Shelved Under Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  My aunt’s bright blue gaze didn’t falter, but her slender fingers entwined tightly in her lap. “Very well, if you must know—she was the reason Andrew died.”

  “What?” I opened and closed my mouth twice before I could form words again. “But Uncle Andrew died in a car crash.”

  “Yes, but do you know why he was out driving after dark in that storm?”

  “Well, no. I just thought … I guess I never really questioned it, honestly.”

  Aunt Lydia turned her head, staring at a collection of photos on a nearby table. I knew the display included several pictures of Uncle Andrew and assumed that was her focus. “It was Mel Riley who demanded that he come to her house that night, with one of his paintings she’d purchased for a friend. She said it was a gift and that she needed it immediately, as her friend was coming into town a day early.” When my aunt glanced back at me, her normally smooth brow was wrinkled and the lines bracketing her mouth had deepened. “Andrew begged her to let it wait until the next morning, since the weather was so foul. But she said no. She told him that unless he brought the painting to her house that night, the deal was off.”

  “There was an ice storm or something like that, right?”

  “Yes. The kind of weather that no one should’ve been out in, especially since very few people owned four-wheel drive vehicles back then. But Mel didn’t care, and Andrew would never have turned down such a deal. He didn’t sell that many paintings, you see.” Aunt Lydia lifted her chin and looked up and over my head. “It was a bad storm—freezing rain and sleet—so the highway patrol asked everyone to stay off the roads. But Mel only cared about what she wanted, when she wanted it.”

  “You told me the crash destroyed the car.”

  “Yes, and her damned painting. Little good it ever did her.” Aunt Lydia clenched and unclenched her fingers. “A rock or something pierced the gas tank and the car exploded into flames. Andrew was thrown clear. He was very bad about not wearing his seat belt.” She met my pained gaze and softened her tone. “That was one reason he was killed instantly, but honestly, he would’ve died anyway. At least he didn’t burn.”

  “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this up.”

  Aunt Lydia tucked one white lock of her short hair behind her ear. “No, no, it’s all right. I really should’ve told you sooner. I just hate talking about it, as you can imagine.”

  “Of course.” I studied her face—still lovely for all its sixty-four years. “That explains why you hate Mel. Even though it was an accident, her selfishness was partially to blame.”

  “I don’t hate her exactly. I just have no use for her. She wasn’t a mean person, but she was always so self-centered. She couldn’t see beyond her own desires. Never considered how her actions might affect someone else.” Aunt Lydia closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Now, tell me what you’ve discovered about those mysterious paintings.”

  “Not much yet.” I lifted the computer back onto my lap. “So far, no mention of any works resembling them in the Art Loss Register.”

  “What is that, exactly? The Register, I mean.”

  “It’s a website and database where people or organizations can list works they believe are lost or stolen. Or search for works that have been recovered in raids or that sort of thing. Essentially it’s a great way to track art so that thieves and forgers can’t pass off a piece with a fake provenance.”

  “Interesting. I had no idea such a thing existed. But you haven’t found any of the pieces from the LeBlancs’ barn?”

  “Not yet. Of course, it’s pretty tough to find something when there’s no title and you aren’t entirely sure about the artist. I’m just using my best guesses. It will be easier when that art expert gets here. When is he or she supposed to arrive, anyway?”

  “Tomorrow, and it’s a he. Someone named Hui Chen, although Brad Tucker said he goes by Hugh.” Aunt Lydia plucked at the cuff of her crisp linen blouse. “Asian, I suppose.”

  “American, I imagine.” I wagged my finger at her. “You know not everyone came over here in 1756, like our family.”

  “I realize that, Amy, and I could care less about someone’s background, but I haven’t had a lot of contact with people of Asian descent. I just hope we’ll be able to provide the proper accommodations.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sure he won’t be expecting anything different than anyone else. Bed, bathroom, a few meals—that sort of thing.”

