Where Truth Lies (3 page)
T
he clock on the dash of Grace’s Ford Taurus read 8:45 p.m. when she reached the outskirts of New Hope. Getting out of Boston had been a nightmare. After two wrong turns, a flat tire and a three-mile traffic jam on I-95, she had finally spotted the sign for Route 29. Fifteen minutes later, she was crossing the bridge that connected Lambertville, New Jersey to New Hope, Pennsylvania.
She knew little about this quaint little town, except that it was situated in the heart of one of the most beautiful and historic areas of Pennsylvania—rural Bucks County. It was a peaceful, quiet town, although a quick check through the archives of a local paper had confirmed what Sarah had told her. Twenty years ago, a nineteen-year old girl named Felicia Newman had disappeared, and although it was suspected that she had been murdered, her body was never recovered. Five days later, a mentally disturbed man, also a resident of New Hope, was arrested. Since then, there had been little crime in the town—until Steven’s murder.
Grace slowed down and glanced at the directions. “A right turn will take you to the cottage,” Sarah had said. “To go to the gallery, you keep straight on Bridge Street.”
After driving for more than nine hours, the thought of curling up in a warm bed, even a
strange
bed, was infinitely more appealing than an inspection tour of an art gallery. But she couldn’t help it. She was curious. She had to see if Steven’s pride and joy was as spectacular as he had claimed.
Bridge Street, she soon found out, was partly commercial and partly residential, which made finding a parking space at this time of night, when everyone was home, more difficult than she had expected. She found a slot in front of a shop called Red Hot Momma’s, a boutique of some sort that she would definitely have to check out in the morning.
After shutting off the engine, she got out of the car and made her way down the stone walk that led to the gallery. To her surprise, the door wasn’t locked, and no alarm went off when she opened it. Letting go of the knob, she ran her hand along the wall in search of a light switch.
Before she could find it, a dark form sprang out and slammed into her with a force that sent her crashing against the wall.
“Hey!” Instincts rather than wisdom took over. As the figure prepared to strike again, Grace let out a bloodcurdling scream, and, using a technique she had learned in self-defense class, she executed a perfect heel-kick to the groin area. From the
Ahrr
sound that came out of the intruder’s mouth, she knew she had hurt him.
Thank you, Frye boots.
“You bitch,” the man grunted.
He sounded as enraged as a wounded animal, and would have torn her to shreds if she had given him the chance. She didn’t. Instead, she raised her foot, ready to deliver a front kick to the knee, but this time, her opponent saw the blow coming. Staying just out of her reach, he gave her a vicious shove and ran out.
She hit the wall again and the back of her head exploded in pain. She felt herself slide down the wall, her eyelids fluttering, as she tried to catch a glimpse of her attacker.
Her vision started to blur. She struggled to remain conscious, but her mind kept playing tricks on her. Maybe she should scream again. The problem was, she couldn’t find the strength to open her mouth. Or keep her eyes focused, so she closed them, welcoming the darkness.
Grace wasn’t sure what she saw first—the pale green walls around her, or the handsome man in a white coat shining something in her eye.
“Miss McKenzie?” He smiled and tucked the penlight in his breast pocket. “Welcome back. I’m Doctor Fenley, and you are in the Solebury Memorial emergency room. How are you feeling?”
She touched the back of her head. Ouch. “Like I was hit with a cast-iron pan.”
He laughed. “Luckily you weren’t.”
It all came back to her then: the drive to New Hope, her stop at the Hatfield Gallery, her attempt to stop a robber. “How did I get here?”
“The paramedics brought you in a few minutes ago. Apparently, a young couple passing by heard screams coming from the art gallery and rushed to help. A man ran out just as they turned the corner, jumped into an SUV and sped away. They found you on the floor, unconscious, and called 9-1-1.”
“Am I all in one piece?”
“As far as I can see. You have a mild concussion and a bump on the back of your head that will remain tender for a couple of days. How’s your vision?”
