Shelved Under Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  I sank back against the worn chair cushions and considered Kendrick’s words. “I’m not so sure you should cast stones. You didn’t turn in Reese, but not because you have such a big heart. Admit it—you were using him.”

  “In a way.” Kendrick laid his knobby hand over my arm. “It was for the greater good.”

  “Oh, the greater good? That’s a little odd, coming from you.”

  “I have my standards.” Kendrick tightened his grip on my arm, forcing me to look at him. “When all was said and done, the Quinns were responsible for Andrew’s death. I have never forgotten that.”

  “Or forgiven them, it seems.”

  “Should I?”

  “No, I suppose not. So you decided to take them down. Is this something new, or has this revenge plot been brewing for some time?”

  Kendrick studied me intently. “Always thinking, aren’t you, Amy? To be honest, I’ve been working on this plan for many years. I wasn’t certain that it could be accomplished, but these recent murders opened up a new angle. It was Reese LeBlanc’s willingness to turn state’s evidence that gave me my big break.”

  “But the Quinns didn’t kill Rachel.”

  “No, but Reese is still willing to testify. I think he’d finally had enough when he came to me for help. At that point it didn’t even matter who’d murdered his wife. He’d been living under constant threats to his family for several years.”

  I frowned. “I guess Uncle Andrew might’ve had that fear too. About someone harming my aunt, I mean.”

  “It’s possible. If Mel Riley pulls through, she can probably tell us more.”

  “She will, at least according to the text I received from Aunt Lydia earlier. The trauma center seems to think she’ll make it.”

  “That’s good. Even though she’s sure to face a lot of questioning, and possible charges, I’m glad she won’t die over this.”

  “She said there was another original painting. Another masterpiece. I wonder what became of that one?”

  “Hard to say. Perhaps Andrew hid it too well?” Kendrick stared at the wall clock. “Or sold it on his own.”

  I pulled my arm from under his hand as I remembered my aunt’s words. “I doubt it. He was a forger, not a thief.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest anything of the kind.” Kendrick crossed his arms over his chest. “Andrew was a good man. He made mistakes, but don’t we all? Anyway, I’m sure that he would never have done anything truly criminal.”

  “Forgery isn’t exactly legal.”

  “No, but it doesn’t hurt other people. Oh, I know it cheats buyers”—Kendrick lifted one hand and examined his neatly manicured fingernails—“but in this case, they had to know they were purchasing stolen goods, at the very least. So I can’t feel too sorry for them.”

  “Of course you’ve never dealt in stolen goods,” I said, not bothering to temper my sarcastic tone.

  “Would I admit it if I had?” Kendrick glanced over at me, his face an unreadable mask.

  “Probably not.” I nibbled on my pinkie nail for a moment before looking back at him. “You said you loved Uncle Andrew. How exactly?”

  Kendrick’s expression shifted from stern to amused. “I think I’ll take the fifth on that one.”

  “I see.” I chewed on my nail again for a moment. “Did he know?”

  “I’m not sure. I never told him, if that’s what you’re asking. There was a time…” Kendrick lifted his chin and took a deep breath. “But that passed, and then there was Lydia. He really did adore her, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “It was true. I could tell the first time he spoke about her after they started dating. I thought it an odd match at first, but when you love someone, you want them to be happy.” Kendrick bowed his head for a moment. “Andrew was happy with Lydia. So I resolved to be satisfied with that.”

  “You should be friends.” I blundered on before I could think twice. “I mean, you and Aunt Lydia. You both loved my uncle, after all.”

  He gave me a broad smile. “That’s one reason I’ve tried so hard to win her over.”

  “Keep trying. It might be working.”

  “From your lips to her very stubborn ears,” he said, patting my hand. “Now—here comes a very official looking person. Perhaps they have news about Richard?”

  I leapt to my feet as the white-coated stranger approached.

  “Ms. Webber?” she asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.” I smoothed down my rumpled sweatshirt.

  “Mr. Muir is asking for you. He said you were his fiancée?”