  “You needn’t get all high and mighty with me, young lady. It isn’t out of line for me to feel concerned over being a proper hostess.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think you should worry because of his ethnic background.” I looked down at my laptop screen, reminding myself that my aunt had lived in Taylorsford all her life. Although she was open-minded, a trace of provincialism lingered. “Anyway, I sure hope he has some insights, because I haven’t found anything useful yet. Interesting, yes.” I maximized the website and stared at the image on my screen, which depicted an artist walking on a dappled gold path with open fields and two trees in the background. “Like this lost painting, which is a Van Gogh. I think it might have been connected to the Monuments Men. Remember that film?”

  “Yes, they were protecting art from the Nazis.” Aunt Lydia smiled. “And they weren’t all men.”

  “True. Anyway, they’ve kept the organization going, mainly to find pieces that are still lost. Like this painting by Van Gogh that belonged to a museum in Magdeburg, Germany.” I tapped my screen with my forefinger. “The title is The Painter on His Way to Tarascon, but it’s really a self-portrait. It was moved to some salt mines near Magdeburg for protection during the war, but then it disappeared in 1945.”

  “Shame,” my aunt said. “Art shouldn’t be hoarded.”

  I glanced over at her. This was my opportunity to fulfill Mel’s request, although I certainly wouldn’t mention her name. “Speaking of which, would you mind donating one or two of Uncle Andrew’s paintings to the library sale? I know you don’t like to part with them, but since we’ve lost any chance of getting some from the LeBlancs…”

  Aunt Lydia met my inquiring gaze with a lift of her eyebrows. “Clever segue. Using my own words against me, are you?”

  I grinned. “Maybe.”

  “Let me think about that. I might be able to spare one or two. Meanwhile, I believe I’ll go change out of these church clothes.” Aunt Lydia pushed against the chair arms to help her rise to her feet. Although her injured leg had healed and she no longer needed a cane, she was more cautious with her balance than before her accident. “You did invite Richard to lunch as I requested, I hope?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll be over soon.”

  “And you’re wearing that?” As my aunt walked past the sofa, she eyed my worn jeans and faded Pink Floyd T-shirt with obvious disapproval.

  I turned my head and pulled a funny face at her. “No, I thought I’d throw a flannel shirt over the T-shirt. You know, for added color.”

  She just sighed deeply and left the room.

  * * *

  Sitting at the dining room table after lunch, I tilted my head and noticed the lacy spider webs festooning the silver-plated chandelier. I twisted my lips into a grimace. We rarely used the dining room, but that was no excuse for the cobwebs, or the film of dust dimming the polished surface of the cherry sideboard and china cupboard.

  Richard leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Bored?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t mind that Walt and Zelda, who’d joined us for lunch, had repeated stories about the past that I’d heard several times before. I was more disgusted over my inadequate housekeeping. Keeping such a large house clean was difficult, and although Aunt Lydia did her best, she depended on me for the tasks that required heavy lifting or climbing stepladders. Like dusting chandeliers.

  But I’d been lax lately. Partly due to the increased workload associated with preparing for the library’s participation in the Heritage Festival.

  Be hone
st, Amy, it’s also because of the man sitting next to you. You’re spending more and more time with him, which means less and less time helping Aunt Lydia with chores.

  Guilt washed over me, especially when I considered we would soon be housing a guest. I’d made up my mind to tell Richard that I couldn’t see him that evening because I needed to do some last-minute cleaning, but when I’d turned my head and gazed into his beautiful gray eyes, the words had shriveled on my tongue.

  “I just hope this art expert isn’t as much of a slob as the two forensic experts they stuck me with.” Zelda absently swirled the iced tea in her glass. “One would think someone in such a profession would be tidier. I expect they have to be precise in their work, but heavens above, are they ever sloppy in their other habits.”

  “Maybe that’s why.” Richard scooted closer and draped his arm across the top of my ladder-back wooden chair. “It’s like me with food. I have to be so careful most of the time that, when I do let go, I turn into a pig.” He grinned and patted his flat stomach with his other hand. “I probably gained ten pounds from this meal, but I don’t care. It was delicious, Lydia.”