“I don’t see two of you, if that’s what you mean.”
“Excellent. Any fuzziness?”
“No.”
He took a clipboard from the foot of the bed and wrote something in what she presumed was her chart. “We’ll keep you here overnight and I’ll stop by in the morning to see how you’re doing.”
She sat up, trying to look perky. “Is an overnight stay necessary? I feel fine.”
No, you don’t. Stop showing off to the handsome doctor.
“Standard procedures, Miss McKenzie. Concussions can sometime take a bad turn.”
She lay back on her pillow, already sorry for trying to be a hero. “You’re the doctor.”
“That’s my girl. Now, do you feel up to having a couple of visitors?”
“Already? I just arrived in town.”
“This is not your standard welcome wagon. I’m talking about New Hope’s chief of police and his deputy. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”
And she had questions of her own. “All right.”
The doctor hooked the chart back on the bed railing. “I’ll send them right in, but they shouldn’t stay more than a few minutes. If you get tired, you just tell them.”
He walked out and she heard him talk to someone, then the curtain parted again, and two men walked in. The first one had a definite look of authority. His step was confident, his dark blue uniform crisp, even at this late hour, and his gaze sharp. He was in his early-to-midforties with brown hair cut flat on top, an acne-scarred face and a square jaw. He reminded her of SpongeBob. The man next to him was younger with an easy smile and light blue eyes.
“Good evening, Miss McKenzie,” the older man said in a formal tone. “I’m Chief of Police Josh Nader, and this is Deputy Rob Montgomery.”
She was too tired, and too worried about the gallery to waste time on small talk. “Did you catch the robber?”
“Not yet. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could give me a description.”
“It was a man.”
The deputy took a small notebook from his pocket. “Is that all you can tell me?”
“It was too dark for me to see more than that.” She looked at the chief, trying to gauge his humor level. “He might be walking funny.”
His interest perked up. “Did he have some sort of physical impairment?”
“You could say that. I kicked him in the balls.”
The deputy let out a hearty laugh that the chief silenced with one glacial look. Okay, humor level, zero.
“Fighting with an intruder is never a good idea, Miss McKenzie.”
“It is if you know what you’re doing.”
“You could have been hurt.”
Being careful not to move her head, she sat up. “How did he disconnect the alarm?”
The chief held up a small plastic bag. Inside was a thin strip of metal. “With this.”
“What is it?”
“A tool that he placed over the magnetic sensor so the door could be opened without triggering the alarm. We found it still taped to the doorjamb. Thanks to the young couple who ran to your rescue, he had no time to remove it. Hopefully, we’ll find some fingerprints.”
“I had no idea that it could be so easy to get past a burglar alarm.”
“This one wasn’t particularly sophisticated. One or two motion detectors would have helped. Unfortunately, there weren’t any. You’d be amazed how many business owners have antiquated security systems these days.”
“Was anything taken?”
“At first glance, it doesn’t appear so. The showroom is undisturbed. Only the back room, or part of it, was searched. Several paintings were tossed on the floor, but there’s no way of telling if anything is missing.”
“The man I ran into was empty-handed,” she said, starting to feel sleepy. “Unless he loaded his car before I arrived.”
“He may not have had time to take anything. At any rate, we’ll start a full investigation and keep you informed.”
Wow. Sarah must have made one hell of an impression on him. “When will I be able to reopen the gallery?”
“Our crime scene team is there now. They should be done in an hour or so. But before you reopen, I’d like you to stop by my office in the morning and give us a statement. My deputy will be glad to pick you up and bring you to the police department.”
“I appreciate that. Will my car be all right where it is?”
“Is that the black Taurus with the Massachusetts plates?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll be fine. In spite of what you’ve just experienced, New Hope is really a peaceful, law-abiding town.”
Tell that to Steven, Grace thought as she closed her eyes.
Following another thorough examination, Grace was released from the hospital the next morning, and escorted to the police station by Deputy Rob Montgomery, who had arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. Once there, she had given the chief the same statement she had given the night before, signed it and had accepted the deputy’s offer to walk her to the gallery, which was only a few blocks away.
