“Dalton added a blind person’s cane to her figure in it,” Clay said.
Mary glanced from Clay to me. “Laura was going blind,” I explained, “and she didn’t want anyone to know that until they had to. She didn’t want pity, but most of all she didn’t want jubilation from Dalton. He’d celebrate her misfortune—the artist going blind—and she knew it. It was her misfortune, and she’d let everyone know about it in her own way and in her own time. But someone told Dalton, and he added the cane to that painting—on December twenty-eighth.”
“Karlsen suspected she was losing her sight,” Gilroy added. “He asked Charlotte Wynn to confirm that by going through volunteer aid records at Town Hall. She did as she was asked.”
“What on earth?” Mary asked, her eyes riveted on Clay. “What’s been going on behind my back?”
“You’re one to talk!” Clay snapped as he got to his feet. “Blackmail? Really?”
Mary turned her back on him.
Gilroy aimed a finger at Number 8. “Who asked Taylor to add the cane to that painting?”
A long pause ensued before Clay said, “I did.”
Mary spun around. “Why?”
“Karlsen told you she was losing her sight?” Gilroy asked.
“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.
