Shelved Under Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  Sunny, heading for the back door, glanced over her shoulder. “You really must stop being so charming, Richard. It makes other men look bad.”

  Chapter Two

  Although neither Richard nor I had ever visited the LeBlanc farm before, following Sunny’s Volkswagen Beetle, with its canary-yellow paint job, was easy enough. Right outside of town we turned onto a side road that led up into the mountains.

  “At least it’s paved,” Richard said as he sped up to keep pace with Sunny.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m glad to be spared the bouncing.” Many of the smaller roads near Taylorsford were dirt and gravel. Navigating their rutted surface felt like driving over an antique washboard.

  “But narrow.” Richard squinted and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Doesn’t the county realize we’ve moved beyond the horse-and-buggy era? Two smaller cars could barely pass each other, so how the hell do those huge SUVs I see all around town manage it?”

  “Okay, cool your jets, city boy.” I shot him a grin. “I assume these roads were once just packed-dirt paths. Lucky for you that the county paved some of them.”

  “Lucky for my shocks.”

  “Uh-oh, looks like you spoke too soon,” I said, as Sunny’s Bug turned onto a gravel road.

  Richard frowned but followed her. “I haven’t met the LeBlancs yet. Have you?”

  “No.” The car hit a particularly deep rut, and I pressed my right hand against the locked passenger side door to steady myself. “I’ve actually spoken with the daughter, though. She’s done some research in the library for her community college classes.”

  Richard glanced over at me. “Oh right, the daughter. Sunny mentioned her to me once when we were talking about issues I sometimes have with students at Clarion. I often refer students for help with addiction issues, so Sunny asked if I knew of any non-university programs for recovering drug addicts. Apparently the LeBlancs’ daughter has had problems. Delilah, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but she goes by Lila.” I looked over at him, admiring his rugged but handsome profile. “You keep helping out and you’re going to develop quite a reputation.”

  Richard laughed. “Always my problem. Do-gooder for life. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. It’s one of the many things I love about you. Like what you did for Shay. That was so sweet.”

  A faint blush tinted Richard’s cheeks. “You know how I feel about that sort of thing. Children shouldn’t be told they can’t do something just because of the way they look. Nobody should, really.”

  “Yeah, but it was sweet anyway. You’re good with kids. I’ve noticed that.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I stared out my car window as if entranced by the vivid fall foliage. We’d never discussed the topic of children, and I was afraid I might be overstepping the bounds of our relationship.

  “I like them. So much energy and potential. I wouldn’t mind one or two of my own, to be honest. Hopefully more than one. Being an only child, I think it would be nice to have siblings. How about you?”

  I turned my head slowly to meet his sidelong glance. “I have a sibling, if you recall.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m asking if you’d like to have kids.” He stared back at the road, his attention apparently fixed on the bumper of Sunny’s car.

  “Never really gave it a lot of thought.”

  “You’re not one of those girls who’s already planned out her future family and all that?”

  “I’ve never even fantasized about a wedding,” I said, surprising myself with the truth of this revelation. “I don’t know why, exactly. I guess I was afraid if I fixated on such things, I’d be crushed if they didn’t happen.”

  “Honest as always.” Richard cast me a warm smile before turning his focus back to the road. “But I don’t think you have to worry…”

  Sunny’s car turned onto a paved driveway. “Oh look, we’re here.” I motioned toward a wooden sign hanging from a cleverly designed frame that resembled an artist’s easel. “‘LeBlanc Studio and Gallery,’” I read aloud.

  Alternating stands of dogwood and sugar maples lined the paved driveway. Spring blossoms and fall foliage, I thought. No doubt planted with an artist’s eye for color. Rain earlier in the day had washed away any dust, and the autumn leaves gleamed, a vibrant tapestry of crimson and gold. The long ribbon of blacktop curved picturesquely—just enough to give the sense of changing views without any hairpin turns. As we approached the end of the drive, the trees gave way to carefully composed beds of shrubs and flowers. We followed Sunny’s car to a barn that looked too pristine to store hay or house livestock. Its freshly painted white trim glowed against blood-red siding.