She felt well rested, and except for the tenderness in the back of her skull, there were no symptoms from last night’s attack.
Standing alone in the gallery’s showroom, Grace took her first good look around. The crime scene team had left the place a mess. White dust was everywhere, furniture had been overturned, and a large, L-shaped desk was in complete disarray.
Grace picked up a chair that had been knocked down and put it back in an upright position as she let her gaze sweep from one end of the room to the other. Steven had made the most of the fifty-by-thirty-foot space by hanging paintings of various sizes close together. Larger works were propped up on easels placed throughout the room. She counted forty-five paintings ranging in price from fifteen hundred to fifteen thousand dollars. A small portion of the work displayed was devoted to western art and established artists. The rest of the inventory was comprised of colorful Bucks County landscapes signed by names she didn’t recognize.
She walked across the room to the desk where art catalogs, correspondence, newspapers and invoices were scattered across it. Behind the desk was an archway that led to the back room.
There, too, she found evidence of police work, as well as minor damage left by the alleged robber. Several paintings lay on the floor, facedown, as if somebody, presumably her aggressor, had gone through the stack, one by one, before letting each painting fall. Half a dozen were still standing, suggesting that he hadn’t had time to examine them.
Regardless of what the intruder had been looking for, one thing was certain. He had no respect for art.
Except for the white dust used to collect fingerprints, the rest of the room was intact. A Formica counter held a microwave and a Braun coffeemaker, as well as an assortment of frame samples and more art catalogs. A small cupboard housed containers of coffee, sugar and creamer.
A quick check of an upper shelf revealed, of all things, a tackle box, also dusted for fingerprints. To her recollection, Steven hadn’t been much of a fisherman. In fact, he had hated the sport.
Curious, she opened the box. It was filled with lures. Not just any lures, but some of the best available in today’s market. She should know. Her father was an avid fisherman and had introduced Grace to the sport at an early age.
She looked at the selection in front of her. There were squid manglers, glow-in-the-dark spoons, crank baits, litterbugs, walleyes and bomber flats. She even spotted a Wigg-Lure, which die-hard fishermen claimed was the most phenomenal fishing lure ever invented.
What in the world was Steven doing with state-of-the-art lures?
She put the Wigg-Lure back in its compartment and the tackle box back on the shelf. Steven’s new hobbies were none of her business. She had more pressing matters to tend to.
She walked over to the paintings and started to pick them up, one by one, inspecting them carefully as she went. Each painting had a Post-it stuck to it with the name of the artist, the title of the work and the price. Only the last painting sparked instant recognition. It was from Eduardo Arroyo, an early twentieth-century artist who had produced more than a hundred paintings in his lifetime. This particular canvas, about twenty-eight by twenty-three inches, was the sixth and last of his Santa Fe series. Showing a typical day in the town square, with merchants displaying their ware on colorful blankets, it was entitled
Market Day.
What was the work of one of the country’s premiere American West artists doing in a back room, instead of being displayed along with the other western paintings in the showroom?
She looked at the Post-it, and blinked. Twenty-five thousand dollars? For a painting that was worth at least four times that?
Steven had been fond of western art, but not particularly knowledgeable, which might explain his underpricing. But what about the dealer, or the collector who owned the painting? Didn’t they know what they were selling? And what it was worth?
Fortunately, Sarah had given her carte blanche to do as she saw fit and that’s what she would do. She planned to start by taking all sixteen paintings to the front room, including the Arroyo, and check Steven’s paperwork for more information on the latter.
She was dusting a frame when someone behind her said, “So
you’re
Grace McKenzie.”
A
woman stood on the threshold of the gallery, leaning against the doorjamb. One hand was on her hip, while the other played with a long, blond curl. She was in her early thirties, no taller than five-three or four, with almond-shaped blue eyes and a small petulant mouth painted a bright red. She wore a celery-green denim jacket with embroidered lapels, snug jeans tucked into ankle boots, and chandelier earrings that shimmered in the October sunlight.
