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  “I just don’t know how anyone could do such a thing. I truly don’t. Derek was such a good soul. . . .” Marian wiped the tears away with tissues she pulled from the pocket of her sweater. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll be at the funeral. We all will be. Everyone’s going to close their shops whenever the services are held so that we can attend.”

  “Oh, that’s so good of you. All of you.” Amanda fought back the lump in her throat. “I know that Derek would have loved that you, well, that you all thought so highly of him.”

  “We certainly did. We all did. . . .” Marian dabbed at her face again, then turned to Chief Mercer. “Do you know who . . . ?”

  “Nothing to talk about yet,” he told her.

  Marian nodded her head and backed toward the door. “I’m sure you have things to do here, Amanda. I won’t take any more of your time. I’ll see you later.”

  “Thank you, Marian.” Amanda walked her to the door.

  “Ms. Crosby, are you certain that no one else knew about the goblet?” Mercer asked as she returned to the counter and resumed wrapping the pottery.

  “No, I am not certain. I do not know who Derek might have told. I assumed that he told no one, but I can’t be sure. I hadn’t seen him since he left for Europe. I never got to ask if he’d discussed it with anyone. You might ask Clark.”

  “I already did. He wasn’t aware of anyone, either.”

  “If you’re thinking someone killed Derek because they wanted the goblet, that makes no sense. For one thing, he didn’t have it. I had it. Why didn’t someone come after me?”

  “Would anyone know that you had it? Maybe Derek bragged about it, and someone overheard and followed him home, not realizing that he didn’t have it in his possession. Maybe someone tried to get him to give up its whereabouts, and when he refused, that someone killed him.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “Do you really believe it happened that way?”

  “Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t suggest it yourself. All things considered . . .”

  She smiled wearily. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what things he was considering. Or who his prime suspect was.

  She reached for her phone and hit number three on her speed dial.

  “Calling your lawyer, Ms. Crosby?”

  “Calling my brother, Chief Mercer.” She counted the rings until someone picked up. “I’d like to speak with Detective Crosby. This is his sister. Yes, I’ll hold. . . .”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Derek England’s memorial service took place on a high bank overlooking the Delaware River one week and two days after his death. There were prayers led by a nondenominational minister and gospel music provided by a choir from a nearby church to whom Clark had offered a hefty donation to sing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” while he and Derek’s family and friends scattered handfuls of his ashes on the river below. White orchids, tossed down to float upon the surface of the water, followed the ashes as the mourners then passed into the bar set up under a striped tent to toast Derek and drink to his memory.

  “This is more like a cocktail party than a funeral.” Amanda’s brother, Evan, sidled up to her.

  “Exactly what Derek would have wanted,” she replied. “Oh, he would have wanted all the weeping and wailing. God knows he loved a good drama. But at the end of the day, he’d have wanted a party. Good champagne and some good hors d’oeuvres served by good-looking young men in tuxes. That was Derek’s idea of a great party.”

  Evan’s eyes scanned the crowd. “I see your local police chief is here. Mercer.”

  Amanda leaned a little closer to Evan. “He thinks I did it, you know.”

  Evan knew. He’d paid a visit to the police department on his way through town last night. He hadn’t been very happy when he left.

  “Well, you know that murders are usually committed by someone known to the victim. It is true that, statistically, the closer you are to the deceased, the more likely it is that you’re involved.” He tried to remain calm, but every time he thought about the absurdity of his sister as a murder suspect his blood pressure spiked.

  “Do you think I need a lawyer?” she asked.

  He hesitated. He’d seen the statement she’d voluntarily given to the police. He’d heard the voice mail she’d left on Derek’s phone. He had to admit that, even to him, it had sounded pretty bad. He wished she’d spoken to him before she’d talked to Mercer, but the damage was done. Evan hadn’t been in when she called, and so she had done what she thought was right. He knew that on paper, Amanda looked like a damned good suspect. Worse, he knew that if he was on the investigating team, he’d be doing everything he could to build the case against her.

