“Victor called me.”

  “Victor Zalinka? What did he want?”

  “He asked if we were free tomorrow evening to come for dinner and talk about hiring me for a case.”

  “Oh? He wants you to check through his artwork, see which ones you think are fake?”

  “No. John asked him to stop by the station tomorrow for another interview. Victor wants to hire me to prove he’s innocent.”

  Was that a stab of envy I was feeling? Before I could analyze my reaction to Dylan’s news, he continued.

  “Victor knows you’ve helped solve a number of homicides and would like your input too. He said he can’t hire you since you’re not a professional investigator, but he promises to find a way to remunerate you for your participation.”

  A wave of relief spread over me. “I’m happy to be included.”

  “He suggested we get there at seven, leaving us plenty of time to eat and talk. But if that’s too early—”

  “Seven is fine,” I said.

  “Great. I’ll call Victor and let him know.”

  * * *

  At nine thirty I left the library, cat carrier in hand. The cold November night air was invigorating. I breathed in the aroma of burning logs coming from a nearby chimney. I loved this time of year—the lights and decorations, the parties and celebrations centered around food and drink. It was the season to be surrounded by family and friends, and no coincidence that we humans sought illumination and companionship at the darkest time of the year.

  “I think Dylan and I should get a Christmas tree,” I told Smoky Joe as I pushed the ignition button. “I already have those decorations my father bought last year.”

  “Meow,” was Smoky Joe’s response.

  I thought back to last year when my father had reentered my life quite dramatically, and how difficult it had been to let him back into my heart. But Jim Singleton was persistent about mending our relationship, and he’d changed a lot since last December. I had changed a lot too. We were close now and both happy in our personal lives.

  “I think we’ll buy a small artificial tree this time. And some lights to hang outside the cottage.”

  Smoky Joe had no opinion. He was drifting off to sleep.

  Instead of driving toward the parkway and home, I found myself on Elm Street, then turning onto Sycamore, where Leroy’s mother lived. Many houses were lit up with holiday lights. There were even illuminated elves hanging from streetlamps, but the street was deserted. I slowed down as I approached 225 Sycamore. I could make out the blurry image of a TV show through the sheer curtains covering the large window. There was no sign of a black sedan.

  Time to go home, I thought, and had driven half a block when a sudden movement in my rearview mirror caught my attention. A car was pulling onto the rutted driveway in front of the house. I stopped and watched a tall man get out of the car. It had to be Leroy or one of his brothers.

  A black sedan roared past me and, brakes screeching, stopped at a crazy angle, its nose in the driveway. Car doors flung open as two men raced after the tall figure running toward the front door. They caught him and dragged him to the sedan and threw him in the back seat.

  “Let me go! I didn’t kill Denny. I swear it!”

  In the flickering holiday lights, I saw Leroy Gumm. The car door slammed shut, and the black sedan sped off, thank goodness in the opposite direction.

  I zoomed out of there and called John’s cell. He didn’t answer, so I left a message. “Mick Sullivan’s men grabbed Leroy Gumm on Sycamore Street in front of his mother’s house.” Then I called the precinct.

  “Men in a black sedan have abducted Leroy Gumm on Sycamore Street,” I told the officer on duty. “Please tell Lieutenant Mathers ASAP.”

  “Who is this?”

  I gave him my name.

  “Are you all right, Miss Singleton?”

  “Yes. I’m on my way home.”

  “I’ll give the loo your message. Drive safely.”

  I didn’t like Leroy Gumm, but I wished I could do more to stop those thugs from beating him up or killing him.

  I called Dylan and told him what had happened.

  “You did the right thing. Just get home safely.”

  I was panting when I arrived at the cottage, terrified that the men in the black sedan had seen me and were following me. Dylan stood waiting for me in the doorway. I set down Smoky Joe’s carrier and rushed into his arms. He held me tight, then led me inside.

