Читать книгу Where Truth Lies - Christiane Heggan - Страница 10

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.”