Shots in the Dark (15 page)

With that I headed out the door, pulling it closed behind me.

Clay was already waiting for me, idling in the street. His car was an older model Toyota sedan, navy blue, rusted in spots from the salt of too many winters in Wisconsin. For some reason, I envisioned a cluttered, messy interior, yet the inside was neat, clean, and new looking. Clay was a hard guy to peg.

He drove off as soon as I was settled, and headed for the interstate. “I hope you don't intimidate easily,” he said as soon as we were under way. “The Gallaghers live on the lakeshore in Whitefish Bay, and the place is quite impressive. Worth around two and half million or so, I'd guess. I've been to the house a couple of times, when Aidan had parties, and every time I go there, I'm awestruck.”

“I'll be fine,” I said, though I heard the doubt in my voice.

“I cooked up a bit of a story for the two of us,” Clay said, shooting me a sidelong glance. “Aidan is going to tell his family that he ran into us downtown and invited us out. He's going to introduce you as my girlfriend. Are you okay with that?”

I nodded. Lately, I seemed to be everyone's girlfriend except Duncan's.

“Do you think we should come up with a fake name for you? You've been on the news a lot recently, and if the family makes the connection between why you were on the news and any conversations you try to start about Tiffany, I suspect they'll clamp down pretty fast.”

“They may recognize me regardless of what name I use,” I said. “You can introduce me as Mackenzie rather than Mack, if you like. Most of the TV and news coverage referred to me as Mack, because that's the name of the bar, so with Mackenzie, they might not make the connection. We're already lying to them about my relationship to you and our reason for coming to their house. Let's not complicate it even more. Besides, if they do recognize me, it might make it easier to segue to the topic of Tiffany. They don't need to know that we're looking into the case.”

“If there's any of the usual small talk, they're going to ask what you do for a living. How should we answer that?”

I thought about it for a minute. “Why don't we give them a vague truth? We can say I work in sales in the food and beverage industry. If they ask for a company, I'll toss out the name of one of my suppliers.”

“Okay. Should we come up with a story about how the two of us met?”

I looked over at him with a wry smile. “You're very thorough.”

“I like things that are well planned.”

“I'm more of a seat-of-my-pants kind of gal.” I let out an exaggerated sigh and gave him a sad look. “Given our obvious differences, I don't think this fling of ours is going to last, Clay.”

He let out a hearty laugh, the first one I'd heard from him. “Seat of the pants, it is,” he said. “Everybody should live on the edge once in a while.”

We met Aidan Gallagher at the base of the driveway. After climbing out of his car, he leaned in Clay's rolled-down window, letting in the cold, blustery air. It chilled me, and my casted foot, which I was able to cover only with socks, since no shoes or boots would fit over it, felt like it was immersed in icy water. Aidan looked and smelled like money. His hands were manicured, his clothes were high-end, his jaw was square, and his voice was cultured and smooth. He was tall and on the slender side, with blue eyes and dark blond hair that hung down over his forehead in a rakish manner. It all worked together to create a handsome package, and I sensed an air of confidence about him.

After a quick introduction, he looked over at me and said, “I've heard about you. You're some kind of mind reader or something, right?”

“Not exactly,” I said with a wince. “I just have a strong second sense. And sometimes a third,” I added with a wink.

He looked intrigued but asked no more questions. He simply said, “Good luck.”

Clay briefly filled him in on the details we'd discussed during our drive, and with that out of the way, Aidan got back in his car and headed up the long drive. We followed and eventually parked in a massive concrete area in front of the house that was bordered by a three-car garage.