  “Thank you.” My aunt looked him over. “But I doubt you’ve destroyed that perfect physique with just one meal.”

  “That’s the problem, though. It isn’t just one meal. I eat here pretty often, you know.” Richard dropped his arm down onto my shoulders. “But I guess, if that’s the price to be paid for Amy’s company, I must make the sacrifice.”

  Zelda elbowed Walt. “Listen to him, dear. As if he’s really suffering, with Lydia feeding him and Amy … Well”—she winked at me—“doing whatever she does for him.”

  Walt cleared his throat. “Now, Zel, enough with the teasing. You’ve got the girl blushing again.” He turned sideways in his chair to stretch out his long legs. Although our dining room chairs were sturdy enough, they couldn’t comfortably accommodate his lanky height. “I’m definitely curious to meet this art expert, Lydia. I hear he’s worked for the National Gallery of Art, among other prestigious places.”

  “Yes, so I’m told.” Aunt Lydia pushed back her chair. “Is everyone finished? I thought I’d clear the table, but I don’t want to rush you.”

  I dislodged Richard’s arm and leapt to my feet. “You sit and relax. Let me clear up.”

  “Here now, I’ll help too.” Richard stood to join me. “You gather up the plates and silverware, sweetheart. I’ll grab that tray for the glasses.”

  As we collected the dirty dishes, Aunt Lydia pleated her cloth napkin between her fingers. “But honestly, don’t you all find this murder so bizarre? Who’d want to kill Rachel LeBlanc?”

  “You never know,” Walt said. “Think about your cousin Sylvia. Who’d have guessed she was capable of cold-blooded murder?”

  Aunt Lydia dropped the napkin back onto the table. “Oh, I always thought her capable. I just never suspected she’d actually carry it out.”

  “Yes, dear Lord,” Zelda said, “that woman was capable of anything. And, you know, there’s probably a simple answer to this latest murder, although a very sad one.”

  Walt looked over at Zelda, his dark brown eyes puzzled. “So what’s this obvious answer, my dear? Because I admit I’m with Lydia and can’t imagine what happened.”

  “Well”—Zelda leaned into the table and spread her hands across the white tablecloth—“it’s probably that boy Sunny saw running away.”

  “Caden Kroft?” I paused in the doorway to the hall, balancing my stack of plates as Richard headed for the kitchen with his tray full of glasses. “Why do you assume that? The husband is still missing, so isn’t that more likely? The spouse is always the primary suspect, at least in books and on television.”

  Zelda lifted her hands. “But that’s fiction, my dear. I know that’s what people always think, but I can’t picture Reese stabbing his wife. They always seemed so devoted.”

  The plates rattled as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “Seemed being the operative word. Like you said about Cousin Sylvia, things aren’t always what they appear.”

  Zelda lifted her shoulders. “But Caden was there, according to Sunny, and we don’t know that Reese was anywhere nearby. It is strange that he hasn’t surfaced yet, but there could be a good reason. Maybe his car broke down or something. I haven’t heard any updates from the sheriff’s department as to his whereabouts, but I hate to condemn the man just because he’s the husband.” Zelda tapped her chin with one finger. “Anyway, Caden’s struggled with a drug problem for several years, poor lamb. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Had some run-ins with the authorities, although nothing serious enough to send him to jail.”

  Aunt Lydia tapped her buffed fingernails against the tablecloth. “But how does that connect to a murder? Just having an issue with drugs doesn’t necessarily turn someone into a criminal.”

  I leaned against the door jam, studying her tense face. I knew this subject hit a nerve with her, since she’d once confided to me that my late uncle had struggled with drug addiction. Something he’d fallen into because of his friendship with Kurt Kendrick, called Karl Klass back then. Now a respected, and wealthy, art dealer and collector, but once—according to my aunt—a dealer in other, less savory, things.

