The Fine Art of Murder Read Online Free Page A

piece of toast while I looked for the spare keys to Sully’s jeep.
    The Grand Cherokee was only a few months old with less than five thousand miles on it when he died. Neither Lizzienor I could bear to look at it back then. But we couldn’t part with it, either. So it sat on his side of the garage until I sold our house, and then it got moved to Lizzie’s garage. When our grief finally turned into acceptance, we both felt comforted knowing it was there.
    After a nice hot shower, I pulled a sweater over my head, stepped into my favorite jeans, and then hiked up a pair of soft leather boots. The turquoise necklace I added looked silly here in Minnesota, so I took it off. My hair was getting too long; I’d need a haircut soon. After applying a little makeup, I was ready.
    My one luxury—well a necessity, really, considering all the traveling I did—was a smartphone. (The irony of taking Chloe’s phone away from her did not escape me.) But in order to find the location of the gallery, I had to know its name. Randolph Pierce had told Lizzie he’d “found himself” while living in New York. I never understood that term. It’s exhausting how much energy people spend losing and finding themselves. Anyway, if what he said about hating his family was true, the gallery would have an artsy, pretentious name—anything but Pierce. On the other hand, since Randolph always had such an inflated ego, I ultimately searched for Pierce Gallery.
    Bingo.
    ***
    The intersection of Fiftieth and France, in historic Edina, features some of the best shopping in the Twin Cities area. You can find anything from lingerie to fine wine. Pierce ArtGallery was sandwiched between a French bistro and an upscale jewelry store. The façade of the building was yellow brick. Over the ornate front door hung a wide, black awning, announcing the gallery’s name in fancy gray letters.
    As I stepped inside, a buzzer went off in a back room. Before I could take a dozen steps, a petite woman walked casually toward me. She was wearing a short leather skirt, a tight black blouse, and stilettos so high I wondered how she managed to move so gracefully. Her hair was cut short—too short. From a distance, I guessed her age to be between eighteen and twenty. But as she got closer, I could see she was no teenager and probably closer to thirty.
    “May I help you?” she asked, smiling an overfriendly grin.
    “Is Randolph here?”
    “Well . . . he’s very busy. Can I tell him what it’s about?”
    “He went to school with my daughter; I’ve known him since he was a kid. When I heard he’d opened an art gallery, well, I had to come see it.”
    “Oh, a family friend?”
    That would be stretching the truth considerably, but I just nodded.
    “I’ll let him know you’re here. Mrs. . . .”
    “Katherine Sullivan, hi.” I held out my hand and was impressed when she offered a firm shake, rattling the large, colorful bracelet on her wrist.
    “And I’m Stacey Jordan. Are you by any chance Lizzie’s mother? The chief of police?”
    “In the flesh. And I’m retired now.”
    “I met your daughter and her kids at dinner the other night. What a beautiful family. You must be so proud of Lizzie, her being a lawyer, working with autistic children in that art therapy program. I’m hoping to get involved with the project somehow.”
    “Lizzie told me that you recently graduated with a degree in art conservation. Now that’s impressive.”
    She shrugged off my compliment, looking uncomfortable with the praise. “I’ve always loved anything having to do with art. And I’m lucky that I get to work part time here and with Mr. Rousseau over at the mansion.”
    “Rousseau? I’m not familiar with that name.”
    “Antoine Rousseau. He lives in France but travels all around the world overseeing special projects. He’s the best art conservator alive today.” She took a step closer. “But just between you and me, Antoine can be a real handful. He’s an