Her expression was curious as she inspected Grace from head to toe. “I’ll say this for Steven. He had good taste in women.” She gestured toward the door. “I knocked. Guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Guess I didn’t,” Grace replied, matching the woman’s casual tone.
The visitor moved aside as Grace walked back into the showroom. “I’m Denise Baxter, by the way.”
Baxter.
That made her the wife of Fred Baxter, the man charged with Steven’s murder.
“I figured I’d come and tell you the dirt about me before you heard it from the townspeople. That way you’ll know the real scoop.”
Grace wiped her hands on a paper towel. “You don’t need to tell me anything, Mrs. Baxter—”
“Please, call me Denise. Everybody does.”
“All right, Denise. As I was saying, you don’t owe me any explanation. And if it makes you feel better, I was never big on gossip, idle or otherwise.”
The young woman studied her for a moment more, then bobbed her head. “Yup, you’re exactly like Steven described you—straight to the point.” Her gaze shifted to a spot on the floor, halfway between the desk and the front door. “It feels strange being here. It’s my first time since…” She stopped, as though she couldn’t say the words.
Grace followed her gaze. “Is that where they found Steven’s body?”
Denise nodded. “Nobody was allowed near the place while the yellow tape was on. All I saw, a couple of days later, was the chalk outline. Then the investigation was over and Mrs. Hatfield had the entire gallery scrubbed clean.” She returned her gaze to Grace. “She hated me on sight.”
Grace smiled. “Don’t take it personally. Sarah is very hard to please. Trust me on that.”
“Steven blamed her for the breakup between the two of you.”
How like Steven to put the blame on someone else. “Did he really?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He told me how he messed up, but he felt that if it hadn’t been for his mother being so hard on you, you would have forgiven him and stuck around.”
“In that case, he was deluding himself. I broke up with Steven because he cheated on me. Pure and simple. Call me old-fashioned, but trust and loyalty rank high on my list of priorities, especially between a man and a woman about to be married. As for Sarah, she had nothing to do with my decision. I had come to terms with her attitude toward me by simply ignoring it.”
Denise looked at her with undisguised admiration. “You have more guts than I have. One look at the woman and my knees turned to jelly.” She paused before adding, “I can see why Steven was so fond of you. You don’t take any crap from anyone.”
Grace smiled. “Is that what he told you?”
“No, that’s what I’ve been hearing all morning. The way you fought back that robber last night is the talk of the town. Where did you learn to kick like that?”
“In kickboxing class. When you live in the city and work until late at night, self-defense becomes a necessity.”
“Do you have to defend yourself often?”
“Actually, this was my first time. Hopefully my last.”
“Are you all right? Lorraine at the café says that you spent the night in the hospital.”
News traveled fast in a small town. “I’m fine. Just some bumps and bruises.”
Denise sat on the stool in front of the desk, making herself at home. “You seem like a good person.”
“You can tell that after only a few minutes?”
“I’m a good judge of character. How about you? Are you a good judge of character?”
“I like to think so.”
“Let’s put you to the test. What do you think of me?”
Grace laughed. The woman was relentless, and yet, there was something about her that was endearing. “I think you’re very pretty.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“All right.” Grace sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk and put her arms on the armrests. “I think you’re honest—a little insecure, perhaps, but that doesn’t seem to interfere with your candor. And in spite of what you say, I think you’re very gutsy. The fact that you’re here proves it.”
“Hmm.”
“Am I right?”
“Pretty much. You and I could be friends, you know. God knows I could use a friend. As you’ll soon find out, I’m not the most popular person in town these days.”
“Because of your affair with Steven?”
“That, but mostly because of Fred’s arrest. The people in New Hope worship him. He was so much more than their police chief. He was their friend, their champion, their advisor. They could talk to him about anything. Fred was always there, ready to help. I can’t even tell you how many marriages he saved, just by making each couple talk to each other. The residents revered him almost as much as they do Father Donnelly, who’s pretty much of a saint in these parts. And now, Fred’s in jail and it’s all my fault.”
