Free Fatal Brushstroke (An Aurora Anderson Mystery Book 1) by Sybil Johnson

where Hester had lived, Liz had loosened her white-knuckle grip on the armrest and shed all other signs of terror.
    As she searched for a parking space, Rory felt as if she’d stumbled upon a convention of nondescript silver sedans. Without a distinguishing characteristic, any one of them could have been the vehicle her neighbor had seen the night of Hester’s murder. Several hundred yards beyond the Mediterranean-style house Hester had treasured, Rory slid into a parking space.
    Liz was out of the vehicle almost before the car had stopped. Rory slipped on her heels and, after a few tentative steps to get used to the unaccustomed balancing act, followed her eager passenger up the stairs to the terrace where a sea of chairs was filling up fast. In her three-inch pumps, Rory towered over most people including Detective Green who, looking even grumpier than usual, nodded as he passed by them. She waved to her mother who was sitting with Veronica in the row behind Hester’s family. Kevin slouched in his seat and, from the hostile looks he shot at his father, she could tell Hester’s son resented being there.
    As they made their way to seats near the back, Rory intercepted several curious glances cast in her direction. Nora waved shyly at them as they passed by her row. Draped around the woman’s shoulders was a hand-painted scarf held together by a wooden pin shaped like a rose. Rory remembered seeing the scarf design in Hester’s first pattern book.
    Not long after they sat down, the minister stepped to the front, signaling the beginning of the service. Rory scrunched down in her seat so the people behind her could see. When she lifted her head after the opening prayer, she noticed Detective Green observing the group from a position near the back of the terrace.
    Throughout the hour-long service a respectful silence fell over the crowd, punctuated by the occasional sob or sniffle. The grief became more pronounced during a particularly heartfelt remembrance by one of Hester’s fellow docents at a local art museum. Rory found herself dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue she pulled out of a borrowed clutch.
    At the end of the service, Julian thanked everyone for attending and directed the guests to one side of the terrace while the catering staff whisked away the rows of chairs and set up the food for the reception. By the time Rory and Liz had paid their respects to Hester’s family, chairs dotted the perimeter of a large open area and the waiters were circulating with plates of hors d’oeuvres.
    “You know, Julian wears suits that come from Donald Trump’s signature collection,” Liz said in a low voice to Rory as they joined the line at the bar.
    Veronica stood in front of them, jotting something down on a small pad of paper. Dressed all in black, she’d shed her casual attire and covered up her belly button ring. She’d even changed the streaks of color in her black hair to a more subdued blue. A sudden breeze wafted her perfume in their direction: an explosion of flowers with a slight undertone of nicotine.
    “Since when are you interested in Donald Trump?” Rory asked Liz.
    “I’ve read all his books. They have lots of good advice in them.”
    Veronica put her notebook in her purse and turned to face them. “I understand Julian’s a great fan of Trump, also.”
    “That was a nice piece you did on Hester in the paper,” Rory said to the aspiring reporter as the line moved forward.
    “You saw it?” Veronica blushed at the compliment. “I think it’s some of my best work.”
    “You had a story in the View ?” Liz asked.
    “Almost the entire front page was devoted to coverage of Hester’s death including the obituary Veronica wrote,” Rory replied, a little surprised Liz hadn’t seen the articles since she usually read the weekly newspaper from cover-to-cover the day it came out.
    “Sorry I missed it. It’s been a busy week. Haven’t had time to read the paper yet,” Liz