The Fine Art of Murder (18 page)

A knock came at the door. “Room service.”

“Excuse me, please.” Antoine went to answer it.

“Where would you like this, sir?” I could hear a man ask. From where I sat, I couldn’t see the waiter or the door.

“On the desk, over there.”

Antoine walked back into the room first, followed by a waiter who held a tray topped off with a bottle of wine, two glasses, a corkscrew, and napkins.

I could hear the door slowly closing behind them. As the waiter bent to set the table, something heavy banged against the wall. It took a second for me to realize it was Hank Slater rushing into the room.

The big man tackled Antoine, pushing him forward into the waiter, who went flying toward me. I grabbed my bag and jumped out of the way. Glass shattered, the metal tray went flying, and the wine bottle fell with a thud. The three men rolled around on the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

“Stop it!” I shouted, trying to understand what was happening. But no one paid any attention to me.

It was obvious Hank was after Antoine.

The waiter managed to pull himself free after a few seconds. Confused, the young man didn’t know if he should clean up the glass or retrieve the wine. In the end, he decided against both and ran for the door, slamming it shut behind him. I wondered if he’d call the police or just report it to his supervisor as another out-of-control, drunken guest.

Hank pinned Antoine against the floor. “You grimy snitch. I told Jackie you couldn’t be trusted but she wouldn’t believe me. All the time going on about what an elegant man you are, what a refined gentleman. Classy my ass!” Then he looked at me. “And you, poking your nose around, you’re too old for this crap, ain’t ya? No one would have been the wiser if you just butted out and minded your own damn business.”

“She called me,” Antoine said, nodding toward me, “about the ledger.”

I took up the lie. “I did. I called him about Stacey’s notes. I don’t understand what they mean. I thought maybe Mr. Rousseau would know.”

Hank stood up, grabbing Antoine by the wrist and lifting him to a standing position. “You expect me to believe that? I’m not as dumb as you think, lady.”

“And just what were you hoping to do, breaking in here like this?” I asked.

“Shut him up—permanently.” He jerked Antoine’s arm, making the poor man wince in pain. “But since you’re here, it looks like I get a two-fer.”

“A what?” I asked.

“Two fer the price of one.”

He seemed to fill the room as he walked toward me, dragging Antoine along. I backed up, pushing myself against the wall.

Hank reached out, grazing my shoulder with his hand. If it hadn’t been for Antoine struggling like he was, Hank would have gotten me on the first try. In spite of his size, he kept being knocked off balance. When Antoine fell to the floor, Hank had to use both hands to pull him up.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, I pulled Nathan’s gun out, tossing the bag out of the way. I wondered how many of these little .22 caliber bullets it would take to stop this massive man.

“You’re both coming with me now.” Yanking Antoine to his feet again, Hank turned back to see me aiming the .22 at his chest.

“We’re not going anywhere,” I said firmly, never looking away from his eyes. “You’re leaving. Get out.”

“You’re a tough lady, ain’t cha?”

He didn’t know the half of it. If I had been convinced that he was the killer, I would have shot him right then and there.

He grabbed for the gun, so sure he had everything under control.

I stepped back out of his reach and said, “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, Hank. Just let Mr. Rousseau go and—”

“—and you’ll call the cops. I know the drill. No, I like my plan better.” He grabbed at me again.

And I fired.

The bullet went into the wall.

It was a reflex action that made his arms jerk up, sending Antoine flying into me, knocking me off balance.

Slowly Hank checked his clothing for a sign he’d been shot. When he realized he was okay, he said, “Watch your back, both of you.” Then he ran toward the door, crunching glass beneath his shoes, grinding it into the carpet. “This ain’t over, Rousseau,” he yelled over his shoulder.

When he was gone, Antoine ran to bolt the door.

“You were magnificent, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Yeah, well . . .” I clicked the safety back on the gun. “Pack your bags; we have to get you out of here.”

I could see Antoine’s hands shaking as he brushed off his suit. “I am afraid you are correct. I’ve never seen Mr. Slater so angry. What if he should come back or the police have been called?”

