Shelved Under Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Our progress was slowed by Aunt Lydia’s difficulty in navigating the steep wooden staircase that led from the back of the building to the loft. As we climbed the creaking steps, I racked my brain to think of any way out of our dilemma.

  Trey was a big man and, as Sunny had observed, well-muscled. I could never physically overpower him, even if he didn’t have a gun. But based on his rash decision to kidnap two people who definitely would be missed, he obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. Perhaps I could still reason with him. While it was true that he’d probably murdered Rachel LeBlanc in a fit of anger, surely he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer …

  Caden Kroft. Had Trey murdered him as well? Given the town rumor mill, he would’ve known about the young musician’s claim to have seen someone else in the woods the day Rachel was killed. I grabbed the wooden rail so hard a splinter slid into my thumb. My subsequent exclamation made Trey release his hold on Aunt Lydia and spin around at the top of the stairs, pointing the gun at my forehead.

  I held up my hands, palms out. “Sorry. Splinter.”

  “Just get up here,” he said, stepping back so I could stumble past him to join my aunt.

  The give of the weathered boards under my sneakers wasn’t the only thing that made me clutch Aunt Lydia’s arm. The opening in the far wall yawned before us. There was no barrier between that precipice and the edge of the sagging floor. We could gaze out and look into the crowns of many of the trees, a view that reinforced my terror. A fall from that height could be as deadly as any gunshot.

  And easier to explain away as an accident, I thought. Such a scenario might not make a lot of sense to those that knew us, but if Trey believed he was getting his hands on a genuine Van Gogh, he might foolishly think he could flee the country with the painting—or the proceeds from its sale—without anyone connecting our deaths to him.

  Except for Kurt Kendrick, of course. Trey would have to deal with him as well, and I doubted he had any idea how difficult that might prove to be.

  “Over to the edge,” Trey said, confirming my fear.

  Aunt Lydia and I walked slowly to the opening, arm in arm. Trey urged us forward until we stood with the tips of our shoes touching the edge.

  “Don’t look down,” I told Aunt Lydia as I stared out into the treetops.

  “I’ve been in barn lofts before,” my aunt replied. “Never fell out of one yet.”

  I had to keep Trey talking. Find a way to make him realize that killing us would only make it harder for him to escape.

  “I get it,” I said. “You need the genuine Van Gogh so you can get out from under some debts. Your mom should’ve recognized that and told you everything. She should’ve seen that it was the best way to help you.”

  Trey just muttered something that sounded like too late now.

  “No, it isn’t. Sure, you’re in a bad situation at the moment. But if you get your hands on the painting, you can leave. I bet Kurt Kendrick could even help you sell it. You know, on the down-low. Nobody ever needs to know how you got the money.”

  “And why would Mr. Kendrick do such a thing?” Trey asked coldly, although I thought—I hoped—I detected a spark of interest in his tone.

  “For a little cash on the side, of course.” Aunt Lydia, true to form, played along with my fabricated story. “I’m sure he’s not above a small commission, and if you can truly collect millions on the piece…”

  “He’d turn me over to the sheriff,” Trey said sullenly.

  A hawk swept from the top of a spruce to the bare limb of an oak tree. “I doubt it. His own business practices are not above reproach. I don’t think he’d want to have the sheriff’s office or anyone else digging too deeply into his background.” No sense in mentioning that several investigators, including Hugh Chen, were already looking into Kendrick’s affairs.

  “I’m in so deep.” Trey’s voice trailed into a whine.

  “Not really. I mean, you haven’t killed anyone yet,” I said lightly.

  Aunt Lydia side-eyed me, but I just squeezed her hand. To me, the better tactic was to give Trey an out rather than directly accusing him. After all, he wouldn’t necessarily assume that I’d done enough research, and creative thinking, to suspect him of the murders.

  But I’d underestimated the depth of his twisted pride.

  “You think so, do you?” He tapped both of us on the shoulder with the barrel of the gun as he crossed behind us. “Well, for your information, I was the one who stabbed Rachel LeBlanc and that worthless Kroft kid as well.”

