Free Tradition of Deceit by Kathleen Ernst

on in the work of his students and friends, and in his photographs. In a few moments we’ll open the doors to the public. On this terrible night, Everett’s work will speak for him.”
    Formalities complete, Jay and Chloe wandered into the gallery: white walls, discreet lights, and a few black-and-chrome benches scattered about. An interpretive panel introduced Beauty in Blight with an artist’s statement from Everett.
    â€œSomeone referred to the exhibit as Beauty AND Blight once.” Jay chuckled. “Everett bellowed, ‘Those things are one and the same! I’m trying to show why old buildings matter !’ ”
    â€œI think I would have liked him,” Chloe said wistfully.
    She studied a large framed photograph of the towering Gold Medal Flour sign at sunset. The slanting rays struck not the letters, but a broken window in the top story of the head house just below. The juxtaposition of bold pride and cracked decay was poignant and evocative. “Wow.”
    â€œEverett had the eye,” Jay agreed. “He wanted this exhibit to introduce the importance of our city’s industrial heritage to a new audience.”
    Each photograph revealed loveliness and ruin in the same frame. Rusting machinery, crumbling concrete, and dangling belt drives were paired with vibrant graffiti, an iridescent pigeon sitting on a nest, textured limestone walls, a few weeds in a soup can vase left on a windowsill.
    â€œI’m not much of a city person,” Chloe murmured, “and I admit that before today I would never have used the word beautiful to describe urban blight, but …”
    â€œYeah.”
    She blew out a long breath. “Oh, I really hope Professor Whyte died of natural causes.”
    Jay lowered his voice. “The police asked me if I could think of any reason why someone would want to harm Everett.”
    â€œCan you?”
    â€œNot really, but …” Jay looked pained. “I can’t say the mill project isn’t controversial.”
    â€œI assume the price tag is, shall we say, high?”
    â€œCertainly some people would rather see the entire mill complex turned into high-rent condos or offices. Everett agreed that our project was only a part of a revitalization plan that’s bigger than the mill museum itself, but he argued with anyone not ready to agree that the main mill structures provide a rare—unparalleled, really—opportunity to preserve and interpret a vital part of history.” Jay rubbed his forehead wearily. “Lord, it’s been a long day.”
    â€œIt has been a long day.” Chloe scanned the crowded room. “I imagine Ariel’s more than ready to go home.”
    And so am I, she added silently, feeling the day’s full weight press down. She’d had a late night at the wedding, an early drive to the Twin Cities, and then … this. A hot bath and the dubious comfort of Ariel’s sofa sounded too good for words.
    And with any luck, she’d even get Roelke to pick up his telephone before she turned in.

    At almost eleven p.m., Roelke admitted defeat. He’d visited the Rusty Nail, quickly flashing his EPD badge. The bartender’s attitude had bordered on surly: Yeah, Rick Almirez had shown up in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Yeah, he’d ordered a beer.
    â€œWhat time did he get here?”
    â€œI don’t know. And I got customers waiting.”
    Roelke glared at him. “I asked what time Officer Rick Almirez arrived. Think— hard .”
    â€œLulu!” the man shouted. “What time did you leave on Saturday morning?”
    A brassy blonde wiping the bar paused. “One forty-five. My ride was waiting.”
    â€œDidn’t you bump into that cop when you left?”
    â€œYeah. He was coming in, I was going out.”
    The bartender turned back to Roelke. “There you go. He came in at one forty-five.”
    One forty-five, Roelke thought. That