The Fine Art of Murder (9 page)

So what had I accomplished so far? As I stared out the kitchen window, trying to wake up, I thought about the past couple of days.

Antoine Rousseau, a man who knew Stacey Jordan in only a professional capacity, had an airtight alibi for the night she was killed. The man who initially found her body had passed a polygraph test. I agreed with Nathan that Mike DeGroot and his girlfriend had just been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides, the guy had no connection to Stacey at all, which almost always meant that he had no reason to murder her. The list of workers who’d been going in and out of the mansion for weeks was long. Could Stacey have been having an affair with one of them? Lust has always been one of the most common motives for murder. Guess it was time to start going down the list of carpenters, painters, and gardeners Lizzie had given me. But would I be wasting my time?

Randolph Pierce still headed my list of suspects. He’d known Stacey and was seen fighting with her by several people. That day in the gallery, I’d gotten the feeling he hated her. What could she have possibly done to get him so angry? She’d told me that she could write a book about the Pierce family secrets. Was she blackmailing Randolph?

“TGIF!” Chloe startled me as she blew into the room. Her tattoo had washed off, finally, and she stood in front of me all smiles. Spinning around, she held her arms open. “How do you like my new outfit, Grandma? This is the exact same blouse that was on the cover of last month’s
Seventeen
. Isn’t it hashtag amazing?”

Her blouse was a white eyelet tunic with red ribbons woven through the long sleeves. She looked like a flower child from the sixties. In fact, I think I’d worn something very similar when I was her age. I smiled remembering how very cool I felt back then. Love beads around my neck, my hair in a perfect flip. That was all it took when I was thirteen to make my world groovy.

“Totally amazing. You look so pretty, Chloe.”

For the moment, she was happy with herself—and me. After a few more spins, she gave me a quick kiss. “See ya later, Grandma.” And she ran off to get her jacket.

Cameron came next. Slowly walking into the room, he held his art project in front of him like it was made of glass instead of wood and metal. Then, ever so carefully, he laid it down on the table in front of me.

“What do you think?” he asked. His expression was so serious; I knew my opinion meant a lot to him.

“From what I can see, it’s great, Cam. Is the glue dry so I can pick it up and get a closer look?”

“Sure. You can study it while I get dressed.” As he walked away from me, I watched his focus go from the blocks to his feet. Each step was so measured, his head down, causing him to almost bump into his mother as he left the room.

“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Lizzie said, adjusting her earring. “How are things coming with the murder investigation? Randolph’s going out of his mind in jail. Do you have any good news I can pass on? Anything?”

I thought a moment. Letting him know that another suspect had been proven innocent wouldn’t exactly make him jump for joy. “Tell him that I’m working with a crew of experts and we’ll let him know the minute we come up with something.” I smiled and drank my coffee.

“Guess that’s all he can ask. Oh, by the way, there’s a walkathon tomorrow, if you want to come walk . . . or watch. It’s a fund raiser for autistic research. I’m on the committee; my office is one of the sponsors. Should be a beautiful day for it.”

“I like walking; it’s one of my favorite modes of transportation,” I joked. “Can I let you know later?”

“Sure,” she said. “And don’t worry about the kids or dinner tonight. I usually work a half day on Fridays and we eat leftovers or sandwiches when we get home. No lessons for the kids, no running around for me. Nice and simple.”

“I might go see Nathan; I’ll let you know.”

Lizzie came closer to make eye contact. “I’m really glad you’re here, Mother. Have I told you that enough? And thanks for helping with this case. Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed
with the kids and work. There’s always so much to do I feel like I can’t . . .”

“Hey,” I stood up and smoothed down her collar, “stop looking at the big picture—it’s way too scary. And listen to your mother when she tells you that everything you’re afraid will happen very rarely does. And things you wish for come even more rarely. It’s the unexpected you can always count on to mess with you. And you can’t prepare for the unknown, so what’s the point of worrying?”

Lizzie hugged me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Right in the middle of our mother-daughter moment, Lizzie’s cell phone went off. “Sorry,” she said, “I gotta get that.”

“I know.”

Alone again, I sat back down to study Cam’s art.

Five blocks had been arranged horizontally and six diagonally. They’d all been glued into an ebony frame. The effect was interesting, and I picked up the piece to touch each square.

Right in the middle was a block that had been painted a glossy silver and then brushed over lightly with black. Next to it was an alphabet block that looked brand new. The letter C embossed in the center was painted dark blue. A pink one, scuffed and old, was next to it, making their juxtaposition seem familiar to me in some strange way. There was a chipped block painted red next to one with a duck sticker on top of gold. As I held the piece and turned it, I felt as though I could almost see into Cam’s creative soul. All the shapes and colors represented emotions he was unable to express in
a conventional way. The end result was glorious and unique, just like he was.

I put the frame down and got up to scrounge for some breakfast. Cam ran back into the kitchen.