  “You killed Caden?” Aunt Lydia’s voice trembled slightly, which wasn’t surprising. Trey was confessing to two murders. She’d probably realized, as I had, that spilling the beans meant he had no intention of allowing us to live.

  “I had to,” Trey said. “I mean, I didn’t plan it ahead of time. Just like with the LeBlanc woman, it wasn’t premeditated.” I grimaced at Trey’s tone, which was cavalier enough to suggest he thought that this somehow excused his actions. “I just wanted to talk to the kid. I’d heard the rumors about him seeing someone else at the LeBlanc place that day, and I had to be sure I was in the clear. So I set up a little secret meeting, pretending I was looking to buy some drugs.” Trey’s sardonic smile betrayed his amusement over this ploy. “I guess Caden was pretty desperate for some cash, and I did offer to pay double, so he fell for it. Of course, at first he had no reason to suspect I was anything but some rich guy looking to score some pills to take the edge off. But once we met up and he saw me standing there, in the woods, with the light shadowed by the trees and all, he put two and two together. I could see the awareness dawning in his eyes. He realized it was me he saw fleeing the barn that day.” Trey shrugged. “So I had to kill him too.”

  I gasped, which just made Trey’s cold smile broaden. “Yeah, you can look shocked if you want. Nobody would believe that of me, would they? Everyone thinks I’m just the guy who’s always had it all. A fine, upstanding scion of a distinguished family, raised in the lap of luxury. Ha!” He fondled the gun absently as he stared at us, his eyes wide and wild. “My parents were the stingiest pair of socialites who ever lived the high life in a diplomatic mansion. Oh, not when it came to themselves, of course. They’d splurge on their own desires whenever they wanted. But me—no, I had to be taught the value of a dollar. Had to learn to get by on my own. Make my own way.”

  “That must’ve been very frustrating,” Aunt Lydia said softly.

  “It was hell!” Trey slapped the gun against his palm. “There I was, stuck at all those expensive boarding schools with hardly a penny to spend. I couldn’t reciprocate any of the other boys’ generosity, so they labeled me unfriendly and mean and avoided me. But did my parents care? No. They just said if I wanted more money, I should get a job. Well, half the time I was living overseas and couldn’t legally work, so how was I supposed to do that? In the end I had to resort to running little scams and making deals with the boys who were willing to be less than honest. Oh yeah, I learned to be an entrepreneur all right. Had to.”

  “With the painting, you’ll have enough money to start over,” I said, hoping to keep him talking.

  “Yes, but I’ll have to disappear.” He shot me a twisted smile. “I do know I’ll need a new identity. I’ll have to leave everything behind. But at this point I don’t really care. What do I have left, anyway? My business empire is in shambles and my ex took everything else, including any illusions I ever had about love. So now there’s just my mom.” He barked out a bitter laugh. “Like that matters. She barely notices me now. She’s not likely to care if I fall off the face of the earth.”

  “I doubt that’s true,” Aunt Lydia said.

  I cast her a surprised glance. My aunt putting in a good word for Mel Riley? It was the end of the world.

  A cold wind whipped through the open loft. Maybe that last thought had been a little too on point. It could be the end of my world if help didn’t arrive soon. I shivered, and blinked away the t
ears welling in my eyes. The helplessness of my situation was draining me to the point where I contemplated sinking to the floor, despite what Trey might do to me. Only the sound of tires on gravel brought me back to my senses.

  “How about that, here comes your rescue,” Trey said, pointing his gun at the clearing.

  I had to look down then, and even though the drop to the ground made my head swim, I was happy to spy Kendrick’s black Jaguar pull up in front of Trey’s car.

  I wasn’t sure why Kendrick had parked nose-to-nose with the other car since that would seem to prevent his quick get-away, but perhaps it was so the driver’s side was hidden under the overhang of the partial roof covering the extended first floor.

  Well, if we fall, we hit that first. Which didn’t really comfort me. It was still a long way down, and we’d simply roll off and hit the ground eventually.

  But the overhang, and the position of his car, did allow Kendrick to remain hidden as he first stepped out of the Jag, which was a smart move on his part. He’d circled around to the other side of the car before Trey had a clear shot at him. Stepping back from the car, he held a large black portfolio in front of his chest like a shield.