He looked frightened at the prospect of being found out and sent to prison. But that was something he’d have to deal with later. I’d come so far with my investigation that I could almost see the finish line. Having Antoine taken in for questioning again would only slow everything down—especially if Bostwick had his way.

“We’ll go to my friend Mr. Walker. He’ll keep you safe.”

“Ahh yes, we met earlier.”

While Antoine packed, I called Nathan.

“I’m bringing Antoine along with me to your office. I’ll explain later. The police are probably on their way, so I can’t talk.”

“Are you okay, Kathy?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Nathan.”

“And did you find out who killed Stacey?”

“I’ll tell you everything when we get there. But I’m starting to think that Hank Slater is the killer.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ll explain when we get there.”

Nathan had a pot of coffee and a plate of doughnuts laid out for us. I was starving and ever so grateful for his thoughtfulness.

When we walked in the door, he rushed over. “I was so worried.”

“I told you I was fine.” I smiled at him.

“I know, I know. I just needed to see you for myself.”

Antoine stood behind me uncomfortably.

“How’re you doing, Mr. Rousseau?” Nathan asked.

“Better now, thanks to Mrs. Sullivan. She is a very brave woman.”

“Don’t I know,” Nathan said. “Come sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“You are most kind.”

While we relaxed, I filled Nathan in on what had happened at the inn. Occasionally, Antoine would make a comment, but not very often. When he left to use the men’s room, I quickly told Nathan I was still unsure if Antoine was telling us the truth.

“He knows a hell of a lot more than he’s letting on. I’ve thought that from the start,” he said.

I nodded. Before I could say a word, Antoine was back.

We waited until he got settled in his chair. Then Nathan flashed a nice, easy smile.

“So tell me, Mr. Rousseau,” he said. “What was your first impression of Jackie Pierce? She’s certainly kept tongues wagging in this town with her exploits throughout the years.”

Antoine laughed. “I was first struck by her hideous ensemble. But then it has been my experience that wealthy people are most eccentric.”

“And all she wanted you to do was keep quiet about her real reason for coming to town?” Nathan asked.

“Oui.”

“She never mentioned the Klimt?” I asked.

“Not at first . . .”

“But she did eventually, right?” Nathan asked him.

“Oui. After a while, we did talk about it.”

“And you figured that if Stacey found the painting, you’d just . . . keep it?” I asked. “You wouldn’t tell Jackie but you would keep the hush money she offered to pay you?”

“Plus his fee from Randolph,” Nathan added.

Antoine looked embarrassed but said nothing.

“You never had a conversation with Randolph about his aunt?” I asked. “Did you ever think that she might be crazy and not have the money she promised you?”

“He couldn’t ask Randolph anything,” Nathan answered for Antoine. “Because if he had, Randolph would have become suspicious, wouldn’t he?”

Antoine nodded.

“That day I saw you in front of the gallery, it was after Stacey had been murdered, right?”

“Oui.”

“Was it the only time the three of you met?”

“Oh, there were other meetings,” Nathan continued. “From the looks of how cozy the three of them were at the guesthouse, I’d say they were becoming very good friends.”

“But why would they have to be friends?” I asked Nathan, pretending that I’d forgotten Antoine was even in the room. “If it was all business, they’d have to only meet twice—tops. The first time to make the initial deal and the second time to make payment.”

“No,” Nathan told me. “Jackie could have just mailed or wired the money to him. No need to meet face to face. They’d want to distance themselves from the crime and each other.”

“Which crime?” I asked. “Murder or art theft?”

Nathan shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe both.”

Antoine’s head swiveled, making him look like he was watching a tennis match.

“If Mr. Rousseau is telling the truth that Stacey was the one who found the painting and was murdered shortly afterwards, I guess both.”

“I had nothing to do with Stacey’s murder!” Antoine shouted. “I would never hurt that woman. I deal in stolen art, not murder.”

“You were using that poor girl from the very start, weren’t you?” Nathan asked.