“Mom says she’ll call you; she’s out in the car with Chloe.” He picked up his project, turning it to what he intended to be right side up.

“Your art is awesome, Cam. I love it. No doubt you’ll get an A.”

“Will you be here when I get home?” he asked. “’Cause Lewis’s mom said she’d take us to a movie—if she has time. But I’ll see you after that. Okay?”

“I’m sticking around; we’ve got plenty of time. Not to worry.” I hugged him.

He smiled and started toward the door. Then, unexpectedly, he turned around and held the frame up over his head. “Maybe later we can hang this on the wall, next to your painting, Grammy.”

“Our own little art gallery. That would be perfect.”

As Cam stood there, in that light, at that distance, I suddenly saw the blocks differently. Now I knew why they had seemed familiar and yet unsettling. They had all reminded me of Jacqueline Bannister-Pierce.

The silver triggered the memory of her tattered old gown. Her wrinkled face was represented by the scuffed block. Pink was the silly little girl color she’d worn the last time I’d seen her. The blocks—a child’s toy, painted and set in a frame trying to appear sophisticated—were just like Jackie. The old and new blocks next to each other were like Jackie and her
boy toy, side by side. And the blocks themselves were pieces in a mosaic like the stones in her bracelet—a modern bracelet hanging on her sagging wrist. I must have filed the image away in my subconscious. Now as I thought about it, that sleek jeweled cuff seemed out of place.

I spent the morning checking out Randolph’s alibi. A cashier at Red’s told me on the phone she remembered Randolph picking up a pizza because he had become a regular customer. She had also seen his face on the news when he was taken in. I went on the computer and looked up the episodes of
Mad Men
that had aired that night and decided to see if Randolph’s memory of the plot lines matched up. Then I left the house to go and see Randolph at the jail.

It was drizzling a nice warm rain. After backing the jeep out of the garage, I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head. I’d rather get a little damp than bother with an umbrella. Dry or wet, they just get in the way.

Traffic was heavy and moved slowly. Fridays were always like that. The trip to the jail was taking much longer than usual. As I sat in line to get through yet another stop light, I thought about the case.

***

The one thing criminals had in common, I’d learned my first year on the force, was the belief they had been blessed with superior intelligence. They were always so sure they could outsmart the cops. Seeing their expression slowly go from smug to frightened as they realized we’d figured out their game was one of my guilty pleasures. The Pierce family had always thought they were smarter than the entire population of Edina. There could be dozens of motives for Randolph to have killed Stacey. It could be greed—Stacey could have been stealing from him. It could be sex—they could have been having an affair. But for Lizzie’s sake, I decided to stop my train of thought.

The officer at the front desk was an unfamiliar face, but I knew the guard who escorted me back to Randolph’s cell. He was Stanley Nelson’s son, Max.

“I ran into your dad at the airport when I got to town. He looks good.”

Max nodded. “He was driving us crazy, especially Mom. Being home all the time, he just didn’t know what to do with himself.” He laughed. “When he started rearranging everything in the kitchen, it was either get a part-time job or his own apartment.”

“Well he seems happy. And you . . . I remember when you were in grade school. How long have you been a court officer?”

“Almost a year now.”

“You like it? Because it’s true what they say about life being too long to suffer every day at a job you hate.”

“I hear that,” Max said. “But I’m one of the lucky ones. I love what I do.”

“Good.” I patted his shoulder.

“Mr. Pierce is with his lawyer now, but since that’s your daughter and you’re the investigator on the case, I don’t think there’s a problem.” He winked. “It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Sullivan. Take care.”

They didn’t move right away. Maybe they thought it was just the guard coming to check up on Randolph. Whatever the reason, I was able to observe Lizzie and Randolph for a candid moment while they held hands and smiled lovingly at each other.

And I didn’t like it . . . one bit.

Of course I’d heard the words when she told me they had feelings for each other. I’d listened when Randolph said he loved my daughter. But that was far different than actually seeing them there right in front of me. Very different. The reality of their emotions was unsettling.

“Lizzie,” I said.

She jumped away from him like he was on fire.

“Mother! What are you doing here?”

Randolph sat silently, looking down at his cuffed hands.

“That’s an odd question. I’m working to get Randolph out of jail. Isn’t that what you’re doing here?”

Lizzie took a handful of papers out of her briefcase. “Of course.”

“Grab a chair, Mrs. Sullivan,” Randolph said, pointing to the corner. “I’m glad you came. Lizzie and I were just discussing calling you. There’s something you need to know.”

I dragged a chair to Lizzie’s side of the table, which separated us from Randolph. I couldn’t let either of them see how anxious I was. Well, angry would describe my feelings more accurately. But I couldn’t figure out if I was angry that my daughter had feelings for a man whose family I’d barely tolerated for years or if was I angry that of all the men in world, she’d fallen in love with one who might be a murderer. So I sat down and waited until one of them spoke.

Lizzie glared at Randolph, signaling him to stay quiet. “You go first, Mother. Why are you here? You never mentioned anything this morning about coming to the jail.”

