . . . Not that I’m blaming any of this on you, Mother.”

“Thank you. But doesn’t Cam have a phone?”

“Half the time he leaves it at home—like he did today. And even if he had it and told Chloe, they’d still need a change of clothes.”

“I thought they had clothes at Tom’s.”

She just looked at me, irritated that I was foisting logic on her while she was in such an emotional state. What she needed from me at that moment was a mother with a warm shoulder to cry on. So I wrapped my arms around her.

“It’s just that poor Cammy,” she whimpered, “he needs time to adjust to a new situation. Tom knows that. Their first night together is always difficult. Cam gets withdrawn and a little afraid. You can’t just spring something unexpected on him.”

“Aww, honey. Chloe will be with him and he’s got a room at Tom’s apartment. It’s not as if he’s been kidnapped by a stranger.”

“I know.” She put down a bag of cookies, picked up a tissue to wipe her eyes, and turned the TV off.

“So I get my daughter all to myself. How lucky am I?” I put on my happy face. “What’ll we do? A movie? Shopping? Just name it. It’s girl’s night out.”

She brightened up a little. “Really? You’re not running out somewhere?”

“I’m all yours tonight.”

And then, sheepishly, she said, “I know you don’t want to hear this but I miss Randy. Things were going along great; I couldn’t believe how much he’d changed. Then Stacey . . . I know I sound heartless but everything’s all complicated now.”

“Listen.” I held her face between my hands. “If Randolph makes you happy, that’s all I care about. And as for Tom, you know Cam loosens up after a few hours. By tonight, he won’t want to come home.”

Lizzie burst into tears. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Stay there while I go get some paper,” I told her.

She wiped her eyes again. “Paper? What are you talking about?”

“We have to make a list of all the things you need to start worrying about. We’ll start with the car. What if you get a flat tire tomorrow? Or have an accident? Then we’ll move on to the weather. What if it rains and you’ve left all the windows open?”

“You’re being silly, Mother.”

“No, sweetheart, you are. You have to learn to stop wasting time worrying about what-ifs.”

After blowing her nose, Lizzie sat up straight. “I need a shower.”

“Me, too.”

“So let’s get ready and meet back here in an hour.”

“Sounds good,” I said, brushing a curl off her forehead.

***

We ended up at the Galleria. To atone for all the fattening foods we’d been eating, dinner was at an organic café. Then shopping. Neither one of us really needed anything except to spend time together, and browsing through beautiful stores had always been one of our favorite indoor sports.

We talked over sale racks, gawked through windows of stores neither one of us could afford to shop in, and tried on shoes. Lizzie bought a few summer things for herself and the kids. I picked up the latest celebrity biography and a scarf. When we were finally too tired to even ride the escalator, we sat down in the food court to people watch and enjoy a cool drink.

“I went to see your illustrious chief of police today,” I said after arranging my packages on the vacant seat next to me.

Lizzie held up her smoothie. “Since we’re talking business, I guess this is deductible.”

“I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. What about my new scarf? If I wear it while I’m here—”

“Don’t push it, Mother.” She laughed. “So what did dear Mr. Bostwick have to say?”

“He told me you and Randolph took the polygraph and passed with flying colors. His exact words—flying colors.”

“So when will Randy get out?” she asked anxiously. “Did he say?”

“Oh, he’s still playing hardball, but it’ll be soon. Within the next few days, I’d guess.”

Lizzie looked relieved. “Is that all you and Dean talked about?”

“We also discussed Antoine Rousseau.”

“How did his name come up?” she asked.

“Apparently, during the lie detector test, Randolph was asked who had referred Stacey for the job at the estate. He said that Antoine had. Did you know that?”

Lizzie stopped to think a moment. “I vaguely remember him telling me she’d come highly recommended, that’s all.”

“I guess he was trying to distance himself from her as much as possible.”

“And he’s afraid of saying anything that’ll incriminate him,” Lizzie added.

Then I told her all about my trip to Minneapolis and going to Stacey’s house. I glossed over the part about how I got inside and she didn’t ask any questions; she just sat, listening intently. It was too soon to mention the ledger, so I didn’t. If Rosie couldn’t come up with some more evidence linked to it, it was still just a book. I did tell her, however, about meeting with Cynthia Price and the questionable deposits to Stacey’s account.