“Guilt is a heavy burden to carry, Denise. And it doesn’t change anything. All it does is make you feel bad.”
“I wouldn’t feel half as bad if Fred was guilty, but he isn’t. He didn’t kill Steven!”
There was a conviction in her voice as she spoke those words that made Grace pay instant attention. “I don’t understand. From what I heard—”
“I know what you heard. None of it is true. My husband did not kill Steven Hatfield.”
“Wasn’t his gun found outside the gallery? With his fingerprints on it?”
“Pft.”
Denise gave a disdainful toss of her blond curls. “Do you think for one second that anyone with an ounce of intelligence would drop the murder weapon as he fled? Which is what Chief Nader says happened.”
“It does sound a little…”
“Sloppy. And Fred is anything but sloppy. That’s what I told Josh. The man worked with Fred since the day he got out of the army. He knows him better than anyone.”
“But you said there was an investigation.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you can call that an investigation. The little Josh did, he did for show.”
“What do
you
think happened?”
Looking restless, Denise stood up and started walking around the gallery, stopping to look at a painting every now and then. “It all started at Pat’s Pub, where Fred likes to stop for a beer every evening, you know, just to shoot the bull with his friends. That evening, he walked in on a conversation that sent him into orbit. Cal and Lou Badger, two hopeless morons, were talking about me and Steven, apparently in vivid details.
“Fred would have killed them with his bare hands if Eddie—that’s the pub’s owner—hadn’t stopped him. Then he stormed out, and because he was in such a rage, everyone assumed he was on his way here, to the gallery.”
“He wasn’t?”
“Fred isn’t the type to make a scene in a place of business. He’s much too decent to do that. He went home to wait for me.”
“So you can vouch for him? You can give him an alibi?”
“No.” Denise’s shoulders slumped. “I was working on a new line. I make jewelry,” she explained. “And I didn’t leave my shop until about seven. When I got home, the police were there, handcuffing Fred.”
“If your husband didn’t do it, then who did?”
“Take your pick.”
That was a strange comment. Steven wasn’t the type to have enemies. “What do you mean by that?”
“Steven had his share of enemies in this town, starting with Buzz Brown.”
“Who is Buzz Brown?”
“He owns a large farm on Route 232. Six months ago his wife became very ill. Buzz tried to sell his property to a developer so he could move Alma to Arizona, but Steven, who was a member of the township planning board, strongly objected to the developer’s plan to build three hundred single-family homes on the site.
“When the township residents heard that the subdivision would destroy the character of the area, increase traffic and raise taxes, they started attending the planning board meetings and voiced their concerns. As a result, the application was denied and a few weeks later, Alma died. Buzz held Steven personally responsible for his wife’s death. They never spoke after that.”
“Six months is a long time, don’t you think?” Grace asked. “Assuming that Buzz Brown was mad enough to kill, why didn’t he do it right away?”
“Because if he had, he would have been the number one suspect.”
Obviously, Denise had given the case a lot of thought. “You said that Steven had his share of enemies? Who are the others?”
“The dean of the local college, John Amos.”
“The same college where Steven taught an art course twice a week?”
Denise nodded. “As you know only too well, Steven was a hopeless womanizer. One of the coeds reported him for sexual harassment. The dean wanted to fire Steven on the spot, but the faculty intervened in his favor and he was allowed to stay. The dean was furious.”
“Why was he allowed to stay?”
“Why do you think? Steven’s mother stepped in, made a generous donation to the college, and that was that. John Amos is lucky
he
didn’t get fired.”
The incident must have been humiliating for the dean, but hardly a reason for murder. “Who else?”
“I can’t name anyone
specifically,
” Denise said. “But the way Steven flirted with the women here in town…” She rolled her eyes again. “They all loved the attention, but the husbands and boyfriends, well, that was another matter.”