  “Good thing they don’t pretend to be a working farm, ’cause this looks nothing like one.”

  “What gives that away?” Richard allowed the car to idle while Sunny parked her Bug and jumped out.

  “No farm equipment anywhere, for one thing,” I said. “And there’s that lovely flagstone patio right outside the main barn doors—complete with vine-covered pergola. I’d bet money there are also twinkly lights threaded through those leaves. That sort of thing isn’t typical for most working farms.”

  “As a city boy, I’ll take your word for it.” Richard shot me a grin before lowering his window to speak to Sunny. “Okay to park here?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.” Sunny stepped back and turned to look at the sliding barn doors, which were pushed back just far enough to allow one person to slip through. “Maybe I should run up to the house and see if Rachel’s there.” She frowned. “That half-shut thing worries me. They usually either open the doors completely or close them tight.”

  Richard turned off the engine and popped open his door. “Why don’t Amy and I head into the barn to see if anyone’s there while you check at the house? You know, double team it.”

  “Sure thing.” Sunny turned away and headed for a flagstone path that disappeared into a stand of trees and shrubs hiding the house from view.

  I climbed out of the car and crossed the small circle of pavement to join Richard at the barn doors.

  “See—fancy.” I pointed at the adjacent terrace. There were tiny clear Christmas lights entwined through the rain-washed clematis vines covering the pergola.

  Richard’s gaze followed my gesture. “I hear they use that area to serve the appetizers and wine at gallery events.” He shrugged when I shot him a questioning look. “A friend of mine from Clarion got invited to one of the openings and told me about it. He said the LeBlancs also rent the barn out for events. Like receptions of one kind or another.”

  “And why did your friend think to mention that?”

  Richard, pushing back one of the barn doors to widen the opening, didn’t look at me. “I might have said something to them about wedding venues. You know, in passing.”

  “Uh-huh. Just happened to be talking about such things?”

  He flashed me a wide grin. “Exactly. Now, shall we head inside? The sooner we collect the donations, the sooner we can grab dinner and get home.” He slipped through the open doors.

  “Where I expect you to explain a bit more about these random wedding reception comments,” I said, following him into the barn.

  In contrast to the dark, weathered wood of most working farm buildings, the cream-painted woodwork lent the space an airy feeling. But I was still thinking barn and blinked in surprise at the light spilling from the large windows that filled the top half of one of the long walls. Northern light. Artists prefer that for their studios. I remembered that tidbit from one of my college art history courses.

  “Ms. LeBlanc?” I called out as Richard and I walked deeper into the barn. “It’s Amy Webber, the Taylorsford library director. I work with Sunshine Fields, and I’m here with Sunny and our friend, Richard Muir, to collect your donations for the festival.”

  There was no answer. “Seems Sunny was right to check the house.” Richard wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?”

>   “Rachel must’ve forgotten to cover her container of linseed oil,” I said, as the pungent odor assailed my nose.

  Richard made a face. “It sure stinks. Makes the place smell like old cooking oil. What’s it used for?”

  I rubbed my hand under my nose. “Thinning pigments and enhancing their gloss. It’s commonly used with oil paints. But it’s odd that Rachel didn’t seal the container or cover it with something. Maybe she just stepped out?”

  “Could be.” Richard glanced up at the ceiling. “Look at that. Does she sculpt too?”

  “No, that’s probably her husband’s work.”

  A gigantic mobile created from fencing wire and bits of old metal tools hung from the rafters. It resembled a lumbering sea monster moving underwater as it spun slowly among the dust motes floating in the light.

  “Interesting,” Richard said. “Look at that play of dancing shadows.”

  “Are you mentally making notes to use that idea in your choreography?”

  Richard looked down at me with a smile. “Yeah, always thinking about that.” He slid his arm around my shoulders. “It seems you can read my mind now. That could be scary.”

