“Move under that streetlight where I can see you.” She gave the shovel a shake. “And put your hands in the air.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cool as a cucumber, the stranger did as he was told. Grace estimated that he was between thirty-five and forty, with dark hair, eyes that watched her with undisguised amusement, and a little lopsided smile that, at any other time, would have made her want to smile back. Not this time.

“Maybe you should put your weapon down before it misfires – ”

“And maybe you should stop cracking jokes and take this situation a little more seriously.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you aware that breaking and entering is a crime?” Resting the shovel on her shoulders and holding it with one hand, she used the other to take her mobile phone out of her bag.

“I wasn’t breaking and entering.”

“You did last night. I have the bump to prove it.”

“I’m sorry about the bump. And the concussion, but the man who inflicted those injuries wasn’t me.”

Her finger above the nine key, she stopped. “How do you know about the concussion?”

“My father told me.” When she frowned, he added, “I’m Matt Baxter.”

The phone almost dropped out of her hand. Matt Baxter. The FBI agent.

Also available from Christiane Heggan

NOW YOU DIE

THE SEARCH

SCENT OF A KILLER

DEADLY INTENT

DECEPTION

CHRISTIANE HEGGAN

WHERE TRUTH LIES

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Gerd and Maria, for their warm

and wonderful hospitality.

To Anne and Jerry for persuading us

to accompany them to Austria.

And to Bob, who turns every vacation

into an unforgettable adventure.

Prologue

Point Pleasant, Pennsylvania June 13, 1986

“What do you mean, she’s dead?”

The two men stood under the moonless night sky. They were in their early twenties, solidly built, with the speaker only an inch or so shorter than his friend. Both had been celebrating, and while they had drunk more than their share, they were sobering up fast.

“I don’t know what happened.” The other man’s voice shook as he ran his hand through his hair. “One minute she was fine and the next she stopped breathing.”

“Don’t give me that crap! You were having sex with her, for God’s sake! You have to know what happened.” He kept stealing quick, frightened glances toward the car, but made no move to approach it. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing! I slapped her a little when she started hitting me, not hard, just enough to shut her up, and…” He took a shallow breath. “She hit the back of her head on the door.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her, I swear.”

“Maybe she’s not dead.” Finally gathering the courage to take some kind of action, the shorter man walked toward the old Chevy Impala parked off the road, and peered inside. At the sight of the lifeless body sprawled on the backseat, one arm dangling, he swallowed. Fighting off a wave of nausea, he opened the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if she’s dead.” He leaned over the body and pressed two fingers to the girl’s throat, waiting to feel a pulse.

“Well?”

“She’s dead. And we’re in deep shit.” He sat on the ground and took his head between his hands. “I told you this was a bad idea, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Hey, I didn’t hear you complain once we got underway, did I? You were just as anxious to screw her as I was, standing there, waiting your turn.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s the truth. You’re in this just as deep as I am.”

“You’re the one who killed her.”

“And you’re the one who forced her into the car.”

“I’m going to be sick.” He wrapped his arms around his midriff, and started rocking back and forth. “What are we going to do?” he moaned.

“First things first.”

“Meaning what?”

“We have to get rid of the body.”

The man on the ground looked around him. “Where?”

“The river?”

“Are you crazy? That’s the first place the cops will look. And once they find the body, there will be evidence, you can be sure of that.”

“Then you think of something, Einstein.”

There was a short silence before the man on the ground stood up. “She was hitchhiking, which means that anybody could have picked her up, right?”

“Right.”

“And everyone in town knows that she has a history of running away, once when she was fifteen, and another time when she was seventeen. She ended up in Tennessee that time, and stayed there for a whole week before she called her folks to say she was all right.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Nobody’s going to be surprised to hear that she did it again. If you remember, Chief Baxter was pretty pissed off the last time. His entire police department and more than a hundred volunteers combed the countryside for days, looking for her.”

“So?”

“So they’re not going to bust their asses looking for her now. Sure, they’ll go through the motions, but after a few days, they’ll assume that she took off again, and this time she intends to stay away.”

His friend finally got it. “And all we have to do is bury her someplace where they won’t find her.”

“That part isn’t so easy.”

“Yes, it is. I know a place.”

One

Boston, Massachusetts October 9, 2006

“Oooh, and don’t forget this baby.” Angie Viero took the black dress out of Grace’s bedroom closet and held it at arm’s length. “No vacation is complete without a sexy little number like this one.” She was a short, compact woman of thirty-five with a lovely, expressive face and thick, curly black hair everyone loved except Angie.

Grace McKenzie snapped the dress from her friend’s hand and hung it back on the rack. “I’m going to Napa Valley to visit my father, not to audition for an X-rated movie.”

“How will you ever find a man if you don’t advertise?” Angie lamented. “You’ve got a great body, girl. Show it off.”

Grace took two pairs of blue jeans, both faded and soft as silk, and tossed them on the bed. “I swore off men, remember?”

“It’s been two whole months since you broke up with what’s his name.”

“Preston.”

Angie made a face. “The name alone should have been a red flag. Anyway, just because Preston was a world-class jerk doesn’t mean that all men are created equal. Look at me. I found Mr. Right. So will you.”

“I’m not interested in finding Mr. Right.”

“Girlfriend, you’re about to change your mind.”

Grace let out a groan as Angie took a photograph out of her pants pocket and dangled it in front of Grace’s nose. “What do you think of that? Is he a dreamboat or what?”

Grace glanced at the photograph of a good-looking man in tight shorts and a T-shirt that emphasized his impressive torso. “Where did you find that one?”

“On the Internet. There are dozens—hundreds—of dating services out there, did you know that? No, of course you don’t. You don’t want to make the effort, Grace. That’s your problem.”

“My problem is that when it comes to choosing men, I suck. And I’m not talking just about Preston. There have been other fiascos. It’s enough to make me want to become a nun.”

“No need to do anything so drastic, not when you have me to act as your screener. What do you say? From now on, no more losers for Grace McKenzie.”

“What do you think of this silk blouse? To wear with the jeans?” Grace held the garment against her chest.

“Good men don’t fall out of trees, you know.”

“Or maybe the white pants? No. Too New England.”

Angie held the hunk’s photograph in front of Grace’s nose. “His name is Chuck. Now that’s a man’s name. He’s a marathon runner, likes to kayak, and plans to climb Mount Everest. Oh, and he cooks. You need a man who cooks, Grace.”

“I noticed that you left out his IQ. Wasn’t that listed in his résumé?”

“He graduated from college. Isn’t that enough?” She wiggled the picture. “Tempting, isn’t he? Come on, would you take another look?”

Grace put the white pants back and opted for a navy jogging suit instead. “No, I won’t. Your brand-new career as my official matchmaker has just ended.”

“You didn’t give me a chance!”

“That’s because finding myself a man is not what I want. End of discussion. And before you tell me that the clock is ticking, I’ll remind you that I’m only thirty-four.”

“And the world is full of twenty-year-olds.”

Grace laughed and tweaked her friend’s cheek. “Stop worrying about my love life.”

“Someone has to.”

Although some people might have found Angie’s concern for her friend’s love life intrusive, Grace didn’t. Born and raised in the United States, Angie came from a family with strong, if somewhat outdated, Italian values and traditions. In the Viero household, family came first, and career second—at least for the women.

Angie and Grace had met four years ago when Grace had become the new curator at the Griff Museum of Modern Art where Angie worked as an archivist. Sharing a passion for art, cannolis and old movies, they had become instant friends.

Grace’s foray through her closet was interrupted by the sound of the buzzer. She walked over to the bedroom intercom and pressed a button. “Yes, Sam?”

The lobby attendant answered right away. “You have a visitor, Miss McKenzie. A Mrs. Sarah Hatfield?”

Grace heard Angie gasp and had a difficult time containing her own shock. Ten years ago, Sarah Hatfield had been a breath away from becoming her mother-in-law.

“What could the mighty Sarah possibly want with you after all these years?” Angie whispered.

“I have no idea. I wasn’t aware that she knew where I lived.”

Angie made a spooky face. “Sarah knows all. Me? I’m outta here.”

“You’re not going to leave me alone with her.”

“Sorry, kiddo. You’re on your own. I can’t stand the woman.”

“You’ve never met her!”

“Her reputation precedes her.” She gave Grace a peck on the cheek, whispered a quick, “stay cool,” and was gone.

“Miss McKenzie?” Sam sounded concerned. “Should I send her up?”

Peeking from behind the silk screen that separated the bedroom from the rest of the apartment, Grace threw a quick look at the living area. Two empty mugs sat on the glass coffee table beside a half-eaten bagel, several pages of The Boston Globe were scattered on the floor and yesterday’s unread mail was still on the sofa where she had tossed it last night. The place was a mess. When was the last time she had dusted?

“Miss McKenzie, should I tell her this is a bad time?”

Yes, Sam, you do that. In fact, tell her that I moved and didn’t leave a forwarding address. Tell her that I’ve died. She took a deep breath. “It’s all right, Sam. You can send her up.”

She released the intercom button and ran back to the living room, grabbing items at random and throwing them behind the silk screen. Sarah hated clutter. It was one of the things, among many, that she had despised about her future daughter-in-law—the clutter. Grace, on the other hand, couldn’t live without it. “It’s an artistic thing,” she had told Sarah. The older woman’s reply had been a haughty lift of her right eyebrow, an expression that had once sent chills down Grace’s spine.

The front doorbell rang, cutting short her anxieties.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she walked over to the door and opened it. The years had been kind to Steven’s mother. Although she must now be close to seventy and was completely gray, the short stylish haircut made her look years younger. Her hazel eyes were still as sharp as ever, although Grace detected something else in them, something she couldn’t quite identify.

