Shelved Under Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  “I keep telling Richard not to worry about not being here,” I said. “I’ll have plenty of help. Honestly, the worst part is that I can’t go with him. I hate missing Richard’s performance.”

  Aunt Lydia and Zelda shared a glance. Uh-oh, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have been quite so vehement in my last statement. They were probably reading too much into it and thinking about how soon they could start planning a wedding.

  “Can’t be helped. You have your job just like I have mine. And speaking of that, I really must go. Thanks again, Lydia,” Richard said, before he turned away. “Amy, come with me?”

  “Sure.” I caught another knowing look between my aunt and her friend before I walked out of the dining room.

  Richard met me at the front door. “This Skype thing will only last an hour if you want to drop by later.”

  I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch before blurting out, “I’d love to, but with that art expert coming tomorrow, I really should clean the house.” I knew I had to say it quickly, and without looking at him, or I’d change my mind.

  Richard shut the door behind him. “All right, I suppose I must be understanding, since you’re doing it to help Lydia. But”—he took hold of my arms and turned me to face him—“I have to leave tomorrow, since I decided to drive instead of flying. And I need to get on the road pretty early, which means that after today we won’t see each other for a week.”

  I gazed up into his face. The lines bracketing his mouth clearly indicated his disappointment. “Sorry, but I think we’ll have to manage. I’ve been so lax with the housework lately that I have to make up for it today.”

  “I guess I’ll have to channel my frustration into some extra rehearsal, then.”

  I tapped his lips with my fingers. “See, I’m helping you with your performance after all.”

  “Hmmm, not sure about that, but we’ll see.” Richard caught hold of my fingers and pressed a kiss into my palm before releasing my hand. “Now, give me a proper good-bye.”

  “Out here on the front porch in full view of all the neighbors?”

  “The hell with the neighbors,” he replied, and kissed me in a way that made me regret my earlier decision.

  The house got a thorough cleaning, though, as I had to work out my own frustrations somehow.

  Chapter Seven

  It was difficult to drag myself out of bed the next morning, but I resisted the urge to slam the snooze button on my alarm clock more than once. Aunt Lydia needed the car for a doctor’s appointment, so I had to walk to work, which required an early start.

  As I locked up the front door and stepped off the porch, I glanced over at Richard’s driveway, confirming that his car was already gone. We had talked on the phone the night before, a call that went on for far too long. It was one reason I’d had trouble waking up, although I actually thought the hours of frantic cleaning were more to blame. I had worked until almost nine o’clock before flopping across my bed, exhausted and feeling as if dust and grime had sunk into every one of my pores.

  It didn’t help that I’d subsequently dragged out my laptop and fallen into a research black hole. I’d spent far too much time seeking information on the people involved in the case. Although most of my searches were dead ends, I had discovered one interesting fact. There was apparently a lien against the LeBlanc farm, which meant they were in financial difficulty despite Rachel’s success as an artist. I’d sent Brad a text about this situation and he’d thanked me, although he’d admitted that the state investigators had already uncovered a substantial life insurance policy that would benefit Reese. And Lila, too, but only if her father was also deceased.

  I’d then stayed awake even longer, considering the possibility that Lila could’ve killed both her parents for the insurance money. After some thought, I’d concluded that this was unlikely. From the way Sunny had described the girl’s state, I doubted that she would’ve had the presence of mind to cover up such a crime. According to Brad, the killer had left Rachel lying where she was killed, so why would anyone have felt the need to hide Reese’s corpse? No, I concluded, it was much more likely that Reese had killed his wife and fled. Perhaps he planned to show up in a day or so, claiming that he’d just returned from his business trip. If he could pull that off, he might be able to collect on the insurance. But he had to know that was a long shot …

  Puzzling over all these scenarios had robbed me of sleep, so I wasn’t exactly bright-eyed the next day. Fortunately, the autumn morning was perfect for a walk—the air was brisk but not biting, and the sky was as clear as a newly washed pane of glass. I shouldered my soft-sided briefcase and set off, inhaling the woodsy smoke that wafted up from some neighboring chimney. The honking of geese made me lift my head to watch their flock wing across the sky. As I lowered my eyes, my gaze was captured by the dance of flaming leaves on the sugar maple trees that lined the sidewalk.

