“There’s nothing to tell, really.” I had no intention of telling her she was the subject of their conversation. “I left before they got into it. But I’m curious: Where do you fit in?”

  “Sorry?” Susan’s blush had spread to her ears.

  “I’ve noticed you’re more involved in the gallery now that Martha’s gone.”

  “I told you, Ron needs me to help him with stuff Martha used to take care of. And … other things.”

  “Susan, it’s none of my business, but are you and Ron romantically involved?”

  “No. We have a lot in common and we’ve become close friends. Because of art,” she added quickly.

  “I understand.”

  She looked down at her lap. “I didn’t know how to tell you, but Ron’s asked me to work full time at the galley. I’ll be setting up shows and …” She smiled. “He said I can be the gallery’s artist in residence, meaning a few of my paintings will always be on display. And I can give art lessons if I like, which is something I’d like to try.”

  “It sounds wonderful. As long as you’ll still have time to paint.”

  “I’ll never stop painting.” She frowned. “But it means I have to stop working at the library. I’m sorry, Carrie.”

  “Don’t apologize. You need to move on, and I’m happy for you. Only—” I drew a deep breath, wondering how best to word my misgivings regarding Ron as an appropriate boyfriend.

  “Only there’s a problem,” Susan said, finishing my sentence with what was on her mind. “Leroy is against showing my work in the gallery. He doesn’t consider it art, at least not the kind that patrons are willing to buy for thousands of dollars, hoping their investment will increase over the years.”

  “But Ron owns the gallery,” I said. “Surely he decides what art gets displayed?”

  “Ron doesn’t deal well with conflict. He loves schmoozing with artists. He was used to letting Martha make the hard decisions. I think that’s why he took Leroy on as a junior partner. He was hoping Felicity would show some interest in the gallery, but she insists her job keeps her too busy for her to be of any use to him.”

  “Did you tell Ron that Martha tried to get you to forge copies of other artists’ work?”

  “Yes. He was appalled.”

  “Because she tried it on you or because he had no idea what Martha was up to?”

  Susan looked down at her hands. “Both, I think.”

  “So he had no idea that Martha was involved in luring artists to create fraudulent art,” I said. “Hard to believe.”

  “But it’s true! An FBI agent questioned him twice about it.” She looked at me imploringly. “If he believed Ron, why can’t you?”

  Susan burst into tears and stormed out of the office. What have I done? I was about to chase after her, apologize for accusing Ron of being in cahoots with his wife, when Evelyn appeared.

  “Let her go.”

  “But I’ve upset her,” I said.

  “She was already upset—about her relationship with Ron, Leroy’s insistence on banning her art from the gallery, even wondering if Ron had anything to do with the murders. Your suspicions intensified her own.”

  “But if Ron killed Martha and Denny Sullivan, is it safe for Susan to spend time with him?”

  “I’d think so, as long as she doesn’t accuse him of being a murderer.”

  Not much comfort in that, but there was nothing else I could do.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Susan returned to the office, dry-eyed and calm. She greeted me as though we hadn’t had a discussion that had sent her running off in tears, and settled down to work on her sketch. I went back to the email I was composing to a librarian in a nearby town. Once I’d sent it, I considered asking Susan how much longer she planned to work at the library, but figured now wasn’t a good time. Instead, I decided to check on the in-session programs in the new wing. I told Susan where I was going and she nodded, deep in her project.

  As I walked past the original computer area and crossed into the new addition, I was startled by the difference between the two sections of the library. The new walls were freshly painted; the hall lighting was recessed and subdued; the carpet, a lovely beige color not yet worn by traffic. Perhaps, when we had the funds, we could give the original building an update with some fresh paint and new carpeting. And spruce up the reading room by replacing the worn seats with new chairs and sofas. I made a mental note to mention it to Sally, though I was pretty sure she’d remind me that the new addition had cost more than expected, and any plans to improve the library’s appearance would have to wait.