  “I think it’s a good idea. I know a few good criminal defense lawyers at home, but none up here. Unless you have someone specific in mind, I’ll check around, find out who has a good rep.”

  “I’d appreciate it. I hate that anyone would think I was capable of killing Derek—or anyone else, for that matter—but I understand why they need to consider the possibility.” She looked grim. Then, seeing one of Derek’s sisters in the crowd, she patted her brother on the arm. “There’s Jessica. I didn’t have time to speak with her earlier. . . .”

  Evan watched his sister walk away, wondering if she realized how serious the situation really was.

  The fact was, on paper, she just looked too damned good to ignore.

  Then there was the matter of her clothing she’d voluntarily given up, and the fact that she’d submitted to a GSR swabbing at the hands of the local CSI team. He’d almost hit the ceiling when he’d found out about that, though it would definitely act in Amanda’s favor when the tests confirmed that no fragments of unburned gun powder were found on her hands or clothing.

  Evan sighed deeply. He knew that Amanda was incapable of killing anyone. It was unthinkable.

  They’ll railroad her over my dead body, Evan vowed as he accepted a glass of champagne from one of the waiters.

  “So. Detective Crosby, was it?”

  Evan turned to meet the eyes of the police chief.

  “Chief Mercer.” Evan acknowledged him with a nod.

  “Call me Sean,” he offered. “Evan, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, it’s Detective.”

  “Professional courtesy?” Mercer asked dryly.

  “Sure,” Evan responded in kind. “So, you’re here lining up your suspects?”

  “Looking over the crowd,” Mercer conceded.

  “Got anyone in particular in mind?”

  Mercer’s eyes drifted to Amanda, who was holding the hand of Derek’s older sister.

  “Oh, come on, Mercer. You know she didn’t do it,” Evan told him tersely.

  “You’re her brother. I would expect nothing less from you.”

  “You don’t understand. Amanda just isn’t capable of doing something like that.”

  “You’ve been in law enforcement how many years now?” Mercer asked.

  “Fifteen.”

  “How many times, over the course of those fifteen years, have you heard someone say those words? Be honest, Crosby. How many times?”

  Evan stared at him hard. Of course, he’d heard those words a thousand times. He’d been in Mercer’s shoes a thousand times himself.

  “She didn’t do it,” Evan repeated.

  “I hope you’re right. I really do.” Mercer paused to watch Amanda console the grieving family. “But I have to consider her a suspect until the evidence rules her out.”

  “Well, I expect you’ll be able to do that real soon. We both know the GSR tests will confirm that she hasn’t fired a gun recently.” Evan nodded confidently. “And of course, you’re keeping an open mind. . . .”

  “Of course.” Mercer’s eyes scanned the crowd in the same manner Evan’s had. “There’s way too much we don’t know yet. And there’s the matter of that pottery vase. Goblet. I still like the theft angle. And frankly, I don’t see your sister there. She told me she�
�d arranged to send it back, and that all checked out. The courier she hired confirmed that it was to go back to Dr. McGowan. So yes, we’re keeping the investigation totally open, following up every lead. Besides, it just seems . . .” Mercer shook his head the slightest bit.

  “Seems what?”

  “Oh, a little too . . .” He appeared unwilling to complete the thought.

  “Too easy?” Evan replied.

  “Yeah. Maybe. Your sister’s too easy a suspect. And that does bother me a bit. Things rarely turn out to be that pat.” Mercer watched Clark Lehmann throw back yet another martini. His third, by Mercer’s count. “Though Lehmann there stands to inherit financially. The house here in town as well as a summer place. The boat. And I understand that England carried a hefty life insurance policy.”

  “Clark doesn’t need the money. There’s a lot of money behind him.”

  “Where’d it come from, do you know?”

