by Parker Riggs
“Sorry,” Rose said.
“Tom Minot looks like a rock star with his groupies,” Barrington said. “You don’t think he’s secretly thieving art and killing people on the side, do you?”
Rose took another carrot stick. “He’s the one who’s been talking to Nicky the Knife.” Rose turned around. Chad was so close she caught a whiff of his floral aftershave. It smelled a lot like the deodorizer in her guest bathroom.
“I just hope those gals picked up extra napkins when they got their drinks,” he winked at Rose. “I think they’re about to drool on your floor over Mr. Tom Minot.” Chad was staring at her Fendi wedge sandals as if he wanted to try them on. In another life she and Chad might have bonded over shoes, but not in this one.
“Is Mrs. Minot here?” Barrington asked.
Chad shook his head vigorously. Those long sideburns were unnerving. “Not feeling well,” he said in a sing-song way.
Rose tried to inch away from him. The floral scent was making her feel ill. “It’s getting late. You ready?” she asked Barrington.
He drank the rest of his whiskey. “Let’s do it.”
“Do what?” Chad’s head snapped up, but Rose ignored him.
A few minutes later everyone was assembled in the living room, and Rose and Barrington took their places on either side of the easel. Rose had covered it with a white sheet, and the crowd was craning to see.
Barrington cleared his throat and put his hand through his wild hurricane hair. Rose could tell by the way he kept licking his lips and glancing at his fresh drink that he hated being in front of people. “Thanks for coming today,” he said. “I’m so happy to share this painting with you. It changed my life. I had no idea when I came to Haven for the summer that it was here.” He put his hand on the sheet, pausing for effect. Rose could see Chad near the front of the pack, craning forward to see, his eyes bugging out like a pair of marbles. The crowd was silent as if everyone was collectively holding their breath. It was so quiet that Rose could hear Cosmo crunching kibble in the kitchen.
“There have been many times over the years,” Barrington went on, “that I’ve thought no other painting I’ve created has measured up to the perfection of this one piece. After all, it’s the painting that launched my career.” Rose heard someone gasp. She wished she’d seen who it was. “And so, without further ado,” Barrington said dramatically, “I give you The Peacemaker!”
For a long moment no one spoke. The painting seemed to glow in the last remains of smoky summer daylight slanting through the windows. Then Rose heard murmurs of “beautiful,” “incredible,” and “other-worldly” ripple around the room. She saw Barrington’s face flush with embarrassment and had to prod him to take a bow. Chad was the first to break from the crowd. He ran up to the painting, his nose inches from the surface, staring at the brushstrokes. Parker came up fast behind him. Without taking his eyes off the painting, he said to Barrington, “I can’t believe it’s The Peacemaker. This painting hasn’t been seen for decades. It’s as spectacular as I always knew it would be. What a miracle it was right here in Haven.”
“Not a miracle,” Barrington blew his chest out, and Rose thought he looked exactly as if he was lying. “More like a remarkable coincidence.”
Everyone was trying to get closer to the painting, crowding around like she’d seen people do with the Mona Lisa. “Was The Peacemaker with the same owner since you originally sold it?” Parker asked.
“Yes, it was,” Barrington lied. He paused as though trying to remember his lines. “They wish to remain anonymous.” He ran his hand through his gelled hair, and it sprang loose. It stuck up so high, Rose thought he looked like one of those Scandinavian troll dolls.
“Are you planning to exhibit it?” Parker asked. Chad had his nose so close to the painting, she was worried someone would push him, and he’d fall right through it.
“I’m going to keep it for a while to ah, um …” Barrington took a big gulp of whiskey. “To enjoy it,” he said.
Rose felt someone come up behind her. She knew it was Rocky. He smelled like grilled meat. “We need to make sure everybody gets a chance to see the painting,” he said into her ear.
She turned toward him. “Then we need to get Barrington to shut up, because he’s a terrible liar, and we need to get these two out of the way,” she pointed her thumb at Chad and Parker. “If you’ll take dumb, I’ll take dumber.”
Rocky grinned. “Hard to tell the difference,” he said and then louder, “Chad and Parker, step aside, you goons, and let the rest of the crowd have a look. And you all, don’t crowd the painting, take a quick look and be on your merry way. You don’t need to be bothering Barrington with questions. He painted the goddamn thing, isn’t that enough?”