  I caught Kendrick’s grin out of the corner of my eye. “Well, um … Sure. Yes.”

  “Then you can come back and sit with him.” The doctor turned away. “He’s doing quite well, by the way. I think we can release him soon.”

  I cast one last look at Kendrick, who gave me a thumbs-up gesture, before following the doctor down the hall.

  “No permanent damage,” she said as she pulled back the curtain on one of the emergency room cubicles. “Which I’m sure is a relief.”

  “Oh yes, definitely,” I said.

  “Just be aware that he’s a bit out of it. We gave him an injection for the pain.” The doctor grabbed a few slips of paper from the counter and pressed them into my palm. “But that will only last until morning. You’ll have to pick up some prescriptions for him as soon as you can. One for antibiotics and one for pain pills. The pain might be bad for a few days, I’m afraid.”

  “Okay.” I tucked the papers into my pocket.

  “I’ll leave you now. A nurse will be in shortly with some information about ongoing care and his discharge papers,” the doctor said before disappearing through the curtain.

  I approached Richard, who was lying on a narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling with his eyes half-closed. “I understand that you may be somewhat loopy. Which explains the strange fiancée comment, I suppose.” I laid my fingers over his right hand.

  Richard’s fingers clutched mine. “It’s not strange, not at all,” he replied in a dreamy tone. His dark eyelashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes to look directly at me. “Bound to happen, eventually.”

  “Is it?” I took a seat on the hard metal stool pulled up next to the bed.

  “Hope so,” he murmured.

  “Hmmm … well, how about for now we just say it was a clever ploy to allow me to stay with you?”

  He blinked his gray eyes. “That too.”

  I caressed his fingers. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yeah, but it’s the drugs, I think. So spacey. Can’t focus.”

  “No need to right now. I’ll drive you home once they release you and put you to bed.”

  “And stay with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” Richard pulled our clasped hands up to his lips and kissed my fingers. “Love you. So glad you’re safe.”

  I sniffed back a sudden urge to blubber uncontrollably. He was the one who’d been shot, yet he was more concerned about me than his own injury.

  “I love you too,” I said, releasing his hand as I leaned in to kiss his forehead.

  He threw his good arm around me and pulled me close.

  “Good,” he said. “That feels good.”

  Resting my cheek against his, I didn’t reply. Because he was right, of course. After everything that had happened, this finally felt like something good.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After a week passed, Aunt Lydia finally felt up to inviting a few people over for Sunday dinner. The guest list included Zelda, Walt, Brad, Sunny, Richard, and—to my surprise—Kurt Kendrick.

  “Don’t say anything,” she told me as we tag-teamed cleaning the house in preparation for this event.

  So I didn’t, although I’m sure my grin was enough evidence of my opinion on the subject.

  We served the full Taylorsford feast—baked brown-sugar-coated ham with scalloped potatoes and green beans alongside grilled salm
on for those who didn’t eat pork, and even a vegetarian dish to please Sunny. Of course, those were only the main dishes. Aunt Lydia also provided a tossed salad, several varieties of pickles, homemade yeast rolls, and a fruit compote. Because heaven forbid anyone leave my aunt’s table hungry. There were few sins worse in a town with Taylorsford’s rural traditions. As Aunt Lydia often said—back in the day, local farm families might not have had two pennies to rub together, but they always had food. And they were always happy to share it.

  “So who wants pie?” Aunt Lydia asked as our guests pushed back their chairs from the table after the meal.

  “Oh goodness, I’ve already eaten so much I just might pop.” Zelda fanned her flushed face with her napkin and cast my aunt a wide-eyed look. “What kind of pie?”

  “Apple, of course.” Aunt Lydia dropped her napkin beside her plate.

  “And lemon meringue. And pecan,” I said as I stood up. “Stay seated, Aunt Lydia. You made most of the food. I can certainly cut the pies and bring a selection to the table.”

  Richard jumped to his feet. “I’ll help. I need to move around after that meal anyway.”