“Hello, Grace.” Sarah inspected her from head to toe, taking in the slender figure, the short, tousled blond hair, the Number 12 football jersey with the name Tom Brady on the front, and the blue jeans, ripped at the knees.

Grace gave an awkward nod. Even now that she no longer had to please her, being in the same room with this bastion of Philadelphia society still made her uncomfortable. “Sarah.” She cleared her throat. “This is quite a surprise.”

“I’m sure.” Then, because Grace still hadn’t invited her in, she added, “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“Sort of, but it’s all right. Come on in, and don’t mind the mess.”

Once inside, the inspection continued, moving from the chintz sofa and matching chairs to the authentic Tiffany lamp and the bright throw rugs scattered over the hardwood floor. Her gaze stopped on the stale bagel. “Did I interrupt your lunch?”

“That was breakfast. Cold pizza is on the menu for lunch. If you care to stay.”

Sarah’s sense of humor was practically nonexistent, but a corner of her mouth curved a little, mimicking a smile. “I won’t stay long.”

Grace removed an art magazine from one of the chintz chairs and set it on the coffee table. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you.” Only then did she notice the suitcase Grace had taken down from the living room closet earlier. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Napa Valley, to visit my dad.”

“He lives in California now?”

“He finally gave in to a lifelong dream of becoming a winemaker. He moved out west a few years ago.”

“Please tell him I wish him well.”

“I will.” Why all this civility? Grace wondered. And why hadn’t Steven warned her that his mother was planning on paying her a visit? Unless he didn’t know. Sarah loved catching people off guard.

“Grace.” Sarah removed her black leather gloves, one finger at a time. “I need your help in a little matter.”

That was another surprise. Sarah had a slew of people who took care of her “little matters”—attorneys, close friends, servants. And even if she didn’t, Grace would be the last person she’d come to. From the moment Steven had brought her to meet his mother, Sarah had made it clear that she didn’t approve of his choice for a wife. Grace was a working girl, a commoner, and as such, she would never understand what it took to be a Hatfield, to stand by her man, to keep a perfect home, to give lavish parties and to sit on the board of half a dozen organizations.

But it wasn’t until Steven had announced that he wanted to become an artist and not a politician like his father and grandfather before him, that Sarah’s wrath had come to full bloom. Angry at her son’s decision to break a century-old family tradition, she had cut off all financial support and told him not to bother sending her a wedding invitation.

Grace would never know whether or not the wedding would have taken place. Just as she was beginning to have serious doubts about marrying into a family that would probably never accept her, she had learned of Steven’s affair with a young artist. Almost relieved, Grace had broken the engagement, and never saw Sarah again. Until today.

“Does this little matter have anything to do with art?” Grace asked, wondering why Sarah was taking such a long time to come to the point. “Because if it does, I’m sure Steven could help you better than—”

“No, he can’t.” For the first time, Sarah’s gaze faltered. “Steven is dead.”

Two

For a moment, Grace was incapable of a reaction. Dropping onto the couch, she just sat there, numbed by the news. When she found her voice again, it was barely audible. “Dead? Steven? How?”

“He was murdered. Shot at point-blank range in his gallery.”

Grace’s head was spinning. Murdered. Shot. Those weren’t words she could easily associate with Steven, who had always been a peaceful, happy-go-lucky kind of guy. What could he possibly have done to arouse such wrath?

The answer came to her in the next second. “Was a woman involved?” she asked.

“A married woman,” Sarah replied. “Her name is Denise Baxter. Apparently, her husband found out about the affair, went to look for Steven and shot him in the heart.”

Grace covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, God, Sarah, how awful. How truly awful. I’m so sorry.”

“I warned him that someday his antics would bring him more trouble than he’d be able to handle. He didn’t listen. He never listened.”

“When did this happen?”

“A week ago.”

Grace’s back went rigid. “And you didn’t let me know?”

“Why would I? You and Steven broke up more than ten years ago.”

“But we remained friends, and we kept in touch. In fact, I talked to him less than a month ago.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” Sarah said stiffly.

“Why are you telling me now?”

“Because of the will.”

The surprises just kept on coming. “I’m mentioned in Steven’s will?”

“He left you the gallery.”

This time Grace fell back against the cushions, too stunned to say anything.

Sarah reached into her black alligator bag, extracted a sheaf of paper, folded in three, and handed it to her. “This is a copy of the will. You may want to look at page four.”

Grace took the will from Sarah’s hand, flipped to the fourth page and read. It was just as Sarah had said, written in legalese but quite clear. Steven had left her the Hatfield Gallery in New Hope, Pennsylvania. After she read the paragraph again, she shook her head. “I can’t accept it.”

“He thought you’d say that. Please read on.”

Grace read the next paragraph. “In the event that Grace McKenzie turns down my bequest, I ask that she spend one week at the gallery before making her final decision. If, after that time, her position remains unchanged, the gallery shall go to my mother, Sarah Hatfield.”

“Have you seen the gallery?” Sarah asked as Grace slowly refolded the document.

“No. Steven had invited me to the grand opening, but the museum was preparing for an important exhibition at the time and I couldn’t get away.” Actually, she hadn’t wanted to run into Sarah. “I had made plans to drive down the following year, but didn’t.”

“A pity. You would like it.”

“I’m sure of it. Steven was very proud of it.” She handed the will back, but Sarah made no move to take it. “I wish you had called,” Grace said. “I would have saved you a trip.”

“It’s clear that Steven thought very highly of you, as a person and as an art expert.”

She almost sounded sincere. “I have a job, Sarah. A job I love.”

“But isn’t the Griff closed for renovations until after Thanksgiving?”

She had done her homework. “My father is expecting me. I have airplane tickets. I’m practically packed.” Why was she giving so many explanations when a simple no was enough?

“From what I could see, in the couple of days that I was there,” Sarah continued, “New Hope is a peaceful, closely-knit community that thrives on art and tourism. Naturally, Steven’s murder has left the residents shaken. The only other incident that caused as much emotion happened more than twenty years ago, when a local girl disappeared and was never found.”

“Sarah—”

“Just one week, Grace, that’s all he’s asking. You said the two of you had remained friends. If that’s true, won’t you grant a friend his last wish?”

“Please don’t do that.”

But Sarah was relentless. “I’m sure your father would understand.”

Grace felt herself weakening. Damn that woman. She was right about one thing, though—Grace’s father would understand. And she would still have three whole weeks with him. “I might be able to arrange it.”

“Splendid,” Sarah said, her voice more confident now. “You have carte blanche to reopen the gallery for business and run it any way you wish. Some paintings are there permanently, others are on consignment. The majority are from local artists, and selling quite well, I must add.

“And in case you’re skittish, I hired a cleaning crew to scrub the place from top to bottom. You wouldn’t know a murder was committed.” She spoke fast and earnestly, sounding almost like a real estate agent anxious to make a sale. “The police impounded Steven’s Porsche before releasing it. I had a driver take it back to Philadelphia. They also took his cell phone and laptop. I understand that’s standard procedure in a murder case.”

It was much more than Grace wanted to know, but she didn’t interrupt her. People dealt with their grief differently, and if this was Sarah’s way to deal with hers, who was she to question it?

“The only item I brought back,” Sarah continued, “is his Rolex, because it’s quite valuable. I left his clothes in his cottage for the time being. I may give them to a local charity later. All pertinent paperwork—client contracts, show schedules, commercial invoices, etc.—can be found in the desk at the gallery. Oh, and you’ll need the code for the burglar alarm. I didn’t write it down, for safety reasons, but you shouldn’t have any difficulty remembering it.”

“I’m terrible with figures.”

“Not this one. The code is your birthday, month and year, and the password, should the alarm go off accidentally, is Madame Bovary. I don’t get it, but perhaps you will.”

She did. Madame Bovary was Grace’s favorite book. She had read it a number of times and had insisted that Steven read it, too. After much protest, he had agreed to give the book a try, and had hated it. “You realize that my decision won’t change. I won’t accept the inheritance.”

“I understand that.”

Grace looked at the will again. It was difficult to be mad at Steven for putting her in such a situation. He had always been an impulsive person, and often drove her crazy with his last-minute decisions. Nor could she be upset with Sarah for wanting to make sure that her son’s wishes were respected. She may have been angry with him, but her love had remained just as strong.

“Are you all right with Steven’s decision to leave me the gallery?” she asked. “I’m sure you weren’t expecting that.”

“I never doubted your talents as an art expert, Grace.”

That didn’t exactly answer her question, but Grace didn’t push it. “All right. I’ll go to New Hope, for one week. Not a minute more.”

“Those are the terms.” She reached into her handbag again. This time she retrieved a thick envelope. “In here you’ll find everything you’ll need—the address of the gallery, as well as Steven’s cottage, where you’ll be staying, the keys to both, a notarized letter from Steven’s attorney in Philadelphia, in case anyone questions your presence.”

“You think someone will?”

“I doubt it. While I was in New Hope, making arrangements to have Steven’s body sent home, I spoke with Josh Nader, the chief of police there. He was very accommodating. I told him about the will, although I did not mention the special stipulation should you turn the inheritance down. As far as he and everyone else in town is concerned, you are the new owner of Hatfield Gallery. Chief Nader said to call on him if you need anything.”

“Were you that sure that I would agree to go?”

Sarah didn’t answer the question, but pointed at the envelope in Grace’s hands. “I also included five thousand dollars to cover your expenses—”

“I won’t take it.” Before Sarah could protest, Grace opened the envelope, took out the money and handed it to the older woman, whose mouth opened in surprise.