“Knowing she was desperate for money, you figured that if she ever got out of hand, you’d blackmail her. You probably threatened to call the police if she didn’t cooperate. And when she actually did find the painting, you . . .”

“Our business would have been concluded. We would have gotten the Klimt out of the country. No one would have been hurt. Please believe me.” He looked from Nathan, to me, then back to Nathan. “I was not there, but I’m sure it was an ill-timed . . .”

“Accident. And it screwed up all your plans, right?” I asked him.

The frustrated man nodded. “Sadly, it did.”

We gave him a moment. Then after he looked calmer, we started again, right where we’d left off.

“So while they were meeting, over dinner and drinks, what do you suppose the three of them talked about?” I asked Nathan. “It only takes a few hours here and there to discuss the mansion and art. I bet they got personal. That always happens after spending time with people. You exchange anecdotes, jokes, things like that.”

“Huh, beats me. But I do know that when alcohol’s involved, tongues get looser. Did you see that bottle of wine at the guesthouse, Kathy? Looked like some excellent stuff there.”

We’d worked Antoine up enough so that he wanted to be a part of the conversation. “We talked about the usual,” he joined in. “You know how it is. Ourselves, places we had traveled.”

“I’m sure you found out more than you ever cared to know about Hank. He does love to talk about himself.” I said.

“That he does.”

The three of us had to smile.

“And when did he tell you about killing Stacey?” I asked, hoping to shock Antoine with my bluntness.

Antoine didn’t look shocked but more upset than anything else. “Never. He never said such a thing.”

Nathan leaned back in the desk chair, making it squeak. “So you want us to believe you, Mr. Rousseau, when you say you didn’t kill Stacey.”

“Definitely.”

“Well we have proof that Randolph Pierce couldn’t have done it,” I said. “If we believe that you didn’t kill her, that leaves Hank and Jackie.”

“You saw what he was capable of this evening,” Antoine said.

“So you’re telling us that Hank Slater killed Stacey?” Nathan asked. “And you know this for a fact? Do you have any evidence? And what would his motive have been?”

“It’s always been about the paintings,” Antoine said.

I jerked forward. “Plural? Are you saying there are more than one at Buckhorn?”

“Well . . . yes and no. I am saying that I was led to believe there could be more.”

“Was it Jackie who told you this?” I asked.

“Oui. On more than one occasion.”

“Cha-ching! Visions of dollar signs must have been dancing in your head big time.” Nathan reached for a doughnut.

“Is that why you’re protecting the real killer?” I asked him. “You convinced the police you were innocent early on. So you’re in the clear—off their radar. Now all you have to do is finish the restoration, keep your mouth shut . . .”

“And look for more hidden treasure,” Nathan finished my sentence.

Antoine looked calm . . . peaceful. He had grown too comfortable with our questioning. What he needed was another good dose of fear to make him tell us everything he knew.

I looked at Nathan. “I was thinking that Mr. Rousseau could stay at your place tonight. Hank might go back out to the inn to . . . you know . . . finish him off.”

That did it. Antoine’s eyes got wild. “No, it is not safe for me out there!”

“If you’re planning to stay in town, you might be better off with a bodyguard,” Nathan told him. “Now I got this guy who works for me—”

“Your home would be much better. Please, Mr. Walker. Just for tonight. I beg you.”

“Aren’t you tired of the danger, Antoine?” I asked him. “You can’t finish the job as long as Hank’s out there. You can’t go home without any compensation for your time. And believe me, I’ll tell Randolph not to pay you a cent. I’ll tell him how you came here planning to steal from him. I’ll even tell him—”

“I give up, Mrs. Sullivan.” Antoine said, finally defeated. “I’ll tell you everything I know. And if you do exactly as I say, you will catch yourself a killer.”

Later that night, Nathan and I were in the mansion, the scene of the crime. It seemed fitting that this was where the truth should come out.

“I hope she comes,” Nathan said.

“She’ll come,” I assured him. “If she doesn’t, it will be like she’s admitting she killed Stacey.”

We heard someone at the front door.

