The Fine Art of Murder (20 page)

I stopped to sit on a bench outside the police station and bask in the warm sunlight and my glory. They both felt wonderful. Then I called Lizzie’s office number.

“Oh hey, Mrs. Sullivan,” her assistant Josh said. “Mrs. Farina’s with her client, Mr. Pierce, at the jail. Lots of paperwork to fill out before he can walk out of there. But she said to meet her at the gallery around two.”

“I imagine she’s very happy today.”

“I’d say she’s more relieved than anything else. She’s had a hard time of it. Good thing you were here to help her.”

“Thanks, Josh. Tell her I’ll see her later.”

“Will do. Have a nice day.”

“It can’t get much nicer.”

***

Squeezing Nathan’s car into a parking space, I could see a crowd of people inside the Pierce Gallery. It looked like several women were holding champagne glasses and one man
was laughing uncontrollably, but I couldn’t see Randolph or Lizzie.

As I entered the building, I was overwhelmed with the joyful scene. An old Elton John song played through the speakers, red and gold metallic balloons clung to the ceiling, and a waiter walked by with a tray of appetizers. When I waved him off, he told me that champagne was being served in the back of the room.

Walking the perimeter of the room, I sipped champagne and planned to stay another ten minutes before leaving. After years of hearing Lizzie complain about Dandy Randy, listening to Sully tell me all the trouble the Pierce boy was constantly getting into, I was glad to see he had enough friends to fill the gallery. But then I reminded myself that Randolph Pierce was a grown man now. He was a business owner and, from the looks of it, a respected and well-liked member of the community. Not the troubled rich kid I remembered.

“There you are!” Randolph stood in front of me. “Lizzie was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Come on, Mrs. Sullivan. We all know I’m not your favorite person.”

“I don’t really know you, Randolph.”

“Well in spite of what you think of me, I thank you for helping me clear my name. And I bet for a while that maybe . . . just maybe . . . you might have thought I had murdered Stacey, didn’t you?”

“Well . . .”

“I don’t blame you, Mrs. Sullivan. I was a real jerk for a lot of years. But you and Mr. Sullivan were always fair with me.”

I was starting to warm up to him. “Well it looks like you turned out okay.”

“Almost getting arrested for murder? I don’t know how good that is but at least it’s over. I’m just afraid this will follow me forever. Once something gets put out there, it never goes away. And I have plans, things I want to do with my life, which could be difficult if people think I’m capable of murder.”

“Do you want some motherly advice?”

“From you . . . always.” He started to put his arm around me but realized it was too soon for such an affectionate gesture.

“People are always going to think what they want to think. Some won’t like you for no good reason at all. It might be for something silly like the way you comb your hair. Others will hate you on sight. Maybe you remind them of a bully who taunted them in school.”

His smile drooped. “So you’re telling me to not even try because it doesn’t matter?”

“If trying is what you want to do, then by all means try to change public opinion. But what I’m saying is don’t waste your precious time worrying about things you can’t change—that’s all. Do what makes you happy but never hurt anyone along the way.” I patted his shoulder. “And I’ll tell you a secret.”

“Which is?”

“We’re all blessed with short memories. Once a new scandal hits, some teen idol gets picked up for shoplifting or getting into a fight at a dance club, you’ll be old news.”

“But Lizzie told me you gave her a lecture a few days ago about how important her reputation was. How people don’t forget and hold grudges.”

He’d caught me. “Well, she’s my daughter. When you have children, you’ll learn that you have to kind of customize your advice, depending on the child and situation.”

“Oh, I get it. Different strokes for different folks.”

“Exactly.”

When we started laughing, it was hard to stop.

“There you are!” Lizzie hugged me. “Isn’t it wonderful? Everything worked out perfectly. I’m so proud of you, Mother. Isn’t she wonderful?” she asked Randolph.

“Katherine Sullivan is an amazing woman.” Randolph held up his crystal champagne flute and then took a drink.

“Houdini was amazing. A man walking on the moon, now that’s really amazing. But me? No.” Where had I been the day that word had been reduced to it basest form? And why was it that everyone now used it when describing anything barely acceptable?

“Okay then, how about . . . wonderful?” Randy asked.

“Much better.”

While the three of us continued talking, people kept arriving for the celebration and I started feeling claustrophobic. I was nibbling on a cracker spread with brie when Nathan walked through the door. I watched him study the room and the people in it, but he didn’t see me.

Shoving the rest of the cracker in my mouth, I grabbed another glass of champagne and pushed through the crowd.

He was looking thoughtfully at a canvas splattered with cobalt blue and bright yellow. I walked up behind him and tapped his shoulder.