Okay, if that’s the way she wanted to play it, I’d go along. “I just wanted to verify a few things with Randolph regarding his alibi.”

“Oh, uh, maybe we should go first, then,” Lizzie said.

“Let me tell her.” Randolph patted Lizzie’s hand.

Lizzie eyes flitted from me to Randolph while she blinked back a tear. All the while his face remained stoic.

“The reason I haven’t taken a polygraph is because . . . because I . . .”

“Randy was with me the night Stacey was killed,” Lizzie blurted out. “I’ve begged him to take the test, but he doesn’t want to involve me. He thinks he’s protecting me and the kids. But I’m his alibi. If I have to, I’ll come forward and recuse myself.”

Randolph smiled at Lizzie. “I’d never do anything to hurt your daughter, Mrs. Sullivan. You have to believe me.” He looked across the table at me, waiting for some reassuring
words to come flowing out of my mouth so he could feel better about himself.

But I didn’t have any to give.

“Why should I believe another word when you swore you were alone that night? You told me how you got a pizza, watched TV—even named a specific program. I’ve just wasted my morning.”

“And you.” I looked at Lizzie. “That whole story about an abused woman needing your help? Were you even at the office that night or did you lie to me, too?”

“Please, Mother, don’t be mad. I was at the office when Randy called about a legal matter—I swear it’s the truth. After I handled things there, I drove out to his place.”

“What kind of legal matter?” I asked. “And be forewarned that I’m only going to believe half of what you tell me.”

“You’ve heard the stories for years, Mother. We all have. About priceless art hidden in the walls of the mansion. Randy’s done a lot of research—here and in Europe. He’s positive the stories are true and needed advice—legal advice about where he stands when the painting is eventually found.”

“That’s the truth, Mrs. Sullivan. Grandfather went on and on about the Klimt, how he had it smuggled out of Europe and went to great lengths to hide it. He’d cackle, telling us how the rest of the world thought the painting had been destroyed by Nazis in a fire, but only he knew the real truth. Dad always laughed it off. Everyone did. The old man was more than eccentric. But every lie has a grain of truth. Isn’t that what they say?”

“Yes.”

“So what if it’s true? What if his outrageous story is true? Art lovers like us would flock to see the painting. The papers would be full of the story. And all the questions would start flying. Where did it come from? How did it end up at Buckhorn? Who brought it there? And the world would know my grandfather was a thief. Next would come lawyers knocking on my door, all of them eager to sue the estate and the last remaining relatives. Everyone with their hand out, wanting compensation. I don’t have much, Mrs. Sullivan. It would not only ruin me financially but my good name. I have to protect myself.”

“You’re right,” I grudgingly agreed. “But you’re not in here because of stolen art; you’re in here on a murder charge. I understand now why you wouldn’t take a lie detector test but what about the DNA?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t you let them take a sample?”

“Lizzie told you that I fought with Stacey and how she ended up scratching my face. It was just an accident, nothing serious. In fact, by the time the police arrested me and took photos of my body, there really wasn’t much to see. But we all know that it only takes a little DNA to convict someone. There must have been some of mine under her nails.”

“When was your fight?” I asked.

“The morning she was killed.”

“While she was alive, right?” I asked.

He nodded. “Right.”

“And you don’t think she would have washed her hands throughout the day, maybe several times?”

“Sure.”

“So why wouldn’t your DNA have been washed away by the time her body was found?”

“There still could have been a microscopic amount left. That’s all it takes.”

“I’ll get a copy of the report and we’ll deal with whatever it says. But everything’s changed now,” I told them both. “Randolph, you’re going to take that test and let them swab your mouth for DNA. Lizzie, you’re going to vouch for him. You’re both going to cooperate fully with the police.” She started to protest but I wouldn’t let her. “The main thing is getting Randolph out of here, right? You’ve done nothing wrong. Maybe you’ll have to step back and let another attorney handle this, but you can assist.”

We all took a few seconds to breathe.

“So now you know everything,” Lizzie finally said.

“Do I?”

Randolph looked upset. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sullivan. I know it won’t do any good, but I promise you, from now on out, no secrets.”

Lizzie held back tears. “Me, too. Please, Mother, we need your help here. Randy’s innocent.”

“You hired me to do a job,” I finally told her, “and I’m going to do it. My feelings are hurt but that’s not important to this investigation.” I started to stand up then remembered a question I’d been meaning to ask Randolph Pierce.

“Who were you talking to that day I was in the gallery? You sounded so angry.”

“It was me,” Lizzie said. “We’d both had a bad day . . . it was a silly argument. Nothing to it. Really.”

“Well, it didn’t sound like nothing from my end.”

Randolph looked embarrassed. “I commented on how nice Stacey looked that day and Lizzie overreacted.”

“No, what you said was Stacey had great legs.” Then Lizzie looked at me and said, “See, I told you it was stupid.”

I just smiled.