  Dazzled by the beauty of the morning, I didn’t realize that someone had stepped up behind me until I heard his voice.

  “Good morning, Amy. Heading to work?”

  I spun around so fast my elbow banged into Kurt Kendrick’s hip. “Are you following me?”

  Kendrick didn’t even flinch. “That wasn’t my original plan. I just drove out to walk over the old Cooper farm this morning. Getting the lay of the land, so to speak. You know I’m providing funding for the new town park, I suppose?”

  “Yeah, I heard that.” I gazed up into his craggy face. His brilliant blue eyes were examining me in a way I found unnerving. Or maybe it was just his size. His large frame—all muscle and bone—dwarfed me.

  Kendrick ran a hand through his thick white hair. “I’m supposed to meet with Mayor Blackstone later today to discuss the preliminary plans, and I wanted to have a better sense of the terrain. I didn’t think I could get a real feel for it just perusing a map.”

  I looked past him and spied his black Jaguar parked on the side of the road beyond Richard’s house. So far it seemed that the art dealer was telling the truth about why he was in the area, but I remained on my guard. “I’m surprised he’s willing to talk to you. Having to scrap his development plans and donate the land to the town must sting.”

  “He could hardly do otherwise.” Kendrick looked down at me with a wry smile. “Considering that he had to cut a deal with the authorities to stay out of prison for withholding evidence in the Sylvia Baker case, he should be happy that all he lost was some money.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And the park will honor Eleanora and Daniel Cooper, as Paul wished. Which is all I ever wanted for that property.”

  I schooled my expression to hide my disbelief over this remark. I suspected that Kendrick’s donation to the park had less to do with honoring the wishes of his late foster father, Paul Dassin, and more to do with a substantial tax write-off. I simply couldn’t imagine Kendrick waxing that sentimental over anyone. It seemed unlikely that he’d be so devoted to Richard’s great-uncle when he’d fled Paul Dassin’s home at eighteen and hadn’t returned until after Paul’s death. “It will be nice to have the Cooper farm land converted into a park instead of a subdivision. So thanks for that.”

  Kendrick displayed the large white teeth that always reminded me of a storybook wolf. “I’m sure Lydia approves, since the houses would’ve been built so close to her own home. I actually thought my sponsorship of the park might earn me her goodwill, but she still refuses all my dinner invitations.”

  “If you understood her at all, you’d know it’s difficult to change her mind about anything.”

  “Oh, I do realize that.” Kurt Kendrick stepped back and studied me for a moment. “You two share that trait, I think.”

  I shoved a lock of my straight brown hair behind my ear. “I’m nowhere near as intractable. After all, I am talking with you.”

  “True enough,” Kendrick said, with another grin.

  I glanced at my watch. “But I’m going to be late for work if I don’t get a move on.”
I turned away from him.

  One of his large, knobby hands landed on my wrist. “Wait.”

  I gazed up into his face. There was no grin now, only a stare that bored straight into me. “Excuse me, but if you could remove your hand…”

  “In a minute. First I must tell you something. It’s the real reason I walked up the road to talk with you.”

  “Tell me what?” I twisted my wrist, dislodging his hand. “I don’t have time for this, Mr. Kendrick.”

  “Kurt. And yes you do. Because you need to be warned. You and your boyfriend.” He waved his hand toward Richard’s house. “It’s common knowledge that you and Richard Muir found Rachel LeBlanc’s body and that your friend Sunny was also involved.”

  “So?” Swinging my briefcase in front of me like a shield, I took two steps back.

  “So that places you in the middle of something that could prove quite dangerous for you all.”

  “Why? We didn’t see anyone. We just stumbled over the body. It’s not like we can identify the killer or anything.”

