The Fine Art of Murder (2 page)

Resentfully, Chloe came home to eat dinner with us. It was a glorious evening, and I could hear lawn mowers out front of the house. The fresh smell of cut grass was nonexistent in Taos. I’d often missed the bright green of a lush lawn and the passing of seasons since moving to the Southwest. Lizzie plopped steaks on the barbeque while I made a salad in the kitchen. Cam sat at the table with his laptop, reading aloud everything he could find about Kachinas. His enthusiasm delighted me.

After we were all seated out on the deck, Chloe finally put her phone down next to her plate. But she didn’t engage in our conversation or even look up to make sure we were still there. Her eyes never left that screen as she chewed her food. I could see Lizzie getting aggravated. Each time I thought she was going to lose it, I’d start rattling on about something—anything to ease the tension.

“I’m done,” Chloe finally announced. “Can I be excused?”

Before Lizzie had a chance to say anything, I spoke. “You never let me give you your present, sweetheart. I’ll go get it.”

“Okay, Grandma.” Before I could even get to my feet, she picked up the phone.

I walked back to the table with a gift wrapped in silver paper. “Here,” I said, handing it to her. “Open it.”

It was the first time she wasn’t texting or looking like she was thinking about texting since I’d arrived. Taking the gift, she quickly ripped the paper off. All the while, she was smiling that dazzling smile of hers. When she’d torn off the last bit of paper, she held up the book. The cover was hand painted, a red and yellow Indian blanket design. As she flipped through the blank pages, the corners of her mouth slowly dropped.

“It’s a journal,” I said, with an exaggerated enthusiasm. I knew she’d respond in kind for fear of hurting my feelings. And she did.

“Thanks so much, Grandma.”

“And there’s more!” I told her. Reaching in the pocket of my jean jacket, I pulled out a smaller box. “Here.”

Chloe took the gift and this time tore off the wrapping cautiously. “A . . . pen?”

“Not just any pen. It was carved out of a branch from one of the oldest trees in New Mexico. See? The top of yours is a cactus flower. You can write in your journal with it.”

Lizzie sat across from me; I could see she was just as confused as her daughter was with my gifts.

“But, Grandma, I have my phone and laptop and—”

“Not anymore, Chloe.” I snatched the phone and stuck it deep into my pocket. “While I’m here, you can write all your thoughts—good and bad—in that book. Won’t that be fun? Then we can talk about what you wrote. Just you and me.”

“You’re gonna read what I write? But isn’t a journal supposed to be private? And why can’t I have my phone? How am I supposed to text my friends?”

“You can do e-mails, or Facebook, whatever you do. Only now you’ll have to actually talk to people face to face. And when you’re outside the house, I won’t have to worry about you walking into traffic or off a cliff.” Of course I knew there are no cliffs in Edina, but I was on a roll.

“This is über sick. Mom, tell Grandma how much I need my phone. What if it’s an emergency and I have to call you or something. This isn’t fair.”

“You heard your grandmother.” Lizzie looked happy as she sat back in her chair.

“But you’re the boss of me, of Cameron, of this whole house—”

“—and Grandma’s the boss of me. Sorry.”

I got up and hugged Chloe. “You can have the phone back when I leave. But for now, humor an old lady.”

“You always do that! Whenever you want to get your way, you say you’re old, and we’re all supposed to feel bad and do what you say. But you’re not old and none of us are falling for it.” Then she got up and stomped into the house.

Chloe was my granddaughter all right. She’d caught on to one of my tricks and now I’d have to think up another.

***

After the kitchen was cleaned up, homework was done, and the kids went to bed, Lizzie and I sneaked out to the deck to enjoy a glass of wine.

“You were brilliant, Mother. Pulling that old good-cop, bad-cop routine on the kids. I had to keep biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh.”

“You weren’t so bad yourself, counselor. That business about me being the boss of you was a nice touch.”

I made the mistake of looking over at her, and once we started laughing, we couldn’t stop.

After we’d calmed down, I took a few sips of merlot. “Old tricks are so easy to play on kids ’cause they don’t know the punch lines yet. And you need a break, honey. I’ll be the bad guy around here for a while to take some of the heat off of you. Consider it your gift.”

“You’re the best.”

“But I do have a bone to pick. Why on earth would you let Chloe get a tattoo? Or all those holes in her precious little ears?”

“Hold on. The tattoo is henna; it washes off after a while. Tom let her get it. And she only has one tiny hole in her ears. That earring just makes it look like a lot. I got it for her for Christmas hoping she’d stop nagging about more piercings.”

“Okay, now I can relax.”

