“He said she was getting sloppy and we needed to hire someone else before she lost it completely. We needed to be a step ahead. Laura almost demanded that she do our gallery brochures and flyers and even signs. I tried to talk to her, before I knew about her going blind, but she thought it was her right as a family friend, and she said she needed the money because she was getting older and couldn’t work forever. I didn’t know . . .”

“How did you convince Dalton to add the cane?” I asked. “Didn’t he think that was defacing his work?”

“At first. But I told him”—his eyes shot Mary’s way—“I told him, and Isak agreed, that we’d lower our gallery fee from twenty-eight to twenty-five percent.”

Mary exploded. “Because he painted a cane in one of his stinking paintings? What’s wrong with you? That’s our money, not yours!”

It didn’t escape my notice that Mary was angrier about the loss of percentage than the deliberate cruelty of adding the cane to Dalton’s painting.

“It was Isak’s idea!” Clay shouted back. “I just asked Dalton to add it because I was supposed to see him that day.” He turned to Gilroy. “I didn’t kill Laura! Believe me, I didn’t kill anyone! The only person I saw after the brunch was Dalton, and you know he was alive then. Isak told me he was going to talk to Laura. Isak.”

“After you and he met at Taylor’s house?” Gilroy asked.

Clay hung his head.

Her hand covering her mouth, Mary backed away from him, all the way to Number 8.

“He said he’d calm her down, no problem. He’d offer her more work with the gallery, more money. He said she’d never, never . . .”

“Tell anyone about Dalton’s forgeries,” Gilroy said.

“Yeah. He said she’d never try to hurt us like that.”

I stifled a bitter laugh. “Like you did her.”

“She changed her mind when Isak went to see her about the painting,” Gilroy said. “She knew then that he was the one who’d betrayed her, by telling Dalton Taylor of all people, and she no longer cared what happened to your gallery.”

“I think so,” Clay mumbled.

“And you didn’t put two and two together?” Gilroy asked. “Patchett threatens revenge after seeing the painting, Karlsen goes to see her, and she’s found dead soon after?”

Clay shook his head. “I didn’t want to. Please believe me, I just didn’t want to know.”

“You fool,” Mary said, glaring with horror at her husband. “Everything’s gone now. The gallery, our house—and our marriage. All of it’s over. You destroyed our lives.”

“Did you kill Taylor?” Gilroy asked.

“No, no, I swear,” Clay cried pitifully. “I swear, Chief. I could never murder.”

Gilroy made a quick call, instructing Underhill and Turner to arrest Isak Karlsen, and to put out an all-points bulletin if they couldn’t find him.

Then, turning back to Clay, he said, “You knew Isak Karlsen was a killer.”

“I didn’t know for sure,” Clay whined. “I didn’t. We’re friends. We were friends.”

“You knew Karlsen killed Laura Patchett,” Gilroy shot back, “and because you lied to me, he was able to kill again.”

Gilroy pulled out his handcuffs, and Mary walked out of the room.

CHAPTER 21

Gilroy arrived home shortly before midnight. I’d waited up for him, knowing he needed to unwind when he got home and knowing I couldn’t sleep until I found out if he’d arrested Isak. It took great restraint on my part to not call the station.

I heated two cups of water in the microwave, plopped a teabag in each—lemon herbal—and handed one to Gilroy. “Couch,” I commanded, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“You didn’t need to wait up,” he said, dropping wearily to the cushion. He propped his feet on the coffee table.

I sat next to him. “How are you doing?”

“I’m tired. I sent Clay home after booking and interviewing him. Karlsen was sleeping like a baby at home, completely unaware. Underhill and Turner arrested him without incident and we interviewed him at the station. He confessed to both murders, and he’s spending the night in a cell.”

“Was it Underhill or Turner who pulled all-night desk duty?”

“Underhill.”

“Lucky man. How is Shasta?”

“I think she was devastated. She never suspected her husband could kill.”

“She still loves him, in spite of what he did in Minnesota and in spite of her having an affair. I hope she can get out of the gallery deal somehow and keep her house.”

“The victims never thought Karlsen was a killer, either. Karlsen described what he did—how easy it was to approach Patchett and Taylor, even holding a palette knife in front of him.”

“Sounds like he’s proud of himself.”

Gilroy nodded. “I think he is. He said that when he threatened Patchett with the knife, she was indignant and insulting, which made him angrier, and Taylor, even worse, mocked him. He told me he was surprised he’d killed Patchett but not at all surprised that he’d killed Taylor. He said he’d do it again, that Taylor was such a horrible excuse for a human that people would thank him when they found out he’d killed him.”

“Isak’s a horrible excuse himself.” I took a sip of my lemon tea, relishing the warmth of the cup, a counterpoint to our January-chilly living room. “Taylor wasn’t all bad. I think he made a wrong turn somewhere in life and never got back on track. He believed a monumental lie.”

“About?”

“About life being short and art being forever.”

“You liked him.”

“Not liked exactly. I felt sorry for him. In a sad way, he had life all backwards. He may have started to realize that.”

“He was cruel.”

“He was. I still wish I had the landscape he gave us. It was practice for a forgery, yeah, but it was beautiful.”

“Isak confessed to stealing it and shredding it.”

“I can’t believe he broke into our house.”

“He stole two other forgeries from Taylor’s studio, the covered one on the easel—partially finished—and another one Taylor had finished.”