But it wasn’t until Steven had announced that he wanted to become an artist and not a politician like his father and grandfather before him, that Sarah’s wrath had come to full bloom. Angry at her son’s decision to break a century-old family tradition, she had cut off all financial support and told him not to bother sending her a wedding invitation.
Grace would never know whether or not the wedding would have taken place. Just as she was beginning to have serious doubts about marrying into a family that would probably never accept her, she had learned of Steven’s affair with a young artist. Almost relieved, Grace had broken the engagement, and never saw Sarah again. Until today.
“Does this little matter have anything to do with art?” Grace asked, wondering why Sarah was taking such a long time to come to the point. “Because if it does, I’m sure Steven could help you better than—”
“No, he can’t.” For the first time, Sarah’s gaze faltered. “Steven is dead.”
Two
For a moment, Grace was incapable of a reaction. Dropping onto the couch, she just sat there, numbed by the news. When she found her voice again, it was barely audible. “Dead? Steven? How?”
“He was murdered. Shot at point-blank range in his gallery.”
Grace’s head was spinning. Murdered. Shot. Those weren’t words she could easily associate with Steven, who had always been a peaceful, happy-go-lucky kind of guy. What could he possibly have done to arouse such wrath?
The answer came to her in the next second. “Was a woman involved?” she asked.
“A married woman,” Sarah replied. “Her name is Denise Baxter. Apparently, her husband found out about the affair, went to look for Steven and shot him in the heart.”
Grace covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, God, Sarah, how awful. How truly awful. I’m so sorry.”
“I warned him that someday his antics would bring him more trouble than he’d be able to handle. He didn’t listen. He never listened.”
“When did this happen?”
“A week ago.”
Grace’s back went rigid. “And you didn’t let me know?”
“Why would I? You and Steven broke up more than ten years ago.”
“But we remained friends, and we kept in touch. In fact, I talked to him less than a month ago.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” Sarah said stiffly.
“Why are you telling me now?”
“Because of the will.”
The surprises just kept on coming. “I’m mentioned in Steven’s will?”
“He left you the gallery.”
This time Grace fell back against the cushions, too stunned to say anything.
Sarah reached into her black alligator bag, extracted a sheaf of paper, folded in three, and handed it to her. “This is a copy of the will. You may want to look at page four.”
Grace took the will from Sarah’s hand, flipped to the fourth page and read. It was just as Sarah had said, written in legalese but quite clear. Steven had left her the Hatfield Gallery in New Hope, Pennsylvania. After she read the paragraph again, she shook her head. “I can’t accept it.”
“He thought you’d say that. Please read on.”
Grace read the next paragraph. “In the event that Grace McKenzie turns down my bequest, I ask that she spend one week at the gallery before making her final decision. If, after that time, her position remains unchanged, the gallery shall go to my mother, Sarah Hatfield.”
“Have you seen the gallery?” Sarah asked as Grace slowly refolded the document.
“No. Steven had invited me to the grand opening, but the museum was preparing for an important exhibition at the time and I couldn’t get away.” Actually, she hadn’t wanted to run into Sarah. “I had made plans to drive down the following year, but didn’t.”
“A pity. You would like it.”
“I’m sure of it. Steven was very proud of it.” She handed the will back, but Sarah made no move to take it. “I wish you had called,” Grace said. “I would have saved you a trip.”
“It’s clear that Steven thought very highly of you, as a person and as an art expert.”
She almost sounded sincere. “I have a job, Sarah. A job I love.”
“But isn’t the Griff closed for renovations until after Thanksgiving?”
She had done her homework. “My father is expecting me. I have airplane tickets. I’m practically packed.” Why was she giving so many explanations when a simple no was enough?
“From what I could see, in the couple of days that I was there,” Sarah continued, “New Hope is a peaceful, closely-knit community that thrives on art and tourism. Naturally, Steven’s murder has left the residents shaken. The only other incident that caused as much emotion happened more than twenty years ago, when a local girl disappeared and was never found.”
“Sarah—”
“Just one week, Grace, that’s all he’s asking. You said the two of you had remained friends. If that’s true, won’t you grant a friend his last wish?”
“Please don’t do that.”
But Sarah was relentless. “I’m sure your father would understand.”
Grace felt herself weakening. Damn that woman. She was right about one thing, though—Grace’s father would understand. And she would still have three whole weeks with him. “I might be able to arrange it.”
“Splendid,” Sarah said, her voice more confident now. “You have carte blanche to reopen the gallery for business and run it any way you wish. Some paintings are there permanently, others are on consignment. The majority are from local artists, and selling quite well, I must add.
“And in case you’re skittish, I hired a cleaning crew to scrub the place from top to bottom. You wouldn’t know a murder was committed.” She spoke fast and earnestly, sounding almost like a real estate agent anxious to make a sale. “The police impounded Steven’s Porsche before releasing it. I had a driver take it back to Philadelphia. They also took his cell phone and laptop. I understand that’s standard procedure in a murder case.”
It was much more than Grace wanted to know, but she didn’t interrupt her. People dealt with their grief differently, and if this was Sarah’s way to deal with hers, who was she to question it?
“The only item I brought back,” Sarah continued, “is his Rolex, because it’s quite valuable. I left his clothes in his cottage for the time being. I may give them to a local charity later. All pertinent paperwork—client contracts, show schedules, commercial invoices, etc.—can be found in the desk at the gallery. Oh, and you’ll need the code for the burglar alarm. I didn’t write it down, for safety reasons, but you shouldn’t have any difficulty remembering it.”
“I’m terrible with figures.”
“Not this one. The code is your birthday, month and year, and the password, should the alarm go off accidentally, is Madame Bovary. I don’t get it, but perhaps you will.”
She did. Madame Bovary was Grace’s favorite book. She had read it a number of times and had insisted that Steven read it, too. After much protest, he had agreed to give the book a try, and had hated it. “You