The Art of Love and Murder Read Online Free

hadn’t gone totally unnoticed, but the vision faded with a blink and a shrug.
    “Did you get his name or anything?”
    The writer in her friend needed details. “Phoebe, you’re hopeless. I’m not here to meet men, certainly not strangers I encounter on dark streets.”
    She doubted she still knew how to meet interesting men. Conrad had been dead three years, but she’d not had the inclination or desire, especially when, in the middle of her grief, she’d discovered what a sham her marriage had been.
    “I’m damn tired and going to sleep now. Go write a mystery about a dark alley that isn’t an alley.”
    “Oh, all right. Sleep tight and don’t let the ghosts keep you up.”
    “Thanks. That helps a lot. Bye, Phoebe.”
    She ended the call and reluctantly rose to turn off the chandelier, but walked over to the desk instead. A picture lying on top of the pile held her attention—her birth mother holding an infant. The glossy finish of the photo had cracked along the top and one side, and fingerprint smudges rimmed the edges. The seated woman held Lacy’s baby-self swaddled in blankets. She guessed the woman’s rust colored, full skirt and silver belt to be Indian-style clothing. She wore moccasins the color of doeskin, and two braids framed her face and fell over her breasts to disappear beneath the child. She smiled at the camera, her face lit with happiness.
    Another older photo, scalloped edges and in black and white, had the name Mansi Mockta written on the back—her Hopi grandmother. She pushed it aside as she picked up the next photo of Hartmut Luschin, the Austrian man with startling green eyes, her father. A slight tremor traveled along her spine. She knew this face if only because it mirrored her own eyes. She turned the photo over and read the inscription yet again. My Hartmut, 1966, written in a feminine script.
    Why hadn’t they married? Where were they going when the small plane crashed, killing them?
    Only Lacy had survived.
    Not news. She’d known all her life that her blood parents were dead. The past she would dig up might seem like it belonged to someone else, but it didn’t. Phoebe may have sensed this trip turning into more than an art treasure hunt. Lacy had always been so anchored in Phoenix, but something tugged at her, as if her anchor had been in soft sand all along.
    Below the photos lay sketches, signed with the mysterious initials M/KM. She’d left the carved chest at home, inscribed with her birth mother’s signature on the bottom—Kaya. The chest had held the pictures and the art for over forty years, including a half-carved wolf, unsigned, but a match to one of the sketches. She ran her fingers over the front half, the head and forelegs of the wolf in a frozen state of escape from the wood. Nothing identified the artist on the unfinished sculpture. Had Kaya and M/KM been friends, partners, rivals? Hopefully, she’d have her answers by the end of the weekend.
    She flicked the wall switch, dousing the chandelier, and glanced at her unopened suitcase sitting on the stand. Too tired to even dig out her pajamas, she slid out of her jeans. Yanking back the cream-colored brocade bedcover, she crawled between the crisp matching sheets and sank her head into a most magnificently plush pillow.
    Lots to do tomorrow. She pulled the chain on the ornate, red glass lamp, leaving the room in near darkness. Dim light filtered through the curtains on the window overlooking the street below. She’d start with the art gallery. And reluctantly see the stepsister. The lady might be willing to help her once they met face to face.
    She sighed, and her lids closed as she started her descent into sleep. The face of her would-be rescuer came to mind, momentarily puzzling her at the thought, but sleep tugged, and she let it go. If she ran into him again, she’d get his name. For Phoebe.

Chapter Two
    After four laps around Pinetop Park, Lacy jogged east for three blocks before heading south. She