Christiane Heggan - Where Truth Lies

“They happened to say that just as you walked in?”

“Yeah. I was too steamed at the time to think much about the timing. Later, I wondered the same thing.”

“What happened after you heard that remark?”

“I should have ignored them, but I didn’t. I was pissed off.”

“You picked a fight with them.” It wasn’t a question. Lucy had already told him about their sweet old dad trying to take on two men the size of Texas.

“Wouldn’t you have?” Fred asked. “If they talked about your wife that way?”

Matt made a mental note to talk to the notorious Badger brothers, two former little punks who had grown into bigger punks. “Probably, but go on.”

“Fortunately, Eddie split us up before we could do any real damage to his place. I stormed out and went home to confront Denise. She wasn’t back from the shop yet. Before you ask, no one saw me come home.”

“And everyone at Pat’s assumed you were going to the Hatfield Gallery.”

“What was I supposed to do? Carry a sign?”

“Why didn’t you just walk over to the jewelry shop?”

“Because I didn’t want to make a scene. I was never much for airing my dirty laundry in public. And while I was home, Steven was being murdered.”

“With your gun.” When Fred remained silent, Matt added, “Mind telling me how it ended up in the flower bed of the Hatfield Gallery?”

“If you mean, do I have an idea who could have planted it there, no, I don’t. And make no mistake, it is a plant, made to look as if I dropped it in my haste to get away. As if I would do a dumb thing like that.”

“Who knows where you keep your gun?”

“It’s no secret to those who know me well that I keep my guns locked up in the bedroom armoire.”

“So whoever framed you not only had the key to your house, but the key to the armoire as well? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“When I come home, I’m in the habit of dropping my keys on the kitchen hutch. The kitchen is where I read my paper and have coffee with my friends, or whoever feels like dropping in. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to make an impression of both keys at the first opportune moment.”

“Any idea who that someone might be?”

Fred shook his head. “Nope. Some weeks I can’t even tell you how many people stop by, especially now that I’m retired.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Fred Baxter had been just as popular when Matt was growing up. The house was always filled with friends and neighbors who came to chat, to tell the chief their troubles, or to just play a few rounds of poker.

“So the question is, who hated Hatfield enough to kill him?”

“He wasn’t very well-liked, especially by the men. Did they hate him enough to kill him?” Fred shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wanted to kill him myself when I heard about him and Denise.”

“Who would you put at the top of that list?”

Fred was thoughtful for a moment. “Once I would have said Buzz Brown, but too much time has gone by. He was pissed off, though, blamed Steven for his wife’s death.”

“Why was Steven so set on not having that land developed?” Matt asked.

“Oh, the usual reasons—traffic, taxes, overpopulated schools. Buzz didn’t buy it, though. He thought it was personal.”

“Personal how?”

“Don’t know. You can ask Buzz when he comes back from his trip to Kansas in a few days. Or you could talk to Duke Ridgeway. He sits on the planning board and played golf with Steven. He might know something.”

“I’ll give him a call, and talk to Buzz as well when he gets back. Who else is on your list?”

“Hatfield was the town’s heartthrob. He got in trouble at the local college where he taught a weekly art appreciation course. A sexual harassment complaint from a young coed almost got him fired. And then there was this artist from Milford. Steven had promised to feature her in a one-woman show but never did. Witnesses saw them at the gallery, shouting at each other.”

“Do you have her name?”

“Elizabeth Runyon. She works part-time at her aunt’s antique shop on Church Street.”

Matt wrote the information down. “It won’t hurt to check her out, but I wouldn’t hold too much hope with those two,” Matt warned. “There isn’t much of a motive for murder with either one.”

“And that’s why I’m the only viable suspect. With me, they’ve got it all, Matty—motive, opportunity and the kind of evidence not even Clarence Darrow could dismiss.”

Matt tried to stay optimistic. The last thing his father needed right now was for his own son to tell him that his case was hopeless. But the truth was, the killer had engineered and executed what looked, at least on the surface, like the perfect crime.

“Something odd happened last night, though,” Fred said as an afterthought.

Matt’s antennae went up. “I’m listening.”

“You may not know this yet, but in his will, Steven left the gallery to his ex-fiancée, a curator at some Boston museum. She arrived in town last night, presumably to take over, and surprised an intruder inside the gallery. Foolishly, she tried to stop him and got pretty banged up in the process. She spent the night in the hospital and was released this morning. Her name is Grace McKenzie. She was engaged to Steven about ten years ago and apparently, they had remained friends.”

“Was anything taken from the gallery?”

“The police don’t know yet. A few paintings were thrown to the floor, but the rest of the place was undisturbed, so Josh ruled out vandalism.”

“It sounds to me like the robber was looking for a particular painting.”

“Maybe. Miss McKenzie will be able to tell what’s missing after she does an inventory.”

“That break-in could be important, Pop. Is Josh investigating it?”

“He has to. The news is out and a few people in town want the investigation into Steven’s murder reopened.”

“What is she like, this Grace McKenzie? Do you know?”

“According to Rob, she is pretty, sassy, smart and gutsy. Not too many women would try to stop an intruder in the middle of the night.” He chuckled. “I heard that she packs a nasty kick.”

“She hurt the guy?”

“I’ll say. She hit him in the balls with the heel of her boot.”

“Ouch.”

“My sentiments exactly. Josh was impressed, and as you know, he doesn’t impress easily.”

Matt smiled. “You’re pretty well informed for a guy who spends all his time behind bars.”

Fred looked smug. “My former deputy keeps me au courant.”

“Is that okay with Josh?”

“Hell no, but who cares?”

Eight

“Sarah, please.” Grace switched her cell phone to her left ear as she stopped at a traffic light. “There is no need for you to come to New Hope. The gallery is fine. I’d like to tell you that nothing was taken, but the truth is, I haven’t had a chance to check the inventory yet. As soon as I do—”

“For heaven’s sake, Grace, I’m not worried about the inventory. Chief Nader told me you had a concussion. That’s why I called. I’m concerned about you .”

Was she? Really? “The doctor gave me a clean bill of health before I left the hospital.” The light turned green. “I’ve got to go, Sarah. I hate to talk on the phone while I drive. Is it okay if we talk later?”

“Call me anytime.”

After saying goodbye, Grace snapped her phone shut and dropped it on the seat next to her. Sarah had mellowed over the years, or maybe it was Steven’s death that had changed her. Grief had a way of doing that to people. Grace made a mental note to call her tonight, not because she had a sudden yearning to talk to the woman, but because she felt sorry for her. For all her money, her busy social life and a houseful of servants, Sarah was a very lonely woman.