The car bounced over the rutted road for several minutes before Richard spoke again. “What about you, Amy? Did you always want to be a librarian?”
“No, not always. When I went to college, I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to study, to tell you the truth. I liked a lot of things—history, literature, art history . . .”
“Art history, huh? It seems my instinct to bring you along was spot on. Your knowledge might prove helpful in dealing with this Kendrick fellow.”
“Maybe. That’s what I majored in, actually. But when I graduated from college, I decided I didn’t want to continue in that field, so I started looking around at graduate programs that fit my academic background. Library work seemed perfect, especially since I’d always loved books, so that’s where I ended up. I thought I would specialize in art librarianship, but . . .” I bit my lip. No use getting into why I was working in Taylorsford instead of a university library.
Richard shot me another bright smile. “You ended up here instead. Which isn’t so bad, all things considered.”
“No, it isn’t. Ah, there’s the sign.” I tapped my window. “Highview. That’s the name of the place.”
“Stone pillars topped with urns, a name, and all,” Richard said, pulling up in front of a metal gate. “Obviously someone with money lives here.” He lowered his window and leaned out to press the buzzer on one of the pillars. A voice squawked something, and Richard spoke his name into the intercom.
The gate swung open. “And then there’s this automatic gate,” I said. “Also something I’d only expect to find at an expensive estate. Although I guess if you fill your home with valuable art, you have to take precautions.”
“Guess so.” As Richard drove on, the gate shut behind us.
This road was paved, its blacktop surface mottled with shadows cast by a canopy of leafy branches. Azaleas and rhododendrons created a solid wall of green at the base of the hardwood trees that lined the driveway.
We rounded a corner, and sunlight flooded the car, forcing me to blink. As my vision cleared, I stared at the house and let out a little gasp. Set in the middle of a large clearing surrounded by forest, it was one of the most beautiful homes I’d ever seen. The three-story central section was constructed from variegated fieldstone that must have been pulled from local fields. Tall windows, their glass wavy as only hand-blown glass could be, were sunk into the mottled gray stones. Two-story wood-framed wings, painted a pale-jade green, extended from both sides of the central structure. Smaller windows flanked by black shutters gleamed against the wood siding, and a lacy veil of ivy covered the largest of the stone chimneys.
Richard parked in the circle of blacktop at the end of the driveway. A smaller lane, probably leading to a garage, curved behind the house. A covered porch featuring Grecian-style pillars and a pediment shaded the front door, which was painted a deep forest green. Filling the space between a whitewashed picket fence and the front porch, a cottage garden blazed with color. I climbed out of the car and ran to the gated arbor.
“It’s gorgeous.” I unlatched the gate and stepped into the garden. “Look at these plants. All either native to the area or antique varieties.”
“Well, when you have a lot of money, I guess you can have whatever you want.” Richard moved close to me and gazed over the garden. “But it is very nice.”
“Lovelier than some perfectly manicured lawn.” I tilted my head to stare up at the fieldstone facade. “The house too. It has that slightly rundown but comfortable quality. Like an antique that’s more valuable because of its dings and dents.”
Richard studied the house with interest. “It does have a certain bohemian charm. Although I’m sure it’s actually in perfect shape.”
“Not perfect, I’m afraid,” said a cultivated male voice. “But it won’t collapse on your heads, I assure you.”
Richard and I turned as one to face the speaker, a man so tall his thick head of white hair almost touched the lintel of the open front door.
“Welcome,” said Kurt Kendrick. “Won’t you come inside? I promise I don’t bite.” He grinned, displaying a mouthful of very large, very white teeth. Which, along with his imposing figure and words, reminded me of a drawing from one of the library’s picture books.
An illustration of the big bad wolf.
Chapter Ten
“Thanks again for the invitation.” Richard bounded up the porch steps as Kendrick headed back inside.
“Come in, come in,” said the older man, waving us forward without looking over his shoulder.
I followed Richard into the house, closing the door behind me. “Do you need to lock this?”
