“I thought so,” I said.

Shasta poured steaming coffee into four mugs and topped off Isak’s mug, and I used the lull in conversation as a chance to ask Charlotte about the Hidden paintings.

“Thanks for telling me I was a murderer in one of Dalton’s paintings,” I began. “He packed so much into his artwork, I never would’ve seen it.”

“You’re welcome, I guess,” she said with a grin.

“Dalton concocted stories about other people in Juniper Grove,” I continued. “My friend Holly saw her bakery in one painting, and then there’s this former high school teacher, Connor Morse.”

Coffee mugs were lowered. The room went quiet.

“You’ve heard of him?” I asked.

“Most people have,” Shasta said. “Years ago he was arrested for dealing drugs, but somehow he was allowed to teach at Juniper Grove High. You’re saying he was in a painting?”

“Hidden Little Town Number 8, the one that disturbed Laura. He was in fictional form, of course. A man with man-bun hair wearing round glasses and selling drugs in a high school parking lot.”

“That sounds like Connor Morse, all right,” Charlotte said.

Shasta was flabbergasted. “Isak? Did you know?”

“I remember a person like that in the painting, but how would I know who it is? I haven’t really looked at it since Clay and Mary put it in their living room.”

“So Dalton read the Post, collected gossip, and painted all the dirt he harvested?” Shasta asked.

“Trouble is, he painted Hidden Little Town Number 8 before the article on Morse was published,” I replied. “At the time, Morse was still teaching at the high school and no one in town knew about his past.”

“Clearly someone knew,” Isak said. He looked to Shasta. Shasta looked to Charlotte.

Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “Well, sheesh, I don’t have a clue. I graduated from JG before Morse even taught there. Dalton must’ve known the guy. Where’s Morse from?”

Not a bad question, that. The Mystery Gang had some background investigations to carry out. Not just on Morse, but on Laura, Dalton, and everyone who was at the brunch.

“I don’t know where he’s from,” Shasta said, “but I heard he moved to Denver after the article.”

“I felt a little sorry for him,” Isak said.

“He dealt heroin,” Shasta said.

“When he was seventeen. In our own ways we all did stupid things when we were younger.”

Like Parker Blackwell, I thought. His stupid thing had led to his mother being ripe pickings for a blackmailer and to the Post upending lives through so-called news. But was there even more to it than that? Was the blackmailer connected to the deaths of Laura Patchett and Dalton Taylor?

Holly, Julia, Royce, and I had a wicked web to untangle.

CHAPTER 10

Back on Finch Hill Road, I cooked dinner for Gilroy—a quick beef and black bean chili with corn bread and blueberries on the side. He’d already phoned to say he wouldn’t be home until late, so I took it to the station and brought extra for Underhill and Turner. Underhill was single and ate like a teenager, while Turner, though married, ate like he was still single, at least when he was on the job.

I’d grown fond of both young officers, as had Gilroy, and I wanted to mother-hen them a little, but I had two secondary motives in mind. If they ate my dinner, they were less likely to kid Gilroy about a wife who brings him food on late nights and they wouldn’t grumble about having to order greasy burgers from Wyatt’s. Time saved and station harmony maintained.

The snowstorm, which had fizzled out momentarily, was in full force now, the wind driving snow against my windshield. I drove cautiously down Main Street, my wipers carving half-moons.

Underhill was on the front desk phone when I entered the station, asking someone on the other end about financing the Aspen Leaf Gallery and then jotting a few notes. He smiled, and I motioned at the food containers in my arms, mouthing, For all of you.

He smile grew and he mouthed a thank-you back at me.

I set the containers by the coffee machine, shook the snow off my knit beanie, and looked around for Gilroy. His office door was open but he was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Turner.

“They’re out,” Underhill said. He’d returned the phone to its cradle.

“Oh, darn.”

“They’ll be back in forty-five minutes.”

I ambled up to the desk. “The chili is warm now, so if you have to stick it in the fridge for a while, wait until it cools off. You can leave the cornbread out. Heat the chili on high in the microwave for about a minute.”

“Yes, ma’am, will do. It smells great.”

“I’ve discovered I’m not a half-bad cook.”

“I thought we’d be stuck ordering takeout, so I really appreciate it, Rachel.”

I looked around again. “Where are they?”

“They’re policing. Investigating a couple murders you may have heard about.”

“I imagine Gilroy and Officer Turner passed along my information about the change Dalton made to Hidden Little Town Number 8.”

“Yup.” Underhill picked up his note pad. “And even with cornbread on the line, I can’t tell you anything.”

“Dalton didn’t strike me as the kind of man who would easily make a change to one of his masterpieces.”

Underhill looked up.

“I wonder if someone coerced him,” I went on, “or maybe he thought it’d be fun.”

“Fun?”

“He got a kick out of painting nasty half-truths about Juniper Grove and its people. True enough that people recognized what he was trying to convey, fictional enough that he could deny he meant any such thing.”

“Plausible deniability.”

“Like a politician.”

Underhill dropped his note pad. “A coward’s tactic. Not surprising.”