  “But you were present when the paintings were discovered.”

  The paintings … I narrowed my eyes as I examined the older man, whose childhood nickname had been “The Viking.” “You know about those?”

  “Of course. Once Zelda Shoemaker heard about it, the news was all over town.” Kendrick crossed his arms over his broad chest. “And I have a special interest in such matters, as you can imagine.”

  Yes, I could. Wherever secrets tangled up the truth, I could picture Kurt Kendrick as the pale spider lurking in the center of the web.

  “I can also imagine that you might have something to do with that suspicious stash of canvases. Maybe some secret even the LeBlancs didn’t know?”

  Kendrick shook his shaggy head. “My dear, I think you are assigning much more power to me than I possess. I have nothing to do with those paintings, trust me.”

  I swallowed a bubble of laughter. Trust him? I’d sooner trust my murderous Cousin Sylvia. “So why warn me? If you aren’t aware of any connection between those particular paintings and art theft or forgery, what is there to worry about?”

  Kendrick’s bushy eyebrows rose to the thick fringe of white hair falling over his forehead. “I didn’t say that.”

  “So there is a connection?”

  “Possibly. I have no hard facts, you understand, but in my world one hears things. Rumors, of course, but one must assume that where there is smoke, there could be … a conflagration.”

  “So what are you saying? That Richard and Sunny and I might be in danger because some criminal organization offed poor Rachel LeBlanc? But why? Don’t tell me she was a forger. Why would she do that? She had plenty of fame with her own work.”

  “True, but she wasn’t the only painter in the family.”

  I stared at him. “Reese? You think he was the target, or”—I narrowed my eyes as I examined Kendrick—“maybe he was the killer, following orders from some criminal organization that had a hold over him?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I only know that any connection to the case could put you in the cross hairs of some disreputable individuals.”

  “Unlike people with stainless reputations, like you?”

  Kendrick flashed me another toothy grin. “This is why I like you so much, Amy. Despite your obvious distrust of me. But seriously, dear”—the grin faded as quickly as it had appeared—“I am concerned about you, Sunny, and Richard, who I also hold in high esteem, and not just because he’s a descendent of Paul Dassin. And then there’s your aunt…”

  My fingers clutched the strap of my briefcase. “But Aunt Lydia wasn’t involved in discovering the body.”

  “No, but she’s housing the art expert sent in to examine the paintings. Someone who might also be considered a target.” Kendrick lifted his hands. “Don’t look so surprised. It’s common knowledge around town, and even if it wasn’t…”

  “You’d know?”

  “I would indeed.”

  I unclenched my fingers and swept one hand through the air. “What, you have spies or something?”

  Kurt Kendrick did not reply, but the slight incline of his head made me think the answer was yes.

  “I just want all of you to be on your guard. Keep your eyes open and use that suspicious mind of yours to good advantage. Now, having said that, how about I drive you to the library? I’d hate to think my impromptu conversation had made you late for work.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” I said, although a glance at my watch informed me that it was. There was no way I could walk fast enough to reach the library and open the building on time.

  “Nonsense, I insist. I’ve completed my survey and need to head in that direction anyway. Come along now.” He turned and strode back toward his car.

  I trailed him, considering the pros and cons of his offer. I didn’t trust Kurt Kendrick. Not one little bit. But I knew he was too smart to harm me in full view of Mr. Dinterman, who was grabbing his newspaper from his driveway, and Mrs. Hollins, who was out walking her Yorkie.

  But if you get in his car, Amy, he could drive you anywhere.

  I studied the tall, white-haired man opening the passenger-side door of his luxury sports car. He was mysterious, secretive, and, perhaps, shady. But he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t harm someone witnesses had seen getting in his car.

  I sank into the plush leather of the passenger seat as Kendrick closed my door and walked around to the driver’s side.

  No one as wealthy and wily as this man can afford to take such a chance, I thought as I buckled my seat belt. I glanced over at my companion, noting the set line of his strong jaw.

  Or at least I hoped not.