Clay hadn't exaggerated. The house, built on the shore of Lake Michigan, was a sprawling white stone structure with huge windows and a blue roof. The entryway was intimidating enough based solely on its size, but once we went inside, I was awestruck. We entered a high-ceilinged foyer topped off with a massive chandelier. The coat closet was bigger than my bathroom. After shucking our winter outerwear, we walked on gleaming hardwood floors into the living room portion of a large open area. Here there was a high cathedral ceiling and a sweeping wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that tied the living and dining areas together and offered a magnificent view of the lake. Those windows would keep the great room area brightly lit during the day, but it was dusk now, and the setting sun cast the water with a reddish-gold glow that warmed the room. A Persian rug centered the living room furniture, which was plush and covered in a soft material done in a red and brown Moroccan pattern. Large beams crossed the ceiling, and to our right was a fireplace with a stone facade that went all the way up to the peak. Christmas decorations—a tasteful green garland adorned with silver and red glass ornaments and tapered candles—covered the mantel. In the area of the room where the living room flowed into the dining room was a ten-foot-high Christmas tree decorated with the same silver and red ornaments.

The dining area flowed into a pristine, stunning kitchen. Here there were tall white cabinets, high-end stainless-steel appliances, beige granite countertops with veins of gold and black, and a huge island topped with the same granite and surrounded by six high pub-style chairs. The windows here were smaller but they had the same breathtaking view of the lake. Cooling on one of the kitchen counters was an assortment of Christmas cookies, which scented the air with hints of vanilla and almond. But a much stronger aroma, something spicy, emanated from the area around the stove. Beyond the kitchen I could see a combination mudroom and laundry room that was bigger than my kitchen. It, too, had windows overlooking the lake.

Seated at the island were two people: a tall, well-built, brown-haired man who looked to be in his fifties and a tall, slender blond woman who, I assumed, was Mrs. Gallagher. Based on the ages of their children, Mrs. Gallagher had to be around the same age as her husband, but she looked ten years younger. Standing in front of the six-burner stove, which would give any chef a case of envy, was a man who looked to be in his early thirties. I saw the family resemblance at once: he had Aidan's build, eyes, nose, and blond hair, a shock of which hung down over his forehead, but the face was longer, the chin weak and narrow rather than square. His features came together just shy of the handsome, patrician look Aidan possessed.

“Mom, Dad, you remember Clay Sanders, right?” Aidan said as we walked in.

Colin Gallagher rose from his chair and walked over to Clay. “Of course we do,” he said in a deep baritone voice. “How is our ace reporter doing these days?”

“Doing as well as can be expected,” Clay said, shaking Colin's hand.

Colin Gallagher then shifted his attention to me. He was a handsome man, with graying temples, a square jaw, and brilliant blue eyes, which sparkled when he smiled at me. “And who is this?” he asked, extending his hand to me.

“This is my girlfriend, Mackenzie,” Clay said. I noticed that he didn't offer up my last name, and I figured this was intentional.

I took Colin Gallagher's hand, expecting to shake it, but instead he gripped my hand, brought it to his face, and placed a butterfly kiss on the back of it. “You have excellent taste, Clay,” he said.

Aidan said, “I ran into Clay downtown, and we were catching up on old times. I hope it's okay that I invited him and Mackenzie to stop by.”

“Of course it is,” Mrs. Gallagher said with a warm smile. She slid off her seat, walked over to Clay, and gave him a hug. “Good to see you again, Clay.”

She was a beautiful woman with a perfect tan—sprayed or from a bed, I couldn't tell—and bright, lively blue eyes. Her face was heart-shaped; her lips were full; her nose was tiny and slightly upturned. At first I thought she might have had some work done, but I saw a strong resemblance to the pictures I'd seen of Tiffany, which made me think she had come by her attributes naturally.

When she finally released Clay, she turned to me. “And it's a pleasure to meet you, Mackenzie. I'm Kelly Gallagher, Aidan's mom.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

I saw the man at the stove shoot a perturbed look our way. I assumed this was the other brother, Rory, and wondered if his annoyance was due to our presence or the fact that his mother had claimed only Aidan as her son. He saw me looking at him and quickly turned back to tend to what was cooking on the stove.

“What happened to your leg?” Kelly asked, eyeing my cast.

“Car accident,” I said, dismissing her concern with a wave of my hand. “It's nothing serious. More of a nuisance than anything.”

Kelly studied my face with a curious expression as I talked, and when I was done, she said, “Have we met before? You look vaguely familiar.”

