The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

He reached the double front doors—nine-foot-tall and painted black and gold—and rang the bell.

He could almost feel the shock reverberating through the house as the chimes died away.

Nothing happened for a long minute.

Two long minutes.

He was about to ring the bell again when the towering door suddenly swung open.

The tall forty-something brunette standing before him was undoubtedly the housekeeper. That demure brown shirt dress communicated her job title as effectively as a name plate on an office desk. She wore her dark hair in the sleek flip still favored by so many wives of conservative politicians—not including his own sister.

Same make but different model as the devoted Ms. Keating, if Jason was any judge.

“May I help you?” she asked after a surprised moment. Her voice was pleasant, her brown eyes curious. She gave the impression of looking Jason up and down without ever moving her gaze.

Jason introduced himself, offering his ID.

“FBI?” she repeated mechanically, staring at his badge.

“Correct. I’d like to have a word with Barnaby Durrand, Mrs.…?”

She was frowning. “Merriam. I’m Mrs. Durrand’s housekeeper. You came all the way out here looking for Mr. Durrand?”

“That’s right. I—”

“Without calling first?”

“I understand Mr. Durrand is visiting his mother.”

“Well, yes, but...” She hesitated, still frowning, still clearly taken aback. “Yes,” she repeated. “But he’s not here at the moment.”

“Really?” Jason didn’t bother to hide his disbelief. “According to the manager of his Los Angeles gallery, here is exactly where he is.”

“He sailed over to Cape Vincent this morning.”

She was too genuinely bewildered to be lying, but there was more than a tinge of exasperation in Jason’s instinctive, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No. I’m certainly not kidding you. I believe he had a business meeting.”

“I see.” Jason recovered his self-control. “And when is Mr. Durrand expected back?” He held his breath, waiting. If she told him Durrand wasn’t coming back, he was going to end his misery and jump in the St. Lawrence River.

Her expression grew wary. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

“What time tomorrow afternoon?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

Jason opened his mouth, and she added hastily, “He’ll be back in time for dinner, naturally.”

Naturally.

“I see.” If he didn’t know better, he’d say Barnaby had received advance warning he was coming. The only person with that knowledge outside the Bureau was Chris Shipka, and Jason had trouble believing Shipka would tip Barnaby off, given his attempt to further implicate the Durrands in fraud, larceny, and what had sounded a lot like a possible murder. But you never could tell.

“Was Mr. Durrand expecting you?” Mrs. Merriam inquired, recovering her own equilibrium. She had to know the answer to that one, but her expression was one of polite inquiry.

“He should be.” Jason was aware he’d lost the element of surprise; there wasn’t a chance in hell she wouldn’t notify Barnaby that the FBI had shown up at his front door.

He considered his limited options. “Okay, Mrs. Merriam. I assume you’ve got some way of getting in touch with Mr. Durrand. Please let him know that I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. If he’s not available, perhaps I could speak to Mrs. Durrand.”