by Lauren Carr
She laughed. “I’ll get into so much trouble if I go into evidence and ask them to run her fingerprints through the international database. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it would be for Bixby if we found Jane Doe’s real killer on her watch?”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble on my account.” He closed the folder and handed it back to her.
She hugged the case file to her chest. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it, darling.” She brushed her fingers across his cheek while gazing into his blue eyes. “I just said I was going to have lots of fun doing it.”
Chapter Four
Mac tried to ignore Gnarly.
After more than a year of living with the beast, Mac held on to a sliver of hope that if he ignored the cold snout poking him on the cheek and neck that Gnarly would give up and return to his den under the bed.
Another two hours of sleep wasn’t going to happen. Not as long as there were ducks invading Gnarly’s territory on the dock or squirrels gathering nuts in his yard. When Mac didn’t respond to the poking, Gnarly resorted to a full body assault by jumping up onto the bed and digging him out from under the bedding.
Cursing, Mac threw off the covers and looked over at the other side of the king-sized bed.
It was empty—as it was every morning. The pillow and sheets showed the usual signs of having been slept in. The bedding on “her side” even contained a hint of Archie’s scent.
Mac paused to appreciate the sweetness of the smell, until Gnarly tagged him in the back with his front paws with such force that he landed face down onto her pillow.
“Okay, I’m coming.” Mac shoved his arms through the sleeves of his bathrobe on his way down the stairs. He tied the belt tight around his waist before yanking the back door open to let Gnarly out onto the deck.
The German Shepherd’s barks resembled a morning wakeup call when he charged off the deck to the dock where a flock of ducks waited to be chased out into the lake.
The granite floor sent a cold shock from the bottom of Mac’s bare feet and up through his shoulders. Trying to avoid the freezing touch, he tiptoed into the kitchen to hit the switch to start the coffee brewing. While waiting for his first dose of caffeine, he peered out the kitchen window and marveled at the turn of events.
Whoever would have guessed an underpaid cop would end up like this?
The first sunrays of the day caused a mist to rise from the lake to create an eerie effect. Shivering, Mac pulled the bathrobe tight around his bare shoulders and chest.
Through chattering teeth, he smiled at Gnarly barking at the ducks from the end of the dock. They swam out to the end of the cove before turning around and quacking back at him. Their quacks sounded as if they were taunting him to come get them. When Gnarly felt particularly feisty, which he often was, he would.
Go get ‘em, Gnarly.
Three beeps signaled that his coffee had finished brewing. Mac tiptoed over to the counter to fill his mug. With the sun not quite up yet, it was still too cold to enjoy his coffee on the deck. So he stretched out on the sofa to wake up while enjoying a different view.
Ilysa Ramsay’s last painting. Her lost work of art.
Propped up against the wall, it filled the space on the far side of his living room.
Mac stared at the redhead in the emerald gown.
Ilysa Ramsey was a beautiful woman indeed. She was also talented. How ironic that, before her death, she chose to surround herself, in this painting, with those most suspected of killing her. Was she predicting her own death?
Ilysa’s blue eyes seemed to jump out of the painting at him. Mac jumped. It was as if the painting had come to life.
Must have gone back to sleep.
“I see Gnarly has cleared the perimeter.” Archie’s voice woke him up the rest to of the way. “We can feel safe again. Coffee brewed?” She went into the kitchen to get the answer for herself and feed Gnarly.
His first chore of the day completed, Gnarly was ready for the next items on his list: breakfast. First, he had an appetizer in the form of a biscuit, to be followed by his breakfast. He didn’t care who served them to him, as long as someone did so in a timely fashion.
Mac sat up and returned to staring at the painting.
What’s wrong with this painting? It’s something to do with her eyes. The expression. Like Ilysa is pleading for me to find her killer.
The ruby jewels around her neck resembled drops of blood. Her blood spilled during her murder—committed after she had done this painting.