  All of the programs were moving along smoothly. Patrons seemed to be engrossed. Pleased, I let my thoughts wander.

  There was no point dwelling on Susan’s situation. I’d said all I intended to say for now. She was in the midst of an emotional and critical upheaval in her personal and professional life, and not in the right frame of mind to make important decisions. I frowned as I thought about Leroy Gumm, who was adding to her distress.

  Leroy was like a bull in a china shop, wreaking destruction wherever he went. I got to thinking about his altercation with his cousin a few nights before Denny was murdered. Denny had wanted a bigger piece of distribution for his father and himself, but Leroy stood firm. Which now led me to believe that Leroy must have been involved in the fraudulent art syndicate for some time.

  Or had he taken over Martha’s position as soon as she’d been murdered? Which made me wonder if he’d killed Martha to get it.

  Why then become a partner in the Gallery on the Green? Was this to appease his artistic side? Or because he liked having a stake in a legitimate art gallery, one that could showcase his own art?

  Or was Ron really the brains behind this division of the fraudulent art scheme, if not the brains behind the entire network?

  By the time I returned to my office, I was feeling more confused than ever.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  When Dylan arrived home Saturday afternoon, I told him about my previous day.

  “All very interesting, but none of it proves that Ron or Leroy is the killer,” he said.

  “What did you find out?”

  “Not as much as we hoped. The art dealer who roped Jack Winslow into the deal gave up the people he hired to steal the painting from me, as well as the three forgers he used. But he wasn’t much help regarding the ring leader in the syndicate because the art dealer never called him; in fact, he had no way of contacting the guy. The higher-up did the calling from a burner phone.

  “Chuck had him describe the guy down to every last detail, from the color of his socks to the kind of watch he wears. He even brought in an artist to sketch him, based on the art dealer’s description. The guy was huge but used a fake name, so there’s nothing.”

  “That’s disappointing,” I said.

  “Chuck showed me the fraudulent copies the dealer had ready to be picked up, as well as the originals they’d worked from. The copies were pretty damn good. Since the dealer was cooperative, they made a deal with him and set him free, gave him back his copies, and told him to do what he did routinely with the artwork so there’s no tip-off to the bigwigs in the syndicate.”

  “Too bad he wasn’t much help.”

  “There was one thing: a month or so ago, the dealer overheard his connection talking on his cell phone about a huge warehouse outside of Chicago. This jibes with chatter Chuck picked up.”

  “Does Chuck Myers have any idea who’s behind this entire operation?”

  “He and his team are combing the files of crooks involved in this kind of work, but so far they’ve only caught small fry. I told them about Leroy Gumm, but given the unsolved murders here, they’re holding off on moving in on him.”

  “It makes sense,” I said.

  We spent what was left of the afternoon drawing up a gift list for our wedding registry. Dylan wasn’t really interested at first, but once he got into the swing of choosing household items, he enjoyed it as much as I did. I was pleased to see that his taste was similar to mine. By the time we realized we were famished, we’d accumulated an extensive list of items.

  Choosing two stores to register at was easy because we’d found most of what we liked in both places. I emailed our lists to Julia, then set about making dinner from whatever I had in the fridge and freezer.

  Victor called while we were watching an old romcom, to ask if we’d come across any new evidence that proved he wasn’t involved in the murders.

  “As you know, I just got back from an out-of-state trip,” Dylan was saying. He had the call on speaker.

  “Yes, you mentioned that.”

  “It had to do with my early Haggerty painting that was stolen.”

  “I thought the painting had been recovered,” Victor said.

  “It was.” Dylan paused.

  I knew he hadn’t told anyone where he had gone and why. Was he debating sharing the information with Victor?

  “An FBI agent who deals with forged paintings wanted my input regarding the quality of some reproductions.”

  “Okay,” Victor said. He sounded puzzled, and I didn’t blame him. I had no idea why Dylan was telling him this.