We sat there for a good ten minutes, just glad to be in the same place at the same time. I thought about how I’d always understand my daughter more completely than she could ever possibly understand me. It was just a fact that I was ahead of her in the timeline of our universe. While I was able to identify with her emotions at every level of her life, she couldn’t fathom what I was going through now. And for that reason, I felt a little lonely.

“Oh, did I tell you Dandy Randy is back from New York?” Lizzie asked.

“Randolph Pierce? What’s he doing here?”

“He opened an art gallery,” Lizzie said, “and he’s overseeing renovations at his family’s estate. He was always such a cake eater.”

“Well, I guess being born into such wealth does sort of warp a person’s perspective. Not one single member of the Pierce family is what you’d consider . . . likable. Have you seen him?” I asked.

Lizzie leaned back in her chair. “Yes. The kids and I went out for dinner and Randy was sitting a few tables over.” She held her wine glass up, swirling the burgundy liquid slowly around and around. Then she took a sip, knowing very well that when it came to patience, I always came up short.

When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I asked, “That’s all you’re giving me? Come on with the details. What did he look like? What did you talk about?”

She laughed. “He looked good—real good. He was wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and a white cashmere sweater. Very minimal. Very New York chic.”

“Was he alone?”

“No, he was with an employee—at least that’s how he introduced her when he stopped by our table. Her name was Stacey Jordan.”

“Pretty?”

“I guess so.”

“And is Randolph still a jerk?” I asked.

“No. I was surprised. He said that going to college in New York, getting away from his family, gave him a crack at a fresh start. He loved living where no one knew anything about him.”

“So he reinvented himself. Good for him. The Pierce family tree does have some twisted branches,” I said. “There were always stories going around about his crazy grandfather and that aunt of his.”

“You mean Ms. Jacqueline Bannister-Pierce?” Lizzie pronounced the name in a very proper British accent. “Oh, she moved to Las Vegas after the most recent divorce. Haven’t seen her in years.”

“Why didn’t she move back into the mansion? She could have lived like a queen.”

“One of the reasons Randy’s back in Edina is because his grandfather’s will stipulated that on the centennial of its groundbreaking, the Pierce estate would be transferred to the state of Minnesota.”

“Too little, too late.”

“Don’t go feeling all softhearted for poor Miss Jacqueline, Mother. She has a new man.” Lizzie laughed. “And he follows her around like a love-sick puppy.”

I have to admit, I was surprised. “Who is he?” I asked.

“Hank Slater. Some muscle bound, washed-up pro football player. Everyone says he sponges off women like Jackie. It’s all over the Internet. My paralegal, Kyla, told me she heard that Jackie and Hank came waltzing into Smythe and Albright, looking to hire an attorney.”

“She starts at the top, doesn’t she? Isn’t that the largest law firm in the state?”

“It sure is. She’s always felt the family fortune—property and art collections—should have gone to her.”

“Well I’m sure old Marshall’s will was iron clad.”

Lizzie laughed. “Bulletproof from what I’ve heard.”

“Mom,” Chloe whined, “Cam’s eating all the cereal.”

“Am not,” I could hear my grandson say in a calm, even tone.

“Are too!”

“Quiet. You’re going to wake Grammy up,” he told her.

“Shhh, both of you,” Lizzie whispered.

“OMG, Mom. Can’t you make Grandma give my phone back? Pleeease? Daddy gave that to me ’cause I got all Bs. He’d be crazy mad if he knew.”

Her mother didn’t take the bait, only asking her if she was finished eating.

Way to go, Lizzie
, I thought and wondered if the three of them were aware that I could hear every word they were saying. Probably not. Their rooms were separated from the kitchen by a long hallway. But mine was just on the other side of the wall. I bet they didn’t have a clue.

For a minute, I thought of getting up, putting on my robe, and rushing out to wish them all a good day. But that thought went away as I stretched my feet across the luxurious sheets.

Their conversation stopped suddenly but was immediately followed by the clanking of silverware hitting the stainless steel sink. The refrigerator seemed to open and close nonstop. Chairs skidded across the tiled floor until finally, thank goodness, Lizzie said, “Now grab your lunches and get in the car. I have to go to the office, so I can drive you to school, but you’ll have to take the bus home.”

“Shotgun!” Chloe shouted.

Cameron was silent.

I could hear one child run toward the front of the house; the other slowly followed. When the door slammed shut, I thought they were gone, until I heard a knock.

“Mother, I know you heard everything.”

“Yes, I did.”

Through the door, Lizzie said, “You have my cell number and the one at the office. I should be home late. Could you please feed the kids dinner?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks so much. Love you.”

“Love you, too, sweetheart,” I called back.

