“Clay told Mary he mortgaged their house only after the fact. Isak begged me to take out a second mortgage and I foolishly agreed.”

“That’s why you wanted my landscape.”

“Isak said he’d sell it for twelve thousand. I’d be surprised if it brought in eight, but seventy-five percent of eight is money the gallery doesn’t have. If we cut our losses now, we might survive. Otherwise, we won’t.”

“At the brunch, Clay told me Hidden Little Town Number 7 would bring at least thirty-five thousand.”

“Twenty to twenty-two,” Shasta said.

“Because Dalton’s dead?”

“Because it was never worth thirty-five. You know, I was going to put the sale price for his sold Hidden paintings when I created Dalton’s website—the first, second, and ninth—but Isak said not to, that it would lower expectations. They sold for about twenty-one thousand each. Grossly overpriced, in my view.”

“Still, that’s sixty-three thousand for three paintings.”

“Before taxes.”

“How many paintings did Dalton sell in a year?”

“If he was telling me the truth—and remember, we’re talking about Dalton Taylor—he sold Hidden Number 9 and two mediocre landscapes last year. Maybe thirty thousand?”

“But think of the expenses—his house is huge.”

“Costs a pretty penny.”

When I pointed out the renovations and landscaping Dalton had done in the past three years, totaling, records said, a hundred and twenty thousand, a frown creased her face. “That’s mad. Does he have an inheritance or trust fund? To think that cheapskate would only give the gallery twenty-five percent.” She motioned at the window. “It’s getting bad out there.”

I turned. Snow swirled and rode the wind, sideways and downward, coming to a stop in ever-deepening drifts.

“One last thing, Shasta. After the brunch, Isak and Clay were seen arguing on the street outside their cars. On Willow Court, near Dalton’s house. Any idea what the friction would be?”

She started to shake her head but stopped. “What were they doing there?”

“Mary told me they were meeting with Dalton over changes he wanted to make.”

“Yes, I know that—Isak stranded me, left the brunch in our car. Next time I take my own car. But why were they arguing in the street? They were stressed, starting to see the gallery wasn’t financially viable, but Isak didn’t tell me they’d argued.” She made another face and turned away. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m glad they argued. I hope they part ways.”

“What about Mary? You’re friends.”

“We were. We’re not anymore. I trace it back to when Brodie was hired and she started worrying about her job. She changed. Truth? I don’t like being around her.” Shasta buttoned her coat and unhooked her purse strap from her chair. “I hope you find out who’s blackmailing her, though. Or who was blackmailing her. My money’s still on Dalton.”

“If not Dalton?”

“Then Brodie Keegan. Ambitious little rat.”

I left Grove Coffee right after Shasta. It wouldn’t be long before the Mystery Gang showed up at my house, and I needed to eat some sort of dinner first. I’d planned to cook something for Gilroy, too, but time had gotten away from me and I knew he’d grab something from Wyatt’s.

My back door was locked tight when I arrived, everything in order, but I entered my home hesitantly, listening for out-of-place sounds before I shut the door behind me.

Then, the stolen landscape niggling at my mind, I ate a quick dinner of leftover chili and finished it off with a cream puff.

It was only logical that the same person who stole my painting had also stolen the drop-cloth-covered painting from Dalton’s studio. In turn, it was logical that the thief had killed Dalton and, probably, Laura.

Was Mary’s blackmailer at all connected to the murders?

As I was cleaning my dishes, the land line rang. Gilroy told me to check my cell for a photo he was about to send.

Seconds later it came through.

“What does it remind you of?” he asked.

“Holy cow. Where did you find it?”

“I knew I’d seen something like your painting before. Underhill’s been searching art sites most of the day.”

“Dalton called my landscape a study of a study. Now I see what he meant.”

The photo on my phone was Dalton’s painting in larger form. Barren white fields—only more of them—more tattered clouds, more snow-covered hedges, more shivering black birds.

“It’s Winter Nocturne, by a mid-twentieth-century French artist, Jean-Louis Dumont. Taylor’s painting wasn’t a study, Rachel, it was practice for a forgery.”

Now it fit. Of course, of course. “Was the original stolen?”

“No, it’s in a small museum in France. I think Taylor was practicing Dumont’s style so he could create a newly discovered Dumont.”

“That explains why he was so reluctant to give me the painting. But he did. Why?”

“Because you appreciated his skill? Because he was arrogant and didn’t think you or anyone else who saw it would know about Dumont or make a connection to forgery? Most of Dumont’s work is from the 1950s and 1960s.”

“How did you know it was Dumont?”

“I didn’t at first. I must’ve seen that painting or something similar in a book. I was an art major my first six months in college.”

“You? Knock me over with a feather. Why have you never told me?”

“That sort of thing doesn’t really come up decades later, does it? Anyway, we’ll probably never know why Taylor gave it to you, but this explains why his studio was ransacked and two paintings were taken.”

“To rid the place of forgeries and practice paintings. This is how he paid for all his renovations and landscaping. Did Royce tell you how much those cost?”

“Yes, and he told me about Taylor’s will. I don’t know how he gets people to divulge information, but Taylor had a second bank account, this one in Boulder, and he left half the money in it to Alison Larkin Taylor and the other half to a bird sanctuary in Denver. Several hundred thousand, all told.”

“He liked birds,” I said, recalling the heated birdbaths on his deck. I almost laughed. “Does Alison know?”

“She will tomorrow.”

“Is the money legal?”

“That’s outside my purview, and I intend to keep it that way.”