Free In Shelter Cove by Barbara Freethy Page A

festival, which had never been reinstated. Brianna cleared her throat. “Did you know my husband well?”
    “A long time ago. Derek and I both worked here in high school, and we occasionally painted together in Wyatt’s studio. Derek was a fantastic artist. I was disappointed when he stopped painting and went into the business end. I thought it was a terrible waste of his talent. Then again, Derek wasn’t big on living the life of the starving artist, so I guess it made sense.”
    Brianna frowned at the mention of Derek’s artistic talent, which he’d always been unwilling to share with her. When she’d asked to see some of his work, he’d cut her off, telling her flatly that there was no work to be seen. He’d destroyed it all after his last conversation with his grandfather, who had apparently deemed his art a failure.
    “So you know Wyatt, too,” Brianna said.
    “Oh, sure, everyone in the art community knows Wyatt. He’s a crazy-good artist but also demanding, ruthless, and a little cruel. He and Derek had their battles.” Katherine paused, giving her a curious look. “So you’re living here now?”
    “Yes, we just moved in this week. I have a son, Lucas.”
    “I heard. I can’t imagine Derek with a son. He never quite seemed like a grown-up to me, even after he grew up.”
    That was true. Derek’s boyish charm had been one of his most appealing traits. “Were you here during the art festival five years ago? Derek introduced me to a lot of people, but I don’t remember meeting you.”
    “I was out of town on a buying trip. By the time I got back, Derek’s trial was already under way. I was stunned when he was found guilty.” Katherine paused as the phone rang. “I’d better get that. Feel free to look around.”
    As Katherine took the phone call, the front door opened, and Wyatt and the Markhams entered the gallery. Brianna’s heart skipped a beat, and her throat felt suddenly dry. Derek’s grandfather was dressed all in black, which seemed to be his usual attire, the dark clothes contrasting with his wild white hair.
    Steve Markham was a sophisticated, well-dressed man in his mid-forties, with short brown hair that matched the color of his eyes. Gloria appeared a few years younger, with black hair and olive skin that gave her an exotic beauty. She wore a sophisticated turquoise sheath dress adorned with colorful beaded jewelry. The three had been engaged in a lively debate, but when they saw Brianna, their conversation ended abruptly.
    “Brianna, what are you doing here?” Wyatt asked sharply.
    “Just looking around.” She turned her attentionto the other couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Markham—I don’t know if you remember me.”
    “Of course we do,” Steve said smoothly. “We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kane.”
    There wasn’t a hint of honesty in his polite words. Apparently, the Markhams held the same animosity toward Derek that Wyatt did. She doubted they would be interested in helping her prove Derek’s innocence.
    “Brianna?” Wyatt repeated. “What’s going on? I hope you’re not still under the delusion that you’ll be able to prove someone else stole the paintings.”
    “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could? Wouldn’t you want me to clear your grandson’s name?” she challenged.
    “That won’t happen. We all know that Derek stole art that was the heart of Angel’s Bay, and he did it to get back at me. He deserved what he got.”
    “He deserved to die?” she asked, anger overtaking her amazement. “How can you not care that your grandson is dead, that he left a child behind? What kind of man are you?”
    “Of course I care that Derek is dead.” His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing to hard, black beads of anger. “I gave that boy every opportunity to be the best, to succeed. I opened doors that would have slammed in his face if it weren’t for me. He threw it all away. You shouldn’t be asking what kind of man
I
am. You should be asking yourself what kind