  And maybe still involved in shady transactions. He practically admitted it the last time you had a real conversation with him.

  Kendrick was in his early seventies now, but in my opinion he was still more than capable of being involved in criminal activities. “Why would Caden want to kill Rachel, though? What’s the motive?”

  Zelda swept her plump hands through the air. “Oldest reason in the book. He’s in love with the daughter and the parents don’t approve.”

  “That’s no reason to kill someone,” Walt said with a frown.

  I studied his somber face. He was probably considering how some people in Taylorsford wouldn’t approve of his relationship with Zelda. The fact that he was black and she white had kept them from being more open about their love affair for several years. Sunny had repeatedly told them to ignore such ignorant attitudes, but as I reminded my friend, we couldn’t really understand his reluctance to go public because we hadn’t experienced what he had as a black man growing up in a predominantly white community.

  Richard reappeared in the hall and pointed at the plates I was still holding. “Can I take those?”

  I noted his amused expression. “Oh, sure. Sorry.”

  “No worries,” he said, sliding the stack of china out of my hands. “I can see you’re preoccupied.” He shifted the stack, balancing them in the crook of his arm, and tapped my forehead with one finger. “That detective brain of yours is going all Sherlock Holmes over another mystery, isn’t it?”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “And if it is?”

  “Okay by me.” He nodded his head toward Zelda. “Better listen up. She’s probably already amassed more information than the authorities.”

  “Probably,” I said, while he headed toward the kitchen.

  As I turned back to the dining room, it was clear that Aunt Lydia was not done questioning Zelda. “So, even though Reese LeBlanc had forbidden Caden to visit Lila, you don’t think that was the motive? You think this young musician killed Rachel looking for money for drugs?”

  “I do. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Sunny said the girl looked like she’d just woken from a stupor. She was coming down off something, and the boy decided they needed another hit or whatever but didn’t have the money. So he goes to Rachel, who he knows is in the studio, to beg for money. She refuses, and pow!”—Zelda made a stabbing motion with her hand—“the kid grabs the first thing he finds and attacks her. Probably didn’t mean to kill her, of course.”

  “I don’t know.” As I crossed over to the sideboard, my thoughts circled around the wiped-down palette knife. Would an impetuous, drug-fueled killer take the time to do that? And then there were the forgeries … “It still seems odd to me that the authorities discovered
that secret closet full of paintings at the murder scene. I doubt Caden Kroft had anything to do with that, or even knew it existed.”

  “True,” Zelda said. “But it could be coincidental.”

  “Awfully strange coincidence, dear,” Walt observed.

  I leaned back against the sideboard and stared across the table at the opposite wall. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the glass doors of the china cupboard, I noticed that my T-shirt had rumpled up around my waist and tugged it down. “It’s just odd. I can’t help but imagine there’s some connection…”

  My aunt shot me a sharp glance. “Are you thinking of Kurt Kendrick?”

  “Yeah.” I drew figure eights in the dust on the sideboard with one finger. “He does live fairly close to the LeBlancs, and we know he’s involved in buying and selling art.”

  Zelda propped her elbows on the table and supported her chin with her tented fingers. “You just don’t trust that man, do you, Amy?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I,” Aunt Lydia said. “But I don’t know that we can accuse him of anything. At least not yet.” She looked hopeful, as if she’d be quite happy if Kendrick could be implicated in this case.

  Of course she would. She’d probably believe justice had been served if Kendrick got arrested for some crime.

  Richard appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to eat and run, but I’m afraid I have a Skype session scheduled with the Ad Astra Company this afternoon.”

  “Oh, the company that’s also taking you out of town this week?” Aunt Lydia asked.

  “Yeah. I guess Amy filled you in. I hate that I won’t be here to volunteer at the festival, but I feel obligated to help them out of a jam.”

  “We all understand, dear. Work must come first, even if it is a pain sometimes.” Zelda patted Walt’s hand. “I know I’ll be glad when we’re both retired and Walt doesn’t have that long commute almost every day.”