by Mary Maxwell
I heard footsteps nearby and turned to see Amanda Crane coming around the side of the garage.
“Hey, Katie. What are you doing here?”
“Pia called me when she found…” I gestured toward the house. “…whatever’s inside. Is she still on the terrace?”
Amanda smiled. “She’s back there on a chaise. The poor thing said she needed to lay down, but we obviously couldn’t let her go back in the house.”
“Of course,” I said.
“It’s also probably the safest place for her at the moment,” Amanda added. “And I bet she’d welcome the company if you want to go around and maybe see her for a second or two.”
“I can do that,” I said. “How’s it going inside?”
Stephen nodded. “Slow and steady. The place was tossed pretty badly.”
“And there’s no sign of Marclay?” I asked.
“Not so far,” he said. “But we’ve got the word out. We’ll find him.”
Amanda gestured toward the pebble pathway that looped around Vito’s house.
“Do you want to go on back and see Pia?” she said. “I’ll be right there as soon as I get something out of my car.”
As I started to leave, the walkie-talkie hooked to her belt crackled with a voice that was more than a little familiar.
“You there, Crane?” said Trent Walsh, my longtime friend and Deputy Chief of the local police department. “Over.”
Amanda plucked the radio from her waist, toggled the button and announced that she was on the scene. “But there’s one more thing,” she said, giving me a smile. “Katie’s—”
“Yeah, okay,” Trent cut in. “I wanted to give you a heads up that Katie Reed will probably be out there snooping at some point. She’s early thirties, fairly attractive and likes to poke around in things. I just heard from dispatch that she called in the possible disturbance on Balsam Drive. Over!”
“Thanks, I’ve got it,” Amanda said, blushing with unease at the teasing remarks. “We’ll keep you updated as we—”
A massive burst of static came over the radio and Amanda held it away from her ear. By the time she tried to finish her sentence, Trent was gone.
“Well, I guess he was too busy to wait for the rest,” she said, giving me a wink. “Sorry you had to hear that, Katie. As you know, he doesn’t filter his comments when he gets busy.”
“That’s true,” I said. “And Deputy Chief Walsh is almost always a busy guy.”
A mischievous smile appeared on Amanda’s face. “Busy,” she said quietly. “And a touch impatient.”
CHAPTER 6
When I came around the corner of the house, Pia was sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed. She was wearing a blue blazer over tan slacks and a white blouse. I approached silently until I was at the edge of the expansive granite terrace.
“Pia?”
Her head rotated in my direction. When our eyes met, the corners of her mouth dropped into a mournful frown before she stood and came toward me.
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said as I encircled her with my arms. “I’ve never witnessed anything so…”
The rest was lost in a sob, a gut-wrenching wail accompanied by waves of uncontrollable trembling. We stood together for a few moments, the embrace buffeting the emotional whirlwind that threatened to knock her to the ground.
“We’ll get you through this,” I said when the crying subsided. “Just take it as slowly as you need to, okay?”
She stepped back and swiped at the tears with one hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “And I’m so embarrassed, Katie. I promised myself that I wouldn’t lose it once you got here. I was going to call my sister, you know? But she’s never liked Vito, even though I met him at one of her parties.”
She took a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her cheeks.
“Why don’t we sit down?” I suggested. “Trent Walsh or Dina Kincaid will be here soon. They’ll want to talk with you about what you found inside.”
She nodded, pressing her lips together in a stiff smile. “And then I’ll have to go through it all a million times more after that, right?”
The comment was odd, but I imagined her mind was filled with dozens of fractured, anxious thoughts. I saw my first crime scene during the second year that I worked as a private investigator. I was following the business partner of a woman who feared she was being defrauded. One snowy night in the middle of an especially harsh Chicago winter, the guy went into an alley. I sat in my car waiting and watching. When another man ran from the shadows a few minutes later, a revolver glinted in the light from the nearest streetlamp. Despite my initial reservations, I decided to check on the man that I’d been tailing. I found him in a pool of blood behind a pile of empty wooden crates, bludgeoned and unconscious, with a single gunshot to his abdomen. Although the victim in that case survived, the images from that night replayed often in my mind when I watched certain movies and television shows.
I was thinking about the man in the alley as Pia pressed the tissue to her face and explained that she didn’t think she could repeat the account endlessly.
“Let’s not worry about that right now,” I said, guiding her toward a table and four chairs near a set of French doors. “We can just sit without talking if you’d like.”
She pulled one chair from the table and slowly lowered onto the seat. I noticed flecks of something red on one of her shoes, imagining that she’d inadvertently stepped in blood after discovering the terrifying scene in Vito’s living room. I also spotted an ashtray on the table that contained two cigarette butts. While they both had a distinctive thunderbird logo printed on the side just below the filter, only one was edged with red lipstick.
“Why did this happen?” Pia mumbled as I sat beside her. “Everything was going so well for him.”
There was a familiarity and warmth in her voice, like the compassionate tone most people would use when tragedy had suddenly engulfed a family member or good friend.
