The Fine Art of Murder (5 page)

This time, I was up before anyone else in the house. I watched the local news on the small TV in the kitchen while making breakfast. Pierce Gallery wouldn’t be open this early, and it was a good thing I didn’t know Randolph’s cell or home number, because I would have called him. So I fried bacon, waiting for the weather report to wrap up.

“Mother?” Lizzie stood at the door, looking like a snowball in her fluffy white robe. “What are you doing up so early?” She squinted at the clock near the stove. “The kids don’t even get up for another hour.”

When the anchorwoman with the bad hairdo came on the screen, I shushed my daughter. “I want to hear this.”

“The body of twenty-eight-year-old Stacey Jordan, a recent graduate of the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, was found last night at the Pierce estate. Ms. Jordan suffered a fatal blow to the head and was pronounced dead on the scene. No murder weapon has been found. She had been assisting Antoine Rousseau, who was recently hired to oversee the restoration of
the mansion. Mr. Rousseau, a French citizen, is a person of interest. The police are asking for your help in solving this senseless crime. If you have any information, please call the eight-hundred number at the bottom of your screen or go to our website.” Then, as an aside, the woman added, “Some of you may remember that Marshall Pierce Senior also died in the estate under mysterious circumstances.”

Before either one of us could speak, Lizzie’s office phone rang. While she went to answer it, I put bread in the toaster, poured four glasses of orange juice, and started scrambling eggs before she returned, five minutes later.

“Well . . . you’ll never guess who that was,” she said, accepting the coffee mug I handed her.

“Who?”

“Randy.”

“Randolph Pierce?” I asked. “What did he want?”

“He’s at the police station; they brought him in for questioning.”

I shrugged. “Standard procedure. After all, Stacey was found on his property. Is there a husband or boyfriend somewhere?”

“Not that I know of,” Lizzie said.

Trying not to sound as though I was cross-examining her, I asked, “So why would he call you? It’s not as if you two are close . . . or anything.”

“He needs a lawyer.”

“But you don’t practice criminal law anymore. Didn’t you tell him that?”

“Yes, Mother, I told him—several times. But he begged me to help, as a friend.”

Friend? I studied her face, looking for some expression that would tell me more than her words or tone. There was no surprise around her eyes, no confusion tugging at the corners of her mouth. The last I knew, Lizzie couldn’t stand Randolph. She’d disliked him when they were kids, and after more than twenty years, she still wasn’t too fond of him. Granted, my daughter had always been compassionate and empathetic, but this was something else. She looked as though she’d been expecting his call.

“Did you know about Stacey before you went to bed last night?”

“How could I?” she asked defensively.

“Facebook, Twitter, e-mail, phone, local news websites—take your pick.”

“All I knew was that you and Nathan ran off somewhere. After you left, I took a bath and went to bed. I didn’t even hear you come in last night. Is that where you went? To the mansion?”

I nodded.

“Well, I better get dressed,” she said, turning to leave.

“At least have some breakfast first,” I said pulling out a chair for her at the table. “No waiting—it’s all ready. It would be a shame to waste all this good food.”

“You’re right.” Lizzie plopped down on the chair and started in on her eggs.

We had about twenty minutes alone before Cameron and Chloe got up. Then while the three of us ate, Lizzie ran around, getting dressed, looking for her briefcase and keys.

“Have a good day at school,” she said, kissing each child on the head. “Grandma will take you and I’ll pick you up.”

I stood up, positioning myself for a hug. “Go get ’em, counselor.”

***

The kids chattered in the backseat while I mentally went over the list I’d made the night before. Randolph Pierce was with detectives at that moment, so I’d have to speak with him later. Hopefully Antoine Rousseau had been released and I could get to him now.

After depositing Cam and Chloe safe and sound in front of their school, I called Nathan. Someone on his crew had to know where Rousseau was staying.

“He’s out at the Lakeside Inn,” Nathan told me. “My sources say he was hauled in and questioned late last night.”

“Did they give him a polygraph?” I asked.

“The whole nine yards. He passed everything.”

“But he could still be holding something back. I’m going out there to see him.”

“Well you better hurry,” Nathan said. “Last I heard the man’s real eager to leave town. Until this murder gets solved, the mansion is off limits, which means there’s no reason for Rousseau to hang around.”

“Did your sources also tell you where he was when Stacey was murdered?” I asked, driving toward the inn.

