“So who could’ve known about it?”

“Stratz was probably asked why Parker was helping him out, and he probably talked to family and friends. Gavin talked to some students in the senior class, I’m sure. Word spreads in a small town.”

“But it didn’t spread to Austin.”

For the first time since sitting down, Mary drank her tea. She checked her watch and glanced about the restaurant. “I need to get back.”

I couldn’t escape the feeling that though Mary wanted my help, she also wanted to tell me the bare minimum required to obtain that help. Parker was everything to her. Clay, Brodie, Dalton, Shasta, and even Isak—who stood to lose everything if his wife’s affair and his assault on a student were revealed—were distant concerns.

The situation called for a verbal shock or two. “Dalton Taylor knew about Morse’s arrest record,” I said.

She froze.

“And he knew about Brodie’s car accident in Idaho. Both incidents are in one of his paintings.”

She’d been twisting around, searching for a waiter, but now she swiveled back and looked me dead in the eyes. “What do you mean they’re in his painting?”

“You didn’t know? Dalton painted two figures that are clearly Morse and Brodie, one behind the wheel of a car with a whiskey bottle and the other selling drugs in the high school parking lot. They’re in the painting that upset Laura.”

A long moment passed before Mary said, “How could he know? That’s Hidden Little Town Number 8. He painted it last July. It’s been in our house since October, when Clay asked if he could hang it there temporarily. He told Dalton he might buy it, which was a joke. It was uncharacteristic of Dalton to agree to that.”

“Dalton shouldn’t have known about Morse in July, or October.”

“No one in Juniper Grove did. Only Morse himself.”

“And Dalton shouldn’t know about Brodie at all because right now only you and Brodie know about his drunk driving record.”

“Are you saying Dalton’s the one blackmailing me?”

I had no earthly idea. “Laura’s in that painting too.”

“Dalton blackmailing me? But how would he know about Parker and the others?”

“Better yet, why would he send you a photo of himself and Shasta?”

Mary considered. “He wouldn’t. He publicly accused his wife of cheating on him, and people say he got almost everything in their divorce, including the sympathy of unsuspecting middle-aged women.” She reached for her purse on the back of her chair and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I really have to go. Call me if you need to.”

“What are you going to do with the information you received? The photo, the papers?”

She raised a quizzical eyebrow, and I wondered if she hadn’t thought it through yet or if she was simply surprised I’d asked the question. “I don’t know, Rachel. Not right now.”

“One more thing.”

Mary let out a sigh.

“I’ll get the bill, okay? You can dash in a sec, but I need to know why the blackmailer sent you a copy of your second mortgage.”

“I didn’t know Clay took out a second mortgage,” she said with a pained expression. “The house is in his name. He told me Isak fronted more than half of the gallery money, but apparently not. Our home did the job. Someone’s trying to tell me they know everything about me, Rachel.”

Mary made a beeline for the front door. I swallowed the last of my coffee and left a bill large enough to cover it, Mary’s tea, and a tip.

On the sidewalk outside Wyatt’s I stopped and lifted my face to the sun and the bluebird sky, wanting to enjoy them while I could. Darkness came early in January, the sun dropping like a steel door behind the mountains, and a cold front laden with snow—and wind—was bearing down on northern Colorado.

Get moving, get your errands done, and go home.

Next stop, Holly’s Sweets. I started walking. Not only did I need to replenish my cream puffs, but I had to tell Holly what Gilroy had told me at breakfast. I also figured she’d heard an earful on Laura Patchett from the bakery’s morning crowd, her most reliable when it came to gossip.

And I was right.

The second I entered, she waved me to the back of the shop and asked her husband, Peter, to take over for a few minutes.

“Six cream puffs?” Peter asked as I made my way around the counter.

“Yes, sir. And a dozen peanut butter cookies for James, please.”

I’d addicted my husband to baked goods, the poor man. Well, he could share with the guys at the station. Underhill and Officer Travis Turner practically salivated at the sight of a bakery box, and glazed donuts had been known to loosen the tongue of the already garrulous Underhill.

Holly dropped into a stool behind her stainless work counter and gestured for me to sit too. “First, tell me what Gilroy told you last night about Laura Patchett.”

“We didn’t talk about it until this morning.”

Her dark eyebrows arched in surprise. “What happened to you dragging it out of him?”

“We had pizza and watched TV instead.”

“Nice. Much better. Was it definitely murder?”

“Laura was stabbed in the throat with a palette knife.”

Holly unconsciously put a protective hand over her own throat. “One of those spatula-like things?”

“Right. The killer stood directly in front of her, eye to eye, they think. Gilroy said it looked like Laura tried to make it to her phone after she was attacked but died before she could. Either that or she was stopped from getting to her phone and died on her studio floor. A neighbor found her.”

“Laura storms out of the brunch and an hour later she’s murdered. Rachel, it had to be someone at the Blackwells’ house.”

“Gilroy’s going to interview all the guests at the station. I told him what we discovered in the paintings yesterday afternoon—and by the way, guess what I found out? Dalton and Aspen Leaf Gallery have websites, both designed by Shasta Karlsen.”

“Get out of here. The Shasta who had an affair with Dalton?”

“The very one. Maybe that’s how it started. All that close work over the computer.”

“Shasta saying, ‘Oh, that painting’s brilliant, Dalton.’”

“I don’t think she’s ever liked his artwork.” An unwelcome picture—Shasta and Dalton as passionate lovers—popped into my mind. I shoved it back out. “She doesn’t like him now—in fact, she detests him—and I can’t imagine her ever liking him. For one thing, he’s about twenty-five years older than she is.”

“Money and fame overcome age.”

I grimaced. “Maybe.”