“But why not? You will be incurring expenses.”

“Please put your money away before I change my mind.”

“Is your airplane ticket refundable?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Put your money away.”

Unaccustomed to taking orders, Sarah’s defiant gaze held hers for a while. When Grace didn’t flinch, Sarah let out a soft laugh. “I should have taken time to know you better, Grace. I might have liked you.”

Three

Innsbruck, Austria October 9

FBI Special Agent Matt Baxter stopped to catch his breath and turned to check on his two buddies, Austrian police officers Stefan Birsner and Ernst Verlag. Both were in superb shape, but at this altitude, the steep climb up the Hintertux glacier was a challenge for even the most experienced climbers.

The lift had dropped them off at the Gefrorene Wand Summit and they’d had to walk the rest of the way to the cabin, where, hopefully, the yearlong chase would end. Stefan raised his hand in acknowledgment, and Matt nodded before resuming his walk. They were lucky, first to have found someone who would operate the lift, and second, that at this early morning hour, the trails were empty. The last thing they needed, should the plan backfire, was an audience.

Matt looked up. The cabin wasn’t much farther. It looked desolate, surrounded by all that snow, and unoccupied, which concerned him. The last report he’d received from the Vienna office was that Basim Rashad, one of the most wanted terrorists in the world, had rented the cabin for the week.

Based on the information, Matt had enlisted the help of the Austrian police, and had mapped out their route. He had turned down an offer to use a police helicopter. The sound of a chopper would alert Rashad, and who knew what that maniac was capable of if he found himself cornered? Matt had no intention of returning to Vienna with the ashes of another martyr who had died for his cause. His mission was to bring the Iranian back alive so he could face trial for masterminding a deadly bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Indonesia.

Matt stopped and surveyed the cabin, hoping that Rashad was still in bed and not watching the mountain through his window. But why would he? So far, his plans had gone off without a hitch. After playing cat and mouse with the FBI for the last year, Rashad had vanished into thin air somewhere between Bangkok and Rangoon.

Alerted that the terrorist might have sneaked into Austria—more precisely, the Mayrhofen Resort in the Ziller Valley—Matt had immediately reserved a room at the luxurious Innertalerhof Hotel in nearby Gerlos, where he had waited to hear from the Vienna office.

That was a week ago. Rashad had to be feeling pretty invincible by now.

Matt took a pair of binoculars from his backpack and focused on the cabin. It remained dark, with no sign of life, not even a trail of smoke coming from the chimney.

Either Rashad was fond of subzero temperatures, or someone had tipped him off and he was long gone.

He heard a low whistle and turned around. Stefan was pointing at the side door where a pair of skis was propped against a utility fence.

Relieved, Matt gestured for the two men to cover the back of the house. He would take the front.

He hadn’t taken the first step when all hell broke loose.

The front door slammed open and a fully-dressed man, on skis, jumped out and started down the slope.

“Shit!”

Matt made a “let’s go” gesture and took off after him.

The “Tux” as the locals called it, was a skier’s dream. Due to the height and freezing temperatures of the glacier, the Tux was open for skiing all year round and had guaranteed powder as early as October. Matt had skied the glacier’s many trails often, always for pleasure, but at this moment, his mind was only on two things—catching the bastard and staying alive.

As the slope got steeper, an almost-vertical drop from the top, Matt realized that Rashad, a risk-taker, was as skilled on skis as he was behind the wheel of an all-terrain vehicle or a twin-engine plane. Catching him wouldn’t be easy.

Matt now had a pretty good idea of where the Iranian was going—the car park eleven kilometers down. Always prepared, Rashad had probably left a car in the parking lot in order to facilitate his escape, should that become necessary.

“Sorry, Rashad,” Matt muttered. “Not this time.”

As Rashad raced downhill, he glanced over his shoulder, grinned and raised his left pole in a salute.

“You little shit.” In response, Matt let off the brakes. Leaning forward, knees bent, his poles tucked under his arms, he tore down the mountain like a speed demon. Behind him, one of the Austrians yelled a warning. Matt ignored him.

He passed the fleeing man at high speed, waiting until he was well ahead before snapping into a smart stop.

Rashad tried to veer off to the right, but Ernst had already moved into position, while Stefan kept to the left. Trapped, Basim kept on skiing, coming straight at Matt.

What the hell was that fool doing?

Matt braced himself for a collision, then at the last possible moment, Rashad stopped, sending a plume of powder up in the air.

Matt was on him in an instant.

“You have great courage, Agent Baxter.” Rashad spoke with a thick middle-eastern accent. “I admire that in a man.”

“Save it, Basim,” Matt said, calling him by his first name as was the Arab custom. “It’s all over for you.”

“It doesn’t have to be. You let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You think I want your blood money, Basim?”

“Money is money. Just think of all it can buy you. Retirement, perhaps? Wouldn’t you like that? Or would you rather die from an assassin’s bullet? Because that’s what’s waiting for you, my friend. You put me away and you sign your death sentence.”

The threat didn’t faze Matt. He’d heard worse. “You’re the only one with a death sentence in his future, Basim.”

The two Austrians, young, tall and blond, moved forward. A pair of handcuffs dangled from Stefan’s hand as he approached the Iranian.

As Rashad was being cuffed, Matt called his superior at the Sacher Hotel in Vienna. “We got him,” he said, watching Basim shoot him a murderous look. “Is that chopper on the way? I’ve seen enough snow to last me for a lifetime.”

“It should arrive any moment,” Roger Fairfax replied. “And by the way, that was good work, Matt. I’ll buy you a beer when you get back in town.”

In the distance, the sound of a helicopter engine grew closer. “They’re here,” Matt said. “See you soon, Roger.”

The helicopter was just overhead now. As the pilot started to lower the cable that would lift Basim into the chopper, Matt’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” He covered his other ear with his hand to shield off the noise of the hovering aircraft. “Lucy? Is that you?”

“Yes. What’s that racket?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” she shouted back. “You need to come home right away, Matt.”

Matt felt his stomach tighten. “Why? What happened?”

“Dad’s been arrested for murder.”

Four

The clock on the dash of Grace’s Ford Taurus read 8:45 p.m. when she reached the outskirts of New Hope. Getting out of Boston had been a nightmare. After two wrong turns, a flat tire and a three-mile traffic jam on I-95, she had finally spotted the sign for Route 29. Fifteen minutes later, she was crossing the bridge that connected Lambertville, New Jersey to New Hope, Pennsylvania.

She knew little about this quaint little town, except that it was situated in the heart of one of the most beautiful and historic areas of Pennsylvania—rural Bucks County. It was a peaceful, quiet town, although a quick check through the archives of a local paper had confirmed what Sarah had told her. Twenty years ago, a nineteen-year old girl named Felicia Newman had disappeared, and although it was suspected that she had been murdered, her body was never recovered. Five days later, a mentally disturbed man, also a resident of New Hope, was arrested. Since then, there had been little crime in the town—until Steven’s murder.

Grace slowed down and glanced at the directions. “A right turn will take you to the cottage,” Sarah had said. “To go to the gallery, you keep straight on Bridge Street.”

After driving for more than nine hours, the thought of curling up in a warm bed, even a strange bed, was infinitely more appealing than an inspection tour of an art gallery. But she couldn’t help it. She was curious. She had to see if Steven’s pride and joy was as spectacular as he had claimed.

Bridge Street, she soon found out, was partly commercial and partly residential, which made finding a parking space at this time of night, when everyone was home, more difficult than she had expected. She found a slot in front of a shop called Red Hot Momma’s, a boutique of some sort that she would definitely have to check out in the morning.

After shutting off the engine, she got out of the car and made her way down the stone walk that led to the gallery. To her surprise, the door wasn’t locked, and no alarm went off when she opened it. Letting go of the knob, she ran her hand along the wall in search of a light switch.

Before she could find it, a dark form sprang out and slammed into her with a force that sent her crashing against the wall.

“Hey!” Instincts rather than wisdom took over. As the figure prepared to strike again, Grace let out a bloodcurdling scream, and, using a technique she had learned in self-defense class, she executed a perfect heel-kick to the groin area. From the Ahrr sound that came out of the intruder’s mouth, she knew she had hurt him.

Thank you, Frye boots.

“You bitch,” the man grunted.

He sounded as enraged as a wounded animal, and would have torn her to shreds if she had given him the chance. She didn’t. Instead, she raised her foot, ready to deliver a front kick to the knee, but this time, her opponent saw the blow coming. Staying just out of her reach, he gave her a vicious shove and ran out.

She hit the wall again and the back of her head exploded in pain. She felt herself slide down the wall, her eyelids fluttering, as she tried to catch a glimpse of her attacker.

Her vision started to blur. She struggled to remain conscious, but her mind kept playing tricks on her.Maybe she should scream again. The problem was, she couldn’t find the strength to open her mouth. Or keep her eyes focused, so she closed them, welcoming the darkness.

Grace wasn’t sure what she saw first—the pale green walls around her, or the handsome man in a white coat shining something in her eye.

“Miss McKenzie?” He smiled and tucked the penlight in his breast pocket. “Welcome back. I’m Doctor Fenley, and you are in the Solebury Memorial emergency room. How are you feeling?”

She touched the back of her head. Ouch. “Like I was hit with a cast-iron pan.”

He laughed. “Luckily you weren’t.”

It all came back to her then: the drive to New Hope, her stop at the Hatfield Gallery, her attempt to stop a robber. “How did I get here?”

