The Fine Art of Murder (4 page)

I considered Nathan Walker my best friend and confidant. He was with Sully that day at the bank when two gunmen took nine hostages. It had been snowing off and on for days, schools were closed, and public transportation had ceased altogether. I’ve often thought those idiots intentionally staged the robbery on that day, thinking the bad weather would slow down the cops. But bad men are usually stupid men, and they never considered how the snow would hamper their escape. Sully and Nathan were just finishing up their shift when they were called to the scene. Although I also responded, they were first on the scene and in charge.

The robbers released seven hostages. Each time, either Sully or Nathan would rush the frightened victim into a squad car where it was warm. It went on like that until we all thought the perps were close to surrendering.

Sully was up front when Sidney Lang, the bank manager, was released. The frightened man stumbled toward Sully and
then slid on a patch of ice, falling backward, hitting his head. That’s when all hell broke loose.

Gunshots echoed off the granite buildings; I thought I’d go deaf. Even though we’d roped off the area, rubbernecks gathered. I tried to stay calm and in control, but for a few horrible moments, it was utter chaos.

Then deafening quiet.

Sully was down and I ran to him, shouting to the EMTs to hurry. Then I gave the order to rush the building.

There were two casualties that day: one of the robbers . . . and my husband.

Eventually Nathan’s survivor’s guilt rendered him useless out on the street and I put him behind a desk. The police psychiatrist ordered us both to take a month’s leave and attend weekly sessions. But we’d been around too long and had heard the same tired phrases the shrink threw at us too many times for any of it to stick. Our strength was in each other, the shared bond we had loving Sully.

We’d go to the sessions because they were mandatory, but the real healing came when we talked one on one. We could cry together without any embarrassment, say anything without fear of being judged or having our words repeated.

When Nathan heard about a police veteran who was looking to sell his security business and move to Florida, he didn’t think twice about retiring and buying it.

Somehow I managed to handle my duties as chief for a few more years until realizing I could easily retire and never look back. I had Lizzie and the kids to occupy some of my time. I broke out the art supplies and took a few watercolor
classes. Sometimes I’d invite Nathan and his beautiful wife, Terry, over for dinner. Sometimes I’d go to their place. But without Sully, it all seemed so frivolous, just filler to take up time.

Then one day another of those travel brochures arrived. But that one wasn’t for a cruise to Mexico or a helicopter tour of the Hawaiian Islands. There was an artist’s retreat in Maine. The pictures showed six cabins scattered throughout a ten-acre area. A large meeting hall was available for three meals a day as well as group discussions. I was on a plane the following week.

Nathan and I communicated daily either by phone or e-mail, just to make sure the other was doing well. Our conversations gradually became less full of Sully and more full of the adventures we were both having in our new lives. I’d been at the retreat ten days when he called to tell me Terry had died.

Of course, I offered to fly home immediately, but he told me to stay put. If I came back to Edina, he said, it would be like replaying Sully’s death. He needed to grieve with his family; he had to make it different this time. And so I respected his wishes. But I still called everyday just to talk him through his loss.

After that, whenever I was in town, we’d meet. He’d ask about what I was working on and listen attentively as I described a new piece or gush over a new artist I’d recently discovered. I’d listen while he talked about the security business and the two men and two women he liked to call his crew.

***

“We’re both retired, you know,” I told Nathan as he drove toward the mansion.

“Just because we’re out to pasture doesn’t mean we can’t jump the fence every now and then.” He laughed.

“I know that. And you know that. But your timing couldn’t be worse. I was just getting a lecture from my daughter. She was complaining that I’m always profiling and analyzing.”

“And are you?” he asked.

“Of course. But that’s not a bad thing . . . is it?”

“Look who you’re asking.” When he smiled, he always reminded me of Denzel Washington. It didn’t matter that he was now sixty-four or had a few scars across his cheek and some extra pounds around the middle. He was still a ruggedly handsome man. The women at the station had been crazy for him. But back then, Nathan only had eyes for his wife.

“So how did you find out about the murder?” I asked.

“We have a police scanner at the office. A call came in about half an hour ago that a body was found on the second floor of the Pierce estate. The police are there now.”

“Do you have any idea who it is?” I asked.

“I would if Randolph would have let me install a surveillance system in the place.”

“You mean there isn’t one?” I asked, surprised. “That’s insane, considering all the artwork and antiques they have.”

“Oh, there’s a system all right, but it’s ancient. Old man Marshall was the last Pierce to live full-time in the mansion. Just him, a nurse, a housekeeper, and some old coot—”

“—Bradley. He was Marshall’s butler for years—very protective.”