People started to laugh, and Rose saw Barrington heave a sigh of relief and take another sip of his drink. Rocky’s words mellowed the room, and people began to move around, talking about the magnificence of the painting, but also about how they had to get home for the babysitter and the kids.
Rose took a step back to watch them, hoping her training in hyper-vigilant observation would give her a clue about who in the little world of Haven, New Hampshire, might have killed Hal Cappoddecci.
Chapter Thirty-One
Thorne’s mother made all his meals, and Sunday breakfast was his favorite. He looked forward all week to over-easy eggs, homemade French toast, warmed Grade A maple syrup and fresh squeezed orange juice. He only wished she’d taken his advice and gotten up earlier to start cooking. Instead, she played martyr, always complaining the cooking made her late for church.
Just as he was about to stick a forkful of eggs into his mouth, his phone rang. Chad. Damn it. He hated having his breakfast interrupted, but he wanted to hear about Rose Chandler’s party. “Talk to me.” His napkin was stuck in his collar like a bib, and he wiped his mouth with it.
Chad started right in. “Thorny, it was fab, you should have been there. Rhodes and his wife made to-die-for barbequed ribs, and Rose Chandler gave a tour of that stunning log house. I told her it was a waste not to have it photographed for Architectural Digest or at least Better Homes. She’s got Louis XIV antiques and a grandfather clock from, I swear, the Middle Ages. God knows why that woman is living in such a hole in the wall with pieces like that.”
“The case,” Thorne snapped. “Did you learn anything relevant to the case, Chad, or did you just stand around admiring clocks all night?” So far, the only thing Chad had been good for was busting Operation Haven’s budget and keeping secrets about his love life.
“Oh, right, well, I did have a titillating conversation with Parker Prescott, owner of Le Bourget, who, I might add, has no fashion sense but the most amazing cheekbones …”
“What’s Le Bourget,” Thorne interrupted, “a bakery?”
“Oh, no, it’s an art gallery, the one near Rashid’s, that delectable pizzeria?” Chad cleared his throat in that effeminate way Thorne hated. “I don’t know how we missed it, but Prescott dated Amber at some point, and he owns another art gallery … in Montreal.”
“What?” Thorne’s fork flew out of his hand, bouncing off his plate like a boomerang. He tried to catch it in midair, but the tines stabbed his thumb, and egg yolk spewed across the tablecloth. “Why didn’t we know about this?” His mother was going to have a fit about yolk on her Sunday tablecloth. “I had background checks done on all the gallery owners and their employees, so how did this not show up?”
“I don’t know.” Chad sounded hurt.
“Well, damn it, this could mean the Bungee person …”
“Bourget,” Chad corrected him.
“Whatever.” Throne sucked his bloody thumb. “He’s running stolen paintings internationally, using front galleries in Haven.” Thorne calculated whether he had time to wash the tablecloth before his mother got home. “I need to have another background check run on everybody ASAP.” He wrapped his napkin around his thumb. “Try to find out if anyone else has ties to Amber and Can
ada. Do you have any other surprises for me?”
“Well, let’s see,” Chad said. “Anna Gagnon – she owns that sweet little antiques store off Alley Cat Way – was talking to Tom Minot, and I heard him say the police had questioned him about Nicky’s visits.” Chad laughed, airy and high as though he were drunk on champagne. “Now he thinks Nicky’s an anarchist staking out the dealership. It was all I could do not to tell him he’s a lot more dangerous than some environmental wacko with a blowtorch, you know what I mean?”
Thorne’s thumb throbbed painfully. “So what was the mystery painting?” The tablecloth looked as if a dozen birds had done a fly-by over it.
“The what?” Chad asked.
“The painting, Chad, the painting Rose Chandler was going to unveil at the party.” He ground his teeth. Do I have to spell everything out?
“Oh, of course, yes, The Peacemaker,” Chad said.
“The Peacemaker?” Thorne stood up. “What do you mean The Peacemaker?”
He thought he heard Chad swallow. “Um, it’s The Peacemaker?”
“It couldn’t have been The Peacemaker.” Thorne paced the room, his dirty napkin still hanging off his neck. “Sandy Beach owned The Peacemaker, and Barrington’s girlfriend, this Jessica person, stole it from him years ago along with a very large amount of money.”
