Gilroy hadn’t said a word—save for Yup—since leaving the living room. His silence, his nonexistent body language, and the stony expression I’d just glimpsed on his face meant he had switched to detective mode. He hadn’t really heard me. He was, on the one hand, on alert, and on the other, he was in another world.
And in the Blackwells’ brunch world, something was very wrong, a realization that had been creeping up on me since Gilroy and I had arrived. He felt it too, I was sure. The various undercurrents of acrimony, all those enormous paintings on the Blackwells’ walls, Clay’s forced cheeriness, the talk of libel, Laura’s sudden anger, and, oh yeah, Mary’s papers in my coat pocket.
“Well, I hate to leave, but . . .” Charlotte’s chair scraped over the sunroom’s tile floor.
“You’re going?” Mary asked.
I saw a glance pass between Charlotte and Brodie.
“I’m doing some at-home work for the firm,” she answered. “Not much, but I want to have it ready for tomorrow. First work day of the new year.”
“They use you,” Clay said.
“They’re going to pay most of my way through law school,” Charlotte said. “If anything, I’m using them.”
Mary rose. “I think that’s good of them. I’ll get your coat.”
A second later Brodie stood and claimed that he too had work to do. He thanked Clay, said goodbye and happy New Year to the rest of us, and trailed after Mary in search of his coat.
“Time for me too,” Dalton said, setting his napkin on the table.
“Leaving already?” Clay asked.
“Yeah, think so. We’ll talk tomorrow. I want to make some changes to the gallery opening.”
“Changes?” Isak asked. “It’s late in the game, Dalton.”
Shasta leaned forward, peering around Gilroy. “Rachel, why don’t we help clear the table?”
Clay protested like a good host for all of two seconds before relenting. Mary was in a mood, and if we could help cheer her, good.
I popped the last nibble of croissant in my mouth and started clearing the table. Gilroy gathered our cutlery and set his plate on top of mine.
In the kitchen, Shasta set her stack of plates in the sink and whispered, “Did you catch something going on between Brodie and Charlotte?”
“Am I deaf and blind?” I asked rhetorically.
She let out a belly laugh. “Young love. Or young like, anyway.”
“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.”