“The paramedics brought you in a few minutes ago. Apparently, a young couple passing by heard screams coming from the art gallery and rushed to help. A man ran out just as they turned the corner, jumped into an SUV and sped away. They found you on the floor, unconscious, and called 9-1-1.”

“Am I all in one piece?”

“As far as I can see. You have a mild concussion and a bump on the back of your head that will remain tender for a couple of days. How’s your vision?”

“I don’t see two of you, if that’s what you mean.”

“Excellent. Any fuzziness?”

“No.”

He took a clipboard from the foot of the bed and wrote something in what she presumed was her chart. “We’ll keep you here overnight and I’ll stop by in the morning to see how you’re doing.”

She sat up, trying to look perky. “Is an overnight stay necessary? I feel fine.” No, you don’t. Stop showing off to the handsome doctor.

“Standard procedures, Miss McKenzie. Concussions can sometime take a bad turn.”

She lay back on her pillow, already sorry for trying to be a hero. “You’re the doctor.”

“That’s my girl. Now, do you feel up to having a couple of visitors?”

“Already? I just arrived in town.”

“This is not your standard welcome wagon. I’m talking about New Hope’s chief of police and his deputy. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”

And she had questions of her own. “All right.”

The doctor hooked the chart back on the bed railing. “I’ll send them right in, but they shouldn’t stay more than a few minutes. If you get tired, you just tell them.”

He walked out and she heard him talk to someone, then the curtain parted again, and two men walked in. The first one had a definite look of authority. His step was confident, his dark blue uniform crisp, even at this late hour, and his gaze sharp. He was in his early-to-midforties with brown hair cut flat on top, an acne-scarred face and a square jaw. He reminded her of SpongeBob. The man next to him was younger with an easy smile and light blue eyes.

“Good evening, Miss McKenzie,” the older man said in a formal tone. “I’m Chief of Police Josh Nader, and this is Deputy Rob Montgomery.”

She was too tired, and too worried about the gallery to waste time on small talk. “Did you catch the robber?”

“Not yet. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could give me a description.”

“It was a man.”

The deputy took a small notebook from his pocket. “Is that all you can tell me?”

“It was too dark for me to see more than that.” She looked at the chief, trying to gauge his humor level. “He might be walking funny.”

His interest perked up. “Did he have some sort of physical impairment?”

“You could say that. I kicked him in the balls.”

The deputy let out a hearty laugh that the chief silenced with one glacial look. Okay, humor level, zero.

“Fighting with an intruder is never a good idea, Miss McKenzie.”

“It is if you know what you’re doing.”

“You could have been hurt.”

Being careful not to move her head, she sat up. “How did he disconnect the alarm?”

The chief held up a small plastic bag. Inside was a thin strip of metal. “With this.”

“What is it?”

“A tool that he placed over the magnetic sensor so the door could be opened without triggering the alarm. We found it still taped to the doorjamb. Thanks to the young couple who ran to your rescue, he had no time to remove it. Hopefully, we’ll find some fingerprints.”

“I had no idea that it could be so easy to get past a burglar alarm.”

“This one wasn’t particularly sophisticated. One or two motion detectors would have helped. Unfortunately, there weren’t any. You’d be amazed how many business owners have antiquated security systems these days.”

“Was anything taken?”

“At first glance, it doesn’t appear so. The showroom is undisturbed. Only the back room, or part of it, was searched. Several paintings were tossed on the floor, but there’s no way of telling if anything is missing.”

“The man I ran into was empty-handed,” she said, starting to feel sleepy. “Unless he loaded his car before I arrived.”

“He may not have had time to take anything. At any rate, we’ll start a full investigation and keep you informed.”

Wow. Sarah must have made one hell of an impression on him. “When will I be able to reopen the gallery?”

“Our crime scene team is there now. They should be done in an hour or so. But before you reopen, I’d like you to stop by my office in the morning and give us a statement. My deputy will be glad to pick you up and bring you to the police department.”

“I appreciate that. Will my car be all right where it is?”

“Is that the black Taurus with the Massachusetts plates?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be fine. In spite of what you’ve just experienced, New Hope is really a peaceful, law-abiding town.”

Tell that to Steven, Grace thought as she closed her eyes.

* * *

Following another thorough examination, Grace was released from the hospital the next morning, and escorted to the police station by Deputy Rob Montgomery, who had arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. Once there, she had given the chief the same statement she had given the night before, signed it and had accepted the deputy’s offer to walk her to the gallery, which was only a few blocks away.

She felt well rested, and except for the tenderness in the back of her skull, there were no symptoms from last night’s attack.

Standing alone in the gallery’s showroom, Grace took her first good look around. The crime scene team had left the place a mess. White dust was everywhere, furniture had been overturned, and a large, L-shaped desk was in complete disarray.

Grace picked up a chair that had been knocked down and put it back in an upright position as she let her gaze sweep from one end of the room to the other. Steven had made the most of the fifty-by-thirty-foot space by hanging paintings of various sizes close together. Larger works were propped up on easels placed throughout the room. She counted forty-five paintings ranging in price from fifteen hundred to fifteen thousand dollars. A small portion of the work displayed was devoted to western art and established artists. The rest of the inventory was comprised of colorful Bucks County landscapes signed by names she didn’t recognize.

She walked across the room to the desk where art catalogs, correspondence, newspapers and invoices were scattered across it. Behind the desk was an archway that led to the back room.

There, too, she found evidence of police work, as well as minor damage left by the alleged robber. Several paintings lay on the floor, facedown, as if somebody, presumably her aggressor, had gone through the stack, one by one, before letting each painting fall. Half a dozen were still standing, suggesting that he hadn’t had time to examine them.

Regardless of what the intruder had been looking for, one thing was certain. He had no respect for art.

Except for the white dust used to collect fingerprints, the rest of the room was intact. A Formica counter held a microwave and a Braun coffeemaker, as well as an assortment of frame samples and more art catalogs. A small cupboard housed containers of coffee, sugar and creamer.

A quick check of an upper shelf revealed, of all things, a tackle box, also dusted for fingerprints. To her recollection, Steven hadn’t been much of a fisherman. In fact, he had hated the sport.

Curious, she opened the box. It was filled with lures. Not just any lures, but some of the best available in today’s market. She should know. Her father was an avid fisherman and had introduced Grace to the sport at an early age.

She looked at the selection in front of her. There were squid manglers, glow-in-the-dark spoons, crank baits, litterbugs, walleyes and bomber flats. She even spotted a Wigg-Lure, which die-hard fishermen claimed was the most phenomenal fishing lure ever invented.

What in the world was Steven doing with state-of-the-art lures?

She put the Wigg-Lure back in its compartment and the tackle box back on the shelf. Steven’s new hobbies were none of her business. She had more pressing matters to tend to.

She walked over to the paintings and started to pick them up, one by one, inspecting them carefully as she went. Each painting had a Post-it stuck to it with the name of the artist, the title of the work and the price. Only the last painting sparked instant recognition. It was from Eduardo Arroyo, an early twentieth-century artist who had produced more than a hundred paintings in his lifetime. This particular canvas, about twenty-eight by twenty-three inches, was the sixth and last of his Santa Fe series. Showing a typical day in the town square, with merchants displaying their ware on colorful blankets, it was entitled Market Day.

What was the work of one of the country’s premiere American West artists doing in a back room, instead of being displayed along with the other western paintings in the showroom?

She looked at the Post-it, and blinked. Twenty-five thousand dollars? For a painting that was worth at least four times that?

Steven had been fond of western art, but not particularly knowledgeable, which might explain his underpricing. But what about the dealer, or the collector who owned the painting? Didn’t they know what they were selling? And what it was worth?

Fortunately, Sarah had given her carte blanche to do as she saw fit and that’s what she would do. She planned to start by taking all sixteen paintings to the front room, including the Arroyo, and check Steven’s paperwork for more information on the latter.

She was dusting a frame when someone behind her said, “So you’re Grace McKenzie.”

Five

A woman stood on the threshold of the gallery, leaning against the doorjamb. One hand was on her hip, while the other played with a long, blond curl. She was in her early thirties, no taller than five-three or four, with almond-shaped blue eyes and a small petulant mouth painted a bright red. She wore a celery-green denim jacket with embroidered lapels, snug jeans tucked into ankle boots, and chandelier earrings that shimmered in the October sunlight.

Her expression was curious as she inspected Grace from head to toe. “I’ll say this for Steven. He had good taste in women.” She gestured toward the door. “I knocked. Guess you didn’t hear me.”

“Guess I didn’t,” Grace replied, matching the woman’s casual tone.

The visitor moved aside as Grace walked back into the showroom. “I’m Denise Baxter, by the way.”

Baxter. That made her the wife of Fred Baxter, the man charged with Steven’s murder.

“I figured I’d come and tell you the dirt about me before you heard it from the townspeople. That way you’ll know the real scoop.”

Grace wiped her hands on a paper towel. “You don’t need to tell me anything, Mrs. Baxter—”

“Please, call me Denise. Everybody does.”

“All right, Denise. As I was saying, you don’t owe me any explanation. And if it makes you feel better, I was never big on gossip, idle or otherwise.”

The young woman studied her for a moment more, then bobbed her head. “Yup, you’re exactly like Steven described you—straight to the point.” Her gaze shifted to a spot on the floor, halfway between the desk and the front door. “It feels strange being here. It’s my first time since…” She stopped, as though she couldn’t say the words.

Grace followed her gaze. “Is that where they found Steven’s body?”