But Ilysa’s throat wasn’t slashed. She was bludgeoned to death with a hammer. So she didn’t predict her own murder.
“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Archie startled him out of his thoughts when she slipped onto the sofa next to him. She had on the same rose-colored bathrobe she had worn the night before.
Mac remembered his pleasure when she had slipped it off the night before, and how she had consumed him, as she always did ... afterwhich, she slipped away in the middle of the night to return to her cottage.
“I got lonely,” he said in a tone devoid of any signs of pouting.
“Do you want me to keep you company?” she asked in a playful tone.
“That’s a very tempting offer, but Bogie and David are coming by. They’re taking me to go look at the Ramsay crime scene.”
“Then you’re being invited onto the case. That’s good.”
With pride in his voice, Mac told her, “David is taking me on as a contractor.”
“Contractor?”
“Only for this case,” he said. “He can do that since I’m certified for law enforcement. I may be retired, but my state credentials are up to date. Who knows? Maybe I’ll decide I’m not cut out to be a rich retired millionaire.”
She slipped her hand into his robe to brush her fingers across his chest. “When are they coming?”
“A couple of hours.” He didn’t object when she slid over to press her body to his.
“Do you want to go back to bed?”
“Maybe.” He was coy. “You know, you’re allowed to stay the night with me. You don’t have to keep slipping out in the middle of the night like some vampire that needs to get back to her coffin before sunrise.”
“I know.” Taking his hand, she led him to the stairs.
“Then why do you?”
“Because I’m more comfortable in my own bed.”
“I’ll come sleep over there.”
On the stairs, she whirled around. “And leave Gnarly here by himself?”
“I’ll bring him with me. He can chaperone.”
“Yeah, I can see he’ll make a great chaperone,” she noted with sarcasm while pointing out that Gnarly was already stretched out on the sofa that they had just vacated.
“I think about that day every time I drive past this place,” Bogie told Mac and David when they stepped out of his cruiser at the Hathaway estate.
With most of its citizens listed in Who’s Who, Spencer was considered uptown from nearby McHenry and Oakland. Pelican Court’s sole resident was a step above that. The sprawling mansion, tennis courts, pool, and gardens made Spencer Manor look like a child’s back yard playhouse.
With a somber expression that made his bushy mustache press up his nostrils, Bogie peered up at the studio where Ilysa Ramsay was murdered.
Mac followed his gaze to the building looking out over the lake. “That’s not a guest house,” Bogie said. “It’s a five-car underground garage. Ramsay’s art studio was upstairs. She had a kitchenette and bedroom in the loft. She practically lived up there when she was painting, which was that whole summer.”
David added, “Neal Hathaway found her body.”
Bogie told Mac, “Hathaway states that she had slipped out of bed during the night to go to the studio to paint. That was not unusual. When she’d get tired, she would go to bed up in the loft. Hathaway got up that morning and went looking for her. That was when he found her.”
“May I help you?” th
e maid called out to them from the front door.
“Good morning, Greta,” Bogie strode up to the porch. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Deputy Chief Art Bogart.”
“I remember you.” She looked each of them up and down. When she came to Mac’s unfamiliar face, she kept her gaze on him.
When he had been a homicide detective, Mac discovered that housekeeping staff made invaluable witnesses. Good domestic employees make a point of being practically invisible while noticing everything. It’s a necessity in order to meet their employers’ every need without getting in the way.
When it came to criminal investigations, the problem was getting them to talk. They were often as loyal to their employers as they were observant.
Mac placed Greta’s accent as being Swedish. It wasn’t as easy to place her age. She was tall and slender to the point of being skinny. Like in the painting, her face was gaunt, which seemed accentuated by her long straight silver hair that fell to a blunt cut at her shoulders and bangs cut straight across.
David answered the question in her eyes. “This is Mac Faraday. He’s working with our department as a special investigator on Ms. Ramsay’s murder case. May we speak to Mr. Hathaway?”
