Free Shades of Murder (The Mac Faraday Mysteries) by Lauren Carr

getting in the way.
    When it came to criminal investigations, the problem was getting them to talk. They were often as loyal to their employers as they were observant.
    Mac placed Greta’s accent as being Swedish. It wasn’t as easy to place her age. She was tall and slender to the point of being skinny. Like in the painting, her face was gaunt, which seemed accentuated by her long straight silver hair that fell to a blunt cut at her shoulders and bangs cut straight across.
    David answered the question in her eyes. “This is Mac Faraday. He’s working with our department as a special investigator on Ms. Ramsay’s murder case. May we speak to Mr. Hathaway?”
    “He’s in a meeting.” Like a guard, she didn’t move from where she blocked their way through the door.
    Mac replied, “We can wait until he’s available to meet with us.”
    After casting a stern glance at each of them, she went to find her boss. Assuming she had left the door cracked open to serve as an invitation, Mac stepped inside.
    He gaped in wonder at the white elegance of the foyer that stretched three floors up to the cathedral ceiling which contained two skylights. A crystal chandelier hanging down from the top peak of the ceiling to the second floor provided even more light to the bright white room.
    On the left wall hung an oil painting, which provided a mirrored image of the curved staircase on the opposite side of the room. The only difference was that a silver haired man stood on the landing in the painting. He wore slacks, white shirt, and an open vest with his tie undone. He held a cigar in one hand and a drink in the other. His expression was one of supreme satisfaction. A brass plaque in the frame declared it to be a painting of Neal Hathaway.
    Mac noted the signature in the lower corner of the painting: Ilysa Ramsay.
    “David!” A call came from the top of the staircase. “Is that really you?” A younger version of the man in the painting trotted down the stairs. “How are you doing, bud?” He tucked the tennis racquet he was carrying under his arm and clasped David’s hand into both of his. “Look at you. You look great.”
    “This is Scott,” David said to Mac. “Neal Hathaway’s son.” He announced, “We’ve hired Mac to help us solve your stepmother’s murder.”
    “Is he good?” Scott asked with a wink at David. “Should I be scared?”
    “Only if you killed her. Mac’s one of the best. Between him and Bogie, we’ve got the dream team of murder investigators on the case.”
    “All right!” He tapped his fist against David’s before turning to Mac. “I met your police chief when I was learning self-defense in the Marine reserves.” He let out a laugh. “I was awful.”
    Mac asked, “You were in the military?”
    “We Hathaways are very America proud,” Scott said. “I joined right out of college, got out, and then re-enlisted after September 11. David was my instructor for arm-to-arm combat training and about killed me.”
    “Scott was stationed in Europe when his stepmother was killed,” David told Mac.
    “I guess that means I’m not a suspect.” Scott winked again. “But I could have hired someone to do it for me, I guess.”
    Mac replied without a grin. “That’s correct.”
    Seeing that Mac was serious, Scott’s smile fell.
    An awkward silence filled the foyer before Scott said, “I’ll take you to see Dad. I’m on my way to the club to meet a friend for tennis.” He poked David in the chest with the racquet. “We need to arrange to get together. On the tennis court, I might be able to take you.”
    “I wouldn’t bet on it,” David said.
    They were on their way through the house when Mac noticed what appeared to be a parlor. Spotting a grand piano, harp, and a lounging chair; he called out to the group about to step outside to the rear patio. “This is where the painting is set.” David and Bogie followed him into the room.
    “My mother was to be a musician,” Scott told them.