Denise nodded. “Nobody was allowed near the place while the yellow tape was on. All I saw, a couple of days later, was the chalk outline. Then the investigation was over and Mrs. Hatfield had the entire gallery scrubbed clean.” She returned her gaze to Grace. “She hated me on sight.”

Grace smiled. “Don’t take it personally. Sarah is very hard to please. Trust me on that.”

“Steven blamed her for the breakup between the two of you.”

How like Steven to put the blame on someone else. “Did he really?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He told me how he messed up, but he felt that if it hadn’t been for his mother being so hard on you, you would have forgiven him and stuck around.”

“In that case, he was deluding himself. I broke up with Steven because he cheated on me. Pure and simple. Call me old-fashioned, but trust and loyalty rank high on my list of priorities, especially between a man and a woman about to be married. As for Sarah, she had nothing to do with my decision. I had come to terms with her attitude toward me by simply ignoring it.”

Denise looked at her with undisguised admiration. “You have more guts than I have. One look at the woman and my knees turned to jelly.” She paused before adding, “I can see why Steven was so fond of you. You don’t take any crap from anyone.”

Grace smiled. “Is that what he told you?”

“No, that’s what I’ve been hearing all morning. The way you fought back that robber last night is the talk of the town. Where did you learn to kick like that?”

“In kickboxing class. When you live in the city and work until late at night, self-defense becomes a necessity.”

“Do you have to defend yourself often?”

“Actually, this was my first time. Hopefully my last.”

“Are you all right? Lorraine at the café says that you spent the night in the hospital.”

News traveled fast in a small town. “I’m fine. Just some bumps and bruises.”

Denise sat on the stool in front of the desk, making herself at home. “You seem like a good person.”

“You can tell that after only a few minutes?”

“I’m a good judge of character. How about you? Are you a good judge of character?”

“I like to think so.”

“Let’s put you to the test. What do you think of me?”

Grace laughed. The woman was relentless, and yet, there was something about her that was endearing. “I think you’re very pretty.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“All right.” Grace sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk and put her arms on the armrests. “I think you’re honest—a little insecure, perhaps, but that doesn’t seem to interfere with your candor. And in spite of what you say, I think you’re very gutsy. The fact that you’re here proves it.”

“Hmm.”

“Am I right?”

“Pretty much. You and I could be friends, you know. God knows I could use a friend. As you’ll soon find out, I’m not the most popular person in town these days.”

“Because of your affair with Steven?”

“That, but mostly because of Fred’s arrest. The people in New Hope worship him. He was so much more than their police chief. He was their friend, their champion, their advisor. They could talk to him about anything. Fred was always there, ready to help. I can’t even tell you how many marriages he saved, just by making each couple talk to each other. The residents revered him almost as much as they do Father Donnelly, who’s pretty much of a saint in these parts. And now, Fred’s in jail and it’s all my fault.”

“Guilt is a heavy burden to carry, Denise. And it doesn’t change anything. All it does is make you feel bad.”

“I wouldn’t feel half as bad if Fred was guilty, but he isn’t. He didn’t kill Steven!”

There was a conviction in her voice as she spoke those words that made Grace pay instant attention. “I don’t understand. From what I heard—”

“I know what you heard. None of it is true. My husband did not kill Steven Hatfield.”

“Wasn’t his gun found outside the gallery? With his fingerprints on it?”

“Pft.” Denise gave a disdainful toss of her blond curls. “Do you think for one second that anyone with an ounce of intelligence would drop the murder weapon as he fled? Which is what Chief Nader says happened.”

“It does sound a little…”

“Sloppy. And Fred is anything but sloppy. That’s what I told Josh. The man worked with Fred since the day he got out of the army. He knows him better than anyone.”

“But you said there was an investigation.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you can call that an investigation. The little Josh did, he did for show.”

“What do you think happened?”

Looking restless, Denise stood up and started walking around the gallery, stopping to look at a painting every now and then. “It all started at Pat’s Pub, where Fred likes to stop for a beer every evening, you know, just to shoot the bull with his friends. That evening, he walked in on a conversation that sent him into orbit. Cal and Lou Badger, two hopeless morons, were talking about me and Steven, apparently in vivid details.

“Fred would have killed them with his bare hands if Eddie—that’s the pub’s owner—hadn’t stopped him. Then he stormed out, and because he was in such a rage, everyone assumed he was on his way here, to the gallery.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Fred isn’t the type to make a scene in a place of business. He’s much too decent to do that. He went home to wait for me.”

“So you can vouch for him? You can give him an alibi?”

“No.” Denise’s shoulders slumped. “I was working on a new line. I make jewelry,” she explained. “And I didn’t leave my shop until about seven. When I got home, the police were there, handcuffing Fred.”

“If your husband didn’t do it, then who did?”

“Take your pick.”

That was a strange comment. Steven wasn’t the type to have enemies. “What do you mean by that?”

“Steven had his share of enemies in this town, starting with Buzz Brown.”

“Who is Buzz Brown?”

“He owns a large farm on Route 232. Six months ago his wife became very ill. Buzz tried to sell his property to a developer so he could move Alma to Arizona, but Steven, who was a member of the township planning board, strongly objected to the developer’s plan to build three hundred single-family homes on the site.

“When the township residents heard that the subdivision would destroy the character of the area, increase traffic and raise taxes, they started attending the planning board meetings and voiced their concerns. As a result, the application was denied and a few weeks later, Alma died. Buzz held Steven personally responsible for his wife’s death. They never spoke after that.”

“Six months is a long time, don’t you think?” Grace asked. “Assuming that Buzz Brown was mad enough to kill, why didn’t he do it right away?”

“Because if he had, he would have been the number one suspect.”

Obviously, Denise had given the case a lot of thought. “You said that Steven had his share of enemies? Who are the others?”

“The dean of the local college, John Amos.”

“The same college where Steven taught an art course twice a week?”

Denise nodded. “As you know only too well, Steven was a hopeless womanizer. One of the coeds reported him for sexual harassment. The dean wanted to fire Steven on the spot, but the faculty intervened in his favor and he was allowed to stay. The dean was furious.”

“Why was he allowed to stay?”

“Why do you think? Steven’s mother stepped in, made a generous donation to the college, and that was that. John Amos is lucky he didn’t get fired.”

The incident must have been humiliating for the dean, but hardly a reason for murder. “Who else?”

“I can’t name anyone specifically,” Denise said. “But the way Steven flirted with the women here in town…” She rolled her eyes again. “They all loved the attention, but the husbands and boyfriends, well, that was another matter.”

“Was he sleeping with any of the women?”

For the first time, Denise’s gaze faltered. “No.” She looked away. “He wasn’t.”

Grace gave her a long look. The question had made Denise uncomfortable.

Perhaps sensing Grace’s doubts, Denise turned around. “If you think that I killed Steven,” she said, “forget it. I can’t shoot to save my life. Ask Carmine, who runs the shooting range. He’ll tell you. Fred took me target shooting a few times, before he finally gave up. Besides, like I said, I was at the shop. A lot of people saw me there.”

Like art, people were never quite the way they seemed. There were layers to be peeled and angles to study. Denise’s seemingly forthright manner had taken a different turn. She was hiding something, perhaps to protect herself, perhaps to protect her husband.

“I’m sure a competent attorney will unravel the mystery,” Grace said.

Another pft. “Miles sucks. I wanted to hire someone with clout, a seasoned lawyer, experienced in criminal cases, but Fred won’t talk to me. I haven’t seen him since they took him in.” She sounded resigned, and a little defeated.

Grace couldn’t think of anything adequate to say except, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I can put up with that. All I want is for Fred to go free. And now for the first time in a little over a week there’s hope.” Her expression brightened. “Matt is on his way.”

“Matt?”

“Matt Baxter, Fred’s son. Lucy—that’s my stepdaughter—called him. Fred didn’t want to bother him. He kept saying that Josh would come to his senses soon enough. When it was obvious that he wouldn’t, Lucy called her brother. He should be arriving today.”

“Does he solve murders?”

“He’s an FBI agent,” she said as if that statement required no other explanation. “One of the best. He and Fred are a lot alike—tough, stubborn, short-tempered, but very smart. Good people.”

Grace smiled. “You sound as if you care for your husband very much.”

“I love my husband,” she said, meeting Grace’s eyes. “I know that sounds weird, considering what I did, but it’s the God’s truth.”

“May I ask a personal question?”

Denise shrugged. “You’ve earned it.”

“Knowing what you knew about Steven, and feeling as you do about your husband, why did you have an affair in the first place?”

“For the same reason every female in this town went a little dopey whenever Steven was around—his charm. He oozed it, as I’m sure you know. And he truly loved women. He loved being around them, complimenting them, remembering their birthdays, or some other special occasion. When he talked to a woman, he made her feel as if she was the only person in the room. And no matter how bad you looked, Steven Hatfield could make you feel like a beauty queen. I was no exception, even though I was happily married. But Fred was always busy, helping someone through a crisis. As a result, there wasn’t a lot of time for the two of us to do anything fun. When Steven started paying attention to me, it went to my head.”

“Even though you knew his reputation with the ladies?”

“I wasn’t thinking about that at the time.”

Once again, the comment seemed to make her uneasy, and this time, Grace chose not to push it. “How old is your stepdaughter?”

“Nineteen.”

“Her father’s arrest must have been hard on her.”

“Terrible, but she’s coping. Fortunately, she and I are very close. We comfort each other.”

Grace couldn’t hide her surprise. “She’s forgiven you?”

Denise gave a slow shake of her head. “No, and I’m not sure our relationship will ever be quite the same as it was, especially if her father is convicted, but right now, she realizes that we need each other.”

