The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

Daisy looked apologetic. “It was a long time ago. I think he said they, but I don’t remember word for word. I had the impression he thought there was someone else besides Shepherd, but he never said another name. I’d have remembered that.”

“Yes,” Bram said. “She’d have remembered.”

“What happened after you reached Cape Vincent?”

“Nothing. I mean, I’d given him some old clothes that were on the boat to wear. He didn’t have any money or anything. No ID. He was still slightly stoned; he said Shep was feeding him drugs. Anyway, he thanked me, and then he went to talk to the police.”

Where, according to Shipka, the Durrands had been immediately notified that the houseguest from hell had escaped.

Poveda’s mistake was understandable. He had no way of knowing that the Cape Vincent Police Department was a part-time agency. Or that their so-called mission statement read in part: Balancing the outcome based on the need of the community.

Right. In other words, don’t call us, we’ll call you.

Major crime was handled by Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, and it was unfortunate that no one at CVPD had seen fit to escalate Poveda’s complaint to that agency. But it was also easy to see how the wild accusations of a slightly stoned outsider against one of the community’s leading families might be dismissed.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t okay. But it was the way things were too often handled—and, unfortunately, that still held true.

After the rain and fog of the day before, the boat trip to the island was unexpectedly sunny and beautiful.

Jason and Kennedy got the complete rundown from Bram on the Who’s Who at the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. “Rundown” being the correct word for it.

Kennedy said little, leaving it to Jason to keep feeding Bram the “oh yeahs” and “is that sos.”

As they drew close to the dock near the lodge, they could see several black and gold Jefferson County patrol boats moored along the shoreline. The cottage was a hive of activity, with uniformed officers swarming the crime scene.

Bram’s eyes lit up with enjoyment, and he offered to wait to motor them back.

“Not necessary,” Jason said. “I can bring us back on one of the boats.”

“It’s easier this way.” Bram grinned his wide, mischevious grin. “Besides, I want to see what the cops are up to.”

Ah, yes. The Cape Vincent rumor mill needed a steady supply of grist to stay operational.

Jason glanced at Kennedy, who was watching Bram with a thoughtful expression. Feeling Jason’s gaze, Kennedy raised his brows in inquiry.

Jason casually asked Bram, “What would you like me to do with the dirty towels and sheets?”

Bram shrugged, still eyeing the cottage next door. “Just throw them in the machine.”

Jason didn’t have to look at Kennedy to know his expression would be disapproving.

They landed, disembarked, and Bram took himself off to get a closer view of what the sheriff deputies were up to.

Jason preceded Kennedy up the walk to the lodge. It seemed to Jason that there was something censorious in the bite of Kennedy’s heels on stone.

Jason looked over his shoulder.

“Again, it’s not evidence. I’m not involved. I don’t have anything to hide.”

“Everybody’s got something to hide.”

“Even you?”

Kennedy gave him an oddly resolute look from beneath the blond line of his brows. “Of course.”

His answer took Jason aback. Or rather, not the answer, but the honesty of the answer.

“It’s about the first forty-eight. If the sheriff department focuses on me, they’re losing valuable time in the first hours of the investigation.”