“Let us know what happens,” Julia said. “Handcuff Mary Blackwell, Chief Gilroy,” she said on her way out.
The front door shut. Suddenly the house was still.
“Mary Blackwell?” he said.
“In a minute.” I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. Then I cradled his face in my hands, his five o’clock shadow slightly rough on my palms, and kissed him.
“I should come home late every day,” he whispered.
We held each other, and I felt the weariness in his muscles. “Did you order dinner from Wyatt’s?”
“No. Busy day.”
“Go sit. I’ll whip something up.”
In the kitchen, he slung his coat over a chair and sat. “Why am I supposed to handcuff Mary Blackwell?”
I turned back from the refrigerator. “I phoned her. She lied about being blackmailed. Those things she put in my pocket? Except for the photo of Shasta and Dalton—that was from Brodie—she sent them to herself. No one put them in her mailbox. She knew about the mortgage, and Charlotte Wynn used her position at Roche and White to get hold of Brodie’s DUI and Isak’s lawsuit. Not to mention the Aid Program.”
Gilroy nodded. He looked like I’d just told him we were having chicken instead of beef.
“You knew?” I said.
“Some of it. Some of it I only suspected.”
“I should’ve known it was her.”
“It’s not a bad thing to trust people.”
My nose back in the fridge, I found chicken tenders, cheese, an onion, and tortillas. Then I opened a can of sliced Anaheim peppers and set to work making chicken quesadillas.
“OK, tell me about Isak Karlsen,” I said as I started the chicken frying and chopped the veg. “Did he bug Dalton’s studio?”
“He did. He admitted it.”
“Shasta told me Isak knew she was cheating.”
“When did you talk to her?”
“A couple hours ago—and at Grove Coffee with tons of people around, before you ask. I take it Royce and Julia told you that Clay and Isak were arguing three blocks from Dalton’s house after the brunch.”
“They came to the station.”
“Clay said something like, ‘If people find out, forget about the gallery,’ and then something like ‘That idiot.’ I think the idiot in question was Dalton.”
“Because of his forgeries, I’ll bet.”
“He must have painted a lot of them. The stolen landscape from his studio—and the covered painting that was taken—could have been forgeries, or studies for forgeries.”
“Likely.”
“Why did no one discover what he was up to until now?”
“Hmm.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Gilroy had entered zoned-out detective mode. I put a large pan on the stove and heated the first tortilla, tossing cheese and the rest of the ingredients on top of it. Proper quesadillas are made on an open grill, but my pan method yielded a quick and tasty meal. Anyway, I’d learned my husband wasn’t fussy about food. Good thing.
By the time we started eating, Gilroy had exited detective mode.
“During the interview, I thought I’d ask Isak if he and Clay knew Taylor had forged paintings,” he told me. “He was surprised, but in a calculated way, if you know what I mean.”
“He was faking it.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve decided Mary’s so-called blackmail isn’t linked to the murders.”
“Probably not, I agree. She had us running in circles.”
“I could murder her.”
“Don’t say that in front of the police chief.”
“Laura and the newly painted cane, though. That’s linked to her death.”
Gilroy nodded, chewed, then said, “She felt betrayed.”
“Shelly Todd said the only people who knew about Laura’s eyes were her doctor, her sister, and Shelly herself.”