***

Curiosity finally made me get out of bed. Hearing that Randolph Pierce had opened an art gallery piqued my interest, and I decided to check it out. But first I had a cup of coffee and piece of toast while I looked for the spare keys to Sully’s jeep.

The Grand Cherokee was only a few months old with less than five thousand miles on it when he died. Neither Lizzie
nor I could bear to look at it back then. But we couldn’t part with it, either. So it sat on his side of the garage until I sold our house, and then it got moved to Lizzie’s garage. When our grief finally turned into acceptance, we both felt comforted knowing it was there.

After a nice hot shower, I pulled a sweater over my head, stepped into my favorite jeans, and then hiked up a pair of soft leather boots. The turquoise necklace I added looked silly here in Minnesota, so I took it off. My hair was getting too long; I’d need a haircut soon. After applying a little makeup, I was ready.

My one luxury—well a necessity, really, considering all the traveling I did—was a smartphone. (The irony of taking Chloe’s phone away from her did not escape me.) But in order to find the location of the gallery, I had to know its name. Randolph Pierce had told Lizzie he’d “found himself” while living in New York. I never understood that term. It’s exhausting how much energy people spend losing and finding themselves. Anyway, if what he said about hating his family was true, the gallery would have an artsy, pretentious name—anything but Pierce. On the other hand, since Randolph always had such an inflated ego, I ultimately searched for Pierce Gallery.

Bingo.

***

The intersection of Fiftieth and France, in historic Edina, features some of the best shopping in the Twin Cities area. You can find anything from lingerie to fine wine. Pierce Art
Gallery was sandwiched between a French bistro and an upscale jewelry store. The façade of the building was yellow brick. Over the ornate front door hung a wide, black awning, announcing the gallery’s name in fancy gray letters.

As I stepped inside, a buzzer went off in a back room. Before I could take a dozen steps, a petite woman walked casually toward me. She was wearing a short leather skirt, a tight black blouse, and stilettos so high I wondered how she managed to move so gracefully. Her hair was cut short—too short. From a distance, I guessed her age to be between eighteen and twenty. But as she got closer, I could see she was no teenager and probably closer to thirty.

“May I help you?” she asked, smiling an overfriendly grin.

“Is Randolph here?”

“Well . . . he’s very busy. Can I tell him what it’s about?”

“He went to school with my daughter; I’ve known him since he was a kid. When I heard he’d opened an art gallery, well, I had to come see it.”

“Oh, a family friend?”

That would be stretching the truth considerably, but I just nodded.

“I’ll let him know you’re here. Mrs. . . .”

“Katherine Sullivan, hi.” I held out my hand and was impressed when she offered a firm shake, rattling the large, colorful bracelet on her wrist.

“And I’m Stacey Jordan. Are you by any chance Lizzie’s mother? The chief of police?”

“In the flesh. And I’m retired now.”

“I met your daughter and her kids at dinner the other night. What a beautiful family. You must be so proud of Lizzie, her being a lawyer, working with autistic children in that art therapy program. I’m hoping to get involved with the project somehow.”

“Lizzie told me that you recently graduated with a degree in art conservation. Now that’s impressive.”

She shrugged off my compliment, looking uncomfortable with the praise. “I’ve always loved anything having to do with art. And I’m lucky that I get to work part time here and with Mr. Rousseau over at the mansion.”

“Rousseau? I’m not familiar with that name.”

“Antoine Rousseau. He lives in France but travels all around the world overseeing special projects. He’s the best art conservator alive today.” She took a step closer. “But just between you and me, Antoine can be a real handful. He’s an obsessive-compulsive—very meticulous. Maybe geniuses are all just . . .”

“Quirky,” I finished. “It’s the best way to describe someone who’s a bit off center. When I was a rookie, we’d say ‘kook’ or ‘nut-job.’ But now everything has to be politically correct.”

Stacey laughed. “Well, then, Mr. Rousseau is the most ‘quirky’ person I’ve ever met.”

I liked Stacey. She was obviously beautiful but, more important, energetic and smart. “Aren’t you tempted to snoop around that place?” I asked her. “You know, peek behind the Wizard’s curtain? I know I would be. There are so many stories about Pierce mansion.”

She rolled her eyes. “I could probably write a book about all I’ve seen out there. You wouldn’t believe—”

“Stacey!” Randolph Pierce snapped as he walked out from what I assumed was his office in the back of the gallery.

He had that casual look people work so hard to perfect. His sandy brown hair was cut close to his head. Beneath an expensive black sport coat, he wore a T-shirt tucked into a pair of tight-fitting jeans. He finished off his look with tasseled loafers and, of course, no socks. But his face was the surprise. Maybe there were a few wrinkles around his eyes and he’d put on a few pounds, but the forty-year-old man that stood in front of me looked exactly as he had when he was sixteen. I would have recognized Randolph Pierce anywhere, any day.

