The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

“That’s a relief,” Jason said at the end of their hunt.

“Yes.” Kennedy looked thoughtful.

“No?”

Kennedy said, “Now the question becomes why wasn’t the weapon hidden here?”

“Because there wasn’t time? Because he couldn’t get in? Because he had to leave the island?”

Kennedy nodded, but it was more acknowledgment that Jason was speaking than agreement. He said abruptly, “I’m going to see how they’re doing processing the crime scene.”

“Okay.” They were going to love that.

“Give a shout when you’re ready to go.”

Jason nodded.

It didn’t take long to gather his belongings. He washed the juice glasses, plate, and coffee cups he and Shipka had used, then sat down to wait for the washing machine to finish its rinse and spin cycle. When the buzzer went off, he tossed the linens in the dryer and hit the button. He picked up his bag and walked out to the front yard of the lodge.

Across the expanse of winter grass and rock, Kennedy was talking to the officer in charge. He spotted Jason, spoke a final word to the man in uniform, and started across the grass. He stopped, put his fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp, clear whistle like a cowboy trying to get the attention of a lost little dogie.

And sure enough, Bram stepped out from behind the dividing hedge and jogged over to join them as they walked down to the harbor.

“Can you believe it? They told me I couldn’t watch them working the crime scene. They’re marching around on my property too!”

Jason nodded vaguely. He wanted to hear what Kennedy had learned, but conscious of Bram’s eager listening silence, restrained himself from asking the dozen questions on the tip of his tongue.

“They’re doing a decent job processing the crime scene,” Kennedy remarked, which was possibly code. If so, as usual when it came to Kennedy, one Jason didn’t understand.

“Do they have the autopsy results yet?”

“No. But going by the evidence of blood loss and the bloodstain patterns, the theory is Shipka was whacked with something very large and sharp. A scythe. An ax. I’d concur with that.”

“Eric Greenleaf,” Jason said. “He’s got an ax—and the attitude to go with it.”

He’d spoken automatically and winced when Bram said, “Eric? Eric’s a

suspect?”

“No,” Jason said quickly. “That was thinking out loud, not an actual suggestion. He’s an interesting guy, though.”

“Hey, I can see Eric killing someone before I could see Shep. Although if Eric was going to kill anyone, it would be his ex. No love lost there, I can tell you.”

“Who’s Eric Greenleaf?” Kennedy asked.

“The owner of that.” Jason pointed to Camden Castle, a black silhouette against the sky.

Kennedy nodded thoughtfully. “Quaint,” he observed after a moment.

That little drawl was so Kennedy. Jason laughed.

Kennedy’s mouth curved in answer.

The adrenaline that had kept Jason moving at top speed while cleaning up the lodge and making sure he hadn’t been framed, drained away on the short boat trip back to Cape Vincent. He had that weird hollow feeling again. He was cold and depressed and more confused than he liked to admit.

What now? He had no idea.

The wind had kicked up, and the water was choppy. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of the sun and spray on his face.