“He’s in a meeting.” Like a guard, she didn’t move from where she blocked their way through the door.
Mac replied, “We can wait until he’s available to meet with us.”
After casting a stern glance at each of them, she went to find her boss. Assuming she had left the door cracked open to serve as an invitation, Mac stepped inside.
He gaped in wonder at the white elegance of the foyer that stretched three floors up to the cathedral ceiling which contained two skylights. A crystal chandelier hanging down from the top peak of the ceiling to the second floor provided even more light to the bright white room.
On the left wall hung an oil painting, which provided a mirrored image of the curved staircase on the opposite side of the room. The only difference was that a silver haired man stood on the landing in the painting. He wore slacks, white shirt, and an open vest with his tie undone. He held a cigar in one hand and a drink in the other. His expression was one of supreme satisfaction. A brass plaque in the frame declared it to be a painting of Neal Hathaway.
Mac noted the signature in the lower corner of the painting: Ilysa Ramsay.
“David!” A call came from the top of the staircase. “Is that really you?” A younger version of the man in the painting trotted down the stairs. “How are you doing, bud?” He tucked the tennis racquet he was carrying under his arm and clasped David’s hand into both of his. “Look at you. You look great.”
“This is Scott,” David said to Mac. “Neal Hathaway’s son.” He announced, “We’ve hired Mac to help us solve your stepmother’s murder.”
“Is he good?” Scott asked with a wink at David. “Should I be scared?”
“Only if you killed her. Mac’s one of the best. Between him and Bogie, we’ve got the dream team of murder investigators on the case.”
“All right!” He tapped his fist against David’s before turning to Mac. “I met your police chief when I was learning self-defense in the Marine reserves.” He let out a laugh. “I was awful.”
Mac asked, “You were in the military?”
“We Hathaways are very America proud,” Scott said. “I joined right out of college, got out, and then re-enlisted after September 11. David was my instructor for arm-to-arm combat training and about killed me.”
“Scott was stationed in Europe when his stepmother was killed,” David told Mac.
“I guess that means I’m not a suspect.” Scott winked again. “But I could have hired someone to do it for me, I guess.”
Mac replied without a grin. “That’s correct.”
Seeing that Mac was serious, Scott’s smile fell.
An awkward silence filled the foyer before Scott said, “I’ll take you to see Dad. I’m on my way to the club to meet a friend for tennis.” He poked David in the chest with the racquet. “We need to arrange to get together. On the tennis court, I might be able to take you.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” David said.
They were on their way through the house when Mac noticed what appeared to be a parlor. Spotting a grand piano, harp, and a lounging chair; he called out to the group about to step outside to the rear patio. “This is where the painting is set.” David and Bogie followed him into the room.
“My mother was to be a musician,” Scott told them. “The piano and harp were hers.”
On a stand next to the harp rested another peculiar instrument that resembled a combination of a violin and ancient piano with a long series of keys attached to tangents along the frets. A bow rested next to it. Afraid of touching it for fear that it was of great monetary value, Mac asked Scott what it was.
“That’s a nyckelharpa.” Scott’s grin betrayed his amusement. “You aren’t the first to wonder about it. It’s also known as a keyed fiddle. It’s a Swedish instrument that dates back to 1300s. This one belongs to Greta. She taught my mom.”
Mac asked, “Your mother passed away?”
“I was very young,” Scott said while leading them back out toward the patio. “Susan plays the harp sometimes when we have parties. No one knows how to play that piano, but Dad keeps it because it was Mom’s. He’s sentimental like that.”
Greta almost collided with all of them at the doors. “Mr. Hathaway can see you now. His meeting is breaking up.”
Big in size and demeanor, Neal Hathaway seemed to cross the patio in two steps. Mac was pleased to see that, like him, Neal didn’t feel obligated to wear his bank account. He was clad in khaki shorts and flip flops on his bare feet.