  “The thing is,” Dylan went on, “Martha was part of this forged art syndicate. Her murder may be connected to it.”

  “Of course. I see that.”

  “Leroy’s involved in this art scam business too. Denny Sullivan wasn’t happy with the percentage Leroy was giving him and his father.”

  “And then Sullivan was murdered,” Victor said. “If Leroy was the one calling the shots regarding this art scam, maybe he killed Martha and Denny.”

  “That’s possible,” Dylan said. “The trouble is, we need evidence.”

  “When I went to Babette’s apartment with Leroy’s lunch, he’d been looking at some papers,” I said. “Lucky for me he got a phone call, and I managed to get a glimpse of them. There were lists of what appeared to be names of paintings, along with codes and prices beside each name.”

  Victor clicked his tongue. “It would be helpful if we could get those papers.”

  “Having them isn’t proof that he’s the murderer,” Dylan said.

  “He managed to convince his uncle that he didn’t kill Denny,” I said.

  “Still, we need to analyze every bit of information we can collect about Leroy and Ron and everyone else connected to the gallery,” Dylan said. “Carrie, do you know who called Leroy when you were over there?”

  “He called her Chrissie. I figured it was his latest girlfriend. It sounded like they were arguing.”

  “About what?” Dylan and Victor said at the same time.

  “I have no idea. I heard a bit of it before Leroy closed himself in a room for privacy. I couldn’t very well eavesdrop since I was busy looking at the papers he’d stashed in the briefcase.”

  “So you really haven’t found anything solid that leads to a killer,” Victor said.

  “Don’t be discouraged,” Dylan said. “We’re making progress. I’m pretty certain the forgeries play a role in the murders somehow. You said you still have the forged painting that Martha sold you some months ago, right?”

  “I do. Why?”

  “Because it’s a copy of a Terrance Haggerty, the artist who did the painting that was stolen from me. I’d like to see it again and compare it to a photo I took of the original that I found online. I want to examine it carefully, including the frame and the backing. You never know what they might tell us.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be at the library’s gallery reception, featuring paintings from my collection,” Victor said.

  “Of course Carrie will be there, and I’m planning to attend,” Dylan said.

  “The reception is from two to four,” I said, “and the library closes at four. We can drive over to Victor’s house then.”

  “It shouldn’t take more than half an hour,” Dylan said, “if that long.”

  * * *

  Sunday morning, Dylan and I had a leisurely breakfast and sat around reading the newspaper. Though everything required for the reception had been taken care of, I wouldn’t relax until I saw for myself that every appetizer and napkin was accounted for and set out properly.

  In honor of the occasion, I wore a colorful vest over my new silk blouse, dressy black trousers, and my favorite boots. I added blush, eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara to my everyday lipstick, and took pains with my hair. Finally, I slipped on my engagement ring and put on the gold earrings my father had given me, along with the golden heart pendant from Dylan, both last year’s Christmas gifts.

  “Don’t you look nice,” Dylan said as I left the bathroom.

  I smiled when I caught sight of the gleam in his eyes. “No time for that. I have to leave for work.”

  Smoky Joe came dashing out of the bedroom, sensing I was ready to go to the library.

  “Sorry, you have to stay home today,” I said.

  For a moment he stared up at me. Then he let out a meow and, tail high in the air, walked slowly back to the bedroom.

  “I’ve been snubbed,” I said.

  “He’ll get over it,” Dylan said. “I’ll give him a few treats when you leave, and he won’t even miss his day at the library.”

  “Hmm,” I said, feeling miffed and relieved at the same time.

  I parked in the library lot and felt a pang of anxiety when I noticed a delivery truck from the store where we’d ordered the hors d’oeuvres stopped in front of the door leading to the new addition. They came too early! Of course Max knew the delivery was expected, and I had total faith that he would know which items required refrigeration before we put them out for guests. Still, why couldn’t they have arrived between twelve and one, as promised?