“Did you see the knife?” she asked. “It looked like there was blood on the blade.”
“Officer Castle had it in an evidence bag,” I said. “Do you know if it belonged to Vito?”
She nodded. “He went hunting a couple of times last winter after he moved to town.”
“Do you know the significance of the three letters engraved on the handle?” I asked.
“I don’t know what they stand for,” she said. “But it’s got something to do with Vito’s role model. He always used those initials instead of actually saying their name, so I don’t even know if it was a man or woman.”
“Do you know anything about the person?” I asked. “Where they live? How Vito met them? Maybe the nature of their relationship?”
“No, sorry,” she said. “But there might be—” She suddenly stopped and her eyes went wide. “Oh, wait a sec!”
She reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I forgot all about this. It was on the floor just inside the front door when I came in earlier.”
She unfolded the item, smoothed it quickly on the tabletop and held it up so I could get a look.
“See?” she said. “The name matches the initials on the knife.”
Pia was holding a deposit slip for a large national bank. Besides the name and address printed in the upper left corner—someone called E. A. Hoffmann with an address on Pine Grove Lane in Steamboat Springs—the piece of paper was blank.
“Do you know that name?” I asked.
Pia shook her head.
“What about the address? Does Vito have friends in Steamboat Springs?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. I know he goes there on business every so often, but I don’t know who he meets with.”
“Well, we should give this to the police,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll probably ask you about it later.”
She frowned. “I still won’t know the answers,” she whispere
d. “We never really talked about business that much, you know? He asked me a few questions about catering. I asked him how long he’s been a painter. The rest of the time we just…” A single tear formed in her left eye before gliding down her cheek. “I can’t believe this is happening, Katie. It’s so hard to imagine that Vito could be involved with anything like this.”
I waited while she dried her face. Then I asked how long she’d known Marclay.
“Just a few months,” she answered. “We met at a cocktail party that my sister had in Denver for law firm clients. Liza always invites me to her work things, but I usually tell her that I’m busy or make up some kind of excuse. But that night, for whatever reason, I decided to go. And I’m really glad that I did because I met my soul mate.”
“That sounds so romantic,” I said. “And the look in your eyes tells me you’re in love.”
She giggled. “I am now, but we didn’t hit it off right away. Vito’s funny and charming and so incredibly talented, but he can also be cranky and rude if things aren’t going his way.” A smile flickered on her lips briefly. “But I’ve fallen for him, Katie. He’s so creative and brilliant! Did you know that he had his first solo gallery show when he was only twenty-one?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about his work. I mean, until you mentioned him yesterday, I didn’t even know that he was living in the area.”
She shifted in her chair. “Really? I thought everyone heard the news when Barnaby Granger sold this place. His family had owned the property for…” She paused, squinting to retrieve something from her memory. “…well, I think it was for at least three or four generations or so.”
“Oh, I heard about the sale,” I said. “But I thought a couple of people bought the property as a business investment.”
Pia’s eyes narrowed. “That’s true,” she said. “Until very recently, Vito’s financial situation was a little tricky. When he still lived in New York, he was hoodwinked by a couple of crooked accountants. In a nutshell, they got rich and fled the country, Vito lost everything he had and was essentially living on the street when he met Phil and Geraldine Bickerton.”
“I’ve met them,” I said. “They opened the contemporary art gallery years ago over on…uh, is it on Piñon?”
“It’s on Tremont,” Pia answered. “It’s one of several local businesses that Phil owns now. He was essentially Vito’s first benefactor when he was struggling to get back on his feet, sort of like when the Medici family helped Michelangelo.”
I smiled. “Wouldn’t that be nice? To have benefactors take care of your expenses and write all the checks?”
“It’s not exactly like that now,” Pia said. “Bickerton and another partner still own this place and Vito lives here, but his work has been selling very well for the past couple of years. That’s helped him turn things around.”
“How did Mr. Bickerton and Vito end up in Crescent Creek?” I asked.
“Fate,” Pia said with a watery smile. “Phil’s family was originally from Gunnison, so he was familiar with the state. During a ski trip one year, he was showing his late wife around and she fell in love with Crescent Creek. Phil still has a place back east, but he spends quite a lot of time in Colorado.”
“And he and someone else bought this place for Vito?”
She nodded. “Phil’s wife was still alive when they met Vito in New York, right about the time he was recovering from an especially challenging experience. They’d owned a gallery in New York for a really long time, so they invited him to mount an exhibition. It went so well that they did another show the next year. Things went nicely until Vito got involved with some sketchy people and his drinking got out of hand. Phil and his business partner did an intervention at some point, convincing him that Colorado would be a better place to live and work. Phil and the other partner bought this house for Vito to use as a sanctuary and studio, somewhere quiet and peaceful after all those noisy, crazy years in New York City.”
“That’s pretty generous,” I said. “Considering the asking price when Mr. Granger put it on the market.”