He clasped Mac’s hand in both of his with a grip so strong that it threatened to break his fingers. When Neal shook his hand, it felt like he was going to pull Mac’s arm from its socket. “I heard you were Robin Spencer’s son. Is that right?”
“That’s what the DNA tests say.” Mac massaged his arm after their handshake.
“I loved your mother,” Neal said. “Beauty and talent. You don’t find that very often in a woman. My late wife was loaded with both.”
Mac was able to place most of the group on the patio from the painting.
A woman sitting at the table rose to grasp Mac’s hand. In contrast to their host, her slender hand was so limp and clammy that it reminded Mac of a dead fish. “Mr. Faraday, we have mutual friends. I’m Dr. Nancy Winter-Kaplan. This is my husband, Peyton Kaplan. He’s Hathaway Industries vice president in charge of security.”
Like in the painting, her black hair was mixed with silver strands cascading over her head like a spider web. Her lips and nails were bright red. Between the dark hair, blood red lips and nails, and pale complexion, she reminded Mac of a vampire.
When Nancy turned around to introduce her husband to Mac, they found him standing over a buxom blond writing notes on a wi-fi tablet at the table. The image of Peyton and Susan Dulin was strikingly similar to how Ilysa had painted them. His focus was directed down the front of her low-cut blouse to her abundant breasts.
“Peyton,” his wife called sharply for his attention.
He almost knocked over a chair while snapping to attention.
“Mac Faraday is here,” she said with a hiss in her voice. “Robin Spencer’s son. He owns the Spencer Inn resort.”
“Mac Faraday.” Peyton clasped Mac’s hand. “Great to finally meet you. I heard a lot about you.”
There was a tinge of doubt in Mac’s tone when he asked, “You’re in charge of security at Hathaway Industries?” His instinct told him that he could trust Gnarly to guard his dinner plate more than this man.
“That would be me,” Peyton told him. “Started out at the Pentagon over thirty years ago with the Army, went into intelligence, and now I’m in charge of some of the most sensitive information regarding defense satellites.”
Neal slapped Peyton on the back. “It’s not a job you hand off t
o someone you can’t trust. I’ve known Peyton for over thirty years. We’ve been friends since college.”
“You wouldn’t believe the cutest shop that I found in McHenry.” Laden down with shopping bags and packages, a woman in stiletto heels hurried out onto the patio. Overburdened, she barely made it to the table before spilling her treasures across papers that they had been working on.
“Rachel, did you leave anything in the store?” Scott asked.
“I didn’t have time to try anything else on,” Rachel said. “I had to come back to change before meeting some friends up at the inn for cocktails.”
While Rachel went on to run down her social plans for that evening, David whispered to Mac, “Rachel Fields-Hathaway. Scott’s wife.”
She went on to show off her purchases. During the fashion show, she made a point of listing the cost of each item. The prices she rattled off made Mac, who had yet to adapt to his upper class bank account, physically ill. He could see by the set of Scott’s jaw and the roll of Neal’s eyes that they were equally disgusted by Rachel’s talent for extravagance.
Like she was shooing a pest away, Nancy Kaplan gestured at the bags piled up in front of her. “Rachel, get your stuff out of here. Some people work for a living.”
Scott’s announcement reminded all of them of the police’s presence. “David brought Mr. Faraday here to catch Ilysa’s killer.”
The police chief said, “We’d like to re-examine the crime scene.”
“Why are you taking another look at her murder now?” Nancy asked.
“Because it’s never been solved,” Mac said.
Scott joined in. “I, for one, would like to see Ilysa’s killer caught.”
Neal said, “Bully! So would I!”
Nancy Kaplan squinted at Bogie. “What prompted all this renewed interest after eight years?” Her small dark eyes turned their attention to the police chief.
“We’ve had a break in the case,” David said. “Mac Faraday has come into possession of Ilysa’s last painting.”
Silence fell over the patio like a blanket dropping out of the sky to land on top of them. Even Rachel seemed to forget about her new treasures to whirl around to notice the visitors for the first time.