  “Hello,” he called out. “I have your painting, Mr. Riley, so why don’t you allow the ladies to step back from that rather precarious edge?”

  “I want to see it first,” Trey yelled down at him.

  “Hardly practical.” Kendrick shifted the portfolio so he could reach into his jacket pocket. “Hold on, no need to aim that pistol at me. I’m just getting out my phone.”

  “To call the authorities? You do and I shoot one of them.” Trey cast us a wild-eyed glance. “Or shove one over the edge.”

  “No.” Kendrick’s voice took on a soothing cadence. “To show you it’s turned off. And I’ve brought no one with me, as you can see. So how about we discuss terms in a civilized manner?”

  As Trey peered down at Kendrick’s darkened phone, I noticed a slight movement off to the side of the Jag. A figure in dark clothing slipped out of the back seat of the car and disappeared around the side of the sawmill. I shot a quick glance at Trey, but it seemed he was so focused on Kendrick and the portfolio, he’d missed this hidden passenger.

  Richard. I clamped my lips to prevent the exclamation rising in my throat from escaping my mouth. So Kendrick had called someone. Not the authorities, but his former foster father’s great-nephew. Or perhaps Richard had called him when he discovered the door to Aunt Lydia’s house unlocked while our car sat in the driveway and my aunt and I were nowhere to be seen.

  I squeezed Aunt Lydia’s hand again, and she glanced at me with a question in her eyes. Noticing Trey’s gaze was still fixed on Kendrick, I mouthed, Richard, heading up the stairs.

  She blinked but made no move to look over her shoulder.

  “May I climb up there, then?” Kendrick asked. “I can bring the portfolio and you can hold your weapon on me while I show you the painting. I think you know I’ll play square. You have the ladies as hostages, after all.”

  “Damn straight. All right, come up.” Trey turned to us. “You two—back to the center of the room. But don’t make any sudden moves. I can still shoot one or both of you in a heartbeat, or even Mr. Kendrick before he reaches the top of the stairs.”

  I nodded and kept my grip on Aunt Lydia’s hand as we backed away from the edge. Turning to face the stairs, I caught a glimpse of Richard slipping behind one of the rough timber pillars holding up the roof. I shot a quick glance at Trey, but he had crossed to the head of the stairs and was peering down, obviously awaiting Kendrick and the portfolio.

  Kendrick huffed loudly as he reached the top of the stairs. “Just a minute, I need to catch my breath,” he said, the portfolio dangling from his loose grip as he pressed a hand to his side. “Not as young as I used to be.”

  It was a good performance, but I knew this was a bluff. Despite his age, Kurt Kendrick could probably run rings around any of us.

  “Slide that over here,” Trey said, backing away to allow Kendrick to cross to the center of the loft.

  “Just a minute. Those stairs…” Kendrick bent over, his fingers still clutching the portfolio handle.

  Trey approached him, waving the gun. “Give that to me and back off.”

  He stared at the portfolio, his gaze so laser-focused that he didn’t notice the figure slipping from the shadows. I shoved my fist to my mouth as Aunt Lydia released my other hand and widened her stance as if preparing for what might come.

  Trained to be light on his feet, Richard moved soundlessly toward Trey, while Kendrick straightened and flung up his arm, swinging the portfolio in an arc that should have caught Trey under the chin.

  Should have, but didn’t. At that moment a cluster of barn swallows dove from the rafters in a flurry of feathers. The whoosh of their wings sent Trey spinning on his heel, just in time to miss Kendrick’s aim.

  And spy Richard, standing exposed and defenseless a few feet away.

  “Richard!” I screamed, diving toward Trey. But I just hit the floor with a thud that echoed the sharp crack of Trey’s pistol.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ignoring the burn arising from scraped skin, I pressed my palms against the rough floorboards and lifted my head.

  Across the loft, Richard was slumped back against one of the pillars. Kendrick knelt beside him, the portfolio cast off to the side.