“The medical examiner estimates Stacey was killed somewhere between six and eight last night.”

“And where was Antoine at that time?”

Nathan laughed. “For the life of me, I’ll never understand what you women find so appealing about a Frenchman. He was out to dinner with Whitney Llewellyn.”

“Our Whitney? The dispatcher?”

“One and the same. Dozens of people saw them together. Some of the guys at the station said he stopped by to pick her up after her shift. He has an ironclad alibi.”

“Maybe I can catch him before he leaves,” I said.

“You, Katherine Sullivan, are one stubborn lady.”

“Come on Nathan, we both know that emotions are what drive someone to commit a crime and it has to be solved on a human level. When they invent a machine that can tell me what’s in a man’s eyes or how carefully he chooses his words, then maybe I’ll leave things to the techies.”

“No you won’t.”

“And
you
know me too well.”

***

The inn was located near Lake Minnetonka, about twenty-five minutes west of Edina. Originally the country hotel was designed for honeymooners. It advertised hot tub rooms and plush suites with heart shaped beds. But when a large development company bought the acreage about ten years ago, their CEOs decided that “romantic” was corny and plowed everything under. Now an impressive “untraditional” five-story building stood in a clearing surrounded by koi ponds and walking trails.

In the lobby was a bank of house phones. I asked an operator to connect me to Antoine Rousseau’s room and was surprised when he answered.

After introducing myself, I asked if I could come up and speak with him about Stacey Jordan.

“Such a beautiful girl,” he said. “Such a pity.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“But I have already spoken to the police, Madame. Please excuse me; I am very busy. I must pack my things and get to the airport. I have a three o’clock flight.”

“I’ll drive you myself,” I offered, thinking that the trip would allow me extra time with the man.

“But it is nearly check-out time now. I am not sure if—”

“I’ll talk to the desk clerk. You won’t be charged for another day.”

He’d run out of excuses and I was being ever so helpful.

“Five minutes,” he said. “I can spare five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

After he gave me his room number, I went to the front desk to talk to the clerk. I still had my police ID, and even though it was out of date, no one ever looked at it that closely.

***

When he opened the door, he was holding a toiletry bag. After we made our introductions, he pointed to a chair by the desk and told me to sit. Stacey had been right about Rousseau’s fastidiousness. Even in this casual moment, he was dressed impeccably, right down to his Gucci loafers. He’d even made the bed—or maybe hadn’t slept in it the night before. One large, suede suitcase was packed and near the door. The smaller, matching piece was open, on top of a luggage rack. I could see several shirts neatly folded inside. Four
shoes were on the bed, each wrapped in a monogrammed felt bag. A beautiful mahogany walking stick rested on a pillow.

He continued packing, and I wondered if he was intentionally being rude or just so involved in what he was doing that he’d already forgotten I was there. So I began. “Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Rousseau. I appreciate it.”

“Please, Madame, if you will be so kind as to tell me the exact reason for your visit . . .”

Immediately I could see that Antoine Rousseau was one of those people who imagined himself to be the most important person in any room he occupied. The only way to handle such a person was to punch away at their ego.

“I was the chief of police in Edina for years, Mr. Rousseau. This is my home; I love the people here. And Stacey Jordan was a friend of mine.” Sometimes it’s necessary to stretch the truth . . . just a little. “So I take her murder very personally.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“When I learned that you had been taken in for questioning—”

His head snapped up and he glared at me. “Who told you about that?” he demanded.

I’d hit a nerve. “It was on the news this morning; by now everyone in town knows your name, Mr. Rousseau.” I smiled. “Why, you’re a regular celebrity.”

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Oh no, no. I have a reputation. This is very bad. I cannot be associated in any way to the murder of an employee. Without my good name, I am nothing.”

“What a shame. Maybe I could smooth things over a little . . . put in a good word. But I need to be more informed about your work at the mansion. You know, so I can answer questions from a more educated standpoint.”

“Of course. Thank you so much. Merci, Mrs. Sullivan.”

And we were off.

“I understand that you were hired by the board of directors, but who exactly did you deal with?”

“Randolph Pierce,” he said.

“Do you know how Mr. Pierce became aware of you?”

Antoine stroked his chin, looking as if he was searching his memory. “I believe it was Mademoiselle Jordan who recommended me.” Suddenly he shook his head. “I simply can’t believe she is dead.”

“Did you and Stacey work well together?”