  Chapter Eight

  Naturally, my fears were unfounded. Kurt Kendrick dropped me off at the library after asking some brief, innocuous comments about my university studies. After I mentioned the name of my undergraduate advisor, a scholar who specialized in nineteenth-century European art, Kendrick shared an amusing story about bidding against her at an auction.

  I was so bemused by the Jaguar, whose elegant interior and ride far surpassed any other vehicle I’d ever experienced, that I didn’t respond to this odd coincidence. And maybe it wasn’t so strange. The man moved in the highest circles of the art world. He probably knew most of the major scholars in the field.

  Exiting his car with just a “Bye, thanks” and a wave of my hand, I hurried into the library to find Sunny already preparing the building for opening.

  “I thought you were coming in late today,” I said as I dropped my briefcase behind the circulation desk.

  “That was the plan, but my dental appointment got rescheduled, so here I am.” Sunny slid a lilac hair tie off her wrist and swept back her silky blonde hair with both hands. “But I would like to take a longer lunch, if that’s okay. I have an errand to run and can’t do it after work, since I assume we’re still staying late today to price more stuff for the sale. Isn’t that the plan?” She whipped the tie around her hair to create a simple but elegant ponytail.

  “Yeah, if that still works for you. And the longer lunch is fine.” I fiddled with the mouse, making sure the circulation desk computer was set to the checkout screen.

  “That’s going to make it a long day for you.” Sunny lifted a stack of books from the bin she’d rolled in from our exterior book drop and placed them on the counter. “I can check these in if you need to go over the monthly stats. I know you have to compile the report for the next town council meeting.”

  “Ugh, why did you remind me?” If there was one thing I truly disliked about my job, it was the endless number crunching required by the mayor and the town council. They were obsessed with proving whether the library was a good investment or not, based on nothing more than patron visits, checkouts, and other statistics. What they never saw was the intrinsic value of a place where anyone, rich or poor, could find a wealth of entertainment and information for free.

  But it w
as part of my job, and there was no one else to do it. I headed into the workroom and took a seat at the corner desk that functioned as my office, resisting the urge to check my cell phone for any texts from Richard before I began compiling statistics from our integrated library system.

  But I couldn’t resist the lure of research. I hesitated for only a moment before pulling up the file containing the paintings that had been discovered in the LeBlanc barn. Statistics could wait.

  As I examined the photographs one more time, the question that had been lurking in the corner of my mind consolidated into a coherent thought. Most of the paintings resembled the work of artists from the Impressionist period or later, but there were one or two that looked as if they could have been painted during the Renaissance. Studying one of these more closely, I realized what had bothered me. It resembled the work of Michelangelo Caravaggio, yet it seemed too small to be the work of that artist given the subject matter, which was the Nativity. I’d written a paper on Caravaggio in college and recalled that most of his paintings—especially those that dealt with biblical scenes—were quite large. I expanded the size of the photograph and noticed that this work appeared unfinished and included only a few figures—Mary, Joseph, and the Christ Child. But there was something about a lost Caravaggio …

  I opened a new tab on my computer and pulled up the Art Loss Register. Searching specifically for Caravaggio, I discovered the painting that I’d vaguely remembered—the Nativity With San Lorenzo and San Francesco, which had been stolen from the Oratorio di San Lorenzo in Palermo, Sicily, in 1969 and hadn’t been seen since. But that painting had featured additional figures and it had been six feet by nine feet, considerably larger than the canvas discovered at the LeBlancs’.

  Yet the figures and style of the painting recovered at the barn matched the lost Caravaggio. So either this was a study for the final painting, unknown to art historians, or it was a forgery of such a study.

  Very clever, I thought, sitting back in my chair. If this was a forgery, reproducing something like a study—which could easily be hypothesized to exist, given common practices of artists—rather than trying to recreate a well-known painting was a smart move. Even if the Nativity was lost, producing a large and famous stolen work might raise too many eyebrows among those in the know in the art world. Whereas a study sold on the black market …