“Phil and the other benefactor are very wealthy people,” Pia explained. “They’ve represented Vito’s work since the early days, so it makes sense. I’m sure plenty of people will think it’s odd, but Phil is a true connoisseur of creative talent. He’s also shrewd and feisty when it comes to business and finances, which is definitely not one of Vito’s strengths. Phil and the other investor know a good thing when they see it, whether it’s Vito and his art or a prime piece of real estate here in Crescent Creek.”
I’d met Phil Bickerton and his late wife during one of my trips back to Colorado when I still lived in Chicago. They’d opened the art gallery in Crescent Creek’s downtown business district after falling in love with the area on one of their annual ski trips to Aspen. Although they hired a local man named Oscar King to manage the business, the Bickertons usually came to town a few times each year. Since Geraldine and my mother were the same age, she and Phil made a point of eating breakfast or lunch several times a week when they were in town. It had been a terrible shock when my mother called one day to share the sad news that Geraldine had died from a sudden heart attack.
“I’m pretty sure Phil still considers this place a wise investment,” Pia added. “He and the other investor own properties in several cities and they’ve got more money than you’d ever dream about, so paying Barnaby Granger a few million dollars was probably an easy decision.”
“A few million?”
Pia nodded. “That’s what Vito told me.”
“But I’d heard that Mr. Granger was asking just under—”
I stopped when the French doors opened and Trent Walsh appeared in the entryway along with Dina Kincaid.
“There you are!” He stepped onto the terrace and Dina followed. “I thought you’d be up front.”
Dina, Trent and I had attended the local high school at the same time. She and I were classmates, and Trent was a couple of years older. He was also my boyfriend for a fleeting moment until Dina enticed him away. Even though Trent and Dina married and divorced during the years that I was in Chicago, they’d developed a cordial working relationship at the Crescent Creek PD. He served as deputy chief and Dina was the department’s lead detective.
“Hi, there,” I said, getting to my feet. “Pia was pretty shaken up, so Stephen and Amanda told her it would be okay to wait out here.”
Dina approached the table slowly, moving her eyes between the phone in her hand and Pia’s face.
“Miss Lincoln?” she said, extending one hand. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Detective Kincaid. After we chat here for a bit, I’ll escort you to the station so we can talk in one of the conference rooms.”
“Have you found Vito yet?” asked Pia.
“We’re doing everything we can,” Dina said. “In the meantime, I’d like to take your statement and ask you a few questions.”
Pia glanced at me. “Can you stay, Katie?”
“That’s up to Detective Kincaid,” I answered.
“I don’t see any problem with Kate being here while we talk,” Dina said. “But once we go to the station, I think it would be best if just you and I discuss the situation.”
“I’m willing to do whatever you ask,” Pia said. “Especially if you think it will help find Vito.”
CHAPTER 7
A half hour later, I was standing beside Trent’s SUV in Vito Marclay’s driveway. After Dina asked Pia a few rudimentary questions about what she’d discovered earlier, they had both climbed into a patrol car for the trip back to the CCPD station.
“How’d you get involved with this, Katie?” Trent asked.
“Pia called me,” I answered. “She was pretty much in a panic, so I think she dialed the last number in the call log on her phone instead of 911.”
“Well, I’m glad you reported it,” Trent said. “Although we also had a call from someone named…” He paused to check the notes in a pa
d on the dashboard. “Eva King. Does that name ring any bells?”
I shook my head. “Is she related to Oscar?”
His forehead crinkled. “Which Oscar?”
“He manages the art gallery on Tremont Street that Phil Bickerton owns.”
The crumpled brow was replaced with a distrustful sneer. “The skinny guy that wears a red plaid coat all the time?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I said. “I’ve never met Mr. King. But Pia told me a few things about Vito Marclay and Phil Bickerton while we were waiting out back.”
“Like what?”
“Just some basic background,” I answered. “Vito’s an artist. Bickerton and his business partner own a gallery in New York and the smaller one here in Crescent Creek. They bought this house for Vito to use as a studio and sanctuary.”
Trent smiled. “A sanctuary?”
“C’mon,” I said. “I’m just telling you what I heard from Pia.”
“When this thing goes to trial, you’ll have to testify.”
“I can handle it,” I said. “I was just doing what any friend would when someone calls in distress.”
“Did she mention the burglary?” he asked.
“What burglary?”
“A few nights ago,” Trent said. “Marclay reported that someone broke in while he was out to dinner. They ransacked the place, but didn’t take anything valuable.”
“What did they get away with?”
Trent shrugged. “Mostly a bunch of art supplies.”
“Well, Pia didn’t mention that,” I said. “But she was pretty upset about what she found when she got here this afternoon.”
He grumbled and checked his notes again. “And you said that Pia called you because you were the last number she’d dialed before finding the blood and the knife?”
I nodded.
“Well, Eva King called 911 a couple of minutes before you did,” Trent said. “She claimed that someone she knew had been involved in some type of altercation out here, so we were in the process of dispatching a car to the scene when your call came in.”