Nathan nodded. “Sure, I remember him. Anyway, after the old man died—”

“—under mysterious circumstances,” I interjected.

“There was never proof of any wrongdoing, but it was strange,” he agreed.

“And the bulk of his estate went to Junior,” I said. “With one stipulation.”

Nathan glanced over at me. “I never heard anything about that.”

“Lizzie told me. A lawyer friend of hers drew up the original will. And since attorney–client privilege doesn’t cover this . . .”

“So . . . tell me.”

“It stipulated that on the centennial of the groundbreaking of the estate, which is this year, it would be transferred back to the town of Edina. Did you know it was originally named Buckhorn manor?”

“After all those poisonous plants around here?” Nathan asked.

I nodded. “They used to make paint out of them.”

“Seems fitting somehow. Marshall Senior seemed to poison everything he touched, all the time adding more to his daddy’s wealth. It’s never enough with those kinds of people. Everyone in town has a relative who was affected by his ruthlessness.”

“Did you ever have a conversation with the man?” I asked Nathan. “To hear him talk, he was a benevolent industrialist
who was only trying to push the United States into the modern age. Never mind that he profited from the Depression and the war. There was even a rumor that he purchased stolen art from the Nazis. Nothing was beneath him.”

“Yeah, the old man was a real piece of work,” Nathan said. “And no one’s lived in the manse ever since. From what I’ve heard, anything of value was cleared out and stored long ago.”

“And now Randolph’s in town, renovating Buckhorn, getting it ready to be turned into a museum, I suppose.”

Nathan parked in front of the huge building. “Once everything’s back in place, he’ll realize he needs top-of-the-line security. Especially after what happened here tonight.”

We sat in the car for a few minutes and checked out the scene. Three squad cars were parked at odd angles across the gravel driveway that fanned out in front of the building, two with their lights flashing. An ambulance had been backed up as far as it could go to the front door. I could see an EMT leaning against the side of the ambulance smoking a cigarette. Yellow police tape had been wrapped around one of the tall white columns flanking the hand-carved door. Then it had been stretched and wrapped tightly around the opposite column. Two more strips of tape formed a large X across the entrance. Without another word between us, we got out of the car and walked up the long driveway.

My old take-charge attitude kicked in. “You occupy him while I go inside,” I told Nathan, pointing to the EMT.

“Whatever you say, Chief,” he joked. “If you need me, just holler.”

The EMT looked at me with mild interest and nodded. Hopefully giving the impression that I belonged there, I ducked under the police tape.

“Nathan Walker—Walker Security. Can I ask you a few questions?” I heard Nathan say to the man as I opened the front door.

I was inside before the EMT had a chance to answer.

Dusty, paint-spattered tarps covered the floor in the foyer. A small chandelier draped with a sheet had been turned on and gave the room an eerie appearance. It felt as though I was standing inside a large skeleton as I looked at the scaffolds surrounding me. Walls were spotted with gray plaster; in some spots, drywall was exposed. What a difference from the last time I’d visited the mansion when Marshall Senior
was alive. I could hear voices on the second floor and started toward the staircase, also covered with cream-colored tarps.

The second floor, unlike the first, was so lit up I had to stop a moment to let my eyes adjust.

“Well look who’s here!” a voice called. “Chief Sullivan! Long time, no see.”

I’d recognize that raspy voice anywhere. “Officer DeYoung,” I said, walking toward him. “You still partnered with Browman?”

“Some things never change, Chief. I thought you moved away from our little burg.”

“You can take the girl out of Edina but . . . you get it,” I laughed. “So what have we got here?”

“Whoa, hold up there.” Dean Bostwick marched over authoritatively. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Sullivan? Shouldn’t you be looking at rocking chairs instead of my crime scene?” He smirked, straightening his expensive tie.

“I was hoping you’d grown up while I was gone,” I told him. “But it looks like you’re still going to need more time.”

This generational warfare had been going on since he’d joined the force. I guess there was just something about me that irritated Bostwick, besides the fact that I was a woman. He’d been gunning for my job, jabbing me with snide insults, for years. Long before I retired, his childish routine had ceased to make anyone at the station even offer a slight smile toward me.

When he finally got promoted to chief of police, I congratulated him and even chipped in with the rest of the guys
for a gift. But attending a party in his honor at Arezzo’s—that was too much. I saw no reason to ever see the man again. And yet, there I was, staring into his angry eyes.

“I should have known you’d show up,” Bostwick said. “You’re hard to get rid of.”

“Aren’t you too old to be acting like a little boy?” I asked.

