Yeah, like being dirty. Don’t forget that.
I’ve never been dirty!
Okay, deep breaths. Stop talking back to the voice in your head. Think about the present.
I’m still no closer to determining who killed Victoria Harkness. I think of the men I’ve interviewed: Jason Morganstern, Eric North, and Seth Takahashi. Takahashi is on the APD radar already — I wish I could have gleaned something at the station. Is he the one? He has the best — the only — motivation I can determine, but it’s a big step to take for a man of God, crusades and terrorism notwithstanding.
In my experience, the worst criminals have egos to gratify and a basic selfishness that allows them to cross the line into taking someone else’s life to better their own. And they aren’t necessarily all that smart, or imaginative. Usually they just can’t think of a better way to solve their problems other than the short-term method of killing whoever stands in their path.
But Victoria isn’t a typical murder victim. There doesn’t seem to be anything for anyone to gain. Her trust fund reverts to her cousins. Takahashi might gain some new parishioners, and quash a dangerous religious offshoot. Morganstern I’m not sure of. He’d been attracted to her, no doubt about that, but had that attraction morphed into obsession? Takahashi told me Jason had inappropriate attitudes toward women, but he didn’t sound obsessed when I talked to him yesterday. He didn’t seem smart enough, or controlled enough, to conceal his feelings to such an extent. I suppose he might have killed her in a fit of jealousy or frustration.
And Eric North? He has the ego, but what’s the motive? He’s a successful artist, a local celebrity in some ways. Still, he’s the only one who’d known her before — is there something in that I can follow up on? She’d been a child, thirteen or so when they moved away. Maybe one of her teachers would remember her. I make a mental note to check the local school district. Dig, dig, dig.
I also can’t forget Daniel Chandler. He’s known Victoria for a long time. He’s paying my bills, but he seems slick to me. More like a salesman than a bookkeeper. Plus, there’s a big wad of insurance money coming to the church, and he’s got the keys to the checking account.
Claire Chandler, on the other hand, seems honest. No facade, nothing that trips any alarms. Except for the fact that she’s married to Daniel and lets him call the shots. Doesn’t show very good judgment on her part. Still, she wouldn’t be the first woman to let some guy delude her.
Near the end of my long walk toward home, I look in on the church. The hot spots on my heels and toes are turning into incipient blisters. But the repurposed grocery store gleams in the late afternoon light, at least until a cloud passes in front of the sun. A slate-colored Toyota Highlander is alone in the parking lot. I peer through the window, see leather seats, faux woodgrain dash. Nice. I walk inside the unlocked door. Shake my head. Church people are way too trusting.
My footsteps scuff in the large carpeted sanctuary, echo against the industrial linoleum in the big fellowship hall. The storefront windows let in a lot of light, and I slow down and have a look at the hanging art. My first tour with Daniel had been a quick pass-through. Now I take my time. The pictures are an eclectic mix of style, size, and media. Photographs. Etchings. String art. Paintings — oil, water color. A paint-by-number of horses grazing in a field. The only thing lacking is a black velvet Elvis. Or dogs playing poker.
What I mean is, the lot is strictly amateur. Oh, some are better than others. Some are pretty good, still lifes of fruit or flowers rendered with skill. Some pieces are abstract, with splashes of exuberant color and no apparent subject. But Jackson Pollock they aren’t. That’s why the painting by Eric North stood out. Past tense. Where it had been hanging is now an empty space. I remember it as having a muted palette, grays and tans and slate blues and sage greens. Victoria Harkness, standing with the river behind her and the Megler Bridge soaring overhead. When I saw it at the memorial service, I was struck by the similarity to the scene of my vision, and wondered then what the connection might be. But now it’s gone.
Glancing around, I see other blank spots, places where pictures are missing. Gift rescinders reclaiming their own? For the most part, Chandler is probably happy to see them go. Unless he’s the one harvesting the crop. I ponder that thought for a minute, then shrug and head for the office, intending to ask him.
Daniel Chandler is seated behind his desk, peering at a spreadsheet. The reflected light from the computer monitor makes him look sallow and unhealthy. I rap on the doorjamb to get his attention. He jerks his head up, then relaxes when he recognizes me, lifting a hand to remove his glasses and rub his eyes.
“Audrey. I didn’t expect to see you. Are you reporting in?”
I’m not, but now I feel like I have to. I give him a rundown of who I’ve interviewed. I don’t tell him about my run-in with the cops.
I wind up with, “Anything more you think I should know?” I clocked the slight emphasis on ‘you’ when he greeted me