As he turned around, I asked, “Champagne, sir?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He took the glass, never giving me the satisfaction of showing one bit of surprise at seeing me there.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Looking for you . . . and my car.”

“I was going to bring it back right after I left here. I’d never leave you stranded.”

“I know, Kathy, I was just playing with you. I used E.T.’s van. He’s still wrestling with furniture. When I left, he was moving pictures around. No, I got a call from DeYoung. Sounds like you got in the last word with ol’ Bostwick. You’re big news.”

“But how did you know I’d be here?”

“That took some real detective work.” He winked. “Lizzie called and invited me.”

“Well I’m glad you’re here.”

“If you’ve had enough pats on the back, the crew wants to say good-bye. How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

“I’m ready to leave this party now.”

“Just let me go say hi to that lovely daughter of yours, and Pierce of course, then we’ll get outta here.”

They were all there when we got to the office, including Brock, who was back from his errand in Minneapolis. A desk had been pushed into the middle of the room and the crew was seated around it. Two pizzas were the centerpiece.

“Here she is, the woman of the hour,” Nathan said as he took my jacket.

The four of them stood up and clapped.

“Come on, you guys, this was a joint effort.” I applauded them.

Brock pushed a chair toward me. “Have a seat, Katherine.”

“And hurry. These jerks wouldn’t let me eat a bite until you got here,” Rosie said.

Polly passed around paper plates. “What would you like to drink, Kate?”

“Soda’s fine.”

She handed me a can of Coke.

E.T. looked at the food with a concerned frown. “The one on the left is vegetarian, right?” he asked.

“You can see it is,” Brock told him, annoyed. “Stop fussing and just eat, will ya?”

Nathan took a slice, grabbed a napkin, and started his little speech. “I thought we’d take some time to celebrate the fine work all of us have done the past few days. Good job, everyone. Thanks to your talents, the real killer’s in jail and Pierce is free. I want you all to know how much I appreciate everything.”

“And?” E.T. asked.

“Oh yeah, and we’re also here to say good-bye to Kathy.”

The five of them raised their pizza in a salute.

“You’ve all been great. But maybe this celebration is premature. There’s still a trial and . . .”

“What’s wrong?” Rosie asked.

“I don’t mean to be a wet blanket but a few things have been bothering me.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself, Katie,” Rosie said. “Everything turned out great and everyone’s happy. That’s all she wrote; there ain’t no more.”

“I agree,” E.T. said. “All’s well that ends well.”

But the detail-minded Polly asked, “What’s the problem?”

I addressed my concerns to her. “The murder weapon. I knew it was shaped like a globe, that it was made of metal. Antoine’s stick was obvious. I should have let Nathan go back to the guesthouse that day and grab it.”

“And then what?” he asked. “We would’ve taken it to Nylander to be tested. There goes two or three days. If it turned out to be the murder weapon, then what? Any one of those three, Slater, Jackie, or Rousseau, could have used it.
But more than likely it would have been wiped clean, like the crime scene, and we would have been spinning our wheels.”

“But I could have . . . I should have . . .”

“Hey, you spotted it in the first place, which is more than I did. And when Hank started flapping his gums last night, you knew you’d been right. I guess you’ll have to be satisfied with that,” Nathan said.

I knew he was right but still . . .

“So what else? You said ‘things.’ What other thing is bothering you?” Polly wanted to know.

“That stupid bracelet. I just can’t believe Jackie was dumb enough to flaunt it, knowing that someone might realize it had belonged to Stacey.”

“Antoine told us Hank picked it up while he was cleaning the murder scene,” Nathan told the others.

“‘Picked it up.’ That’s the way he said it?” E.T. asked. “Which means it was lying there, in a separate area, away from the body. So why wouldn’t he think it belonged to Mrs. Pierce?”

“You know, sometimes the answer is right in front of your face,” I said, relieved.

“So that’s it, now?” Rosie asked. “You’re okay?”

“I’m good.”

It was great being there with that odd bunch. They all had so many great stories to tell and I listened to them for hours. It was well past ten by the time we’d run out of steam.

I said my good-byes, promising to see them all next time I was in town, extending an invitation for them to come visit
me. Nathan asked, several times, that I call when I got home so he’d know I was safe.

I wanted to tell him how much I’d miss him. But with everyone there—well—it was difficult. And I wanted to give him a real kiss good-bye, but . . .

Maybe next time.

As we sat around the dinner table the next evening, I gave Chloe back her phone. She didn’t seem all that excited to see it.

“Thanks, Grandma.” She gave a quick smile and went back to eating.

“Now you can stop being angry.”

That’s what got her. “I wasn’t angry. Mom, was I angry?” Not giving any of us a chance to contradict her, she continued talking. “I just don’t like people up in my face, telling me what to do.”

