Where Truth Lies. Christiane Heggan

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СКАЧАТЬ crime scene team is there now. They should be done in an hour or so. But before you reopen, I’d like you to stop by my office in the morning and give us a statement. My deputy will be glad to pick you up and bring you to the police department.”

      “I appreciate that. Will my car be all right where it is?”

      “Is that the black Taurus with the Massachusetts plates?”

      “Yes.”

      “It’ll be fine. In spite of what you’ve just experienced, New Hope is really a peaceful, law-abiding town.”

      Tell that to Steven, Grace thought as she closed her eyes.

      * * *

      Following another thorough examination, Grace was released from the hospital the next morning, and escorted to the police station by Deputy Rob Montgomery, who had arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. Once there, she had given the chief the same statement she had given the night before, signed it and had accepted the deputy’s offer to walk her to the gallery, which was only a few blocks away.

      She felt well rested, and except for the tenderness in the back of her skull, there were no symptoms from last night’s attack.

      Standing alone in the gallery’s showroom, Grace took her first good look around. The crime scene team had left the place a mess. White dust was everywhere, furniture had been overturned, and a large, L-shaped desk was in complete disarray.

      Grace picked up a chair that had been knocked down and put it back in an upright position as she let her gaze sweep from one end of the room to the other. Steven had made the most of the fifty-by-thirty-foot space by hanging paintings of various sizes close together. Larger works were propped up on easels placed throughout the room. She counted forty-five paintings ranging in price from fifteen hundred to fifteen thousand dollars. A small portion of the work displayed was devoted to western art and established artists. The rest of the inventory was comprised of colorful Bucks County landscapes signed by names she didn’t recognize.

      She walked across the room to the desk where art catalogs, correspondence, newspapers and invoices were scattered across it. Behind the desk was an archway that led to the back room.

      There, too, she found evidence of police work, as well as minor damage left by the alleged robber. Several paintings lay on the floor, facedown, as if somebody, presumably her aggressor, had gone through the stack, one by one, before letting each painting fall. Half a dozen were still standing, suggesting that he hadn’t had time to examine them.

      Regardless of what the intruder had been looking for, one thing was certain. He had no respect for art.

      Except for the white dust used to collect fingerprints, the rest of the room was intact. A Formica counter held a microwave and a Braun coffeemaker, as well as an assortment of frame samples and more art catalogs. A small cupboard housed containers of coffee, sugar and creamer.

      A quick check of an upper shelf revealed, of all things, a tackle box, also dusted for fingerprints. To her recollection, Steven hadn’t been much of a fisherman. In fact, he had hated the sport.

      Curious, she opened the box. It was filled with lures. Not just any lures, but some of the best available in today’s market. She should know. Her father was an avid fisherman and had introduced Grace to the sport at an early age.

      She looked at the selection in front of her. There were squid manglers, glow-in-the-dark spoons, crank baits, litterbugs, walleyes and bomber flats. She even spotted a Wigg-Lure, which die-hard fishermen claimed was the most phenomenal fishing lure ever invented.

      What in the world was Steven doing with state-of-the-art lures?

      She put the Wigg-Lure back in its compartment and the tackle box back on the shelf. Steven’s new hobbies were none of her business. She had more pressing matters to tend to.

      She walked over to the paintings and started to pick them up, one by one, inspecting them carefully as she went. Each painting had a Post-it stuck to it with the name of the artist, the title of the work and the price. Only the last painting sparked instant recognition. It was from Eduardo Arroyo, an early twentieth-century artist who had produced more than a hundred paintings in his lifetime. This particular canvas, about twenty-eight by twenty-three inches, was the sixth and last of his Santa Fe series. Showing a typical day in the town square, with merchants displaying their ware on colorful blankets, it was entitled Market Day.

      What was the work of one of the country’s premiere American West artists doing in a back room, instead of being displayed along with the other western paintings in the showroom?

      She looked at the Post-it, and blinked. Twenty-five thousand dollars? For a painting that was worth at least four times that?

      Steven had been fond of western art, but not particularly knowledgeable, which might explain his underpricing. But what about the dealer, or the collector who owned the painting? Didn’t they know what they were selling? And what it was worth?

      Fortunately, Sarah had given her carte blanche to do as she saw fit and that’s what she would do. She planned to start by taking all sixteen paintings to the front room, including the Arroyo, and check Steven’s paperwork for more information on the latter.

      She was dusting a frame when someone behind her said, “So you’re Grace McKenzie.”

      Five

      A woman stood on the threshold of the gallery, leaning against the doorjamb. One hand was on her hip, while the other played with a long, blond curl. She was in her early thirties, no taller than five-three or four, with almond-shaped blue eyes and a small petulant mouth painted a bright red. She wore a celery-green denim jacket with embroidered lapels, snug jeans tucked into ankle boots, and chandelier earrings that shimmered in the October sunlight.

      Her expression was curious as she inspected Grace from head to toe. “I’ll say this for Steven. He had good taste in women.” She gestured toward the door. “I knocked. Guess you didn’t hear me.”

      “Guess I didn’t,” Grace replied, matching the woman’s casual tone.

      The visitor moved aside as Grace walked back into the showroom. “I’m Denise Baxter, by the way.”

      Baxter. That made her the wife of Fred Baxter, the man charged with Steven’s murder.

      “I figured I’d come and tell you the dirt about me before you heard it from the townspeople. That way you’ll know the real scoop.”

      Grace wiped her hands on a paper towel. “You don’t need to tell me anything, Mrs. Baxter—”

      “Please, call me Denise. Everybody does.”

      “All right, Denise. As I was saying, you don’t owe me any explanation. And if it makes you feel better, I was never big on gossip, idle or otherwise.”

      The young woman studied her for a moment more, then bobbed her head. “Yup, you’re exactly like Steven described you—straight to the point.” Her gaze shifted to a spot on the floor, halfway between the desk and the front door. “It feels strange being here. It’s my first time since…” She stopped, as though she couldn’t say the words.

      Grace followed her gaze. “Is that where they found Steven’s body?”

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