“I don't think so,” I said with a smile. “In fact, I'm certain we haven't. I'd remember meeting someone as lovely as you.” Eager to change the subject, I added, “I apologize for dropping in on you this way, but I'm glad I had a chance to see your house.” I turned and looked out the windows at the lake. “It is stunningly beautiful. Your view is amazing.”

“Thank you,” she said with a proud smile, and Colin Gallagher beamed, as well.

I glanced back at the man by the stove and saw he was again watching us. He didn't frown, nor did he smile, but the narrowing of his eyes told me he was observing the goings-on with an intense scrutiny.

Aidan saw the direction of my gaze and in a teasing tone said, “That useless hunk of flesh over there by the stove is my brother, Rory. Rory, this is Clay and Mackenzie.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Rory said, still not smiling. He turned back to the stove and said over his shoulder, “Your timing is impeccable, as usual, Aidan. I'm whipping up a pot of my famous chili with the usual fixings, and it will all be ready in about one minute.”

“I don't want to impose,” I said, even though I kind of did. Not only did I want to dig into this family's history and dynamic, but I also wanted to dig into Rory's chili. It smelled delicious.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Kelly said. “We have plenty. Please join us.”

We settled in around the island, and Rory brought over the chili and set it atop the island, still in the pot he had cooked it in. He dropped a ladle into the pot and said, “Help yourselves. I'll get the corn bread.”

Kelly grabbed bowls from one of the cabinets, and then she went to the fridge and brought out some shredded cheddar cheese and a dish of sour cream. A moment later Rory set the corn bread on the table—cut up into squares on a plate, rather than in a pan—and then he grabbed a crystal butter dish from another counter and set this on the island, as well.

We all dug in. The Gallaghers insisted that Clay and I serve ourselves first, and I gave myself a generous helping. The chili was delicious: hot, spicy, flavorful, and the perfect accompaniment to the cold winter afternoon.

Anxious to keep the conversation focused on anything but me, I asked the Gallaghers about their house, guessing correctly that they would expound on this topic for quite some time. At one point, Kelly gave me the perfect lead-in for the topic I really wanted to discuss.

“Our daughter, Tiffany, made those stained-glass lamp shades you see in the dining and living rooms,” she said. “Tiff was a talented artist, and she loved painting and crafting glass. She had a workshop of sorts down in the basement.”

“Had?” I said, swallowing a yummy bite of buttery corn bread. “She doesn't do it anymore?”

There was an awkward silence around the table, and I saw Kelly and Colin exchange looks. Rory kept his face down and focused on his bowl of chili. Aidan was the one who finally answered.

“My sister was killed nearly a year ago. Her husband, Ben Middleton, was convicted of her murder. Perhaps you heard about it in the news?”

I looked properly aghast. “Oh no. That carjacking thing?” I said.

Kelly nodded, looking sad. Colin simply looked angry.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” I said, hating the rote sound of this trite phrase. I looked at the lamp shades again and added, “She must have been very talented. Tell me about her.”

It was a bold request, one I wasn't sure would work. The men all frowned, Clay included, though I wasn't sure if he genuinely disapproved of my request or was merely putting on a show. Kelly, however, was eager to talk.

“Tiffany was beautiful, smart, and a very talented artist,” she said. “Some of her paintings hung in a gallery downtown, and several sold for quite a bit of money. One critic labeled her a bright star with a dark center.” Kelly paused and flashed a timid smile. “Her paintings were rather dark, kind of creepy. Not my style at all, but she definitely had her fans.”

“Do you have any of her paintings here?” I asked.

Kelly nodded. “There are several down in the basement, in her workshop. We pulled them all out of the gallery after she died, even though the owners said they would probably sell better and for more money now that she's gone. But we wanted to keep every bit of her we could, and we didn't want a bunch of vultures picking over her remains.”

“Kelly,” Colin chastised with a frown. He shook his head. He and Aidan then exchanged a look I couldn't quite interpret; Rory kept his head down, focusing on his bowl of chili. Clay sat with a spoonful of chili poised between his bowl and his mouth, studying the various expressions on everyone's faces.