“But, Chloe, you’re only thirteen.”

Lizzie looked at me like I’d just walked into a minefield.

“Thirteen-year-old girls aren’t like they were when you were young, Grandma. Back in the olden days, it was all, you can’t be a doctor, you have to be a nurse or a teacher. Go have babies. But now it’s girl power.”

I had to admire her moxie. But still, I wanted to point out that I had commanded the respect of squads of policemen. I
was a powerful . . . aww, she wouldn’t get it. Not when her heroes were singers and models.

Cam had been listening, quietly eating his chicken, while the conversation circled around him. “So what’s new with you?” I asked. “What new masterpieces are you working on?”

“What happened to that painting? The . . . Klimt?” When he asked, I was surprised that he had been absorbing all the facts of the case. But why wouldn’t he? Lizzie and I had talked about it, and the news was full of it now that everything was done with.

“I got word a little while ago that they caught Antoine trying to leave with the painting. The case is really closed, now.”

“I was wondering, Grammy . . .”

“What, Cam?”

“Do you think me and you could go together, to that mansion, and do some art before you leave?”

“I think it can be arranged, sweetie.”

***

Spring had catapulted into summer overnight, and the temperature was eighty as Cam and I set up our easels on the grounds in front of the Pierce estate. He’d wanted to sketch the intricate brickwork and stained glass patterns as seen from the outside. I adjusted my wide-brimmed hat and looked over at Cam, who was wearing a Minnesota Twins cap. I’d swabbed his face with sunscreen against his protests.

It took me a while to get everything set up, squeeze a dab of paint on the palette, mix it with a little brown, but Cam
started drawing immediately. And I waited, knowing the best part of the day was going to be our private conversation.

“Did I ever tell you about your art project? You know, the one you did with the blocks? Did you know it helped me solve the case?”

“Yeah, you said it reminded you of that lady’s bracelet.”

“Right.”

“But it really wasn’t her bracelet, was it? The old one, I mean. It belonged to Miss Jordan, right?”

“That it did.”

“So how did she get it, then?”

“She got it by mistake.” I explained the chain of events to him.

Cam giggled. “And her dumb boyfriend just went along with her. That’s what guys do when a girl likes them. They just do anything to make her smile.”

“Do you have girlfriend?”

“Kinda.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means she doesn’t know she’s my girlfriend.”

“Well, be sure to tell her,” I said, squinting to get the color of the driveway just right.

“Maybe.” Cam’s fingers never took a break. From the time he’d set up, he’d been sketching and talking, quite able to do both comfortably. “So when are you coming back?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But you and your mom and Chloe could come out to visit me. There’s so much to inspire you in the Southwest. You’d love all the colors. Maybe you’d even start working in oils or—”

“I like it here.”

“Well . . . maybe someday.”

We worked in silence for more than an hour. Other than the birds that chirped and flew around us and an occasional squirrel dashing up a tree, we were all alone out there.

I took out a bottle of water and offered it to Cam. He drank a little and handed it back to me. I took a sip. The sun was moving slowly, taking our shade away. I was thinking that another twenty minutes should do it before we’d either have to move or leave.

“Why do they sometimes call this place the Pierce estate and then the estate and then Buckhorn manor?” Cam asked. “And what’s a Buckhorn anyway? Is that someone’s name?”

“Well, all those names refer to this place. Some people remember when the Pierce family lived here, like I do. They grew up thinking of it that way. Estate just means a big fancy house with lots of land around it. And Buckhorn, now that’s interesting. It’s a poisonous plant. See those shrubs over there?” I pointed with my brush. “Those are buckhorns. People used them to make paint, but that was a long time ago.”

“Huh.”

“So how you doing?” I asked. “Ready to go?”

“Can we stop for ice cream on the way home?”

“Anything for my fellow artist. Let me see what you got there.”

The façade of the mansion had been captured like a photograph. I had to look from the real thing to the sketch pad to compare a cracked brick, the pineapple doorknocker. “I’m so impressed, Cam.”

He took a few steps to come closer and look over my shoulder. “Yours is nice, Grammy.” After studying my watercolor, he asked, “Can I borrow your brush?”

“Sure.” I handed it to him.

He took the brush that had been dipped in green, and in broad strokes, he waved it across his sketch. I didn’t try to stop him, I was too fascinated.

When he was finished, he’d made Buckhorn look more like a magic castle instead of the brick and glass structure I was trying to capture.

“That’s better,” he said, satisfied.

I don’t know how he managed it, but it was better. Seeing what he had done, I made a promise to myself. I’d stop painting landscapes for a while and concentrate more—no, I wouldn’t concentrate at all next time. That was the trick. I’d just paint from my heart the way he did.