  “Make some coffee too, would you?” Aunt Lydia looked around the table. “Unless anyone prefers tea? Or more wine?”

  “I think perhaps that bottle of brandy I brought would go well with coffee and pie.” Kendrick stood and tucked his chair under the table. “And seeing that Richard’s arm will limit him from lifting too much, why don’t I help with carrying in the glasses and plates.”

  “Very kind of you.” Aunt Lydia toyed with her napkin instead of making eye contact with him.

  “Not at all.” Kendrick paused in the doorway to survey the assembled guests, blocking Richard and me from leaving the room. “It’s been such a pleasure to spend time with you all.”

  “If you need more help, just let us know,” Zelda called out. “Although I’m not sure I can lift myself from this chair just yet.”

  Walt patted her hand. “I’d help you, dear, but it looks like Amy and the others have it under control.”

  “Seems like it,” Brad said, turning his chair sideways so he could stretch out his legs. “I certainly appreciate the meal, Lydia. Don’t tell my mom this, but your rolls are even better than hers.”

  Sunny giggled and waved her forefinger at him. “Ooooo, now there’s some good blackmail. Better than your mom’s, indeed. Boy would Jane be pissed if she heard that. You know that she and Lydia have been fierce competitors at county fair food contests for years.”

  Aunt Lydia made a tutting noise, but Zelda said, “It’s true,” with a knowing look at Walt.

  “Yes, that’s some dangerous information to share so openly, son,” Walt said.

  “It’s a veritable grenade. One word to your mom about such a thing and boom!” Sunny grinned broadly as she leaned in to tap Brad’s chest. “So now all I have to do is hold that little tidbit of info over your head and I can make you do whatever I want.”

  “It doesn’t take blackmail for you to be able to do that,” Brad said, with no trace of rancor in his tone.

  Walt smiled and draped his sinewy arm around Zelda’s plump shoulders. “I’m sure that’s the truth.”

  “Oh man, is it,” said Brad with a rueful grin.

  “On that note, I think it’s time for pie,” Richard said.

  As Aunt Lydia and Zelda joined in on Sunny’s merry peals of laughter, I followed Richard and Kendrick to the kitchen.

  “That young lady is quite something.” Kendrick looked over at me and winked as he lifted a bottle of Courvoisier from the counter. “Almost as dynamic as you, my dear.”

  “Oh”—I waved a knife at him, scattering a few crust crumbs—“Sunny is much more vivacious than I am. More prone to get into trouble, too.”

  Richard, who was standing beside me at the kitchen table, removed the plastic wrap covering the pecan pie before looking up at Kendrick with a grin. “Opinions differ on that point.”

  “Hey.” I pointed the knife at him. “No comments from the peanut gallery.”

  Richard just grinned and continued unwrapping the pies. “I guess Lydia wants to use the china rather than paper plates?”

  “Paper plates?” I said in a mock tone of horror. “The very idea.”

  Kendrick uncorked the brandy and set the bottle on a decorative metal tray. “I’m surprised Dr. Chen isn’t here today,” he said, crossing to the wine rack. “I hadn’t heard that he’d left town.”

  “No, not until tomorrow.” I crossed to the counter that held the coffee maker as Kendrick lifted some glasses from the rack. Apparently his spies were still reporting all the comings and goings in town.

  “Pity that he has to leave so soon.” Kendrick met my speculative gaze with a smile. “If my eyes weren’t deceiving me, I believe he took quite a liking to your aunt.”

  “He did, and she likes him back. Which is great,” I said, as I started the coffee.

  “I agree, but with him leaving…”

  “Yeah, but he lives in Maryland, near DC, which isn’t that far away. I have a suspicion that he’ll be a frequent visitor in the future. And Aunt Lydia can catch the Metro into DC without that much trouble.”

  “Hugh’s a pretty determined guy,” Richard observed as he deftly wielded a pie server to slide slices onto plates. “I have a feeling he’ll make things work, one way or the other.”

  “I’m just surprised he’s not here today,” Kendrick said. “I thought his work on the forgeries was done.”