  “Lehmann’s Candy. He’s a grandson of the founder, owns a big chunk of stock. And he’s done well—very well—with his investments.” Evan drained his glass. “But I’m sure you’ll find that all out for yourself when you scrutinize his financials.”

  “You seem to know a lot about him,” Mercer noted.

  “Derek England and my sister were friends long before they were business partners. I knew him—and Clark Lehmann—pretty well.”

  “So I guess your sister knows Lehmann well, too. Would you say they’re pretty close, the two of them?”

  Evan stared at Mercer for a long time before he burst out laughing. “Right. Clark and Amanda conspired to kill Derek.” He shook his head and deposited his empty glass on a silver tray as a waiter passed by. “You will have no more contact with my sister unless she’s accompanied by her attorney, or by me.”

  Evan turned and walked away before he acted on his inclination to land a fist in the middle of Mercer’s face.

  “That went well,” the chief muttered to himself.

  He stepped back to the edge of the tent to watch the interaction of the crowd from the sidelines. It was a real mixed bag. Several same-sex couples gathered with Lehmann near the bar, while a group of older professional types stood off to one corner. The deceased’s fellow antiques dealers, he supposed, recognizing Marian O’Connor in their midst. His eyes settled on Amanda Crosby from across a space of thirty or so feet. As if she were aware of his gaze, her eyes met his briefly before turning back to her companion, an older man in a dark suit with a red carnation in his lapel.

  Mercer continued to study the faces of the mourners, returning to Amanda’s several times before he realized he’d unconsciously been seeking her out as she moved around, stopping to chat with a young woman here, a small quiet group there. Her face was softened with sorrow, her eyes red, the circles under them deeper, darker than they’d been all week. Guilt or grief? he wondered.

  At one point he’d caught the gaze of her brother again. Mercer had looked away abruptly, though he’d not totally understood why he’d felt compelled to do so. He’d be as protective of his own sister, wouldn’t he?

  Hard to tell, since they didn’t have much of a history together, he reminded himself. Evan Crosby might know his sister well enough to state with total conviction that she was not capable of murder, but could he, Mercer, make that same declaration? How well did he really know Greer, anyway?

  Not all that well, he sighed. They were trying to change that, but too many miles had separated them for too many years. They were still just getting to know each other, still learning to measure each other’s character. It was a hard admission for him to make, but if Greer Kennedy was a suspect in a murder, her own brother wouldn’t be able to swear that she was innocent.

  The Crosby siblings looked like they were close, the way they leaned toward each other to chat under the conversation level of the crowd. They even looked a bit alike, both dark-haired and green-eyed and a little edgy. The angles of the brother’s face were softened on the sister, her mouth fuller, her cheeks pinker.

  Evan’s eyes saw more, his expression had a harder edge, and his movements were sharper, as one might expect given his profession. Brother and sister seemed to share a wariness, though it was more pronounced in him than in her, another concession to the job. There was a gentleness in her that surfaced every time she took someone’s hands and offered a hug to a mourner who needed one. There was no such softness apparent in the brother, who was constantly scanning the faces, looking for the odd man, the one who didn’t seem to belong, committing as many of those faces to memory as he could, much as was Mercer himself, silently questioning whether this face, or that, might be the face of a killer.

  Mercer’s eyes drifted back to Amanda Crosby once more. In spite of all the evidence, in spite of all he’d said, he found himself hoping that, in the end, that face wouldn’t prove to be hers.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Whistling, Vince Giordano unpacked the bags from the local market and put away his purchases. He was filled with a sense of self-satisfaction. Here he was, in the first living space he had ever had all to himself—his prison cell aside, of course. Sure, it was small, but he didn’t need much beyond the few pieces of furniture that had come with the room. All he’d really wanted was a bedroom with a bath. The tiny kitchenette was a bonus. Besides, it wasn’t like this was going to be his permanent home. All he needed right now was a place to hang his hat for a while. Just till he’d done what he had to do. Then he’d be free to go wherever the road took him.

