“He would’ve had to put the used brushes back in his pocket,” Turner said.

I almost laughed. “Considering his house, Taylor can easily afford a new coat.”

Gilroy gave me a questioning look.

“That’s not all Taylor told me,” I said. “He deliberately included Brodie Keegan, Connor Morse, and Isak Karlsen—gossiped about them—in his painting.” I looked at Turner. “Do you know about Taylor’s paintings?”

“Chief put me up to speed,” Turner said.

“Taylor heard rumors that Isak copied old-timers’ jam recipes, so, as Taylor put it, he used real life as the foundation of his painting but fictionalized it by having Isak switching jam labels. As far as I can tell, fictionalizing means fudging a detail. Taylor wants his accusations to stand—wants them to be evident to anyone in the know—but he wants to be able to disavow any knowledge of them.”

“Keegan and Morse, though,” Gilroy said. “In their cases, it’s not exactly gossip.”

“No, but their lives aren’t any of Taylor’s business.”

Turner was unwilling to accept that artistic talent could be used for cruelty. “I’ve seen a few of his paintings and the guy’s pretty good. He must make a lot of money too. What does he get out of making fun of people? What’s in it for him?”

“He needs to do it,” I said, leaving my amateur diagnosis at that.

The phone rang at the front desk, prompting Turner to leave Gilroy’s office. In the officer’s absence, I braced myself for a lecture on visiting a suspect’s house, which Gilroy now knew I’d done. He’d gone beyond tolerating my snooping to actively encouraging it, but only from a distance.

“Taylor ran into me outside Holly’s Sweets,” I said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I saw that look on your face.”

“We have no idea who killed Laura Patchett.”

“He wanted to give us one of his paintings as a wedding present.”

Gilroy’s eyebrows went up.

“He asked me to his house so I could pick one out. I made sure other people knew I was talking to him.”

“Laura Patchett was talking to him.”

I sighed. Point taken. “The painting I chose is surprisingly beautiful.”

“Not one of his Hidden things, is it?”

“Would I do that to you? It’s a winter landscape, and it shows remarkable talent, unlike his other work.”

Turner knocked on the doorframe and swung into the office, his long legs propelling him up to Gilroy. “That was Shasta Karlsen on the phone. She’s at Dalton Taylor’s house. He’s dead.”

CHAPTER 9

As soon as I left the station I texted Julia and Holly about Taylor’s death. Then I scheduled a Mystery Gang meeting at my house, six o’clock, Royce invited. Mary’s four gossip items, Laura’s murder, and now Taylor’s death, the latter too much of a coincidence to be anything but murder. We had ourselves a full plate.

I drove home, dropped off my painting and cream puffs, then drove out again, heading for the Karlsens’ house. Gilroy had questioned Shasta by now, I thought, and she would’ve gone home to recover from the shock of finding Dalton’s body. Anyway, as a self-employed website creator and IT specialist, she probably worked at home, so it was a safe bet she was there. I just hoped Isak wasn’t.

He was.

The couple let me in, and Shasta seemed downright glad to see me. Isak walked off, saying he needed to make some phone calls.

In her sparkling white kitchen, at her white kitchen island, Shasta told me she needed to talk to me. Speaking to the police had been a trial for her—for Isak too—and Isak wasn’t up to comforting her. Dalton had been Isak’s friend, and his murder had stunned Isak into silence, but it was more than that. Dalton, via his paintings, had bolstered Isak’s gallery dreams. Now those dreams were on shaky ground.

“He keeps wondering what the legal implications are,” Shasta said. “Like if they can still show the paintings, and if they can sell them. Coffee?”

“Please.” I sat on a stool and watched her scoop coffee from a bag.

“Clay must know if they can still show them, you think, Rachel? He must have made provisions.”

Her hands were shaking. She spilled grounds on the counter.

“Sit down, Shasta.”

“Yeah.” With one hand she brushed grounds into the palm of her other hand and tossed them in the sink. Then she dropped to a stool. “I can make coffee later. Right now I have to talk. Isak’s no use.”

“People grieve differently.”

She shot me a cynical look. “Trust me, it’s not all grief. Some, yeah, but mostly he’s worried about his gallery. So is Clay, I’m sure. They both sank money into it. But if Isak had seen what . . .” Her words trailed off.

“How did you find Dalton?”

“I went round to his house to take photos of his studio for his website. I designed his site, you see.”

I feigned mild surprise.

“Anyway, I thought we needed more personal photos. Right now it’s just one small profile pic and images of his paintings. I wanted a studio image for the home-page banner or background. He’s got a magnificent studio. So he didn’t answer the door, which was strange because he’s always so scrupulous about time.”

“You’ve been to his house before?”

“I took his profile pic there, discussed the site with him, showed him examples of what I had in mind.”

“He didn’t answer the door.”

She shook her head. “I went round the back so I could knock on the deck doors, and then I noticed one of the doors was wide open. I shouted for him. Then I walked inside and shouted again. I thought maybe he was hurt or sick, so I went up the stairs to his studio. It’s where he spends most of his time.”

“He was there?”

She drew a long, ragged breath and said, “On the floor, dead.”

“How did you know he was dead?”

Her brown eyes glazed with tears and she held a hand to her throat. “Someone stabbed him in the neck. Something with a wood handle was sticking out, and there was blood all around his head and on his hands.”