  I bumped his hip with mine. “Don’t be silly—I didn’t need to read your thoughts. Your fascination with any kind of unusual movement is pretty obvious.”

  Richard leaned in to kiss my temple before releasing me. “Fair enough.” He scanned the barn. “I don’t think anyone is here, so I guess we just wait for Sunny to bring Rachel from the house. But I think I’d like to take a look at those paintings first.”

  He gestured toward a circle of tall easels interspersed with small tables laden with art supplies. I assumed this was the area where Reese LeBlanc gave his art lessons. My gaze darted from the easels to the standing partitions lining one side of the barn. A collection of paintings and drawings covered the partitions, each piece as neatly labeled as works hung on museum walls.

  One painting in particular caught my eye—a vibrant mosaic of color and dancing lines. As Richard walked around the circle of easels looking for an entry point, I took a detour to examine the work more closely.

  As I suspected, it was signed by Rachel LeBlanc. I glanced at the label next to the painting, which simply read “Mountain Fall.” I stepped back to get a better overall view of the painting and realized that this work somehow captured the essence of Taylorsford’s autumn foliage better than a more realistic depiction ever could.

  I stared at the painting for a few moments marveling, as I always did when studying works of this quality, at the magic of art. Someone—a human just like me—had used brushes and paint to create something from no more than what all other humans possessed—a brain, eyes, and hands. Yet the alchemy of their talent could take these tools and transform a blank canvas into something magnificent.

  As I stepped closer to examine the brushstrokes, I felt a slight breeze, as if someone had stepped up beside me. A quick glance showed no one there, and I realized that it was just that feeling I got sometimes when visiting art galleries. While contemplating paintings, I’d occasionally experienced moments of disorientation. I described it as a slippage of time—a feeling that the artist was standing beside me. I always explained this away by saying that it was simply me sensing their spirit in their work, as vivid as the day they’d signed the canvas.

  I’d gotten used to this little peculiarity, writing it off as something arising from my overactive imagination. But this time I shivered. It was odd to feel that sensation in this instance. In the past it had only happened when the artist was deceased.

  A string of expletives rang through the air. I spun on my heel and ran, shoving aside a table as I dashed into the circle to reach Richard’s side.

  He stared at the paint-spattered floor, his arms held stiffly at his sides and his fingers clenched into fists. Following his gaze, I spied a mug flipped over on its side on the small table placed beside one easel. Linseed oil—the obvious cause of the odor filling the barn—dripped down the legs of the table and pooled on the floor, lapping up against the fingers of a limp brown hand.

  A strangled squeak escaped my lips. The body attached to the hand was hidden behind a large table draped in muslin.

  “We shouldn’t touch anything,” I said, reaching for Richard’s hand.

  The rest of the body was revealed as we stepped around the table. Crumpled on her side, with her knees drawn up in a defensive posture, was a middle-aged woman. Her eyes were closed and her thin face partially veiled by locks of curly dark hair. I gripped Richard’s fingers tighter. As my mind attempted to process the scene, I noticed that the fingertips of the artist’s other hand brushed a palette knife that glistened as if it had been soaked in the oil and wiped clean.

  The woman lay there so quietly, it was as if she were merely napping. For a moment I could imagine her grasping the knife and rising to her feet to resume work on the canvas sitting on the easel. But the crimson stains blossoming like roses against her white painter’s smock told another story.

  Rachel LeBlanc would not finish her latest work. In fact, she would never complete a painting again.

  Chapter Three

  Richard gently tugged me backward. “I’ll call 911,” he said, releasing his grip on my hand. “This is Rachel LeBlanc, I assume?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” Although I’d never met the woman, I recognized her face from online photos. I’d also seen her daughter often enough to catch the resemblance.

  Lila. I bit the inside of my cheek. I hoped the girl wasn’t at the house, or if she was, wouldn’t accompany Sunny back to the barn.