“Was he sleeping with any of the women?”
For the first time, Denise’s gaze faltered. “No.” She looked away. “He wasn’t.”
Grace gave her a long look. The question had made Denise uncomfortable.
Perhaps sensing Grace’s doubts, Denise turned around. “If you think that
I
killed Steven,” she said, “forget it. I can’t shoot to save my life. Ask Carmine, who runs the shooting range. He’ll tell you. Fred took me target shooting a few times, before he finally gave up. Besides, like I said, I was at the shop. A lot of people saw me there.”
Like art, people were never quite the way they seemed. There were layers to be peeled and angles to study. Denise’s seemingly forthright manner had taken a different turn. She was hiding something, perhaps to protect herself, perhaps to protect her husband.
“I’m sure a competent attorney will unravel the mystery,” Grace said.
Another
pft.
“Miles sucks. I wanted to hire someone with clout, a seasoned lawyer, experienced in criminal cases, but Fred won’t talk to me. I haven’t seen him since they took him in.” She sounded resigned, and a little defeated.
Grace couldn’t think of anything adequate to say except, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. I can put up with that. All I want is for Fred to go free. And now for the first time in a little over a week there’s hope.” Her expression brightened. “Matt is on his way.”
“Matt?”
“Matt Baxter, Fred’s son. Lucy—that’s my stepdaughter—called him. Fred didn’t want to bother him. He kept saying that Josh would come to his senses soon enough. When it was obvious that he wouldn’t, Lucy called her brother. He should be arriving today.”
“Does he solve murders?”
“He’s an FBI agent,” she said as if that statement required no other explanation. “One of the best. He and Fred are a lot alike—tough, stubborn, short-tempered, but very smart. Good people.”
Grace smiled. “You sound as if you care for your husband very much.”
“I
love
my husband,” she said, meeting Grace’s eyes. “I know that sounds weird, considering what I did, but it’s the God’s truth.”
“May I ask a personal question?”
Denise shrugged. “You’ve earned it.”
“Knowing what you knew about Steven, and feeling as you do about your husband, why did you have an affair in the first place?”
“For the same reason every female in this town went a little dopey whenever Steven was around—his charm. He oozed it, as I’m sure you know. And he truly loved women. He loved being around them, complimenting them, remembering their birthdays, or some other special occasion. When he talked to a woman, he made her feel as if she was the only person in the room. And no matter how bad you looked, Steven Hatfield could make you feel like a beauty queen. I was no exception, even though I was happily married. But Fred was always busy, helping someone through a crisis. As a result, there wasn’t a lot of time for the two of us to do anything fun. When Steven started paying attention to me, it went to my head.”
“Even though you knew his reputation with the ladies?”
“I wasn’t thinking about that at the time.”
Once again, the comment seemed to make her uneasy, and this time, Grace chose not to push it. “How old is your stepdaughter?”
“Nineteen.”
“Her father’s arrest must have been hard on her.”
“Terrible, but she’s coping. Fortunately, she and I are very close. We comfort each other.”
Grace couldn’t hide her surprise. “She’s forgiven you?”
Denise gave a slow shake of her head. “No, and I’m not sure our relationship will ever be quite the same as it was, especially if her father is convicted, but right now, she realizes that we need each other.”
She waved her hand, causing the bangles around her wrist to jingle. “That’s enough of me. I want to hear all about you.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to work,” Grace said. “There’s an awful lot to do, much more than I expected. And I still have to go to the cottage to unpack.”
“Okay, I’ll get out of your hair, but how about lunch?”
“Actually, I was planning on skipping lunch.”
“You can’t work on an empty stomach. I’ll make us a couple of sandwiches and we can eat while I give you a tour of the town. Everyone is dying to meet you, or at least have a glimpse of you.”
“How do you know?”
“Lorraine told me. She owns the Everything Goes Café and is the only person in town, except for Father Donnelly, who still speaks to me.”