“No, it’s set to lock automatically.” Kurt Kendrick turned to face us. “I have excellent but rather unobtrusive security. Have to, really, in my business.”
Dismissing my fanciful image of him as a fairy-tale wolf, I decided Cousin Sylvia was right—he did resemble an elderly Viking. He was a large man, but his size was composed of bone and muscle, not fat. He wore his thick white hair a little longer than was fashionable, and his blue eyes were bright as delft pottery. His rugged face, though lined, was still attractive. I could see how he might have set hearts on fire when he was young. A smile twitched my lips. If he’d had the power to dazzle Sylvia as a child, he must’ve been quite something.
Kendrick scrutinized us with equal intensity. “Richard, I can see your kinship with Paul. You look very much like him, though obviously younger and fitter. Paul was a bit of a couch potato, really.” He turned his laser-sharp gaze on me. “And this must be Amy Webber. Definitely one of Rose Baker Litton’s descendants. Same amazing eyes, although”—he tapped the side of his nose—“much kinder.”
“I look like my mother,” I said, sharply enough that Richard side-eyed me.
Kendrick seemed more amused than offended. “Ah, yes, Deborah. She did have those big dark eyes as well. Of course, she was a small child the last time I saw her. She was only seven when I left Taylorsford. Now shall we head to the living room? We can converse a little more comfortably there.”
Distracted by an array of beautiful objects, I kept falling behind as Kendrick led us through the high-ceilinged front hall. I stopped dead at one point to admire a set of branched candlesticks, their gleaming surface only slightly dimmed by a patina of tarnish. They resembled pictures I’d seen of silverwork by Revere. I had to clasp my hands behind my back to keep from lifting the candlesticks to check for the maker’s mark. They sat on a heavy oak sideboard, old enough to feature dovetail joints. It also showcased a collection of vibrant porcelain that looked suspiciously like pieces from the Ming Dynasty.
Because they probably are, Amy. Kendrick is an art dealer and collector. He’s not likely to fill his home with cheap reproductions.
When I forced myself to turn away and follow Kendrick into one of the rooms branching off the central hall, I almost stumbled into Richard, who’d stopped short in front of a small pastel in a chipped gilt frame.
“Is this a Degas?” he asked, his voice slightly hushed.
I moved beside him to study the drawing, which showed a young dancer adjusting the ribbons on her toe shoes.
“Yes,” Kendrick called out from the other room. “Picked that up some time ago. Nice little piece, although not his best work.”
Richard looked over at me. Not his best work? he mouthed, arching his dark brows.
I widened my eyes and put my finger to my lips. “Impressive all the same,” I said, walking into what Kurt Kendrick called his living room.
It was a comfortable space with leather sofas and upholstered chairs anchored by worn Oriental rugs. A stone fireplace dominated the outside wall.
But it contained so many paintings and objects d’art that it resembled a gallery rather than a room in a normal home. Glancing around, I noted pieces that looked like the work of well-known modern artists as well as some old masters.
“So this is your personal collection?” Richard asked as he took a seat on one o
f the leather sofas.
Kurt Kendrick sat in a wood-framed chair that bore all the hallmarks of William Morris’s nineteenth-century Arts and Crafts studio. “Yes, although I change out a few pieces from time to time. I don’t like to sell from my personal stock, but occasionally someone makes an offer I can’t refuse.” He grinned again.
That wolfish smile. I looked away, staring at a large painting that incorporated delicate floating shapes. It had to be a Paul Klee. Feeling overwhelmed by the understated but obvious wealth surrounding me, I fiddled with the shoulder strap of my small purse. “Sorry, but could you direct me to the restroom? Too much coffee today.”
“Of course, dear.” Kendrick waved toward the door with one hand. “At the end of the hall on the right.”
I fled the room just as Richard asked the art dealer something about his life with Paul Dassin. Perhaps it was best to allow them privacy for some of that family related conversation anyway, I thought as I slipped into the small but elegantly appointed washroom.