“Oh, as well as can be expected.”

Then I asked him, “How did you get along with Randolph?”

Antoine shrugged. “He was my employer. I think we both respected each other’s work.”

“Do you normally travel this far to consult?”

Excitedly, he said, “Oh, even in Paris there is talk of the great treasures hidden in the Pierce mansion. It would be a great coup to uncover hidden masterpieces.”

Antoine Rousseau was suddenly not in any hurry. He genuinely seemed rattled by Stacey’s death and answered all my questions sincerely. But his main concern seemed to be the artwork he believed was hidden somewhere in the Pierce estate.

Everyone in town had grown up hearing stories about Marshall Senior. Some thought of him as a hero, aiding allied forces during World War II by producing helmets, tanks, and even airplane parts at Pierce Steel. Others considered him a ruthless tyrant who destroyed the environment, manipulated stock prices, and exploited his workers. But the one fact no one ever disputed was that the old man loved making money. Even though he’d inherited a fortune and made even more from government contracts, it wasn’t enough. Rumor had it that he’d been smuggling stolen art out of Europe for years and hiding it in the walls of his mansion. Of course, no one in town believed the stories, except Rousseau, who seemed to think it was his duty to find and return the stolen pieces.

By the time we started for the airport, I was still not completely convinced of my passenger’s innocence. When he spoke excitedly about masterpieces being hidden in the mansion, I thought that maybe—just maybe—he would have done anything to get at them, including murdering anyone who stood in his way. But to distract him, I asked about my other suspect: Randolph Pierce.

“He is like most men of his status,” Rousseau said. “More money than sense.”

“What did you think of him as an employer?” I asked. “Was he fair?”

“To me, yes. To those he thought of as his inferiors, no.”

“Anything in particular you can remember?”

“I don’t think he liked Mademoiselle Jordan very much. He was always shouting, threatening the poor girl.”

“About what?” I asked.

“He accused her of being too nosey. He told her that if she gossiped about his family, he would fire her and make sure she never worked at another gallery. He had all sorts of connections in New York. He said he would have her blacklisted.”

“Did you tell the police this?”

“No, no. If what he said is true, he could also cause trouble for me. The art community is like a family, Madame. I would not be able to work in this country again. I have to protect myself. N’est-ce pas?”

“Yes,” I told him, “you’re right.”

“Ahh, here’s my gate.” Antoine pointed.

I parked and stayed inside my vehicle while he unpacked the trunk. Then he came around to my side of the car. “It has been a real pleasure, Mrs. Sullivan. I hope we meet again.”

I hated letting him go, but there was nothing I could do about it at that moment. “Oh, I’m sure we will, Mr. Rousseau. Have a good flight.”

I was heading back to town, figuring I’d stop in at Nathan’s office when my cell went off. Looking for a wide spot along the shoulder of the road, I pulled over.

“Mother! Where are you?”

“I’m out by the airport. Lizzie, what’s the matter?”

“Randy’s been picked up by the police. They’re questioning him about Stacey’s murder. Can you meet me for lunch? I need to talk. It’s very important.”

We agreed on Hopper’s, a quiet little place, two exits east.

***

Realizing I had no idea where Lizzie was coming from when I got to the restaurant, I decided to go inside and grab a table. Even though there were only two cars in the parking lot, places filled up quickly at lunchtime.

I didn’t recognize the hostess, and it was obvious she didn’t know me. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail,
and she walked with such grace that I got the impression she had been a dancer once upon a time.

She started to seat me in the middle of the large room. Noticing a small table tucked in an alcove, I asked if I might sit there. She had to think about it for a moment, even though there was only one other table occupied in the whole place. But I got it and promptly ordered a glass of Riesling while I waited for Lizzie.

I was thinking of ordering an appetizer when my daughter came rushing through the door. She talked to the hostess, who pointed at me. Then Lizzie hurried over.

“Sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?” Her cheeks were pink and she seemed out of breath as she hooked her tote over the back of a chair. “This has been one hell of a day. That wine looks good. Think I’ll have to join you.” Finally she sat down.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Oh, Mother,” she said in a defeated tone. “My client is
still
being detained for questioning and is probably going to be arrested and charged with murder. I’m a terrible lawyer. I should never have agreed to do this. I feel awful.”

“Well, let’s get you that wine and, calmly, after you’ve decompressed, tell me what’s got you so upset. Because I know you’ve been in this situation countless times before. I also know you’re an excellent lawyer.”

