“I’m pretty sure they’re not totally in love yet. Charlotte zinged the Post for printing gossip.”

“I caught that. Good for her.”

I ran the plates under the faucet while Shasta went back for the cups. Home sweet home was calling to me. Let’s rethink our plan to meet new people once a month. That’s what I’d say to Gilroy. You didn’t like anyone at the brunch? he’d ask. About as much as you did, I’d reply.

I liked Shasta. And Isak, too, though not as much. Laura? She was a puzzle. Charlotte and Brodie were okay, and normally I enjoyed Mary’s company, but Dalton had poisoned the atmosphere and put her in a funk.

“Mary’s back,” Shasta said. She gently placed her cups in the sink. “I told her to sit down and let us take care of it. What’s going on with her?”

“Something’s worrying her.”

“Any idea what?”

“Not a clue.”

Shasta and I made short work of clearing the table and storing leftovers, at one point shooing Mary from the kitchen, and Clay continued to play the amiable host to Isak until, finally, both he and Shasta left.

Gilroy was holding both our coats when I found him talking to the Blackwells in the living room. I put mine on and turned to Clay.

“Do you really like Dalton Taylor’s work?” I asked rather brazenly.

For the first time all day Mary laughed. Tossed back her head, and her golden red hair, and laughed.

Clay did a slight pivot and tipped his head toward the far wall. “See that one? Hidden Little Town Number 7?”

“The one where I’m murdering Maureen Nicholson.”

“Murder aside, guess what it’ll go for at my gallery.”

“I couldn’t begin to.”

“Thirty-five thousand, at least.”

Gilroy let out a puff of air. “You’re kidding.”

“Aspen Leaf Gallery will get twenty-five percent of that.”

“Most galleries take forty to fifty percent,” Mary said. “Dalton is cheating us, and he knows it.”

“That’s not true, Mary.”

Obviously this wasn’t the couple’s first disagreement over the percentage.

“Even thirty percent is too low, Clay, but twenty-five?”

Clay turned to me with his peculiar smile—appearing to bare his teeth while pleading his case—and said, “Most galleries don’t actively promote their artists, but Aspen Leaf will. Dalton knows that. The minute you hang a painting in a gallery, its salability increases. He knows that too. The thing is, Dalton can sell on his own, commission free, but we can get more for him. So what did he do? He upped the price of his work to cover his part of the commission and add to ours. It’s a win-win.”

Not for the gullible buyer, I wanted to say.

“Well, good for you,” Gilroy said, edging for the door. “For pursuing your dream. And best of luck. The gallery’s in Fort Collins, you said?”

“Yes, and you’re both invited to the opening. February twenty-fourth.”

Gilroy took hold of the door knob. “We’ll mark it down.”

“Thanks again,” I said, giving Mary a quick hug. “Everything was delicious. We’ll talk later. I love your kilim couch, by the way.”

Gilroy was heading out the door.

“Lunch in a couple days?” Mary asked. “Or tomorrow?”

“Great idea,” I said. “Wyatt’s? I’ll check my calendar and give you a call tonight.”

CHAPTER 3

“I need a drink,” Gilroy said as he started his SUV.

“You had a mimosa. A sentence I never thought I'd say.”

“I meant coffee.”

“I’ve never been so uncomfortable. Let’s be hermits again.”

As he drove from the curb, heading west for Finch Hill Road, I shifted my phone from my jeans to my coat pocket and a second later withdrew a folded envelope.

“The mysterious papers?” Gilroy asked.

“Must be.”

Out of the envelope came three folded sheets of paper and one photograph. I checked the photo first. “It’s Dalton Taylor."

“Doing what?”

“Holding hands with Shasta Karlsen.” I held it up. “On the back someone’s written, ‘Before Taylor’s divorce, before he said his wife was cheating on him.’”

“Maybe they’re doing an innocent hello or goodbye.”

“No.” I took a closer look. “Nothing innocent about it. It looks like they’re at Grove Coffee, and they have no idea they’re being photographed. Someone shot this from the sidewalk or street. Or maybe from a car, with a telephoto lens.”

“Is it Mary’s handwriting on the back?”

“I don’t think so.” I unfolded the papers, gave them a cursory look, then returned to the first paper. “Holy cow, James. This one’s a copy of a drunk driving record from almost three years ago. Brodie Keegan totaled his car and critically injured his passenger, Eamon Keegan.”

“Related?”

“Probably, but it doesn’t say.”