  “At the LeBlanc farm,” Richard told the dispatcher. “And yes, this is Richard Muir. Again.” He looked over at me, his eyebrows raised.

  Again. No wonder they questioned that. Another murder, and you and Richard had to be the ones to find the body. Does sound peculiar.

  My thoughts flew back several months, to the events of the past summer, when Richard and I had become entangled in another murder investigation. Stumbling over one dead body in a small town like Taylorsford was odd enough; now we’d found another? It was beginning to seem suspicious, even to me.

  “They’re sending out a team right away.” Richard pocketed his phone. “They said we need to remain in place and do nothing until the authorities arrive.”

  “But we should warn Sunny not to come in. Especially if she has Lila with her.”

  “Right, the daughter.” Richard ran his fingers through his dark hair, then pressed his palms against his temples as if attempting to hold his thoughts together. “All right, let’s wait at the entrance so we can head them off.”

  Richard carefully stepped around one of the easels before striding to the open barn doors. I followed, jogging to keep up with his longer strides. When we reached the entrance, I turned to him.

  “We must have some bad karma, stumbling over two dead bodies in less than six months.”

  “Or just a gift for trouble.” He pulled me into a hug. “Don’t start thinking this means we’re cursed or something.”

  I tapped my finger against his chest. “I’m not superstitious like that. It’s just a weird coincidence is all. Although Sunny might think there’s some karmic reason…”

  “Hmmmm, probably.” Richard adjusted his hold on me so he could look down into my face. “How’re you holding up? I’m feeling pretty awful myself.”

  “No one would know, with that brave front of yours.” I stroked the side of his face with the back of my hand. “I’m okay. It’s probably shock. But be prepared—I’ll undoubtedly blubber like a baby later.”

  “I’ll make sure to have lots of tissues handy.” Richard’s gaze moved up and over my shoulder. “Uh-oh, here comes Sunny. Alone, thank goodness.”

  I stepped outside to allow him to block the doorway with his body.

  As Sunny stopped short in front of Richard, her smile looked a bit forced. I put this down to her being tired after a long day at work. “Rachel wasn’t at the house. J
ust Lila, and I apparently woke her up. She was, as they say, dazed and confused.”

  Sunny attempted to slide past Richard, but he stopped her with his extended arm.

  “What in the world?” Sunny looked us both up and down, wrinkling her brow.

  I held up both hands, palms out. “Don’t come in. I don’t want you mixed up in another one of these things.”

  “Another one of what things?” Sunny’s normally bright eyes were clouded with concern.

  “Murder.” Speaking that word broke something in me. I clenched my fingers and momentarily pressed my hands to my mouth to prevent a shriek of protest.

  Sunny gasped. “What? Who?”

  “Rachel LeBlanc. She’s in there.” I jerked my head to indicate the interior of the barn. “Stabbed, it looks like. With a palette knife, of all things.”

  Sunny didn’t move, but the twitch in her hands betrayed her. Richard threw his arms around her shoulders as her knees buckled.

  “Hang on,” he said, holding her upright.

  “Lila’s at the house.” Sunny’s chattering teeth turned her words into staccato bursts. “And someone ran away…”

  “What?” Richard slid his hands down her arms and loosely held her wrists.

  Sunny pulled her hands free. “I saw someone.” She stepped back and slumped against one of the pergola’s supports.

  I grabbed the hem of my sweater and twisted the soft wool between my fingers. “Saw who?”

  “Someone running away. No one answered the front door, so I went around back and was almost knocked over by a guy fleeing into the woods.”

  “He came from the house?”

  “Yeah, back door. I couldn’t see him very clearly because he was wearing a hoodie, but I think it was Caden Kroft.”

  “The guitar kid?” I’d seen Caden busking around Taylorsford, something Mayor Bob Blackstone had unsuccessfully tried to stop. Apparently there was currently nothing in the town bylaws prohibiting street performers, although I was sure the mayor was working to change that.