She waved her hand, causing the bangles around her wrist to jingle. “That’s enough of me. I want to hear all about you.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to work,” Grace said. “There’s an awful lot to do, much more than I expected. And I still have to go to the cottage to unpack.”

“Okay, I’ll get out of your hair, but how about lunch?”

“Actually, I was planning on skipping lunch.”

“You can’t work on an empty stomach. I’ll make us a couple of sandwiches and we can eat while I give you a tour of the town. Everyone is dying to meet you, or at least have a glimpse of you.”

“How do you know?”

“Lorraine told me. She owns the Everything Goes Café and is the only person in town, except for Father Donnelly, who still speaks to me.”

Oh, what the hell, Grace thought. She could work on Steven’s books after lunch. And Denise did look like she needed a friend, even if the friendship would only last a week.

Six

Matt always had mixed feelings when he came back to New Hope. Not that he didn’t like coming home. On the contrary, after several months’ absence, driving down Main Street and waving to his old neighbors never failed to lift his spirits.

The downside was Josh Nader. No matter how hard he tried not to run into him, Josh was always there, his sixth sense as sharp as a hound’s nose. They would talk for a while, pissing each other off, the way they used to when they were teenagers, then one of them would walk away, tired of the game.

It would be different this time. With Matt’s father in jail and Josh calling the shots, the police chief would take full advantage of the situation and enjoy every minute of it. He was probably sharpening his tongue right now, waiting for Matt to show up at the jail so he could bust his balls.

Matt reminded himself to play it cool. Losing his temper at the first taunt wouldn’t help the situation, or his father.

It hadn’t always been so tense between him and Josh. In fact, there was a time when they had been close friends. In the first grade, Matt, Josh and George Renchaw had formed a bond that had lasted for years. They had called their little trio the Three Musketeers, not a very original name, but they were little kids and they looked up to anyone with a sword and a plumed hat. Together they had done their share of pranks and mischief. George kept them straight. Studious and levelheaded, he was the one who made sure his two buddies never went too far.

Then in eighth grade, everything changed. A new girl moved next door to Josh’s house and all three boys fell head over heels in love with her. When Mary Ellen Sanders chose Matt, George gracefully accepted defeat, but Josh declared war on Matt.

Long after Mary Ellen had left their lives, Josh’s animosity toward Matt kept on growing. Matt and George graduated from college at the same time Josh got his army discharge. That summer, another incident had pulled Matt and Josh even further apart. Matt’s former girlfriend, nineteen-year-old Felicia Newman, disappeared. When foul play was suspected and several young men were interrogated, Josh was quick to point the finger at Matt, claiming he had heard the couple argue. Fred Baxter, the chief of police at the time, had no choice but to bring his son in for questioning. A few days later, Dusty Colburn, a mentally retarded man with a crush on Felicia, was arrested, and Matt was cleared.

The unfortunate incident had left the town bewildered and unsettled, with a handful of people not completely convinced that the right man had been arrested. And while no one believed that the chief’s son was the culprit, Josh’s unfounded accusations had taught Matt one important lesson: New Hope wasn’t big enough for the two of them. When Josh announced that he was planning to join the New Hope police force, Matt decided he should be the one to leave. Two months later, he was entering the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia.

After his graduation from the FBI Academy, the news that a hometown boy was now a federal agent kept the town abuzz for weeks. Jealous of the attention Matt was getting, Josh, by then a rookie with the New Hope PD, applied for a job with Interpol, the international police force that specialized in global crimes. But although Police Chief Baxter gave the young officer a good report, it wasn’t good enough to be accepted into that elite organization.

Angry and bitter, Josh had nonetheless put up a good front, but Matt knew that deep down, he blamed Fred for ruining this unique opportunity. His animosity may have tapered off when Fred recommended him for the position of chief a year ago, but with Josh, it was hard to say.

George Renchaw had done equally well. A corporate attorney with a large New York City firm for many years, he had left his job and returned to New Hope, where he still practiced law while serving a second term as mayor. There were rumors that he was being considered for a higher office, but nothing had been officially announced. As for Matt, after twenty-one years with the bureau, he was now a special agent based in Philadelphia, where he headed the antiterrorism task force.

Flashing lights in Matt’s rearview mirror ended his trip down memory lane. He pulled to the side, slowing just enough to let the police cruiser pass, but the car slid behind him, lights still flashing.

Matt brought his Jeep Durango to a stop and glanced in the rearview mirror. Josh, looking fit in his dark-blue pants and shirt, got out of the car and walked toward the Jeep, taking his time.

“Great,” Matt muttered under his breath. And immediately reminded himself to be civil.

“Hello, Matt. Welcome home.” Josh tilted his hat back and smiled, bracing his big hands on the window’s edge. He looked the same as he had a year ago, when he had attended Fred’s retirement party—tall, fit and in control.

“Is this a personal welcome, Chief?” Matt said casually. “Or was I going over the speed limit?” Surely that was civil enough.

“Actually I’m tempted to ticket you for going under the speed limit. What’s the matter? The signs aren’t written big enough for you?”

Matt kept his smile pasted on. “I was just taking in the scenery. A year is a long time to be away.”

“Well, like I said, you’re always welcome here.”

Matt refrained from telling him that welcome or not, he didn’t need his permission to visit. “I’d like to stay and chat,” he said instead. “But I’m anxious to see my father. So if you don’t mind—”

“What makes you think that I’m going to let you see him?”

Matt took a breath and counted to five. “It’s his right to have visitors. Or haven’t you read that part of the manual yet?” He probably shouldn’t have said that, but dammit, the bastard had it coming.

“He’s been charged with murder one,” Josh said. “Which significantly alters his rights, but since I’m a good guy, I’m going to let you come and go as you please. For old time’s sake. And while you’re visiting your dad, tell him to do himself a favor and take a guilty plea. It’ll save the taxpayers money and get him a lighter sentence.”

“You can’t ask an innocent man to plead guilty.”

“He did it, Matt. You’ve got to accept that.”

Matt’s fists tightened around the wheel. “Are we done here?”

Josh moved away from the SUV. “For now. Just don’t abuse my kindness.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Chief.”

Seven

Although Matt had prepared himself, seeing his father behind bars hit him harder than he had expected. The only comfort was Fred himself. At sixty-three, the police veteran had never looked better. He was leaner and more muscular, probably because now that he was retired, he had time to work out. And in spite of the confinement, he seemed totally relaxed as he sat on his bunk, his back against the dingy wall, one ankle propped on his knee and reading the Bucks County Courier Times.

“What’s the matter, Pop? You couldn’t stay away from your old stomping grounds, so you got yourself arrested?”

Fred looked up, his blue eyes lighting up instantly. He tossed the paper aside and stood up. “Hello, son.” He took in Matt’s tall, lean shape. “You’re looking good. And tanned. Been skiing?”

“You could say that.” Matt never discussed his assignments and his father knew better than to ask for more details.

The two men reached through the bars and clasped hands. “How come they haven’t transferred you to the county jail where you wouldn’t have to put up with Josh?” Matt asked.

“Haven’t you heard? Last month’s floods badly damaged the building. It looks like I’m going to be here for quite a while.”

“Not if I can help it, Pop.”

“Josh isn’t going to make it easy for you.”

“Josh is an ass. Why you recommended him for the job of chief, I’ll never know.”

“Nobody’s better qualified. He’s dedicated, fair—”

“You want to rethink the fair part, Pop?”

Fred shrugged. “He’s just doing his job, Matty. And he’s got to do it under extreme pressure—from the town, who wants me out of jail, and from the D.A. who wants to make sure I stay in.”

“Not if your new attorney has anything to say about it.”

“What new attorney?”

“Lucy wasn’t happy with Miles Stewart, so I contacted a friend of mine who used to be with the bureau and now practices in New York City. He’s one of the best criminal lawyers in the country. Unfortunately, he’s wrapping up a case and can’t be here until November twentieth.”

“I don’t need a fancy attorney, son.” He grinned. “I have a lot of faith in your abilities, even if I don’t approve of Lucy calling you.”

“I’m glad she did.”

As an afterthought, Fred asked, “You’re staying at the house, aren’t you?”

“Not this time, Pop. I checked into the Centre Bridge Inn.”

“Lucy will be disappointed.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Okay, but remember, my house is your house. Nothing will ever change that.”

“I appreciate that.” He leaned against the wall. “Now, how about you give me your version of what happened?”

Fred was silent for a long time. Matt folded his arms and just waited.

“You were right, you know,” Fred said at last.

“About what?”

“Denise. I shouldn’t have married her. She was too young, too energetic, too unpredictable.” He paused. “Neither one of us had any luck with the Newman sisters, did we? You were the smart one, though. You had enough sense to break up with Felicia before things got too far. I, on the other hand, allowed my infatuation with Denise to turn into something so powerful, I couldn’t have walked away if I had wanted to.”

“We don’t have to talk about that now.”

“Yes, we do. Your disapproval of Denise changed our relationship, and I hated that. The truth is, I was too blind to see her for what she was.”

“She made you happy.”

“That she did. Until I heard about her affair with Steven Hatfield. It’s true what they say, the husband is always the last to know.”

“Lucy said that you didn’t find out about Hatfield until last week. Is that right?”

Fred ran a hand through his gray hair. “Yeah. I had been visiting some friends in Doylestown, and on the way back I decided to stop at Pat’s for a beer. The Badger brothers were already there, drinking and telling dirty jokes. That’s when I heard Denise’s name being mentioned.”

“What did they say?”

“Something about knowing all along that she’d be a good lay, and maybe they’d have to ask Steven Hatfield just how good she was.”

