Out in the foyer, Randall was standing with his arms crossed, staring at the paintings.
“Someone wasn’t taking his Prozac.” He shook his head as if throwing off a baneful influence. “I brought some furniture pads to wrap them in.”
Randall and I hauled the paintings back to the show house, and he helped me hang them.
“Looks good,” Randall said. “Not that I like the paintings all that much, but they look better here in this room. The red walls sort of keep them from being such a downer.”
“They’re still a downer.”
Martha was standing in the doorway, glaring at us. She stepped into the room and did a quick survey. Was I only imagining it or did she relax just a little when she’d seen all three paintings. Did she know about the unfinished painting that was probably of her?
“Why’d you pick these paintings, anyway?” she asked.
“I didn’t exactly pick them,” I said. “These three were the only ones he had.” At least the only paintings that were complete, and framed. It wasn’t such a big lie.
“Seriously?” Martha asked.
I nodded.
“Damn,” she said. “I wonder what happened to the rest of them. He was prolific, once upon a time.” She made “prolific” sound like a put-down.
“Maybe he sold them all,” I suggested.
“No.” She shook her head. “Not a lot of his work is out in the market. Whoever owns these will make a mint on them, now that he’s dead.”
“His brother will be happy to hear that,” I said. “It seems he’s inherited these.”
“There could be others out there,” Martha said. “The chief should look into that. Follow the money. See if someone, like his dealer, has a stash of them ready to put on the market.”
“I thought Clay murdered his dealer,” I said.
She looked startled at that. Was she surprised that I knew? Or just surprised at my bluntness?
“True,” she said. “No use trying to contact his original dealer. But he could have gotten another one.”
“Unless he gave up painting entirely,” I suggested.
“Maybe he did.” She was staring at the cityscape now. “What a waste. All that talent gone.”
She didn’t look as if she were sad over the waste. She looked as if she couldn’t decide whether to feel envious of the talent or triumphant that its owner was dead.
“He was very talented,” I said.
“Yeah,” Martha said. “Always thought he was a cut above everyone else because he was an artist. And look at him now. He’s dead, and the used-car salesman gets his precious paintings.”
She said it with such venom that I was speechless.
“Well, life goes on,” she said after a few moments. “And my rooms aren’t going to finish themselves.”
She left.
“If you ask me,” Randall said, “she’s lucky her alibi checks out.”
“You’re sure it does?” I asked.
“The chief seems pretty focused on the Grangers right now,” Randall said. “And he’s checking out the possibility that the killer was someone blackmailing Clay over his prison history.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“Does to me,” Randall said. “I’m not sure how all those rich clients of Clay’s would feel if they found out they were hiring an ex-con. And a convicted murderer, no less.”
“Yeah, but why would the blackmailer kill Clay?” I asked. “Clay killing the blackmailer, maybe. But why would the blackmailer kill the goose that’s laying golden eggs?”
“Clay had a temper,” Randall said. “Maybe they quarreled, and the blackmailer killed him in self-defense.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, not our problem. I hereby declare this room finished. And in the nick of time.”
“Today’s not the nick of time,” he said. “That would be tomorrow morning, when the photographer rings the doorbell.”
He picked up his tools and tarps and headed for the door.
“I bet you’ll be glad to work on something other than this house,” I said, as I followed him downstairs.
“Will I ever,” he said. “But that’s water under the bridge. If we can just keep from having any fresh disasters, maybe we can make us some money for the historical society.”
I noticed he tapped lightly on the woodwork as he said it.
“Assuming anyone wants to come to a show house where someone was murdered,” I said.
“Oh, they’ll come all right,” he said. “It’s the notoriety. Like having our shindig in Lizzie Borden’s old house.”