“Don’t you have some work to do?” His outburst made the other customers in the gallery look over at our threesome.

Stacey held back her embarrassment remarkably well. “It was so nice meeting you, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“You too, Stacey. Maybe we can have coffee . . . or a drink sometime?”

“I’d like that.” She gave me a weak smile.

Randolph glared at the girl as she walked away. I couldn’t help wondering what was going on between the two of them. As soon as Stacey was out of sight, he turned to me, all smiles.

“Mrs. Sullivan? It’s been a long time. You look great. Lizzie told me you were coming into town for a while.” Then he grabbed me into a quick hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Randolph. You haven’t changed a bit . . . I mean it.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but it’s so nice of you to stop in.”

“When Lizzie told me you’d opened a gallery, I had to come see it.”

“That’s right; you’re an artist now.”

“I’ve always been an artist,” I told him. “I studied and took all kinds of courses. When we needed some extra cash, I even thought of being a forensic sketch artist. Life just took me into another direction. But now that I’m retired and Sully’s gone, the old artist in me has been resurrected.”

“I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Sullivan. What a shock. Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you, Randolph. That’s very kind of you.”

“Mr. Sullivan was always fair with me; I admired him greatly.”

“If I remember correctly, the last time he brought you in was when the Jergens family called, claiming you vandalized their lake house.”

Randolph was not the typical bad boy back then. He’d been raised by nannies; his parents were always out of the country or too busy to spend time with him. And there was a certain sense of entitlement that came along with the Pierce name. No matter what the poor kid did, it seemed he was despised by everyone in Edina. I suppose that after a while, it was easier for him to just stop trying and do whatever he wanted.

“I was so angry back then. Always trying to prove I wasn’t like my family. I did some stupid things.”

I saw he was getting upset, so I didn’t push it. “Well, that was then,” I said. “Look at you now.”

He beamed. “So you approve?”

“Oh, the place is beautiful but . . . I was surprised when I first walked in.”

“Surprised? Why?” he asked, confused.

“Knowing how your family collected classical art, I just thought that’s what you’d have here. But now I see you’re into more modern and abstract works.”

He glanced at the wall behind me. “And you don’t like it?”

“No, I didn’t mean that. I love the Kandinsky over there and that Stella—he’s my favorite pop artist. The abstracts are fantastic . . . Salvador Dalí is spectacular. It’s just not what I paint and definitely not what I’d expect you to like.”

“Oh, I hated visiting my grandfather at that musty old mansion. Everything was so valuable—don’t touch, don’t run, don’t sit on that chair because it belonged to some king or was made by a famous craftsman. The only thing missing were those velvet ropes they have in a museum to keep people out.”

“So how did you come to open your own gallery?”

“After switching my major from economics—my dad’s idea—to art history, it opened up a whole new world. I got into the gallery scene in lower Manhattan, met creative, liberal people. It was exhilarating. I’d go to lectures and gallery openings. It was incredible. So I purchased a gallery in the Meatpacking District, which led to me funding an art and technology collective.”

“You’ve been a busy boy, Randolph. And along the way, you must have made some great friends.”

His expression changed. “I guess so.”

I wondered what he was hiding, but before I could ask another question, the phone in his breast pocket rang.

It was an automatic reflex that made him pull the phone out and look down at the number calling. “I’m sorry. I have to take this,” he told me. “Look around. There’s some cucumber water in that carafe over there. I’ll be right back.” He smiled graciously and walked to the back of the gallery.

Being alone gave me a few minutes to look around the room. The front of the shop was all glass and the three brick walls were painted matte black. Moldings and baseboards were burnished silver. A huge chandelier made of silver discs of all sizes hung in the middle of the ceiling, which was also black. The floor was covered in a dusky grey carpet. Two leather director’s chairs were positioned next to a glass table in a corner. Sleek, modern, sterile, and cold is what the decorator was obviously going for—which was smart. It showcased the colorful, surreal paintings that hung at all levels on the walls.

I drew my attention to a small Picasso lithograph, something from his blue period, surrounded by a grouping of up-and-coming contemporary artists. It was near the corner where Randolph stood talking on his phone. I didn’t want to appear to be eavesdropping, but it was difficult not to overhear when his voice rose.

“No! I told you I can’t do that! Why would you even ask? I’m not going to tell . . .” He trailed off when I caught his eye.

I motioned that I had to leave.

He covered the mouthpiece. “I’d love to see your work sometime.”

“Sure,” I called to him, then waved good-bye and hurried out of the gallery. Something just didn’t feel right in there and I knew better than to ignore my instincts.