“They happened to say that just as you walked in?”

“Yeah. I was too steamed at the time to think much about the timing. Later, I wondered the same thing.”

“What happened after you heard that remark?”

“I should have ignored them, but I didn’t. I was pissed off.”

“You picked a fight with them.” It wasn’t a question. Lucy had already told him about their sweet old dad trying to take on two men the size of Texas.

“Wouldn’t you have?” Fred asked. “If they talked about your wife that way?”

Matt made a mental note to talk to the notorious Badger brothers, two former little punks who had grown into bigger punks. “Probably, but go on.”

“Fortunately, Eddie split us up before we could do any real damage to his place. I stormed out and went home to confront Denise. She wasn’t back from the shop yet. Before you ask, no one saw me come home.”

“And everyone at Pat’s assumed you were going to the Hatfield Gallery.”

“What was I supposed to do? Carry a sign?”

“Why didn’t you just walk over to the jewelry shop?”

“Because I didn’t want to make a scene. I was never much for airing my dirty laundry in public. And while I was home, Steven was being murdered.”

“With your gun.” When Fred remained silent, Matt added, “Mind telling me how it ended up in the flower bed of the Hatfield Gallery?”

“If you mean, do I have an idea who could have planted it there, no, I don’t. And make no mistake, it is a plant, made to look as if I dropped it in my haste to get away. As if I would do a dumb thing like that.”

“Who knows where you keep your gun?”

“It’s no secret to those who know me well that I keep my guns locked up in the bedroom armoire.”

“So whoever framed you not only had the key to your house, but the key to the armoire as well? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“When I come home, I’m in the habit of dropping my keys on the kitchen hutch. The kitchen is where I read my paper and have coffee with my friends, or whoever feels like dropping in. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to make an impression of both keys at the first opportune moment.”

“Any idea who that someone might be?”

Fred shook his head. “Nope. Some weeks I can’t even tell you how many people stop by, especially now that I’m retired.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Fred Baxter had been just as popular when Matt was growing up. The house was always filled with friends and neighbors who came to chat, to tell the chief their troubles, or to just play a few rounds of poker.

“So the question is, who hated Hatfield enough to kill him?”

“He wasn’t very well-liked, especially by the men. Did they hate him enough to kill him?” Fred shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wanted to kill him myself when I heard about him and Denise.”

“Who would you put at the top of that list?”

Fred was thoughtful for a moment. “Once I would have said Buzz Brown, but too much time has gone by. He was pissed off, though, blamed Steven for his wife’s death.”

“Why was Steven so set on not having that land developed?” Matt asked.

“Oh, the usual reasons—traffic, taxes, overpopulated schools. Buzz didn’t buy it, though. He thought it was personal.”

“Personal how?”

“Don’t know. You can ask Buzz when he comes back from his trip to Kansas in a few days. Or you could talk to Duke Ridgeway. He sits on the planning board and played golf with Steven. He might know something.”

“I’ll give him a call, and talk to Buzz as well when he gets back. Who else is on your list?”

“Hatfield was the town’s heartthrob. He got in trouble at the local college where he taught a weekly art appreciation course. A sexual harassment complaint from a young coed almost got him fired. And then there was this artist from Milford. Steven had promised to feature her in a one-woman show but never did. Witnesses saw them at the gallery, shouting at each other.”

“Do you have her name?”

“Elizabeth Runyon. She works part-time at her aunt’s antique shop on Church Street.”

Matt wrote the information down. “It won’t hurt to check her out, but I wouldn’t hold too much hope with those two,” Matt warned. “There isn’t much of a motive for murder with either one.”

“And that’s why I’m the only viable suspect. With me, they’ve got it all, Matty—motive, opportunity and the kind of evidence not even Clarence Darrow could dismiss.”

Matt tried to stay optimistic. The last thing his father needed right now was for his own son to tell him that his case was hopeless. But the truth was, the killer had engineered and executed what looked, at least on the surface, like the perfect crime.

“Something odd happened last night, though,” Fred said as an afterthought.

Matt’s antennae went up. “I’m listening.”

“You may not know this yet, but in his will, Steven left the gallery to his ex-fiancée, a curator at some Boston museum. She arrived in town last night, presumably to take over, and surprised an intruder inside the gallery. Foolishly, she tried to stop him and got pretty banged up in the process. She spent the night in the hospital and was released this morning. Her name is Grace McKenzie. She was engaged to Steven about ten years ago and apparently, they had remained friends.”

“Was anything taken from the gallery?”

“The police don’t know yet. A few paintings were thrown to the floor, but the rest of the place was undisturbed, so Josh ruled out vandalism.”

“It sounds to me like the robber was looking for a particular painting.”

“Maybe. Miss McKenzie will be able to tell what’s missing after she does an inventory.”

“That break-in could be important, Pop. Is Josh investigating it?”

“He has to. The news is out and a few people in town want the investigation into Steven’s murder reopened.”

“What is she like, this Grace McKenzie? Do you know?”

“According to Rob, she is pretty, sassy, smart and gutsy. Not too many women would try to stop an intruder in the middle of the night.” He chuckled. “I heard that she packs a nasty kick.”

“She hurt the guy?”

“I’ll say. She hit him in the balls with the heel of her boot.”

“Ouch.”

“My sentiments exactly. Josh was impressed, and as you know, he doesn’t impress easily.”

Matt smiled. “You’re pretty well informed for a guy who spends all his time behind bars.”

Fred looked smug. “My former deputy keeps me au courant.”

“Is that okay with Josh?”

“Hell no, but who cares?”

Eight

“Sarah, please.” Grace switched her cell phone to her left ear as she stopped at a traffic light. “There is no need for you to come to New Hope. The gallery is fine. I’d like to tell you that nothing was taken, but the truth is, I haven’t had a chance to check the inventory yet. As soon as I do—”

“For heaven’s sake, Grace, I’m not worried about the inventory. Chief Nader told me you had a concussion. That’s why I called. I’m concerned about you.”

Was she? Really? “The doctor gave me a clean bill of health before I left the hospital.” The light turned green. “I’ve got to go, Sarah. I hate to talk on the phone while I drive. Is it okay if we talk later?”

“Call me anytime.”

After saying goodbye, Grace snapped her phone shut and dropped it on the seat next to her. Sarah had mellowed over the years, or maybe it was Steven’s death that had changed her. Grief had a way of doing that to people. Grace made a mental note to call her tonight, not because she had a sudden yearning to talk to the woman, but because she felt sorry for her. For all her money, her busy social life and a houseful of servants, Sarah was a very lonely woman.

Grace left the town behind and followed North River Road, a narrow, winding thoroughfare that led deeper into the heart of Bucks County. As the morning mist lifted, making way for bright sunshine, she understood why Steven, who had an eye for beauty, had chosen this part of Pennsylvania as his new home. And why local artists never tired of painting those magnificent landscapes.

Grace raised her visor so she could feast on the scenery. Ancient oaks and red maples bordered the road, forming a brilliant canopy of yellow, orange and russet. Tucked behind those majestic trees, centuries-old homes overlooked the Delaware River, one of the most historic waterways in the nation. It was difficult to look at this setting and not recall how history was made, right here in Bucks County.

Steven’s cottage, although small, took her breath away. Half-timbered and Northern European in style, it was barely fifteen feet wide, with wood beams on the exterior walls and cedar shingles on the roof. The windows, all leaded glass, were small, but in perfect balance with the rest of the house.

Grace pulled her car onto the graveled driveway, half of which was covered with dry leaves, and went to unlock the door. She found herself in an attractive living room with comfortable sofas and chairs in a plain navy fabric, and plush wall-to-wall carpeting in a neutral shade. A corner of the room had been made into a dining area, with a round maple table and four chairs. The high ceilings and natural flow from one room to the next made the cottage seem bigger than it was. A flight of stairs in the middle of the living room led to a second floor.

She put her suitcase down and took time to look at the mementos Steven had accumulated over the years—an antique peg hook where he had hung art work, a whimsical white gourd lamp and a garden urn that served as a side table. Family photographs were everywhere; some she had seen before, others she didn’t know. On the mantel, above the stone fireplace, was one photograph she knew very well. It had been taken in Santa Barbara, where she and Steven had attended an art festival a few months before their breakup.

The snapshot brought back vivid memories of their two years as a couple, the plans they had made to someday own an art gallery together and the young artists they hoped to discover, all in spite of Sarah’s strong objections.

As the wedding date drew near, however, Grace began to fear that as much as she tried to ignore her future mother-in-law’s criticism, the strain of that relationship would eventually affect her and Steven’s marriage.

“That’s what we call getting cold feet,” her father had cautioned. “If you’re not ready to get married, don’t do it.”

Maybe that’s why Steven’s betrayal hadn’t hurt her as deeply as she had expected. Although wounded at first, after a few days, she was able to look at the breakup as a blessing rather than a tragedy. A few months later, when Steven had called to ask if she could take a look at a sculpture he was thinking of buying, she had surprised herself by saying yes.

She was glad that he had fulfilled his dreams, Grace thought as she kept gazing at the photograph, and saddened that he had enjoyed his success for such a short time. She wasn’t sure why he had kept this snapshot, though. Sentimentality? A memento of what could have been?

After putting the snapshot back, she picked up her suitcase and carried it upstairs. The single bedroom was large and mostly white, with a four-poster brass bed and an adjoining bathroom in the same color scheme. The look was clean and uncluttered without being harsh.

Steven’s clothes hung neatly on the rack in the walk-in closet. There were shirts from Savile Row, cashmere jackets, custom-made suits and designer ties. Shoes and boots in various styles and colors were on an upper shelf.

