The Fine Art of Murder (16 page)

Lizzie called the kids when we got home. She made plans to pick them up after school the next day. I got in my hellos and good-byes. They seemed happy to be with their father.

I rummaged through my tote bag and finally found the note pad I’d been using during the investigation. Then I sat at the kitchen table to organize my thoughts. Flipping through the pages, I reviewed everything I’d learned over the course of my investigation. When I was finished, I made a list of what I planned to do the next day. At the very top was
Go out to Buckhorn—talk to Jackie Pierce
.

***

I looked at the clock by my bed; it was eight. Throwing on my robe, I walked out to see what my daughter was up to.

Lizzie sat perched on a high stool in front of the marble counter. She looked very professional in a gray suit. She wore pants so often that I wasn’t used to seeing her legs. Those black suede heels of hers were perfect.

“Wow,” I stopped to admire her, “talk about dressed for success. You nailed it, kiddo.”

She looked up from the laptop propped open on the counter in front of her. “Thanks. I have to be in court at ten.” She got up. “Want some coffee?”

“Always.” I sat on the stool next to hers.

“What’s the case?”

“I’m helping a woman get her child support increased. It’s gotten real messy between her and the father.”

Lizzie refilled her cup and then brought it back to the counter along with one for me.

“Sometimes I forget you’re all grown up, a respected member of the community. When I’m out in Taos I think of you as just . . . Lizzie. My little girl. And then I come back here and BAM! There’s this beautiful grown woman, with two children of her own, running an office, and it kind of rattles me. It takes a few minutes to take it all in.”

Lizzie grinned. “Welcome to my world.” She sat down. “Now you know how I felt.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were my loving mother, the one who made cookies and colored with me. Daddy and I were the only people you took care of. Then I’d go to the station and you were wearing a uniform, not T-shirts and jeans like at home. Policemen were reporting to you; you had a big office. And you weren’t the same mother I had at home. You were the freakin’ chief of police! I realized then that when you left home, you were taking care of hundreds of strangers. I got a little jealous sometimes.”

I reached out and stoked her hair. “Well now I’m just a wandering artist.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Come on, Mother, you’ve never been ‘just’ anything.”

“Neither have you, my dear.”

“Here’s to the Sullivan women,” Lizzie said, raising her coffee cup. And we toasted each other.

We talked for a few minutes more before she left the house. When I was alone, I called Nathan.

“Has Rosie come in yet?” I asked him.

“She’ll be here any minute. I told her all about Stacey’s book, and she plans to work on it all day. What’s on your schedule?”

“I’m going out to Buckhorn to talk to Jackie Pierce.”

“Why?”

“Last night Lizzie told me that Jackie’s trying to get documentation stating the mansion belongs to her.”

“And you think her legal problems had something to do with how she felt about Stacey?”

“I think they might have contributed to her state of mind.”

“Oh, that woman’s always been a little psycho.”

“Sometimes I think her craziness is all an act just so she can keep getting away with things. People don’t really see or take time to listen to a crazy person. They’ll do whatever they can to just make them go away. I think she’s counting on the police to do the same.”

Nathan took a deep breath. “I’m not going to try and talk you out of this but I—”

“You insist on coming with me, right?”

“Now don’t get mad, Kathy but—”

“I want you to come this time, Nathan. That’s why I called.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that you’ve come to your senses.”

Nathan picked me up at the house an hour later.

“So how do you plan on handling this?” he asked after we’d pulled out of the driveway.

“I’ll be friendly but direct. I’m not going to let her distract me with accusations or insults. Once we’re inside, I’ll calmly ask her a few questions.”

“Sure, that would be great. But you can’t be sure what we’re going to find out there,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“A kook like her could have a dozen cats or garbage piled up to the ceiling. You never know.”

“I think we can handle small animals or garbage.” I settled back in my seat.

“What if she sics that big guy of hers on us?”

“Hank? He spends all his time at the gym; he probably won’t even be there.”

