FRIDAY AFTERNOON
The doorbell pealed through the condo unit and the two lawmen heard Dee Bradshaw call from inside, “I’ll get it, Dad.”
Even though Terry was now in a serious long-term relationship himself, Dwight heard his friend’s sharply indrawn breath when the young woman opened the door and they were confronted by a mass of reddish brown hair, bright green eyes, black skintight biker pants, and a black bandeau top that left almost nothing to the imagination.
Mourning attire for the next generation, thought Dwight, trying not to admit to himself that he was looking, too, and wondering if that top ever slipped all the way down.
“Oh,” she said, obviously disappointed that they weren’t someone else. “I guess you want to see my father?”
“And you, too, Miss Bradshaw,” Dwight said, as she stood back to let them in.
Inside, the place was larger than they expected. The hall was fairly wide. One side opened into the living room, the other into a small formal dining room with an oval table that would seat six. Farther down the hall, they glimpsed the edge of a kitchen and a spacious family room. Bookcases lined several of the walls and the shelves were filled with books that looked worn and well-read.
“If you’ll wait in there,” Dee Bradshaw said, gesturing to the living room, “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
They moved into that room as directed and were surprised by the portrait over the couch.
“Is that the mother or the daughter?” Terry asked.
“The mother,” Dwight said when a closer look made it clear that this vibrant woman had more steel in her face. She was not as beautiful as her daughter, but she radiated a purposefulness that the younger woman lacked. Where Dee looked petulant, Candace was clearly more determined. And yet there was something provocative and sexy in that half-smile and the tilt of her head, almost as if she were saying “Damn straight you’d like to have me, but how much are you willing to pay?”
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Dwight and Terry turned to see Cameron Bradshaw smiling at them from the doorway with proprietary pride.
“Candace was twenty-five when that was painted. At the separation, this was the only thing she really wanted that I wouldn’t let her have. It’s a Gillian Greber. I paid the artist fifteen hundred to paint it; I turned down fifteen thousand from her gallery last year. Candace thought I kept it only because it was a portrait of her. She had no idea how good it was.”
“Mom’s portrait’s worth fifteen thousand?” Dee Bradshaw was incredulous. “Really?”
“I said that’s how much the gallery offered,” he said. “I imagine they would sell it for at least twenty-five.”
“Whoa!”
“Forget it, honey,” he said.
She started to protest, but then laughed. “That obvious, huh, Dad?”
He turned to his visitors. “Major Bryant, Agent Wilson. Please be seated. What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid we have more questions,” Dwight said.
“Don’t be afraid,” Bradshaw said with a wry smile for his mild joke. He gestured for Dwight to sit in a tall wingback chair upholstered in deep blue leather and he lowered himself into its nearby twin. The chairs echoed the blue leaves and flowers of the couch and also the blue of the dress in the portrait. His daughter took one end of the couch and smiled at Terry, who sat down at the other end. “We want to help however we can. Have you learned why Candace felt she had to do what she did?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it wasn’t suicide after all. Your wife was murdered.”
Dee’s mouth dropped open and Bradshaw looked bewildered. “Murdered?”
“It was meant to look like suicide but the medical examiner is positive that she was strangled from behind and the bag put over her head after her death.”
“Strangled? Who?”
“That’s what we’re looking into.”
“But that note. It was her handwriting.”
Terry nodded. “She was probably forced to write it.”
Dwight said, “Miss Bradshaw—”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, call me Dee.”
“Very well, Dee. You told Deputy Richards today that your mother moved into her new house at Christmas and you were at Carolina from Christmas to Easter. Is that right?”
She nodded and slid to the floor, where she could lean back against the couch and tuck her legs beneath her.
“Were you and your mother close?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Did you come home often? Talk on the phone?”
“Not really. She had her life. I had mine. Anyhow, she was pretty busy. Every time I called, she was usually rushing off to a meeting or heading out to check up on one of the cleaning crews.” Her tone was light but her eyes