“Then Bostwick told me he’d found evidence that Antoine and Stacey had worked together before, maybe several times, on jobs involving private art collections.”

Lizzie’s eyes got big. “Are you thinking that maybe he killed her?”

“It’s a possibility. Nathan’s checking out some things for me. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

“So you saw Nathan, too?”

I nodded. “Just before I came home.”

“And it was just a business call?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why the grin? What else would I go to his office for?”

“It’s obvious he likes you, Mother,” Lizzie kidded. “So what do you think about him? It’s okay, you know. Daddy’s been gone awhile and you’re still so pretty and vibrant . . .”

Our night together was turning out like I’d hoped it would. We were sitting there, kidding each other, laughing. The mood was light and I tried keeping it that way when I told her, “We live in different places and both of us have a lot of baggage . . .”

“But you’ve thought about it, haven’t you?” she giggled. “Maybe just a few times?”

I could feel my face warming up. “Maybe.” She was enjoying making me squirm.

“And if that doesn’t work out,” she smiled, “there’s always Tinder.”

I stirred the fruit around in my drink. “What’s that? Sounds like a lumberjack camp.”

“No, it’s a dating site for mature singles. You can go online, sign up, and meet men in your area.”

“You sound like a commercial.”

“I’m serious, Mother. I don’t like to think of you being all alone.”

“Do I look like I’m lonely? Like I need a man?”

“No.”

I patted her hand. “I’m fine . . . really.”

“Okay, I believe you.”

“Good. Now I’m dead on my feet and want to go home.”

We gathered up our packages and headed for the parking lot. But we had to pass my favorite jewelry store on the way. And of course, I had to have a look inside.

The diamonds sparkled brilliantly beneath fluorescent lights. Earrings and bracelets were arranged on top of the blue velvet lining inside display cases. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,”
Lizzie suddenly said, pointing to a jeweled cuff. “I saw Jackie Pierce today. She was wearing something similar to that. She looked as strange as ever.”

“Where was this?” I asked, putting down the gold earrings I’d been admiring.

“At the bank. I ran in to use the ATM and there she was talking to Mr. Branson.”

“Owen? I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Well, he’s the manager now.”

“Was she alone?”

“Do you mean was that big lunkhead with her?”

“I don’t think he’s such a lunkhead. Maybe he has us all fooled.”

“No—at least I didn’t see him. It was just Jackie in all her glory.”

“And did you talk to her?” I asked.

Lizzie looked so proud of herself when she said, “I did one better. I waited around until she was gone and then went in to see Mr. Branson.”

***

I grilled her all the way to the car. While we put our packages in the trunk, I questioned her some more. On the ride home, we were still talking about Jacqueline Pierce.

“She was making inquiries about the family estate. Mr. Branson said she’s been in and out of his office for days.”

“You told me you saw her around town before I got here. That first time I went to see Randolph in prison, she made a scene and told the officer she’d just flown in from Las Vegas.
She gave the impression that she’d come specifically to help her poor nephew.”

“Mr. Branson said she told him she was living out at the guesthouse. Jackie said she had permission to be there. Just because Randy’s grandfather and father didn’t want her on the property, that doesn’t mean he feels the same way,” Lizzie told me.

“So she’s been out there the whole time? Even before Stacey was murdered? Randolph had to have known.”

“He knew she used it when she came to visit, which wasn’t very often. Randy and his aunt have always been polite to each other. She’s really the only family he has left. And he feels sorry for her.”

“It’s easy to tolerate anyone for a few days,” I said.

“But he did tell me that as the centennial gets closer and Buckhorn’s almost ready to be turned over to the state, she’s more agitated and won’t stop calling him. Night and day, she gets all worked up, threatening, shouting that the mansion’s hers.”

“Wasn’t he concerned?” I asked.

“No. He just thinks Jackie’s crazy and hasn’t got the money or brains to organize any kind of legal plan.”

“What about her . . . friend?”

“Hank?” Lizzie laughed. “He’s got an IQ of ten. The guy’s an idiot.”