“Well just in case . . .” Nathan patted the shoulder holster concealed beneath his jacket.

***

What the Pierce family referred to as a guesthouse would have been more than adequate for a family of four. It was a bungalow, built in the same style as the mansion. But while the estate had been made of brick and stained glass, the small house had been constructed of wood, featuring beveled windows. A thick grove of trees surrounded it, creating a forest setting. Heavy drapes covered the windows.

We didn’t speak as we approached.

An Adirondack chair had been dragged out to the front of the house. Grooves in the dirt around the patio told me it had to have been moved by Jackie. Hank would have just picked it up, so logically it followed that Jackie was living there alone.

As we got closer, I could hear voices inside. “Someone’s in there,” I whispered to Nathan.

He nodded.

I walked to the door and knocked. Nathan stood behind me, covering my back.

The voices stopped.

Nathan and I waited, but no one came.

I knocked again. “Jackie? This is Katherine Sullivan and Nathan Walker. We want to talk to you.”

Still no response.

Then I pounded on the door with my fist. “I’m trying to prove that your nephew didn’t kill Stacey Jordan. Don’t you want to help me get him out of jail?” Maybe that would get her attention.

The door opened a crack.

Jackie’s wrinkled face looked up at me. “Mrs. Sullivan. My, my, you certainly are persistent, aren’t you? Just like an old dog hanging onto his favorite bone for dear life.”

“Do you think you can put aside your dislike for me just long enough to answer a few questions? I know we both want to clear Randolph of this murder charge.”

She opened the door slightly wider and I could see Hank inside. “My nephew’s the only reason I came back to this godforsaken town. I’d do anything for that darling boy. How dare you act as though you and Elizabeth are the only people who care about his welfare.”

Nathan stepped forward. “We just need a few minutes and then we’ll get out of your hair. Being difficult will only make this drag on longer than it has to.”

“The guy makes sense, babe,” Hank said. “Let ’em in so we can get this the hell over with.”

Grudgingly, Jackie opened the door completely. Turning her back on us, she walked into the house and we followed.

The floor in the entryway was gray granite. To the right was a black wooden bench, next to that an umbrella stand. To the left, in the middle of the wall, was a small table. It had also been painted black, and on top of it was a 1950s-style phone, which probably had been put there more for its style than function.

A large fireplace took up the bottom half of a back wall in the main room; embers glowed around a single log. Along the wide mantle were clusters of photographs in gold and silver frames, sharing space with a collection of glass vases. The floor and baseboards had been made from rich dark wood.
Above the mantle was a large oil painting of purple and white wildflowers in a field of green. An oversized couch covered in red and navy tapestry was turned toward the fireplace. Someone was sitting on it, and I could see the back of a head as we walked further into the room. When he heard us, he stood up. I don’t know why, but I was surprised to see Antoine Rousseau . . . again.

“Mrs. Sullivan, what an unexpected pleasure.” Then, looking at Nathan, he held out his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor; I am Antoine Rousseau.”

While the men shook hands, I said, “This is Officer Nathan Walker. We worked together on the force; he was my husband’s partner.” I was hoping by throwing in an official title that maybe Nathan would command more respect than I had been getting. I also wanted to intimidate Rousseau.

Turning to Nathan, I said, “You remember me talking about Mr. Rousseau, don’t you? He’s an art conservationist. He was hired by the board of directors at Buckhorn to oversee the restoration.”

“Sure, I remember,” he told me. Then to Rousseau he said, “I’ve heard a lot about you from Mrs. Sullivan and Mr. Pierce as well.”

It obviously pleased the Frenchman knowing that he had been the main topic of several conversations. Smiling, he nodded smugly and straightened his tie.

Watching him, I realized I had never seen Antoine dressed casually. He wore a business suit like a coat of armor, making him always seem guarded, prepared for any occasion. That day was no exception. His brown suit was perfectly pressed;
every single button of the taupe shirt beneath was fastened. His tie was chocolate brown and taupe plaid. Sticking out of a breast pocket was a handkerchief that matched the tie. When he moved his hands, expensive-looking gold cuff links glimmered. His highly polished shoes reflected the light from a Tiffany lamp on a small table near the window.