  Dylan sat me down on the living room sofa and returned a minute later with a small glass of brandy. I sipped slowly, welcoming the strong, almost burning sensation as the liquid flowed down my throat. I stroked Smoky Joe, who had curled up on my lap.

  “How did you happen to see Gumm being abducted?” Dylan asked, not a trace of criticism in his voice. I felt a rush of love for this man who not only loved me but understood that my need to follow up on clues was an integral part of my nature.

  “I saw the car there earlier in the day. One of the men spoke to Leroy’s mother, probably asking if he was in the house. I drove by after I left work. As soon as Leroy arrived, they grabbed him.”

  “They must have been waiting for him.”

  The landline phone rang a while later. Dylan answered it and handed it to me. “It’s John.”

  “We found Gumm a few miles from where they’d scooped him up. He suffered a thorough beatdown. A broken wrist, a few broken ribs, a black eye, and a possible concussion. We dropped him off at the ER. He was coherent and able to answer a few questions.”

  “At least they didn’t kill him.”

  “Did you happen to get the license plate number?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t. It all happened so quickly. The sedan zoomed past me as soon as Leroy got out of his car, and it half turned onto the driveway. Two men grabbed him and threw him in the back seat then took off. I wanted to get out of there before they noticed me, so I sped away.” My voice trembled as I added, “I hope they didn’t notice me.”

  “My sense is that Mick and his boys are long gone. They got their point across.”

  A chill ran down my back. “Mick was there?”

  “Oh yeah.” John gave a mirthless laugh. “He stopped by the station in the late afternoon and told Gracie to make sure we nailed his son’s killer. He mentioned Leroy by name.”

  “How did he know to go after Leroy?” I asked.

  “That’s a good question,” John said. “Gracie said he sounded very sure of himself, as if he had proof that Leroy killed his son.”

  “What did Leroy have to say?” I asked.

  “That he never killed his cousin. He repeated it again and again.”

  “And when you asked him who beat him up?”

  “He claims he didn’t recognize any of the men.”

  “Including his uncle?”

  “He swore he had no idea who they were.”

  * * *

  I fell asleep in Dylan’s arms, and though I dreamed of a car chase, I managed to sleep deeply through the night. I woke up feeling refreshed and looked forward to going to work. Making sure the library programs ran smoothly the first day the rooms in the new wing were in use would be a welcome distraction. I told myself I wouldn’t go looking for trouble ever again. I’d leave it to John and his men to find the necessary clues and evidence that would lead them to Martha and Denny Sullivan’s killer.

  Though the reception for the art exhibit wasn’t until Sunday afternoon, the exhibit was open to patrons starting today, the first of December. I headed over to the art gallery first thing, to make sure the alarm was working. I knew it was engaged and ready to sound as long as the door stayed locked, but I wanted to see if it functioned properly when visitors were in the room.

  I found Max waiting for me outside the gallery, as planned, along with a few patrons. He unlocked the door, and we followed him inside. There were a few discreet signs on the walls advising patrons to please stand six inches from the paintings or an alarm would sound. Max was checking the system with a handheld apparatus when the alarm went off. I jumped up. George Terhune, a patron in his seventies, apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry, Carrie. I’ll be more careful.”

  “There are signs all over telling you not to get too close to the paintings,” his wife hissed, clearly embarrassed.

  “I didn’t see them, okay?” George answered irritably.

  “Not to worry,” I said. “This is a new system, and we all have to get used to it.”

  I left a few minutes later, to look in on the other activities. The alarm sounded a few more times before noon, but thank goodness Max was always nearby to reset it. I wondered if we should adjust the alarm to a distance of ten feet instead. I decided to ask Sally what she thought.

  The day moved along without any major problems. I introduced myself to the presenters I hadn’t met in person and spent a few minutes observing their programs. All proved to be capable and offered informative presentations.

  At noon Angela and I walked over to the Cozy Corner Café. She regaled me with Scampi’s latest cute trick of bringing her toy to her or Steve so they should toss it for her to fetch. I told her what I’d witnessed last night.

