I wanted to tell her about the two audio bugs in the studio, but Gilroy would ask Isak directly about those, and if Isak placed them, Shasta would find out from him or the rumor grapevine.
“Is it true—what happened in Minnesota?” I asked.
“Isak said no.”
“You don’t believe him.”
“Sophia Geller was sixteen.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Isak was never accused of sleeping with her. If he touched her or pressured her, that would be low, even for him.”
I could see the pain in Shasta’s eyes as she sought an escape. She’d never fully explored what had happened at the Tilton Academy, and she couldn’t bear to delve as deeply as my questions required.
I recalled Dalton’s painting of Isak putting his labels on jams made using others’ recipes. Good grief, recipe stealing was nothing in comparison to what he’d done at Tilton.
Her long, slender fingers drumming the table, Shasta fidgeted in her seat and nibbled on her lower lip.
“I know this is painful,” I said.
“Oh, you have no idea, Rachel. All right, then. Isak is indecent, weak, and stupid, but he’s not a murderer, and he didn’t want Mary to publish an article about him, so he didn’t tell her about Minnesota. That much is clear. So if you’re trying to help Mary, let’s figure out who sent her the lawsuit cover page. What about Dalton?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. After all, Dalton was dead and thus off the suspect list. “Why him?”
“He was angry with me when I broke it off, and he painted incidents from people’s pasts with the intent to embarrass them. Two and two.”
“He often lied about people’s pasts, or told half lies.”
“That was his cover. Saying he made this and that up.” She spread her hands in a gesture of innocence and mimicked Dalton’s voice. “It’s not reality, it’s fiction.”
I gazed out the window, out over Main Street. White Christmas lights, hanging in other windows and wrapped around tree trunks and concrete planters, glittered as if it were still Christmas.
“What do you think of Isak and Clay’s gallery?” I asked, looking back to Shasta.
“I see financial ruin, like Mary does. Our two little boys are chasing an expensive, ruinous dream, and lying to us about what it costs. They should never have hitched their wagons to a talentless painter the likes of Dalton Taylor. I’m sorry he’s dead, especially that he died so horribly . . .” Shasta stopped, her eyes seeming to look once more on the horror she’d seen in his studio. “But he was a pretentious hack, and our houses were mortgaged for that gallery.”
“Your house too?”
“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.”
