“You didn’t like Dalton Taylor.”

“He was a mean, talentless jerk.”

Recalling the ethereal charm of Dalton’s winter landscape, I made a counterargument. “His talent depended on what he was painting. His Hidden series is overblown and just a vehicle for petty revenge, but I saw some landscapes of his at his studio and they were lovely. He even gave me the best of them as a wedding present.”

Once again I’d brought up the wedding gift. When I heard the harsh and standard criticism of the man, true as most of it was, I wanted to flesh out his personality for those who couldn’t get past the snarky crank who had been far too full of himself. There had been more to the man.

Dalton’s fleeting expression when I’d told him his landscape was no cheeseburger had been a revelation. There had been more to the man than bitterness and ego, but he’d kept it hidden. His own hidden little town. He had played the timeless and brilliant artist whose art transcended life itself, but inside he’d simply wanted to create beautiful things. And he’d wanted people to like his paintings. Far better aims.

“If that’s true, why did Taylor paint garbage?”

“Money. Recognition from other artists. From what I understand, landscapes sell well but don’t inspire the art-critic world. His reputation hinged on his primitive paintings.”

“Did it give him a sense of power?” Underhill asked. “Painting people as fools?”

“Or worse than fools. He painted me as a murderer.”

Underhill tried—and failed monumentally—to quash a grin. “I heard.”

“Nothing stays private in this town. Anyway, the trouble with Dalton is he sometimes painted the truth.”

“Just not the good truth.”

“I think he was unhappy.”

“Nasty people usually are.”

Attempting a casual vibe, I rested my elbows on the front desk. “What fascinates me is he liked someone enough to accede to his or her wishes and alter one of his fabulously brilliant paintings.”

For a moment Underhill was quiet. Figuring that he was giving me the silent treatment, I readied myself to reenter the snowstorm. I was about to tell him there was a can of whipped cream in the office fridge for the blueberries when he spoke.

“Could be he didn’t like the person who asked for the change. Could be he wasn’t doing a favor for someone, he was only piling on the nastiness. Or maybe he was forced to make the change.”

“Who could force a man like Dalton into defacing one of his paintings?”

Underhill gave his chin a scratch. “I’d say find out more about the man.”

“Was he in money trouble?”

Underhill shot me a look.

“Oh, come on.”

“All right, this one thing, for the cornbread. Dalton was well off. No money troubles, even with his divorce. His wife got very little. There wasn’t any unusual activity in his checking or savings account, either, as far as withdrawals go. A fair amount of money coming in—painting sales we figure, since most were checks written by individuals. So no big blackmail payouts that we see.”

I grinned and put on my beanie. “Thanks, Derek. There’s a can of whipped cream in the fridge for the blueberries.”

Snow stung my face as soon as I opened the station door, and while driving home my mind was more on the deteriorating road conditions than on Dalton. It took ten minutes rather than the usual five, but I made it home without incident, parked the Subaru in the shed—silently thanking my sweet husband for his shed sacrifice—and hurried through the yard to the back door.

I ate dinner in my office, and while I waited for the Gang to show up, I sticky-puttied Mary’s blackmail items to the whiteboard, alongside the already-puttied Hidden paintings off Dalton’s website. Next I wrote the names of the brunch guests on one sheet of paper, and then, on a second sheet, the names of those we needed background on: Parker Blackwell, Gavin Inman, Fred Stratz, and Connor Morse. In my mind they weren’t suspects, but information on them could lead to the blackmailer or even murderer.

Content with my organizational preliminaries, I settled back into my office chair, pulled up a search engine, and looked for information on Parker Blackwell. After fifteen minutes, all I discovered was that he’d played basketball for two seasons at Juniper Grove High, was on the track team his freshman year, was part of last year’s graduating class, and had stopped posting to his Instagram page last summer.

Talk about scrubbed. What teenager didn’t plaster himself all over social media? Still, it was a smart move for a young man entering a police academy, or applying for any adult-style job.

Next was Gavin Inman. I found what looked to be his Instagram page—a Gavin Inman who went to Juniper Grove High. He was now a wildland firefighter based out of Utah. There was no way he’d risk his federal job and his future by ratting on Parker for some prank-induced vandalism, even if he was bizarrely inclined to do so. There would be nothing but trouble in it for him.

Fred Stratz was easy to locate. As a retired pastor, he was active in the community of Kingman, Arizona, west of Flagstaff. Local government affairs, a church committee, and raising money for the town’s orchestra, animal sanctuaries, and children’s park. He seemed to be the good man Mary thought he was.

The sound of the doorbell downstairs interrupted my musings. Julia and Royce were the first to arrive, but before I shut the front door I saw Holly leaving her house across the street, head down in the driving snow. I waited to let her in, and seeing she’d brought a pastry box with her, I set about making coffee while everyone hung up their coats.

As the Keurig brewed, I pulled plates from the cabinet and made sure everyone was up to date on the latest, including my visit with Shasta, Isak, and Charlotte after Dalton’s murder and Underhill’s comments on Dalton’s wealth.

“Speaking of Charlotte,” I added, “Royce, do you know Joan Hudson at the Records Section?”

“I’ve met her, but she wasn’t working there at the same time I was. She seems like a competent woman. Why?”

I told him what Joan had said about Charlotte and her snooping. And I said that though I hardly knew Charlotte, I considered her at least as ambitious as Brodie, probably more, but failed to see what she’d gain from digging through town records.

“I can see Brodie dredging up Dalton’s divorce settlement, slimy as that is,” I continued, “since he works for that cage lining they call a newspaper, but why would Charlotte go through town records she has no business looking at?”

As soon as the question left my mouth, I knew the answer. Brodie Keegan.

CHAPTER 11

“So you think Charlotte is snooping for Brodie,” Holly said, undoing the twine around her pastry box. “That’s one way to jump-start a relationship.”

“Either she’s blindly looking for anything of gossipy interest in Town Hall records,” I said, “or Brodie is sending her on targeted searches.”

The aroma of Mexican chocolate filled the air. I passed around the plates and sat with the others at my kitchen table. “It’s ironic considering that Brodie’s the subject of serious gossip in one of Dalton’s paintings.”

“Payback for what he’s done at the Post?” Royce asked.

“Except he’s been in Juniper Grove for less than eight months,” I replied.

“That’s plenty of time to make enemies,” Julia said. “All of this, from the paintings to the murders, reeks of revenge.”

“How would Taylor or anyone else in Juniper Grove know about Brodie’s car accident in Idaho?” Royce asked. “I wonder if it’s online.”

Holly sat straight. “Of course. If a passenger was hurt, there’d most likely be an article. That means someone hunted for derogatory information.”

Julia examined the donut on her plate with a critical eye. “This is new. What have you done, Holly?”

“Don’t be finicky,” I said, “you’ll love it.”

I poured our coffees and we headed to my office, throwing out theories as we mounted the stairs and settled in.