“Well,” Chad said in a haughty tone, “that’s not what they told everyone at the party. They said Barrington wanted to buy The Peacemaker back, but he didn’t know who the owner was, just that she lived in Haven, so he hired Chandler Investigations to find her.”
Thorne ripped his napkin out of his collar and threw it on the table. “Well, they must have found her if the painting was there. Who is she?” he shouted.
“I have no idea,” Chad said. “It would have been gauche to inquire, don’t you think? But the painting was spectacular,” he said cheerily. “It looked so fresh, as if he’d just painted it.”
Thorne sat down in front of his demolished meal. What in God’s name was happening? Did they buy the painting back from Barrington’s ex, who’d stolen it from Sandy Beach? And why would Barrington’s ex be in Haven if Sandy Beach’s people were also in Haven? Wouldn’t she be terrified he’d find her and torture her for stealing that painting and the money? Or was that just a story they told Rose Chandler to get her off their backs? Or was Rose Chandler lying to him, Thorne, the FBI, for Christ’s sake, to get him on the wrong track? And was the painting actually Beach’s, and Barrington Bigelow bought the painting back from him? Maybe Barrington Bigelow was running stolen art over the border! And why in the world did the Bureau hire this nutcase Chad? That wasn’t going to help Thorne nail Sandy Beach, and if he nailed Sandy Beach he’d be taking down a major crime boss, and if he took down a major crime boss he’d get that promotion and a shot at the corner office and all the power that came with it.
“Chad.” His gut tightened. “Do you understand that we’re in Haven for the sole reason of investigating Beach and that any day now another painting might be stolen while he’s jerking us around?”
“I understand,” Chad sounded hurt again. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“Just get me more information about Canada and Amber.” Thorne checked his pockets for an antacid. “And make it fast.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Well,” Rose whispered into the phone, “maybe it’s no one we know then.” She was hiding in the woods bordering Solitude, right where Hal’s body had been found, and she was very thirsty, but all she had with her was a weapon and a pair of binoculars.
“Thank the Lord,” Rocky said. “I hate arresting people we know.”
“The only people who didn’t show up were Heidi, Veronica and Alisa Minot.” Rose had thought she’d heard a car down the road, but it had stopped about ten minutes ago. She couldn’t hear it anymore. “I don’t think any of them could pull off a murder.” The gun she’d tucked into the waistband of her jeans felt hot on her bare skin. “But one thing I learned in my work is you can never be sure.” Rose could see the painting through Solitude’s sliding glass door, silhouetted in a pool of lamplight, perfect bait for when the thief came back.
“Barrington at your place?” Rocky asked
She glanced at her watch. “Yeah, he left about two hours ago, carrying an overnight bag in case anyone was watching.” When the wind blew, the trees sounded like bones creaking, a lonely, eerie sound, and she thought again of Hal lying there for hours without anyone knowing he had died. “I think Barrington hoped Jess would come sauntering in and reclaim her painting.”
“Ah, that torch just won’t blow out. Unless you’d give him a yes, and then he’d gladly forget about her.”
Rose let this pass. Like Hal, Rocky was convinced that any man who crossed her path fell in love with her. “Why wouldn’t Chief Tuttle help us with surveillance?”
“Surveillance means overtime,” Rocky said. “He won’t authorize it.”
“But two people were murdered,” Rose said, leaning against the giant beech that shaded this part of the woods, “and one of them was Hal Cappodecci. Everyone loved Hal.” She had seen Hal the day he came to Haven to work for her, a month after Cameron’s death, two weeks after he’d retired from the Agency. Welcome home, she’d said, not really knowing what she meant, but he’d smiled as though he knew it really would be home. A final home. “Doesn’t he want to make an arrest?”
“Hey, welcome to my life,” Rocky said. “Listen, I’ll be over in a few minutes. I just have to finish the dinner dishes.” He sounded apologetic. “Emily cooked, I’m cleaning.”
“Thanks, Rocky.” Rose rested the phone on her shoulder and zipped up her jacket. “Tell Em I said hi, and we’ll hit the outlets when this is all over.”
“Hey, she understands. She made us some great homemade cookies and a thermos of iced coffee.”