  I headed for my office, to drop off my jacket and pocketbook, glad for once that I didn’t have to keep an eye on Smoky Joe. My mind was bombarded with mental notes reminding me what needed to be done for the reception at two: make sure the white wine is chilled; put crackers and cookies on platters; be sure to have enough paper plates, napkins, and plastic utensils available. I knew all this because Trish and I had discussed it at length. Thank God she’d be here in an hour. Besides, I’d hired someone to serve hors d’oeuvres to our guests. And Sally, Marion, and Angela would be here as well. There was no need for me to be nervous.

  * * *

  At two o’clock I opened the gallery’s door to the patrons waiting to see the art exhibit and snag a few munchies and a glass of wine. We’d set up two tables near the entrance—one for food and the other offering red and white wines. Victor had arrived with Babette fifteen minutes earlier, and I was happy to see patrons gathering around him to ask questions about his collection.

  My heart leaped when Dylan entered the room. He grinned when he saw me. How lucky I am! I thought as I made my way through the growing crowd. Though he’d helped me select the paintings and I’d seen them when they were being hung, I was happy to view them again with Dylan and listen as he explained what made each work of art so special.

  There wasn’t much I had to do except make sure there was a constant flow of appetizers, wine, and desserts, though Minnie Appleton, whom I’d hired to take care of that end of things was doing an excellent job. I chatted with patrons, many of whom complimented the library board and staff for installing an art gallery that would be featuring quality artwork.

  Babette continued to surprise me. Though she’d arrived with Victor, she gave him the opportunity to spend time with patrons who sought him out while she mingled on her own. I noticed a number of high school kids present—no doubt Babette’s art students—and more than once spotted her standing before a painting as she discussed its technique with a few of them.

  Dylan, after noshing and socializing for the better part of an hour, came over to tell me he was leaving to run an errand or two and would be back for me at four.

  I gave him a quick kiss goodbye and looked around. The crowd had thinned out, and Victor was taking a well-earned breather in one of the three chairs we’d put out for patrons who might need to sit down. I spied a chocolate cookie I’d been meaning to taste, and was nibbling it when a man came up to me.

  “You’re Carrie Singleton?” Though posed as a question, there was a hostile undertone, as though he resented having to seek me out.

  Startled, I studied him for a moment before answering. He was about seventy years old, short and wiry. He had very dark, very keen eyes. Like a bird of prey. What remained of his hair had turned gray and was slicked back on his head. He was wearing a navy parka over a white dress shirt, well-pressed trousers, and Italian loafers.

  “Yes, I am. What can I do for you, Mister …?”

  He suddenly smiled, which sent icy fingers up my spine because his smile never reached his eyes. “Where are my manners? I’m Michael Sullivan, Denny’s father. Perhaps you met my son while he was here in Clover Ridge?”

  So this is Mick Sullivan. “I never actually met him, but I saw him around when he was visiting here. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Thank you. Call me Mick.”

  “All right … Mick.”

  He surveyed the room much the way John Mathers would. A few people, including Victor, were staring at him. “I want to talk to you somewhere more private.”

  “I can’t leave. I need to stay here at the reception.” It wasn’t quite true, but I didn’t care to spend any time alone with this man.

  “Do you think you could spare me a few minutes of your time, perhaps in another room? I promise you I don’t bite.” This time his smile was genuine.

  “Well, all right.” I spotted Sally chatting with a patron. “I’ll tell my boss I’m taking a break.”

  Sally barely paused in her conversation as she waved me on, and I led Mick Sullivan out of the gallery. I noticed the burly figure of a man leaning against the wall at the far end of the hall. One of Mick’s goons, I knew, even before he said, “Don’t mind Keith. He’s just keeping an eye out for me.”

  The room next door was empty except for a table and a dozen chairs stacked in two piles. I switched on the lights as Mick removed two of the chairs and set them facing each other. Then he closed the door, shutting us inside.