  “It is, but he wanted to check one more thing…”

  “The fake Van Gogh you found?”

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t keen about telling Kendrick too much concerning my uncle’s painting. Forgery or not, it still involved something that belonged to my aunt.

  Richard apparently had no such qualms. “It was the most amazing thing—Hugh found a hair embedded in the paint.” He waved a handful of dessert forks through the air before setting them on the table. “So he took that sample and some strands from an old hairbrush that had belonged to Andrew and had a DNA analysis done. Just to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Andrew painted that particular forgery.”

  “What did he find out?”

  I eyed Kendrick, not thrown off by his casual tone. Judging by the intensity of his gaze, he was extremely interested in this information.

  “Nothing yet. Still waiting for the results.” Richard helped me load a tray with the filled plates. “Think that’s enough pie?”

  “If it isn’t, we can always come back for more. We’ll have to get the coffee anyway.” I surveyed the full tray while Richard placed forks caty-corner across each plate. “Anyway, that’s partially why Hugh went into work today at his temporary lab. He was also going to oversee the packing up of some equipment, but he hoped he could check on those DNA results and also do some type of ultraviolet light test on Andrew’s painting.”

  “Probably UVF,” Kendrick said. “Ultraviolet photography to display fluorescence,” he added when Richard raised his eyebrows at the acronym. “Authentication experts use it to date paintings as well as to show if works have been retouched. Varnishes and paints can fluoresce quite differently depending on their age or composition.”

  “So a forgery could be spotted because the pigment or the varnish is shown to be too recent, even if the artist has been clever about aging their materials to look like they’re a match with the original work’s time period?”

  “Yes. It’s all quite scientific. Forgers can acquire paints and canvas from the proper time period, of course, especially if they have an organization like the Quinns backing them. But a detailed analysis can still prove that the work is not as old as it appears.”

  “It’s strange that a lot of collectors don’t seem to bother with that, if what I’ve read about the number of fakes floating about the marketplace is true,” I said. “You’d think you’d want to know for sure that something is genuine before you shelled out millions for it.”

  Kendr
ick shrugged. “Some people just need to believe. They want that piece by Monet, even if they aren’t entirely certain he painted it. But if they can tell their friends it’s real…”

  “In other words, they want to be fooled.” Richard wiped his fingers with a paper napkin as he gazed thoughtfully at the art dealer. “They prefer the illusion to reality.”

  “Yes, and it’s something many exploit, I’m afraid.”

  “You as well?” I asked, wiping my sticky fingers with a damp dish towel.

  “From time to time.” Kendrick lifted the tray holding the brandy and glasses. “As I’ve told you before, Amy, my hands are not completely clean. But then, I’ve never claimed to be a Boy Scout.”

  “You assisted the feds with their investigation into the Quinns. That counts for something.” Richard grabbed a pile of napkins in his good hand as I picked up the tray with the pie slices. “Hugh told us that Interpol busted several of the leaders and now they think they have enough to bring down the entire organization. You helped with that.”

  “For my own reasons. Trust me, if I could’ve gotten my hands on any original Van Gogh paintings, I would never have surrendered them to the authorities. Not even if it did help dismantle the Quinns’ operation.” Kendrick moved toward the hall. “Now let’s carry this in to the other guests, shall we? I’m looking forward to a piece of pie myself.”

  As Richard and I followed him to the dining room, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get that,” Richard said, dropping the napkins onto a clear corner of my tray. “Might not be able to carry trays yet, but I can open a door.” He bounded down the hall as Kendrick and I entered the dining room.

  Oohs and ahs erupted over the pie slices, which did look quite delectable. I’d made the pecan pie but allowed everyone to assume that Aunt Lydia had done all the baking. It was only fair. She had cooked most of the meal.

  But she was having none of that. “Don’t just thank me; Amy made the pecan pie,” she announced. Looking toward the hall, she narrowed her eyes as I passed the tray to Walt. “Did I hear the doorbell?”