  Angela shuddered. “I’m glad those men left town without murdering Leroy. We’ve had enough deaths here in Clover Ridge.”

  “Do you think Leroy killed Denny Sullivan?” I asked.

  “Why would he? I imagine he’d think twice, knowing who Denny’s father is,” Angela said.

  “Anyone would think twice before messing with Mick Sullivan.”

  “Unless they were very smart or very stupid,” Angela said.

  * * *

  John surprised me by stopping by in the late afternoon. Susan was spending an hour at the hospitality desk, so we were able to speak freely.

  He sank into my assistants’ chair and stretched out his long legs. “I don’t mind telling you, this case is getting me down.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  John grimaced. “First Martha Mallory is murdered, then Emily Fielding. And now Denny Sullivan.”

  “You think they’re all connected?”

  “Denny and Martha probably are. But who killed them? Leroy? An artist working for Martha? Ron? Victor Zalinka?”

  “Was Ron involved in Martha’s forged painting scheme?” I asked.

  “He claims he wasn’t, and I can’t find any evidence that links him to it. But I find it difficult to believe he hadn’t a clue as to what his wife was up to.”

  “A few weeks ago I saw Ron chatting with Leroy at the new bakery in town. And from what Dylan and I overheard, Leroy has his hand in the forged painting scam.”

  “I contacted the federal agent Dylan met and told him about Leroy. But that doesn’t mean Ron is involved in the forgeries. The guy likes to talk to artists.”

  I scoffed. “I can’t believe Ron considers Leroy an artist.”

  “Maybe not personally, but Leroy’s getting a name in the art world. Selling his work is good business,” John said.

  I laughed. “Listen to you, commenting on doings in the art world.”

  John burst out laughing. “Yeah. Just a bit I picked up here and there. I’ll talk to Ron tomorrow. And maybe Leroy. He should be feeling better.”

  And you’ll be talking to Victor, I thought.

  Chapter Thirty

  I felt a sense of excitement as Dylan and I set out for Victor’s home. For the occasion, Dylan had retrieved an expensive bottle of red burgundy from his wine cellar in the manor house, and I’d found a batch of double-chocolate brownies in the freezer to bring along.

  “I’m wondering what interesting tidbits Victor is going to share with us,” I said.

  Dylan laughed. “I bet he can tell us some good stories, but he’s too savvy to say anything incriminating.”

  “I’m looking forward to our dinner tonight.”

  “Knowing him, it will be first class,” Dylan said.

  I turned to him. “You like him, don’t you?”

  “I do. I wouldn’t be taking him on as a client if I didn’t sense he’s ethical and intends to level with us.”

  “I like him too.”

  We stopped at a red light, and Dylan rubbed my cheek. “And you want to get another gander at his house.”

  “And the back lawn,” I admitted. “It would be the perfect venue for our wedding.”

  We parked in the semicircular driveway and walked up the marble steps to the red door, now sporting a spruce wreath. Dylan rang the doorbell while I admired the other holiday decorations. The house was lit up in a most tasteful manner. A string of white lights outlined the roof. There were candles in every window, and a large pine tree beside the bay window was decked out in tiny flickering pink, purple, and green lights.

  Victor opened the door to let us in. Rasputin stood at his side. I was surprised when the dog nuzzled my arm.

  “Hi, Raspi,” I said as I patted his sleek head.

  “Raspi likes you,” Victor said. “He doesn’t do that to everyone.”

  “I’m honored,” I said, meaning it.

  “Come in! Come in!” Victor ushered us deeper into the square hall. He bussed my cheek and shook hands with Dylan. “I’m so glad you could make it,” he said as he hung our jackets in the closet. Dylan held onto his black leather attaché case. I knew it contained a contract for Victor to sign if things went as expected and Dylan took on the assignment.

  Victor’s eyes lit up when we handed him the wine and the brownies. “Thank you. These will be delightful additions to our dinner!”