After I washed my hands, the continued sound of running water baffled me until I realized it was coming from outside. I stood on tiptoe to peer out the room’s high, mullioned window. It offered a view of the backyard and, as I’d suspected, a detached garage. Just outside the wood-framed garage’s open doors, a man was washing a car.
A black Jaguar.
My heels hit the tile floor with a thump.
So it was Kurt Kendrick’s car that had been parked near the archives’ building the day Doris Virts was murdered. Of course, there was no way to know if he’d been the driver, since he might have a chauffeur, but still . . . I pulled out my cell phone to send a text to the number the detectives had instructed me to use if I remembered more information. But as my finger hovered over the send key, I hit delete instead. Maybe it would be better to send an anonymous message to the tip line. The sheriff’s office should check out this clue, but I didn’t necessarily want them questioning me or Richard, especially after our visit to the possible suspect’s home. And I certainly didn’t want Aunt Lydia to know Kendrick might be involved in Doris Virts’s murder. She already disliked him and was likely to track him down and accuse him to his face. Which could either be extremely embarrassing or dangerous, depending on whether Kendrick was complicit in the crime or not.
I splashed some cool water on my flushed face before heading back to join the others. Slipping into the living room, I sat in the first available chair, a wingback upholstered in houndstooth-patterned wool.
“So Paul actually knew Eleanora pretty well?” Richard asked after acknowledging me with a nod of his head.
“Oh, yes.” Kurt Kendrick stretched out his long legs, his expensive leather loafers plowing a row through the pile of the rug. “When she was in jail, he visited her every day. At first to collect information for his newspaper. But then, apparently, as a friend.”
“More than a friend, if what I’ve heard is true,” Richard said.
Kendrick shrugged. “On his part, perhaps. Paul never said that Eleanora reciprocated his feelings, although he was pleased that her health actually seemed to improve while she was awaiting trial.” Kendrick turned to me with a smile. “Sorry, I don’t mean to exclude you. I was just filling Richard in about some information on his great-uncle’s involvement in the Cooper trial.”
“Paul told you all this?” I clutched my purse in my lap to hide the shaking in my hands.
“Yes, he loved to talk about it. Ad nauseam, really. But I suppose it was one way he could still feel close to Eleanora. He loved her, you see. So much that he never looked at another woman, as far as I could tell.”
Richard slid forward on the sofa seat. “You said Eleanora’s health improved when she was in jail? That seems odd.”
“Perhaps it was just getting over the initial shock of her husband’s death. But yes, Paul always claimed that she was very thin and weak when he first met her, right after she was incarcerated and awaiting trial.”
“And she seemed healthier in jail?” Richard rubbed at his jaw with the back of his hand, his expression puzzled.
“Over time, anyway. I think Paul liked to believe it was because of his friendship and support. Gave her the strength to fight, he said.” Kendrick examined me with narrowed eyes. “Are you all right, Amy? You seem a bit tense.”
“I’m fine.” I spoke slowly so I could keep my voice steady. “So Mr. Kendrick, did Paul Dassin ever say why he thought Eleanora left town after the trial? Most people claim it actually proved her guilt, even though she was acquitted. I mean, it is odd that she fled so quickly and left all her inherited property behind.”
Kendrick settled back in his chair but kept his eyes on me. “Paul told me she probably just wanted to leave all the bad memories behind. She came from some mountain community, you know. Little place called Chestnut Gap. Paul always assumed she went back home. He said he could understand that. Why wouldn’t she prefer to go back where she had family and was loved and respected instead of staying in Taylorsford, where she was hated?”
“Not hated, surely.” Richard tapped his fingers against the buttery leather of the sofa. “She was acquitted, so the town must’ve understood she wasn’t guilty.”
“Oh, no, they still thought she was. Believed it was Paul’s articles that swayed public opinion outside of town and influenced the jury in the town where they held the trial.”
“That’s what I’ve always heard too,” I said, fighting my desire to blurt out something about the black Jaguar.