While she gave the waitress her drink order, I studied Lizzie. Something was going on. “Are you ladies ready to order lunch now? Or should I come back later?”

Hoping to keep interruptions at a minimum, I told her we were ready. Lizzie looked at the menu bewildered, so I took charge. “We’ll both have the Cobb salad.”

After our waitress left, a party of five women walked in, then two businessmen. As Hoppers started to fill up, I waited patiently for my daughter to start explaining the real reason we were there.

I’d mastered the art of silence long ago. The trick is in the steady stare and noncombative demeanor. I can make any person sitting across from me spill their guts in under five minutes.

“I know what you’re doing, Mother,” she finally said.

“So talk to me. Start at the beginning.”

She twisted a strand of hair around the index finger of her left hand. It was a habit she’d developed the first day of school, brought on by anxiety. “When I got to the police station, they had Randy in an interrogation room. He’d been there about an hour. Never once did it cross his mind that he might be a murder suspect. He cooperated and answered every question as thoroughly as he could. But after twenty minutes or so, the cops got aggressive. That’s when he shut down and refused to take a lie detector test or be swabbed for a DNA sample. Which made him look more suspicious.”

I nodded.

“His family has a battalion of lawyers, but he doesn’t really know any of them . . . so he asked for me.”

“Where was Randolph last night? Does he have an alibi? Or is that confidential information between an attorney and her client?”

“You’re doing it again, Mother,” Lizzie whispered. “After all these years, I think it’s second nature now. You can’t help interrogating everyone—including your own daughter.”

She was right. I wasn’t chief of police anymore; I was a private citizen. Just a mother out with her daughter, having a nice peaceful lunch. Or at least I was trying to.

Our waitress suddenly appeared, balancing a large salad bowl in each hand. By the time she added fresh ground pepper, filled the water glasses, and asked if we needed anything else, we were distracted. After she left, we busied ourselves buttering the warm bread, drizzling dressing, and the moment to apologize had passed.

“The reason I needed to see you, Mother, is to offer you a job as private investigator for the defense. Use some of your skills to my benefit—for a change.”

I sat there with a mouth full of tomatoes and a face full of surprise.

When she saw me like that, Lizzie laughed. “And, as such, you’ll be privy to everything I know. That has to please you, right?”

I took a gulp of water. “Yes, it does. But before I agree to anything, tell me about your personal involvement with Randolph. Am I wrong in thinking there’s something going on between you two?”

She shook her head, slowly. “I didn’t think I could hide it from you much longer.”

“Were you corresponding with him all the time he was in New York? While you were married?”

“No. I never saw him after graduation . . . until a few months ago. Honest. But I’ve had a crush on him for years. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

“You never said anything about it.”

“Still.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I had my suspicions. Do you think your father knew?”

She looked mortified. “God, no. I would have died.”

“And you never told Randolph? Or had a girlfriend drop a hint?”

“What was the use? My parents were cops. His were millionaires; they owned a mansion. Randolph had been around the world by the time he was eighteen. Why would someone like him look at me twice? That’s how my brain worked back then. I was just a dumb kid.”

“And now he’s here and single. You’re here and divorced. So you decided to just go for it?”

“Not exactly,” Lizzie said, picking at her salad. “I went to the gallery one day; I was curious. He was there and we ended up going out for a drink. That’s when he confessed he’d had a crush on me back in high school, too. Isn’t that funny? Randolph Pierce—the richest boy in town—liked me.”

“Funny ha-ha or funny strange?”

“Come on, you know what I mean.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, he was afraid of what his parents would say. Just think, all that time we could have been dating. No telling where it might have led. Maybe I would have never married Tom.”

“But you did. And you have two wonderful kids to show for it.”

Lizzie smiled at my comment and went on. “We’ve been seeing each other ever since. He’s really changed, Mother. If you give him a chance, you’ll see how wonderful he is.” Her face lit up.

“Well, had I known any of this sooner, I would have advised you to not represent him. Having a romantic attachment to a client usually ends up badly.”

“I know,” she said.

“And against my better judgment, I’ll help you. Remember I’m doing this to find Stacey’s killer.”

“And get Randolph out of jail, too, right?” Lizzie asked.

“Well . . . that will happen when I figure all this out.”

“Whatever the reason, we’re both grateful.”