Evelyn Hume bristled. “There are no copies in the Hume collection.”
“Ma’am.” The artist’s tone was shocked. “I assure you this is a copy I produced on the understanding you had ordered it.”
Alison Gregory took a step forward. Her face was a hard mask of emptiness with burning eyes.
A police officer moved to stand on either side of her. Johnny Cain rested a hand on his holstered gun. The older officer watched Alison intently, rocking a little on the balls of his feet.
Alison darted swift looks at them.
Walker turned away from Alison. “I’m glad I was able to be of service. If that’s all you need—”
Chief Cobb took a step toward him. “Who directed you to paint the copy?”
The artist never looked at Alison. He spoke quickly, the words tumbling. “Alison Gregory ordered the copy for Miss Hume.”
Evelyn Hume’s face was cold. “I did not order a copy.” She slowly turned toward Alison. “Where is the original?”
A pulse flickered in Alison’s slender white throat.
Evelyn looked both angry and bereft. “You were my friend. You have betrayed me and stolen from me. How many paintings”—she gestured at the paintings on the walls—“are copies made by him? How much money did you make selling the originals?”
Alison whirled toward Walker. “You fool. You complete fool.”
Walker took a step back. “I know nothing about what happened to the original of the Metcalf painting, or”—his eyes flickered—“any of the other paintings. I thought I was creating copies for Miss Hume.”
“You knew better than—” Alison broke off. She turned, tried to run.
Officers surrounded her.
Chief Cobb took two quick strides, faced the woman who no longer appeared suave and cool and confident. “Alison Gregory, you are under arrest for the murder of Jack Hume, pushed to his death on the night of June sixth, and Ronald and Laverne Phillips, shot and killed the early morning of June seventeenth, and the attempted murder of Kay Clark, the night of June fifteenth.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kay folded clothes, stacked them on the bed next to an open suitcase. Her fine dark brows drew down in a frown. “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to Jack that Alison was dangerous.”
I hadn’t known Jack Hume, but I had a memory of the photograph of a man who had stood by Victoria Falls, fully aware of danger in his African home. He had never expected danger in Adelaide. “I imagine he threatened her with prosecution. Unfortunately, she was willing to do anything to protect herself.”
Kay’s face was hard with anger. “I should have known she was lying when she claimed he came to see her to talk about Evelyn.”
I nodded. “That was Alison’s effort to put us off on the wrong track. He knew art and he realized some of the paintings were forgeries. She probably promised to make restitution. Instead, she came back after dinner that night and pushed him down the balcony steps.”
Kay slipped shoes into plastic bags. “Then I came to The Castle and she knew I was suspicious. She set a trap for me. If you hadn’t been there, the vase would have hit me, and my death would have gone down as another unfortunate accident.”
I happened to glimpse myself in the mirror above the dresser. I smoothed back a vagrant red curl. “Happily, I was on the job. Although”—I am always ready to admit my mistakes—“I missed a chance to find out what had happened. I’m sure Ronald was somewhere in the vicinity and saw Alison. Later, he put that together with his glimpse of Jack looking at the Metcalf painting. Laverne used Ronald’s information at the séance and Alison realized she was facing blackmail. She didn’t have time to arrange an accident for Laverne and Ronald. She knew about the gun in the office and was easily able to take it.”
I was rather proud of my summing-up. Hopefully, I would be as cogent when I reported to Wiggins. It was essential that I focus his attention on the good outcome of my efforts and not on my, as he would see them, transgressions of the Precepts.
Kay’s face folded in a discouraged frown. “We may know what happened, but I don’t see how the police will ever prove anything. Maybe they can convict her of fraud and theft. I don’t see how they can prove murder.”
I admired the scalloping of the cuff on my linen sleeve. It was much nicer to see the delicate blue than simply to know I was wearing the blouse. “Not to worry. People will talk now. Clint Dunham can reveal the figure of a woman he glimpsed leaving The Castle. He was afraid it was Gwen. They’ve already found Alison’s prints on the dog’s collar. The crime lab will check her clothes basket and the top of her washing machine for traces of gunshot residue. Certainly she washed what she was wearing, but there may be traces of the residue elsewhere. In the Phillipses’ room, the blood was smeared, apparently by the edge of a shoe. They can check her shoes for microscopic traces. Now they can use her photo to find out where she got the leather bone since she doesn’t have a dog. They’ll get the evidence.”
I glanced toward the clock. Five minutes to ten. Did I hear the distant sound of iron wheels? I realized in a rush of emotion that I was going to miss Kay. She’d been stubborn, determined, willful, and acerbic. But…
I popped up and gave her a hug.
She looked suddenly forlorn. “Is it time?”
“Almost.”
Her expressive face held a mélange of emotions—sadness, affection, admiration. There might have been the tiniest hint of relief. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m going to miss you, even if you do drive me nuts.” Kay grinned. “No offense meant.”
“None taken.”
The rumble of the wheels clacked nearer.
“Good-bye.” I started to disappear. Oh, one thing I’d forgotten. I paused in midswirl. “You’ll see Paul Fisher.”
Her face was suddenly filled with yearning. “I hope so.”
“Be sure and tell him you weren’t going to go back to Africa with Jack.”
Her smile was wide. “Bailey Ruth, you are one foxy lady. Do you know what that means?”
I laughed aloud. I remembered.
“Thank you, Bailey Ruth. Good-bye.”
“Hasta la vista,” I called.
Faintly, as I moved through The Castle ceiling into the starlit night, I heard her quick shout: “Yeah. Sure. But, please, not anytime soon.”
Here came the caboose. I reached out, clung to the railing. As the lights receded below, I was torn between earth and Heaven, the diamond-bright glitter of Adelaide receding, the brilliance of the stars bathing me in a silvery glow.
A strong hand clasped my arm, pulled me aboard. Above the rush of the wind, Wiggins shouted, “Well done, Bailey Ruth.” A portentous pause. “However, there were a few moments we should discuss.” The wind rushed past us. Shooting stars illuminated our arc as we rose higher and higher.
I slipped my arm through his as we turned to enter the last car. As Mama wisely advised, “Talk to men about something dear to their hearts.”
“Wiggins, how is the schedule coming with that emissary at Ulaa Lodge?”
About the Author
An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of twenty Death on Demand novels, the creator of the highly praised Henrie O series, and two previous Bailey Ruth mysteries. She has won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards, and received the Lifetime Achievement award from Malice Domestic. Her first Bailey Ruth mystery, Ghost at Work, was named one of the best mysteries of 2008 by Publishers Weekly. She is one of the founders of Sisters in Crime, and lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.