“Officer,” Bostwick said to DeYoung, “please escort Mrs. Sullivan back to her vehicle.” Then, turning to me, he added, “I assume you drove here. You can still do that, right? They didn’t take away your license, did they?”

Before I could think of a snappy comeback, Nathan entered the room.

“Yo, Walker,” one of the officers called out.

“Hey,” Nathan waved in our direction. “You okay, Kathy?” He glared at Bostwick. “’Cause I’d just love an excuse to knock this smartass on his—”

“I’m fine, Nathan. Relax.”

Bostwick was obviously insecure, always overcompensating for something none of us knew about. But underneath it all, he was a good cop. His performance at the academy had been outstanding and he deserved to be chief. However, because of his inadequacy issues, he struck out at everyone. And, like me, Nathan had just about had enough.

Bostwick snapped at Nathan. “You know better than anyone what the penalty for striking a police officer is. Just try something and I’ll haul your ass into jail faster than you can—”

“Cut the macho crap,” Nathan said. I could hear the other men in the room chuckling. “It isn’t every day you get a
murder in a place like this, is it? If I were you, Dean, I’d take advantage of two extra pairs of eyes belonging to seasoned, experienced officers who could make you look good. Know what I mean?”

“I don’t need your help to make me look good.”

“It would sure be a shame if word leaked out that you refused our professional expertise. Don’t you think the Pierce family would consider it smart of you to consult with us?” I asked.

Bostwick threw up hands. “All right! I give up. But don’t—”

Nathan turned to me. “Do you think he’s actually going to tell us not to touch anything?” he asked sarcastically, making sure everyone in the room heard.

“Oh, he knows better than that,” I said. “Right, Dean?”

Bostwick sucked in his bottom lip, obviously trying to keep himself from saying another word, and returned to the group of officers he had been speaking with before I arrived.

Nathan and I walked over to the body lying on the floor of the library. Circling several times, we finally stopped at the best vantage point to study the scene.

“I don’t believe it,” I whispered to Nathan. “That’s Stacey Jordan. I just met her this morning. She worked for Randolph . . . at his gallery.”

“Then what was she doing here?” he asked.

“She also worked part time with some expert, restoring this place. What a shame. She was such a sweet kid.”

Stacey was lying on her side. Unlike the professional clothing she’d worn earlier, now she was dressed in a pair of
jeans, old tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt that had some sort of sorority symbol on the front.

Nathan squatted down to get a closer look and I joined him. “She was hit from behind,” he observed. “More than once I’d guess, from the severity of the wound on the back of her head.”

“Which means she was either taken by surprise or running away from her attacker. And from the size and shape of the wound, it was a blunt object.” I glanced around.

The large room was lined with bookcases on three sides. Every other one was filled with a collection of some sort. There were small porcelain vases, crystal figurines, music boxes, and half a dozen Faberge eggs—and also a lot of dead space where I guessed pieces were scheduled to be placed. The books had been covered with cloths. “It could have been something in this very room.”

Nathan cocked his head, leaning closer, frustrated that he wasn’t able to touch the body. “What do you make of those scratches on her arms?” he asked.

“Postmortem . . . they have to be, from the lack of blood surrounding them. I’d say whoever did this was an amateur and probably scratched poor Stacey while they were trying to move her. See the blood on the back of her shirt? She was hit from behind and would have fallen forward. Blood on the back of her shirt means she was turned over and dragged.”

“I’m impressed,” Nathan said. “So who do you think looks good for this?”

“Well, the most obvious suspects would be the two men who have access to the building: Randolph Pierce and the Frenchman . . . what was his name? Give me a minute . . . Antoine Rousseau. That’s it.”

“Seems logical,” Nathan said. “Are you going to tell Bostwick?”

“Come on,” I said, standing up and brushing off my jeans. “Do you really think he gives a damn what I think?” I looked over at the chief, and when he saw me, he turned his back.

“Most definitely not,” Nathan said.

“Then I say we leave the police work to the police.”

Nathan looked shocked. “So you’re just going to walk away?”

“Hell no,” I said. “We’re going to solve this crime and make that smartass eat his words.”

“Atta girl,” Nathan said.

***

By the time I got home, the Internet was buzzing with news of Stacey Jordan’s murder. I sat up reading postings from casual acquaintances to ex-boyfriends, all shocked to hear about her death. From what I could gather, her only sin had been falling behind on several student loans. She was well liked and didn’t have any enemies . . . well, none that anyone knew about.

Grabbing a pad and pen, I made a list for the morning:

I knew all my questions wouldn’t be answered tomorrow, but I was eager to get started. Although I wasn’t the least bit sleepy, I forced myself to go to bed so that morning would come more quickly.