Promise Not To Tell(50)

“Except that there was a murder in my back room,” Virginia said.

Anson nodded. “Except for that.”

Xavier stared at Virginia, fascinated. “Someone got murdered in your shop?”

“Long story,” Virginia said. “I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”

“Excellent,” Xavier said.

CHAPTER 33

The following morning Virginia unlocked the front door of the gallery shortly after eight. She had been dreading the moment. Murder had been done in the back room of her gallery. She would never again be able to enter the space without remembering the dead woman lying in the pool of blood.

The pizza dinner with Xavier and Anson had gone fairly well, she thought. True, Cabot’s contribution to the conversation was minimal, but he had not been rude. He just seemed withdrawn. Later, when they had returned to her apartment, he immersed himself in research on his laptop. He was still at it when she went to bed. Eventually she’d heard the door of his room close.

Sooner or later they would have to talk about how he was going to deal with his cousin, but intuition told her that it was too soon to try to coax him into that particular discussion. Cabot needed time. There was steel in the man, but steel did not bend easily.

At breakfast that morning neither of them had mentioned Xavier.

Cabot followed her into the back room of the gallery. He surveyed the surroundings with a professional eye and then nodded once.

“The cleaners did a good job,” he said.

Virginia looked at the place on the floor where they had found Sandra Porter’s body. Astonishingly, there was no trace of blood.

She shivered. “You know, until recently it never occurred to me that there were people who specialized in cleaning up after crimes.”

“It’s another one of those career paths that high-school guidance counselors often neglect to mention,” Cabot said.

He walked deliberately through the space.

“What are you looking for?” Virginia asked.

“Nothing in particular,” Cabot said. “I’m sure the forensics people were thorough. Still, you never know.”

The front door opened again. Jolted, Virginia turned quickly. When she saw the familiar figure standing on the threshold, she took a deep breath.

“Sorry, Boss,” Jessica said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not your fault,” Virginia said. “I’m a little jumpy today, that’s all.”

Jessica grunted. “I don’t blame you. I’m not the one who found the body, but I’m feeling rather twitchy myself this morning. To be honest, I’m very glad you got here before I did. I wasn’t looking forward to being the first one through the door.”

Jessica Ames was in her early fifties. Tall and generously proportioned, she tinted her hair jet black and kept it cut in a razor-sharp Cleopatra style. The fringe above her dark eyes looked as if it had been trimmed with the aid of a straight edge.

Like many in the art world, Jessica wore a lot of black. Today was no exception. She wore a black turtleneck and a pair of flowy, calf-length trousers. A statement necklace fashioned of some copper-colored metal completed the look.

Virginia had not hired her because of her expertise in art. Jessica had arrived on the doorstep of the Troy Gallery knowing almost nothing about the field. But Jessica had two very important attributes. The first was that she was a fast learner. The second was that she had a talent for sales. A lot of people thought it would be nice to work in an art gallery. Very few people had the ability to match a client with the perfect object of his or her desire.

Jessica also knew how to pull people in off the street. It had been her idea to put the display of brilliant, hand-blown glass paperweights in the front window of the shop. They glowed in the carefully arranged lighting, catching the eyes of passersby. Once people opened the door of the shop, Jessica went to work. Very few customers left empty-handed.

Virginia waved a hand at Cabot. “Jessica, this is Cabot Sutter. He’s the investigator I hired to look into Hannah Brewster’s death. Cabot, this is my assistant, Jessica Ames.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cabot said.

Jessica sized him up in one quick glance and smiled approvingly. “A pleasure.” She took a long, slow look around the shop. “I still can’t believe someone got murdered in here. Do the cops have any leads?”

“Currently they’re leaning toward a theory that involves drugs,” Virginia said. “But Cabot and I are wondering if Sandra Porter’s death is in any way linked to Hannah Brewster’s.”

“Weird thought,” Jessica said. She paused. “You think Hannah Brewster might have known Porter?”

“I’m almost positive they never met,” Virginia said. “But the door of the storage room where we keep Hannah’s paintings was open.”

“Maybe someone thought those pictures are worth a lot more than we assumed,” Jessica suggested.

“We’ve had them on display from time to time,” Virginia reminded her. “We’ve never had a single offer on any of them.”

“True. They’re fascinating in some weird way but they make people uneasy.” Jessica got a familiar gleam in her eye. “One thing’s for sure, though.”

“What’s that?” Cabot asked.