“And I, you.” Antoine said, then looked perplexed as to what to do next.

“I’m glad to find you here, too, Mr. Rousseau, I’ve got a few questions for you as well.”

“I told you everything I could that day at my hotel.”

“Well, during my investigation, I’ve come up with some more questions.”

Even Hank was dressed more formally. He’d put on his big-boy pants that day: clean khakis with a sharp crease running down the front of each leg. A pale yellow polo shirt sporting a designer logo made his tan pop. But he still couldn’t bring himself to buy the correct size. This one was a few sizes too small, making his bulging biceps look like a mountain range beneath the fabric.

Jackie slowly walked toward a chair by the fireplace. It was strange that I’d never noticed she had a slight limp. As she passed by me, her sweet, floral perfume polluted the air. She scuffed her shoes—black satin ballet slippers—across the Persian rug. The hem of each leg of her white jumpsuit dragged along the floor, collecting dust as she walked. A purple cardigan trimmed with pink ribbon flowers hung around her shoulders.

“Sit!” Jackie barked and pointed to a love seat covered in the same tapestry as the couch.

As I came around the sofa, I could see a mahogany table in front of it. Three wine glasses were spread across its surface. Two of the glasses were half full of a ruby liquid; one was empty. A bottle of Merlot sat in the middle. It was too early in the day to start drinking, which meant the glasses and wine were still there from the night before or the three of them had been celebrating something when we interrupted.

While I walked to a seat, I calculated my next move. Who should I question first? But Jackie took charge and eliminated any further planning on my part.

“Before we begin, I want to make it clear that it is only because of my concern for my nephew that I’ve let you in my home. And believe me, this is indeed my home. The authorities have granted me access. You, on the other hand, are trespassing on private property. And if Mr. Walker is indeed an officer of the law,” she cocked an eyebrow at Nathan, “I could have him arrest you whenever it pleases me.”

Nathan started to reach for his wallet to produce his official, expired police ID, but she waved him off.

“From what I’ve learned during my investigation, none of you has any right being here.” I glanced around the room at the three of them. “But why quibble over technicalities?”

Jackie stuck out her jaw, looking at me with disdain.

“My sources tell me that Stacey Jordan was getting a little too . . . nosey? Is that the right word, Mr. Rousseau?” I turned toward Antoine. “Was she getting in your way?”

The man looked shocked. “Are you trying to say that maybe I would have harmed that beautiful girl?”

“You were with her that day—her last day at the mansion.”

“Why the very thought . . . that I could ever . . . this is preposterous!”

Hank came over and sat on the arm of Jackie’s chair. He started to laugh. “If you think Frenchie over there has the guts to kill someone, think again,” he said to me.

Antoine looked insulted at first but then joined in the laughing, realizing Hank had just handed him an excuse. “Oui, it is true. I work with my brain, not my muscles. Physical labor is for uneducated men.” He shot a look back at Hank who seemed to take the remark as a compliment.

But could Slater really be that dumb? Or was it an act?

I continued. “And my sources tell me that you’ve had several run-ins with the law, Mr. Slater”

“I know all about Hank’s . . . indiscretions, Mrs. Sullivan. If you’re trying to shock me, you’ll have to try harder,” Jackie grumbled.

“Okay, how about this?” I asked. “Would you be shocked to learn that your father’s stories about there being a Klimt hidden in Buckhorn were true? And that the painting has been found?” I never flinched, waiting for her reaction to my bluff.

Jackie’s fingers worked nervously, twisting a too large bracelet around her bony wrist. “And where exactly is the painting now?”

“In a safe place. With the authorities.”

Hank started to say something but Jackie squeezed his knee, signaling him to shut up.