  There were things he’d have to take care of before he could complete his assignment, as he liked to think of it. For one thing, he’d have to get rid of his red hair. People always remembered a redhead. So he’d driven all the way out on Route 413 to an out-of-the-way drugstore to pick up some brown hair coloring. Right now, first thing before he did anything else, he’d color his hair. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and studied the hair on his arms. Should he do them, too? Was it possible to do that and not get the dye all over his skin?

  Fuck it. He’d do the hair on his head and that was it. Besides, if anyone saw his arms, they’d be more likely to remember all the freckles than what color the hair was. He’d just have to stick with long sleeves for now and pray that the month of September would be cooler than August.

  He slid two six-packs of beer into the empty refrigerator, then added the hoagie he’d picked up at a deli on his way into Carleton that afternoon. A small blue-collar community, Carleton would serve his needs quite nicely. For one thing, it was only nine miles southwest of Broeder. Close enough for him to keep an eye on his quarry, far enough away from his old life in Lyndon that he wasn’t likely to be recognized. The red hair, though, still had to go.

  Right at one end of the block he now lived on was a food market, and at the other, a bar that laid claim to the best burgers in town. The bar looked like every neighborhood tavern he’d ever been in, and that was just fine with him. He could blend in there with no trouble at all. He knew the routine. By the end of the week, he’d be a regular.

  As for his keep, well, he had enough money in his secret stash to last him for a long, long time, though he didn’t plan on being around Carleton for more than a few weeks. Once his assignment was done, he’d retrieve the rest of his money and head for someplace warm. Arizona, or maybe New Mexico. He’d heard there was a housing boom out there. He could start up a new construction company with the money he’d stolen from the last one and start life all over again. The irony just about killed him.

  He debated whether to eat first, then decided against it. He’d take care of the hair first, just like he’d planned, then maybe he’d eat. Pausing to glance out the window at the street below, he noticed several women walking into the bar. It had been a while since he’d had any female companionship. Well, perhaps tonight might be the night.

  Whistling again, he tossed the box of hair coloring up and down in his right hand and headed off to the bathroom. Tonight could be the night, indeed.

>   Less than two hours later, Vince Giordano sauntered into the Dew Drop Inn and slid onto a stool just three down from where a couple of ladies were deep in conversation over their beers.

  “And I told him, look, I don’t need this shit. I have too much going for me—”

  “Damn right, you do.”

  “—to be putting up with this kind of shit. I mean, do I look like I need the hassle?”

  “You know you don’t.” The woman shook her head vigorously. “You got it all going on, Dolores. You got a job—shit, you got your own salon. Half of it, anyway. You got a car, you got your own house. . . . You don’t need nobody leeching offa you.”

  “That’s what I told him.” Dolores tossed her bleached blond hair over her shoulders and took a long and righteous drag off her cigarette. “So that is that. I have washed my hands of Mr. Doherty. Done.” She slid the palm of one hand over the other to show she was, in fact, done.

  “Frankie, give Dolores another beer on me,” her companion called to the bartender.

  “You got it, Connie,” Frankie acknowledged as he poured Vince’s beer from the tap and set it before him.

  Vince sipped at his beer and pretended to watch the football game on the TV to his right at the end of the bar. The first Thursday night game of the new season had just begun. The ladies swung on their stools to watch the kickoff.

  “Don’t it seem like football starts earlier every year?” Connie asked no one in particular.

  “That’s a fact.” Vince nodded without turning around.

  “I like football,” Dolores was saying. “Used to watch it with my dad and my brother when I was a kid. God rest their souls.”

  “To be sure.” Connie nodded solemnly and made the sign of the cross in concert with her companion.

  “Who do you like this year?” Vince asked the bartender, still careful not to pay too much attention to the ladies.

  “Dunno. Too early to tell.” Frankie stared at the screen for a moment, then turned to Vince. “ ‘Nother beer?”