“It’s still hard to believe Dalton would risk giving me that painting. His practice for a Dumont forgery.”

“Would we have known it was a forgery if he hadn’t been murdered?”

Thinking it over a moment, I said, “No, and I’m sure he didn’t plan to be murdered. Point taken.”

I took a sip of cabernet, and my thoughts drifted back to my conversation with Shelly Todd. No one had known Laura—a very private person, by all accounts—better than she, and though Shelly had been open and honest with me, she’d only answered my specific questions. Aside from her belief that Dalton had killed Laura, she hadn’t volunteered information.

“Clay or Isak, or both of them, knew Dalton was a forger,” Gilroy said.

“Makes sense.”

“Maybe their wives too.”

What had Laura said to Shelly about Dalton? The guy’s a fraud. Original is the last thing he is, and one day it will come out. And after that, Shelly had said something about Laura knowing who Dalton was. With hindsight, Laura’s remarks didn’t sound like appraisals of Dalton’s artistic worthiness.

Could it be?

My back went straight as a rod and I set down my glass. “James, I think Laura knew Dalton was a forger.”

CHAPTER 19

It was just before eight o’clock, still a reasonable hour, when I phoned Shelly. Before I could bring up the subject of forgeries, she told me she’d been thinking about Laura’s murder, wondering about some things. Then this afternoon she’d heard interesting news from one of her neighbors, and the more she thought about it, the more she knew it was important. She’d been planning to visit the station and speak to Gilroy, in fact.

No need, I said. Gilroy would come to her.

In a small town like Juniper Grove, most people’s houses were a five-minute drive from Finch Hill Road, and Shelly’s house was no exception. As we pulled to the curb, she opened her front door and stood in the light of her porch, waiting for us to make our way up her walk.

Just before I popped the SUV’s door handle, I turned to Gilroy. “If she offers you tea, say no.”

Shelly led us past her living-room Christmas tree, motioned toward a two-seat gray couch, and then sat opposite us on an identical couch. The woman went all out when it came to Christmas decorations—loads of caroling figures, stuffed bears with Santa hats, gingerbread houses, and the like. A little cartoony for me, but I admired her enthusiasm.

“Let’s get right to it,” she said.

I admired that too.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Gilroy said. “You’re not being questioned officially. Rachel and I were talking—”

“And I’ve been going over conversations I had with Laura,” Shelly said, cutting him off. “Make this official if you like. I want Laura’s killer found, and I’ll do what it takes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gilroy said. “What about these conversations?”

Shelly crossed her legs and leaned back. “We all know Laura didn’t like Dalton’s artwork, but there was more to it than that. She disliked his pomposity and his manufactured mystique. He promoted himself as the last Renoir. A fountain pen in a sea of ballpoints. He was self-important, judgmental, and nasty.” She paused to look at me. “I told you she visited his studio once.

“I remember,” I said.

“She went ahead of him up the stairs that day, and he tried to push around her, so of course she blocked him.” Shelly chuckled with delight. “And what did she see on an easel? A landscape painting. Dalton had always said landscapes were for discount stores, and there he was, painting one.”

“When was this?” Gilroy asked.

“Oh, middle of last October.”

“Did Laura say something to him about it?” I asked.

“She just looked at him and smiled. She didn’t have to say a word. Dalton didn’t do boring old landscapes, so Laura concluded he was painting them on the side for money.”

Gilroy and I exchanged looks.

“Is that what Miss Patchett said to you?” he asked.

Shelly looked confused. “In one of my conversations with her, yes. Isn’t that what you asked me about?”

“How did she arrive at that conclusion?” Gilroy asked.

“Common sense,” Shelly replied. “With that house of his, the man needed a lot more money than his Hidden paintings brought. If you turn out landscapes, and he had just enough skill to do that, you can make a lot of money. I sure don’t think he was making enough from those revolting primitive paintings.”

“Did she have any proof?” he asked.

“It’s just common sense,” Shelly reiterated. “But listen, I haven’t finished. Dalton would’ve been mortified if anyone had found out, landscapes being so old-school, so after she left his studio, Laura decided to find proof of sales. That way she’d be telling the truth about the landscapes when she told people about them. She asked around town for a week—she even asked our neighbors—but no one had any idea. So Laura figured he sold them outside Juniper Grove, since he didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Did she ever ask Clay Blackwell or Isak Karlsen?” Gilroy asked.

“She may have. Who she asked isn’t important. I thought Dalton killed her, but commit murder because he sold landscapes on the side? Now I have my doubts. Dalton could’ve said he was giving the middle class what they craved, out of the kindness of his tiny and shriveled heart. The critics might have loved him all the more.”

“So Laura never found one of his landscape buyers?” Gilroy asked.

“No.” Shelly held up a finger. “Now to this morning, where the story takes a turn. One of my neighbors, Samantha Pillvery, told me Dalton bought a box of old oils from her nephew, sight unseen, about a week and a half ago. Her nephew handles estate sales along the Front Range. These were dreadful paintings bound for the trash. I asked my neighbor to call her nephew and ask how old the paintings were. He said some were dated on the back of the canvases, most of them to the 1950s, some to the 1960s. He thought kids in the family had painted them—that’s how bad they were. Funnier still, Dalton had asked how old the paintings were. That’s all he wanted to know about them.”

I turned to Gilroy. “Old canvases for that 1950s look.”

Shelly laughed. “I think you’re a step ahead of me. So Laura had it partly right. Dalton was painting landscapes on the side, true, but I believe he was forging old landscapes, probably by lesser known artists to play it safe.”

“That’s very perceptive of you, Mrs. Todd,” Gilroy said. “Old canvases would lend authenticity.”

“You can’t fake old canvas,” Shelly said, “and finding 1950s or 1960s canvas isn’t hard. Neither is making the paint look older. Finding substantially older canvases and paint, now that’s more difficult, but that isn’t what Dalton was up to.”

“Would he have used solvent to clean the canvases for his forgeries?” I asked her.

“Solvent, sure. From what I know about art, he would’ve scraped the top layer then scrubbed the residue. You’re left with a sufficiently clean canvas for the new painting.”

I recalled the intense odor of solvent in Dalton’s studio, as if he’d stored an open vat of it rather than the closed jar he would’ve needed for his own paintings and brushes. Had he used his palette knives to scrape down the old paintings? Had the killer driven one of those knives into Dalton’s throat?

“Could Laura have known Dalton was a forger?” I asked Shelly.

She shrugged. “Laura was sharp. It’s conceivable she suspected or knew and hadn’t mentioned it to me yet. If I could figure it out, she could.”

Gilroy stood. “I need Samantha Pillvery’s phone number.”