  Richard … I bit the inside of my cheek to prevent a scream. As he stirred and his eyelids fluttered, a wave of relief swept over me, leaving me limp with gratitude.

  In that moment I knew my love for him was greater than any fear I’d ever felt. All I wanted to do was hold him and tell him that I’d stay with him forever.

  But Trey and his gun stood in the way. “Is he all right?” I asked, rolling over so that I could sit up. Pain blazed through my right wrist, which had been injured during Cousin Sylvia’s murderous assault in the summer. I flexed my fingers, relieved that it hadn’t broken again.

  Richard clutched his upper left arm with his right hand. A sheen of sweat covered his face and blood oozed around his fingers, darkening the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

  I scooted closer until Trey swung the gun in my direction. “Stay,” he said. As if I were a dog.

  “I just want to know how he is, you bastard,” I spat out.

  Trey’s hand shook, his finger twitching on the trigger.

  “Just grazed his arm,” Kendrick called out, drawing Trey’s attention off of me. “Need to stop the bleeding though.” The art dealer looked up, focusing his steely gaze on Trey. “Allow me to help him, or I’ll set fire to your precious painting.” He reached back and grabbed the handle of the portfolio and pulled it closer.

  Trey made a dismissive noise. “With what? Your hot air?”

  “No, with the lighter I have tucked in my pocket.” Kendrick patted the left breast of his jacket. “I don’t smoke, but many of my clients do, so I always carry a lighter. As a courtesy.”

  Trey gnawed at his lower lip. “All right. Help him if you want. But kick that portfolio over here.”

  Kendrick helped Richard slide off his dark sweatshirt. “I don’t think so.”

  “You want me to shoot him again? Or you?”

  “I doubt you will. That was a wild shot, wasn’t it? It seems you aren’t much of a marksman.” Kendrick calmly wadded up the sweatshirt and pressed it against Richard’s bare arm, which was slick with blood.

  As I rose unsteadily to my feet, Aunt Lydia moved close enough to clutch my arm. “Let me go to him,” I said.

  Trey waved the gun at us. “No. I told you before—you stay where you are. Unless you want another bullet in your precious boyfriend.”

  Aunt Lydia and I froze in place.

  “Not in him, fortunately,” Kendrick said. “Ripped up the skin but didn’t penetrate, thank God.” He placed Richard’s right hand over the material pressed against his arm. “Can you hold this tight?”

  Richard gritted
his teeth but nodded. “Yeah, think so.”

  “Good. Now”—Kendrick stood up and faced off with Trey—“let’s discuss a little trade, shall we?”

  “You forget I’m the one in control here,” Trey said.

  “Are you now?” Kendrick slipped a gold lighter from his jacket pocket and casually popped it open.

  “I know about you, Mr. Wheeler-Dealer. You have a reputation as someone who truly loves art. You wouldn’t torch a masterpiece.”

  Kendrick shrugged and flicked the lighter, igniting the flame. “Maybe. Maybe not. Do you want to take that chance?”

  Aunt Lydia leaned into me as we stared at the two men, who were equally matched in size but not in demeanor. Trey, all twitching limbs, had the gun, although he obviously didn’t know how to use it properly. Kurt Kendrick had the lighter, a calm countenance, and a portfolio containing something that Trey thought was worth millions.

  Of course, there was no Van Gogh stuffed in that portfolio, and the moment Trey peered inside he would know the truth. Which was why Kendrick was stalling. I studied the white-haired older man’s stoic expression. What was his end game? Keeping Trey off-balance long enough to attempt another attack?

  My gaze slid over to Richard. I love you, I mouthed at him, and was rewarded with the faintest hint of a smile.

  Footfalls rattled the steps. Trey gripped his pistol with both hands and spun around to face the top of the stairwell.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted, casting a sharp glance at Kendrick. “I said no cops.”

  “It isn’t the authorities. It’s your mother.” The blue-hearted flame danced as Kendrick held the lighter higher. “So put down your gun.”

  “My mom? You called her?”

  “I thought she might be able to talk some sense into you.”

  Trey let fly a string of swear words that would’ve done credit to a drunken sailor. He lowered the gun but didn’t loosen his grip on the weapon.