Kendrick continued examining me in a way that did nothing to ease my nerves. “Yes, your family in particular, Amy. Especially your great-grandmother.”
“You must’ve known her. Was she as difficult as everyone says?”
“Difficult?” Kendrick’s bushy eyebrows disappeared under the thick fringe of hair falling over his forehead. “She wasn’t difficult. She was a bitch.” He held out his hands. “Sorry if that offends you, but it’s the truth.”
“No, not at all. My mom says the same thing.” I took a breath to slow my breathing. “You didn’t like her, I take it?”
Kendrick’s smile tightened into a grimace. “She didn’t like me. I guess she was around fifty to fifty-five when I knew her, but she was still a looker and quite the grande dame. She was also very sure her opinions were always right and had no hesitation about meddling in other people’s affairs. She must’ve told Paul he was making a mistake taking me in at least a thousand times. Called me a ragamuffin and a delinquent and a good-for-nothing. To my face, you understand. She was nothing if not direct.”
“Sorry,” I said, looking down at my hands.
“You’re not to blame for your ancestors. Heaven knows I don’t want to be blamed for mine.”
I glanced up to meet his searching gaze. “You were sent to the orphanage when you were twelve?”
“Yes, after being shuttled between various relatives for a few years. My mother died when I was born, you see, and soon after, my father embarked on a successful slow suicide by drinking himself to death. So I was bounced from grandparents to aunts to cousins until finally they all decided they’d had enough and shipped me off to the orphanage. That didn’t last long either. I wasn’t much for rules, you see.”
“But Paul took you in,” Richard said, raising his voice to draw Kendrick’s attention. “And cared for you for six years. But you still ran away at eighteen and never contacted him again. Why?”
Kendrick met Richard’s stern gaze squarely. “I needed something more. Paul was a good man, but what else could he give me? My family, despite not wanting me around, still refused to allow Paul to adopt me, so I had no hopes of an inheritance. He wouldn’t cut out his real family, you see.”
These last words were spoken with so much force that Richard sank back against the sofa cushions and took a breath before speaking again. “So you thought it was better to just strike out on your own? Make your own fortune, which obviously”—Richard gestured toward the paintings—“you have.�
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“Something like that. And I didn’t really want to burden Paul anymore. Not with me or my . . . business ventures.”
I eyed Kendrick and tightened my grip on my purse. So maybe Aunt Lydia was right about the drug dealing. And perhaps, to his credit, Kendrick didn’t want Paul connected to him while he engaged in more serious criminal activities. “You also left without a good-bye to your best friend, or so my aunt claims.”
Kendrick turned his brilliant blue gaze on me. “Ah, Andrew. Yes, I left him behind as well. Although not forever. We did have some contact in later years, not long before his untimely death.” He laid two fingers to his nose again. “Lydia doesn’t know that, my dear, and I’d appreciate you not mentioning it to her. I’d rather explain all that to her myself one day, if she’ll let me.”
“If you insist.” I couldn’t read anything in his expression, but the hair on my arms lifted. This man was not someone to mess with, whatever his guilt or innocence.
“I do.” Kendrick rose to his feet. “Now might I suggest a little tour of the house? From the way she’s been examining the works in this room, I suspect Amy would like to see more of the paintings and other pieces.”
“Yeah, sounds great,” Richard said. “Although we don’t want to take too much of your time.”
“Nonsense. I have an hour to spare. I would even invite you to dinner, but sadly, I must go out later. Business,” he called out as he headed for the hall, “at least mine, never takes a holiday.”
The tour would normally have enchanted me, as Kendrick showed off his collection of pieces by artists whose works I had studied only from photographs and other reproductions. But all I could think about was that black Jaguar parked out back.
So when he finally ushered us to the front door and bid us good-bye, I rushed to the car while Richard was still shaking Kendrick’s hand.
Richard shot me a questioning look as I typed my anonymous message to the sheriff’s office tip line.
A Murder for the Books Page 11