Glad that she hadn’t packed much, she hung her clothes in the facing rack. Then, remembering that she had a date with Denise Baxter, she stripped and went into the bathroom to shower.

“Believe it or not,” Denise said, taking her role of tour guide seriously. “New Hope started as an industrial town, with mills that were busy manufacturing paper, quarrying stone and grinding grain.”

She unwrapped a sandwich and gave half to Grace. “But even in those early days,” she continued, “the beauty of Bucks County did not go unnoticed. Soon artists began settling along the Delaware River and New Hope became an artists’ colony.”

“I can see why,” Grace said. “The scenery from North River Road is nothing short of spectacular.”

“And it only gets better.”

As she ate her tuna salad on rye, Grace took in the many shops along Main Street, all filled with an assortment of merchandise—candy, antiques, rare books, gourmet food, garden decorations. Business owners had welcomed fall with planters of colorful mums outside their doors and huge corn stalks wrapped around the telephone poles.

“Some of the architecture is beautiful,” she remarked. “Do any of those buildings come with a pedigree?”

“Lots of them. For example, the Logan Inn we passed a moment ago is on the National Register of Historic Places. In fact, New Hope itself is registered as a National Historic Site. That big stone house over there—” she pointed “—is the Parry Mansion, and was once the home of Benjamin Parry, a wealthy mill owner.”

“I’ve already counted five art galleries. Wasn’t Steven worried about the competition?”

“All the time. The one that concerned him most, though, was the Haas-Muth Gallery, just up the street from the Hatfield Gallery. The owner is an artist, but he doesn’t just display paintings. He also sells Oriental rugs, which brings a lot of traffic. Steven was thinking of doing something similar, not with rugs, but maybe with antique clocks.” Her voice turned a little somber. “He never had the chance.”

“Who is that?” Grace asked, nodding in the direction of a twin-spiraled church.

“Father Donnelly. He’s our pastor. He first came here as a young priest many years ago, but the church likes to move their people around and he was sent to another parish. Now he’s back.”

She smiled at the handsome, fortysomething man watching them approach. He wore black pants and a black jacket with a white collar peeking through. “Hello, Father. Were your ears ringing? I was talking about you.”

“I’m flattered.” He rested his gaze on Grace. “You must be Miss McKenzie.”

She extended her hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Father.”

“Welcome to New Hope. I hope you’re recovered from that unfortunate incident last night.”

“Completely, thank you.”

“In that case, you might find time to attend Sunday mass?” His eyes shone with youthful mischief as he talked.

Grace wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but how could she refuse such a gracious request? “I’ll make a point to do that,” she promised.

“You’re incorrigible, Father,” Denise said. “Always trying to garner more parishioners.”

“That’s my job, Denise, as well as my pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to make my hospital rounds. You both have a good day.”

“There goes a good man,” Denise said as the pastor walked away. “He’s been a huge comfort to me. He never preaches, never criticizes and he never pushes you to say anything you don’t want to say. He sits with me and we just talk. He gives me the strength I need to face the day.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “This morning I asked him to look at some earrings I made and give me his opinion.”

“Did he try them on, too?”

Denise laughed. “No, silly, but he would have if I had asked him to. That’s how he is. And speaking of earrings, here’s my shop.”

They had stopped in front of a store named, appropriately, Baubles. Denise unlocked the front door and Grace found herself in a bright, colorful store that was a perfect reflection of its owner. Two glass cases held an assortment of beaded necklaces, rings, bracelets and earrings of every shape and color. On the counters, yards of silver and gold chains hung on small racks, competing for space.

Grace walked around, admiring Denise’s work. “You’re very talented,” she said as she picked up a necklace with a small citrine pear hanging from it. “And very versatile. There’s something for every taste.”

“Thank you. I love my work. It keeps me busy, especially now that Fred is…away.”

Grace kept moving along the cases, studying the delicate workmanship. “How did you learn to do all this?”

“A friend of mine used to own this store. She gave me a job as a salesgirl the day I graduated from high school. I learned a lot from her over the years, not to mention that we got along like two sisters. That’s why I continued to work after I married Fred, for the love of it. Then one day, Alice announced that she was selling the store and moving to upstate New York. She was hoping I’d make her an offer, but I wasn’t about to ask Fred for that kind of money. A week later, Fred handed me the keys and told me the store was mine. I thought I would faint.”

“Seems to me like he made a sound investment.”

“Go ahead.” Denise came to stand behind her. “Pick something. As my welcome gift to you.”

“That’s very kind of you, Denise, but I can’t accept.”

“I insist.” She took the citrine necklace out of the case and held it against Grace’s neck. “This would go well with your hazel eyes. Unless you’d prefer something else. The coral bracelet maybe? I saw you looking at it.”

It was impossible to say no to this woman once she had made up her mind. “Are you in the habit of giving away merchandise, instead of selling it?”

“No, just you, because I like you. So?” She held the necklace in one hand and the bracelet in the other, moving them up and down. “What will it be?”

“The necklace. And thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.” Denise walked back behind the case and started wrapping the necklace in white tissue. “You can wear it tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere special, but I’ll still wear it.”

“You have somewhere to go now. Lucy is dying to meet you, so I thought I’d make us a nice home-cooked dinner. Do you like Italian food?”

Grace laughed. “Are you kidding? That’s my favorite kind.”

“Then you’re in luck, because I make the best lasagna this side of Napoli.” She fitted the narrow box with a lid and handed it to Grace with a flourish. “Seven o’clock. Our house is on Bridge Street, a couple of blocks from the gallery. You can’t miss it. It’s the blue Colonial with the American flag out on the front yard. Come hungry.”

Nine

Duke Ridgeway had to be close to eighty by now, but the years didn’t seem to have slowed him one bit. After Pat’s Pub, New Hope Hardware was the busiest place in town, and Duke, who had owned the store for the last forty years, ran it like a finely tuned machine. Born and raised in Bucks County, he was a respected businessman and a fair and incorruptible member of the planning board.

“Well, if it isn’t little Matty,” he said, adopting the nickname only Matt’s father and his sister used from time to time. He made change for a customer, thanked him and closed the cash register. “How are you, my boy?”

“Not too bad. What about you, Duke?”

“Ah.” He made a disgusted gesture. “The old leg is starting to let me down.” He scratched his head, pretending to be puzzled. “You don’t suppose I’m getting old, do you?”

“You? Never. Besides, age is only a piece of paper.”

Duke laughed. “I’ll remember that. How’s your pop holding up?”

“Pretty good, considering.”

“You’ve got to get him out of that cage, Matty. It ain’t fair him being there.”

“I’m trying, Duke. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could help me with something.”

“I’ll do what I can, you know that, but if there was a way for me to clear your daddy, I’d have done so by now.”

“I know that, but something came up during a conversation with my father that still puzzles me. I’d have asked Buzz, but I understand that he won’t be back until the end of the week.”

Duke nodded. “He’s thinking of moving to the midwest.” He slid a cardboard ad for latex paint to the end of the counter. “So what brings you by, son?”

“You remember that application for the development of Buzz’s farm?”

“You bet I do. Kept us in session for months.”

“Do you have any idea why Steven opposed it so much?”

“Mostly because of the increase in taxes New Hope would have to shoulder. Now mind you, the developer presented a good case. He explained how self-sufficient that community was going to be, the economic growth for local businesses, a regulated traffic pattern and a homeowner association that would pay for many of the services the residents would need.”

“That didn’t satisfy Steven?”

“It wasn’t just Steven. A couple of other members agreed with him. When the developer failed to explain how he could keep the children from playing in the detention basins, Steven started getting a lot of support. Soon the entire town was determined to keep the developers away. From the way everyone was talking, you’d have thought there was gold buried in those woods.”

“Was the vote unanimous?”

“Not quite. I voted yes and so did Mel Frisk.”

“Was there any bad blood between Steven and Buzz? Or Steven and the developer?”

“Nobody knew the developer until he came to town, and as far as I know there was no bad blood between Steven and Buzz before then, but you can bet your last dollar that there was after that. Buzz hated his guts.”

He removed his glasses and started to wipe them with a corner of his flannel shirt. “You don’t think Buzz shot him, do you? Because I’ll tell you right now, Buzz could no more kill another human being than your pop could.”

“I know. I’m just trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.” He watched Duke put his glasses back on. “How did Steven get along with the other planning board members?”

“Good. I was the only one he socialized with, but they liked him okay. He was smart. Came to the meetings on time, didn’t talk down to people and expressed himself well. I know what some of the townspeople are saying about him, and maybe some of it is true, but as far as I’m concerned, he was just a good guy trying to fit in.”

“He didn’t flirt with some of the wives?”

Duke let out a hearty laugh. “Now, I don’t mean to be disrespectful of my fellow board members, but I can tell you that they had nothing to worry about. Steven wouldn’t have given any of those ladies a second look if they had been the last females on earth—and if you repeat that to anybody, I’ll call you a liar.”

Matt laughed. “It will be our secret.” A customer walked in and Matt stuck out his hand. “Thanks a lot, Duke. I’ll give your regards to my father.”

“You do that. And be sure to have a little chat with Buzz. He might not feel like talking, because the pain of losing Alma is still so damn raw, but it’s worth a shot.”

Founded in 1893 by Everett J. Anderson, a wealthy mill owner, Anderson College was a private institution that offered a diverse range of degree programs, including a strong art department, which was the reason Lucy had chosen the local college. Located on Route 202, the sprawling campus now boasted more than a thousand students from all walks of life.

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