Antoine picked up one of the wineglasses and emptied it in two gulps. The four of us watched in silence as he wiped the bottom of the goblet with a napkin before setting it back on the table.

Watching him fuss that way, I suddenly believed Hank. This fastidious man could never stain his hands with a victim’s blood. Murder always involved some degree of passion, which he seemed to lack altogether. No, Antoine Rousseau was an instigator, a calculating planner, not a murderer.

“So, in your esteemed opinion, the only reason someone would have to murder Miss Jordan was to steal the painting from her,” Jackie said in a matter-of-fact way. “But if the police have the Klimt now, they must have tracked down the killer to get it. And since none of us have set eyes on it—”

“—I certainly have not,” Antoine said.

Hank smiled. “Me neither.”

“Then I don’t understand why you and Mr. Walker are here at all.”

She thought she had me with her lopsided logic. I nodded, hoping that if I stayed quiet, she’d take the chance to gloat a little more and incriminate herself or her friends.

“And if that poor girl was still alive, I’m sure she would have sold the painting as soon as possible. Because she needed money desperately,” Jackie said.

And there it was. I grabbed the clue and ran with it.

“How do you know anything about Stacey’s financial affairs?” I asked.

“Well . . . I could tell from the way she dressed. You know, breeding shows in everything about a person.” She stuck her nose in the air. “Besides, why on earth would she be working at Buckhorn as well as at Randolph’s gallery if it wasn’t for the money?”

“Maybe she was having it off with her boss?” Hank laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time a girl tried to sleep her way to the top.”

I could feel my jaw clenching. “And just where would the top be in this situation, Mr. Slater?”

“Come on, you know what I mean. Don’t act insulted. We’re all adults here.”

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let Jackie get to me, and now it was Hank who was pushing my buttons. Nathan caught my eye, shooting me a look that warned me to calm down.

“Is there anything else?” Jackie asked.

“Oh yes, we’re far from done here,” I said.

“You’re trying my patience, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Yeah, we don’t have all day, ya know,” Hank complained.

Ignoring both of them, I continued. “I’m having trouble with your logic. Why would you assume that finding the painting means also finding the killer? The police could have located the Klimt while investigating the murder scene, after Stacey had been killed and was found—alone—at the mansion.”

“I never claimed to be a private investigator. I believe that’s your job. And it seems to me that you’re just grabbing at
straws. You came here looking for someone else to blame Miss Jordan’s death on instead of examining the facts.”

“Okay, here’s a fact, Ms. Pierce. You arrived in Edina
before
Stacey was killed, correct?”

“No, I came afterwards, when Randolph was arrested.” I didn’t bother correcting her.

“Funny, I know for a fact you were in town several days before. Owen Branson, the manager at First National, said that you’d been in to see him about a legal matter.”

“He has his dates wrong, that’s all.”

“Well, there aren’t that many flights from Las Vegas each day. I can always check with the airlines.”

“What does any of this matter?” Jackie asked. “None of us in this room killed Stacey Jordan. Why on earth would we?”

“Let’s suppose she found the Klimt and wouldn’t give it to you,” Nathan said.

“Now you’re just inventing a story, Mr. Walker. I think we’re finished here.”

The more agitated she became, the calmer I got. “I’m sure Chief Bostwick has warned you not to leave town?”

“Yes,” she said. The only color on her face were her flushed cheeks.

“Okay then.” I turned away from her. “Mr. Rousseau, I mentioned finding out some new information. If you’d be so kind to indulge me?”

“But of course.”

I took my time getting the note pad out of my bag. Tension hovered over the room like a storm cloud. “Was this the
first time you worked with Stacey Jordan? During the renovation at Buckhorn?”

Rousseau looked at Jackie, uncertain how to answer. When she didn’t say anything, he answered, “No . . . not exactly.”

I flipped through my notes. “If my sources are correct, you worked with her last year in Chicago, at a similar job.” There—I’d laid it out for him and he knew he couldn’t lie about his past associations with Stacey.