Leave it to Rocky to think about food. She hadn’t even brought a stick of gum, and she thought coffee sounded like heaven. “In lieu of a few back-up cops, I’ll settle for coffee.” The movement was only a ripple, like wind, but she reached for the binoculars around her neck. “Hold on,” she said quietly. “Something moved by the hydrangeas, and I don’t think it’s an animal.” She scanned the area. It was a man, dressed in black, wearing a ski mask. “He’s headed for the deck,” she told Rocky.
“I’ll get you back-up, hang tight.”
“Make it quick.” She shut her phone, set the binoculars in their holster at her hip, and reached for her Ruger.
The man skipped up the deck steps. There was something familiar about the way he moved she couldn’t quite place. In less than a minute he had the door open. She waited for him to go inside before sprinting across the lawn. At the edge of the deck, she squatted down. She’d left a light on above the sink, and she could see him standing near the dining room table. He took a bundle of cloth out of his jacket pocket. About five-ten and slender, he was wearing black jeans, a black turtleneck and a black ski mask, but she couldn’t see a weapon. Maybe he had an ankle holster, or a .38 concealed in his pocket. He must be hot as hell.
He moved quickly with balletic grace, putting the cloth over the painting, which was propped on the easel like a gullible witness. Rose inched forward in the grass. She could feel sweat dripping between her breasts. She didn’t want him in the house. If she got him while he was in the house, he’d have places to run, things to use for weapons. She’d have to bank on his coming out the same way he’d gone in.
He took the painting off the easel and put it under his arm awkwardly. The deck door was still open a foot or so, and he walked toward it, his footsteps light, as though he’d been trained in stealth missions. If she got him when he came onto the deck, he’d have nowhere to run, the railing surrounded him. And she could shoot the glass if he tried to open the door again, scare him.
He pushed open the slider and then slid it closed behind him. When he turned back, she stepped out of the shadows. “Drop the bag and put your hands up!” S
he could hear the anger in her voice. “Raise your hands.” She remembered Hal that day he took her to Wildcat Mountain to sail the zip-line. Can we go again? she’d asked him again and again. And he’d indulged her, like a father, a real father.
The man was jerking back and forth, looking frantically for a way past her. An amateur, she thought. “I’m an excellent shot, I never miss,” she said calmly, walking up the deck stairs. Inside she was screaming, You killed Hal, you killed him. For the first time in her life she wasn’t sure if she could keep from shooting. “Drop the bag and raise your hands.” She waited for her whole body to relax as it was trained to do in crisis, but every muscle was tense, alert, and she couldn’t let it go. “I won’t ask again.” She hated that she could see no piece of the man’s flesh, as though he were a phantom rather than a human being. “I can shoot you in the leg, if that’ll help.”
She heard the high note creeping into her voice, the rage. He bowed his head and began to raise his hands, then suddenly turned and darted for the door. She grabbed him by the arm, turned him around, and pinned him up against the house. He yelped and tried to run, but she clocked him in the mouth. The pillow case flew out of his hand, and the painting skidded across the deck.
“Bitch!” he yelled angrily, spitting blood from his bleeding mouth. She shifted her weight as he lunged at her and hit him in the gut with a right hook that dropped him to his knees. She pointed the Ruger at him. “Do you have a weapon?”
“No. Don’t shoot,” the man raised his hands.
“Don’t shoot?” she said to him. “Don’t shoot, is that what you said? I just might shoot, you know why?” The man bowed his head and Rose kept an eye on his solar plexus to see if it moved. “You shot an innocent man. Do you know who that man was?” The black gloves he held up were trembling, and she had the insane thought that she would like to shoot bullets through both his hands. “Do you know what he meant to me?” She put the gun to his head, right above the left ear. The man was mumbling under his breath; it sounded like a prayer. “Do you know who Hal Cappodecci was?” She pushed the gun harder. After Cameron died, Hal had sat by her bed, brought her trays of food. The hurt passes, it just feels like the end of the world, Rosie. She leaned down and hissed in the guy’s ear, “You’re nothing next to Hal Cappodecci. Do you understand me? Nothing.” Hal was always there, like a sentry, when she woke up. “I think I might shoot you,” she told the man, walking a circle around him. “So you can know what Hal felt like.” A car skidded to a stop in the driveway. “How would you like to die right now?” To her surprise, the man began to sob.