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
