The Fine Art of Murder Read Online Free Page B

obsessive-compulsive—very meticulous. Maybe geniuses are all just . . .”
    “Quirky,” I finished. “It’s the best way to describe someone who’s a bit off center. When I was a rookie, we’d say ‘kook’ or ‘nut-job.’ But now everything has to be politically correct.”
    Stacey laughed. “Well, then, Mr. Rousseau is the most ‘quirky’ person I’ve ever met.”
    I liked Stacey. She was obviously beautiful but, more important, energetic and smart. “Aren’t you tempted to snoop around that place?” I asked her. “You know, peek behind the Wizard’s curtain? I know I would be. There are so many stories about Pierce mansion.”
    She rolled her eyes. “I could probably write a book about all I’ve seen out there. You wouldn’t believe—”
    “Stacey!” Randolph Pierce snapped as he walked out from what I assumed was his office in the back of the gallery.
    He had that casual look people work so hard to perfect. His sandy brown hair was cut close to his head. Beneath an expensive black sport coat, he wore a T-shirt tucked into a pair of tight-fitting jeans. He finished off his look with tasseled loafers and, of course, no socks. But his face was the surprise. Maybe there were a few wrinkles around his eyes and he’d put on a few pounds, but the forty-year-old man that stood in front of me looked exactly as he had when he was sixteen. I would have recognized Randolph Pierce anywhere, any day.
    “Don’t you have some work to do?” His outburst made the other customers in the gallery look over at our threesome.
    Stacey held back her embarrassment remarkably well. “It was so nice meeting you, Mrs. Sullivan.”
    “You too, Stacey. Maybe we can have coffee . . . or a drink sometime?”
    “I’d like that.” She gave me a weak smile.
    Randolph glared at the girl as she walked away. I couldn’t help wondering what was going on between the two of them. As soon as Stacey was out of sight, he turned to me, all smiles.
    “Mrs. Sullivan? It’s been a long time. You look great. Lizzie told me you were coming into town for a while.” Then he grabbed me into a quick hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
    “You too, Randolph. You haven’t changed a bit . . . I mean it.”
    “Well, I don’t know about that, but it’s so nice of you to stop in.”
    “When Lizzie told me you’d opened a gallery, I had to come see it.”
    “That’s right; you’re an artist now.”
    “I’ve always been an artist,” I told him. “I studied and took all kinds of courses. When we needed some extra cash, I even thought of being a forensic sketch artist. Life just took me into another direction. But now that I’m retired and Sully’s gone, the old artist in me has been resurrected.”
    “I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Sullivan. What a shock. Please accept my condolences.”
    “Thank you, Randolph. That’s very kind of you.”
    “Mr. Sullivan was always fair with me; I admired him greatly.”
    “If I remember correctly, the last time he brought you in was when the Jergens family called, claiming you vandalized their lake house.”
    Randolph was not the typical bad boy back then. He’d been raised by nannies; his parents were always out of the country or too busy to spend time with him. And there was a certain sense of entitlement that came along with the Pierce name. No matter what the poor kid did, it seemed he was despised by everyone in Edina. I suppose that after a while, it was easier for him to just stop trying and do whatever he wanted.
    “I was so angry back then. Always trying to prove I wasn’t like my family. I did some stupid things.”
    I saw he was getting upset, so I didn’t push it. “Well, that was then,” I said. “Look at you now.”
    He beamed. “So you approve?”
    “Oh, the place is beautiful but . . . I was surprised when I first walked in.”
    “Surprised? Why?” he asked, confused.
    “Knowing how your family collected classical art, I just thought that’s