Free Where Truth Lies by Christiane Heggan Page B

consignment period bothered her. Why only fifteen days, when all the other paintings were on consignment for thirty, sixty and even ninety days?

    The folder still open in front of her, she took out her cell phone and dialed Angie’s home. After four rings, her friend’s cheerful message clicked on. “Hi, folks. Sorry I can’t pick up right now, but you know what to do.” Grace left a detailed message and hung up. Then, with the name and phone number of the various artists whose work was on consignment, she started making her calls.

    Many of the people she talked to already knew about Steven’s death, while others had no idea that he had been killed. All expressed concern about their respective art work, but seemed relieved when they found out that Grace was a curator at the Griff Museum and that the conditions spelled out in their agreements with the Hatfield Gallery would stand.

    She wasn’t as lucky with Victor Lorry. After calling him twice and getting nothing but an answering machine, she left a message, asking him to call her back at his convenience. While she waited for his call, and Angie’s, she went through the invoices, bank statements and income tax returns the police had returned.

    It didn’t take her long to realize that business wasn’t exactly booming. That surprised her. She had talked to Steven three or four times a year in the four years he’d had the gallery, and each time he had boasted about its huge success. Yet, his overhead expenses took a big chunk of his profits, leaving him with enough to live comfortably but not as grandly as he had claimed.

    By nightfall, neither Victor Lorry or Angie had returned her calls. Remembering her date with the Baxters, she looked up and glanced at the clock above the backroom doorway, and let out a gasp.

    Framed in the small side window and illuminated by the streetlight was a man’s face.

    He had bright red hair, shaved high on the sides and ending up in thick curls at the top. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but could have been younger. His eyes, big and round, turned fearful when she wrapped her hand around the first weapon she could find—a letter opener shaped like a dagger.

    The face disappeared.

    Weapon in hand, Grace ran to the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the peeping Tom or his car, but he had vanished.

    Shaken, she hurried back into the gallery, locked the door and flipped the closed sign over. Then, searching through her bag, she found the number Chief Nader had left with her that morning, and dialed it.

    A deputy she didn’t know answered and took the information down. “We’ll come and take a look, Miss McKenzie,” he told her. “Are you at the gallery now?”

    “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. The chief can reach me on my cell phone or at Denise Baxter’s house. I’ll be there for the next couple of hours.”

    “Maybe you should stay where you are until we get there.”

    “The Baxters’ house is just two blocks away.” She looked at the letter opener, which she intended to take with her. “I’ll be all right.”

    After hanging up, she slipped into her red leather jacket, set the alarm and turned off the lights, leaving only the desk lamp turned on. Then, after making sure that no one was lurking in the shadows, she left.

     

    The Baxters’ house was a lovely Colonial with several carved pumpkins and corn stalks decorating the front porch. In a corner, an antique wheelbarrow held a brilliant assortment of golden mums. Grace looked down at the yellow mums in her hands. She hadn’t been very imaginative, but at least they wouldn’t clash.

    Denise opened the door, wearing a welcome smile and an apron that invited guests to kiss the cook. She made a big fuss over the mums. “Thank you, Grace. How did you know yellow was my favorite color?”

    “You have a lot of yellow in your shop. I made a wild guess.”

    “Aren’t you observant.”

    She led Grace into a large, eat-in kitchen where a