“Quickly,” I said. “Don’t let her see you.”

Nathan hurried from the room to a hiding place where he could hear everything.

Suddenly, Jackie was in the doorway. She was wearing a long, loose-fitting, dark dress. The subdued outfit was covered with a full-length, green satin coat. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, and I could see the only makeup she’d applied was a coat of red lipstick. The dim lighting exaggerated every wrinkle on her face, adding ten years to her appearance.

“Hello, Jackie. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

Jackie looked confused. “Well, after you mentioned something about needing my help to get Randolph out of prison, how could I refuse?”

“We’ve been trying to reconstruct the crime scene and hoped you might catch something we missed.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Jackie took a step into the room. The expression on her face as well as her posture seemed to wilt the further she got inside. When she came to a worn chair, she ran her fingers along the leather, caressing the arm with both hands. A slight smile played along her lips but faded instantly. I waited for her to feel comfortable, to walk to the middle of the room.

Antoine had told me the night before when we concocted our plan that over drinks one night, Jackie had shared her darkest secrets with him. She’d told him how her father’s verbal abuse had ruined every part of her life. How she’d suffered through her childhood with the tyrant who’d infected not only her self-esteem but her sanity as well. And after one last martini, she told him about the night she’d killed Stacey Jordan.

“That’s where Stacey’s body was found,” I said, pointing to the floor, “but of course, you know that already.”

She raised her eyebrows at me and asked, “Do I?”

“Of course you do, Jackie,” I said. “You came here that night and found Stacey with the Klimt. You argued. You believe you’re the rightful owner of the painting. Isn’t that true?”

“That part is true,” she said. “After everything my father put me through, I deserve to have the painting.”

“And you do have it, don’t you?” I asked. “You took it from Stacey that night, after you struck her repeatedly with . . . what? Antoine’s stick? Did you have it with you when you came in?”

Jackie looked around to see if anyone else was there.

“I suppose you’re wearing some sort of listening device?” she asked. “What do they call it? A wire?”

“I’m not the police, Jackie,” I said. “Search me, if you like. It’s just you and me here.”

“What makes you think I killed Stacey?”

“Well,” I said, “for one thing, you’ve been wearing her bracelet.”

She jerked her wrist up and stared at the bracelet, as if it had suddenly burned her.

“I’m not a thief!” she snapped. “Just . . .”

“Just what?” I asked. “A murderer?”

“It wasn’t murder,” she said. “It was justice. She thought she was going to take my painting. Well, I showed her who it really belonged to.”

“By killing her.”

She hesitated, then said, “Yes. What else could I do?”

“And was Hank with you?”

“He . . . he had the stick,” she said, frowning. “I think I remember him handing it to me. Anyway, suddenly there it was, in my hand. So I used it.”

“And the painting was yours.”

“Yes, finally.”

“And Hank?”

“He stayed behind to clean up.”

“And that’s when he took Stacey’s bracelet.”

“Why?” she said. “Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he thought it was yours, that you dropped it. Or maybe he’s not so dumb and gave it to you on purpose, hoping someone would notice and then would figure out you killed Stacey.”

That thought seemed to take all the steam out of her.

“I—I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” I asked. “With you in jail, Hank could sell the painting and make a tidy profit.”

“B-but . . . I killed her for it.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks. “Why would he do that to me? Why . . . why do the men in my life . . . treat me . . .” She trailed off and a faraway look came into her eyes. “Daddy?” she said, as if she’d heard her father’s voice, and she buried her face in her hands and began to sob. In spite of the fact that I knew she was a killer, it was painful to watch.

As quickly as it had overtaken her, the sobbing stopped and she was calm. Straightening her back, Jackie smoothed her hair, then ran her hands down the front of her dress. And gracefully she walked out of the room and back down the stairs. Nathan came back into the room as we heard the front door close.

“Well,” he said, “that’s that. We both heard her confess.”

“Yes.” Oddly, I didn’t feel the least bit triumphant.

Nathan texted Brock to call Bostwick. We both stood at the window watching Jackie walk toward Brock.