  A blend of delicious aromas wafted toward us as we followed him into the kitchen. Rasputin trotted off to another room in the house. My mouth fell open at the sight of Babette stirring something on the stove at the far end of the large room. She grinned at the looks of surprise on our faces.

  Victor was beaming. “Yes, I invited Babette tonight because, like you, she knows the people Martha knew so much better than I do.”

  And because you two are now a couple, I thought. As if that needed to be confirmed, Victor moved to her side and slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.

  Minutes later we were seated at the round kitchen table, eating creamy pumpkin soup accompanied by toasted cornbread that we’d smeared with herb butter.

  “This is scrumptious,” I said in between spoonfuls. “Don’t tell me you made this, Victor.”

  Babette laughed. “The soup and the cornbread are my contributions to tonight’s meal.”

  “Well, I’m impressed,” Dylan said.

  “Me too,” I said.

  The next few minutes no one spoke as we finished our soup. When we were done, Babette and Victor removed our dishes and refused to let me help.

  “Please sit and relax,” Victor called from the other end of the huge kitchen as he took four salad bowls out of the floor-to-ceiling refrigerator. He placed them on a tray and carried it to the table.

  “Ah, beet salad,” I said with delight.

  “With goat cheese, baby greens, and balsamic vinaigrette,” Babette added.

  “And no, I didn’t make it,” Victor said when we were served and he’d sat down to join us. “I order the occasional gourmet meal from a food emporium in Manhattan.”

  Babette grinned. “He refuses to tell me the name of the place.”

  Victor shot her a mischievous look. “I have to keep some secrets, don’t I? Or the mystique will be gone.”

  Dylan and I glanced at each other and snorted. They really were smitten with each other.

  Victor was the perfect host. He opened the bottle of wine we’d brought and poured it into four glasses. He was familiar with the winery and told us an anecdote about visiting a vineyard in St. Emilion, where some of the best burgundies came from.

  Then he stood. With glass in hand, he said, “To the health of three new friends who will play an important role in my future life. And will clear my name, once and for all.”

  His words surprised me, but like Dylan and Babette, I merely raised my glass and drank to our host.

  The main course was duck a l’orange with wild rice and various roasted winter vegetables, beautifully plated.

  “Thank you, Victor,” I said as he set the gold-rimmed, platter-sized dish before me. “You may have ordered this wonderful meal, but the presentation is all you.”

  Victor beamed. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was a plater in Paris when I was training to become a grand chef?”

  We all shook our heads.

  “Alas, I never did become more than a sous chef, but that’s a story for another day.”

  Babette sent him an adoring look. “You have more stories than Scheherazade.”

  The look he returned was serious. “May you never grow tired of hearing them.”

  The food, as expected, was top notch. We said little as we savored every bite. Then Babette cleared our plates, and this time I was allowed to help. She asked me to take out a bowl of fruit from the fridge while she stacked the dishwasher.

  “We’ll have dessert soon,” she said. “Meanwhile, would you like coffee or tea?”

  We all opted for coffee. I sat down while Victor made the coffee and Babette dished out small portions of fruit for each of us, which, full as I was, I managed to eat.

  Every aspect of the meal—portion size, serving, conversation—had been perfectly orchestrated. Perfectly orchestrated by Victor Zalinka.

  Babette removed our fruit dishes. Victor brought over the large French press coffeemaker, while Babette got out mugs, milk, cream, sugar, and necessary cutlery. Soon we all had steaming mugs of coffee before us, creamed and or sugared to our taste. Victor glanced at each of us in turn, commanding our attention.

  “Carrie and Dylan, thank you both for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. Babette, you have worked your way into my heart, and you have gained my trust, both of which I give out sparingly.”

  Heart? Trust? I stared at Babette’s radiant smile, surprised at how radically different Victor’s opinion of her was from mine. But clearly Babette was as besotted with him as he was with her. Love sure did something to people. Made us better versions of ourselves.