“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.”
“Is the report real?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“It looks real. It’s from the police department in Nampa, Idaho.”
“What’s Mary doing with it?”
I flipped to the second paper. “This looks real too. The first page of a second mortgage on the Blackwells’ house, taken out last year.”
“Okay. That’s weird.”
“Do you know what that means? Someone sent these to Mary since—”
“—she wouldn’t give you a copy of her mortgage for the heck of it.”
“Neither would she give me Brodie’s police report. What would she expect me to do with it?”
“If someone sent those to Mary, it could also mean this second mortgage was news to her.”
I stared out the window at the snow-covered lawns and the old, familiar houses of Juniper Grove flowing past. “I wonder if the Blackwells are having money problems. If Clay’s the one who pays the bills and Mary keeps hands off, she might not know. Or Clay might be the one who doesn’t know.”
