The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

Oh-kay.

Jason put a hand up. “Fine. You got this. I’ll butt out.”

J.J. said curtly, “Appreciated.”

Jason checked his phone. Four thirty. Just enough time to squeeze in one more interview. “I think I’ll try to speak to the Mayhew girl. Do you have an address on her?”

J.J. picked up his phone and texted the address. “I thought you were in a hurry to get to the newspaper archives?”

“The newspaper archives aren’t going anywhere.”

“That’s not how you sounded this morning.”

“I can’t change what’s in the archives.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I’ll start on the archives tomorrow.”

“Okay. Whatever, I guess. You want me to come with you to interview Mayhew?”

Jason said casually, “No. I think you’re turning up some very useful stuff. You should keep working this angle.”

“Suit yourself.” J.J. looked down at his laptop.

* * * * *

It wasn’t hard to see how Terry “Baby” Mayhew, Quilletta’s daughter, got her nickname.

Despite being nearly forty, she looked like a baby. Or maybe a toddler, would be more accurate. She was chubby, with a heart-shaped face, close-cut dark curls, wide-brown eyes, and a perfect set of dimples.

Also, given the way she recoiled when Jason showed his ID, a guilty conscience.

“I can’t talk to you without a lawyer present,” she said in alarm, and tried to close the front door.

“Wait a minute.” Jason caught the door and held it in place. “Mrs. Mayhew, you’re not in any trouble. I can’t think of any good reason you would refuse to even speak with me.”

Baby hesitated and then opened the door.

“Thanks. This won’t take long, I promise,” Jason said.

“My husband’s going to be home soon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Reluctantly, Baby led the way down an almost eerily unblemished hall to a living room that looked like it had been decorated by Mr. Clean. White walls, white carpet, white furniture, white blinds. Jason had seen operating rooms with more color—and warmth.

She waved Jason to take one of the spotless white chairs, positioning herself behind the sofa. As she warily watched him sit, he wondered if he was the chair’s first occupant.

“Did you want something?” she asked grudgingly. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Just information.” Jason smiled. He usually got good results with that smile, but Baby was not having any of it.

“I don’t know why you have to come here,” she burst out. “I don’t know anything. I wasn’t involved.”

“Involved in what?” Jason inquired.

“Involved in anything. I wasn’t even alive when Great-Uncle Roy sent those things home from the war.”