The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

Mrs. Merriam looked startled. “Mrs. Durrand? Mrs. Durrand doesn’t—isn’t—” Her gaze went automatically to the badge once more clipped to his belt. Yeah. The Big Initials.

“She’ll see me,” Jason said ominously. “Either Barnaby or Mrs. Durrand. I plan on talking to somebody in this house tomorrow. I’ll leave it to Mr. Durrand as to who that’s going to be.”

Her jaw dropped. And so would George Potts’ if he ever heard about this exchange, but Jason had well and truly had it with the runaround. He was not really going to insist on interviewing a sick old woman—had no legal jurisdiction to do so even if he was ruthless enough to try—but Barnaby couldn’t know that, and, if Jason’s instinct was correct, wouldn’t risk such a meeting in any case.

He delivered a formal and professional smile to the wide-eyed Mrs. Merriam and departed.

Chapter Nine

Mostly it was academic curiosity that sent Jason in the direction of Camden Castle.

For one thing, he now had a day to cool his heels before he could interview Barnaby Durrand. For another, the former art historian in him wanted to see that grandiose structure up close.

Alluring as was the idea of spending a day watching Sandra Bullock movies… Yeeeah, no.

He spied the pointy tilt of the witch’s hat towers above the bare white tree branches as he hiked toward the Greenleaf property. No question that there was something eerie about these woods. Maybe it had to do with all those different burial grounds scattered across the island. Maybe it was something else. A lot of this forest predated the fort and the graveyards. These trees were very old—the shining trunks, knotted limbs, and bony twigs reminded him of an army of skeletons—and the silence had a listening quality to it.

In fact, “silence” was relative. The steady thud of his boots on damp soil, the furtive rustle of underbrush as unseen life watched and waited for him to pass, the occasional tentative birdsong served to remind him that he was just another traveler on a very long road.

The sun was making a half-hearted attempt to warm things up. Patches of yellow light filtered through naked branches and pooled beneath the twisted roots. His shadow appeared and then vanished on the path as he crossed beneath towering trees filtering the sun with crisscrossed twigs and branches. It was not yet spring, but the butterflies didn’t seem to know it, furling and unfurling mystery-colored wings before vanishing into the gray, filmy shadows.

The cool silence was ruptured by the sound of distant gunfire.

Rifle shots.

One.

Two.

Jason halted in his tracks, counting.

Boom. Three.

His heart paused for the length of a couple of beats while he tried to place the direction they were coming from. It was not hunting season, but this was a rural space and people in wilderness areas used firearms more casually than people in suburbia. These shots were coming from the south side of the island—well away from him—and Jason was irritated with himself for his irrational reaction.

Reaction? Fear.

Call it what it was.

The unexpected sound of gunshots still scared him. It was stupid and infuriating. He had been on the weapons range plenty of times since Miami, he had been involved in a shooting incident in Massachusetts, and—on top of everything else—he had not been injured by rifle fire, and yet his immediate response to the sound of a rifle was fear.

How the hell long was this going to go on? For the rest of his career? He’d hoped after Massachusetts he was past it—and he was much, much better—but even so.

Even so, the unexpected sound of gunfire sent his pulse rocketing, caused him to break out in a cold sweat.

Anyway, it was a momentary reaction. He was fine again. Irritated with himself, but steady.

He jumped as his cell phone rang, the sound weirdly loud in the enclosed and secret silence of the trees. Okay. Mostly steady. He thought he’d put the damn thing on vibrate.

He reached for his phone and snapped out, “Yes? West here.”

“Yo, G-man,” came a cheerful male voice.

“Lucius.” Jason relaxed. Lucius Lux was one of his top informants. A genuinely gifted young artist who had, unfortunately, turned his gift to forgery. Jason had pulled a lot of strings to keep Lux out of jail—and more strings to get him into a top-notch art program at Otis College of Art and Design. Lux was always threatening to quit Otis, but he’d lasted a year so far, and so far was so good in Jason’s opinion.

“What up? Busy chasing bad guys and harassing little old ladies?”

Jason thought of his threat to interrogate Caroline Durrand, and winced. “Something like that. How’s it going?”