Where Truth Lies

“Move under that streetlight where I can see you.” She gave the shovel a shake. “And put your hands in the air.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cool as a cucumber, the stranger did as he was told. Grace estimated that he was between thirty-five and forty, with dark hair, eyes that watched her with undisguised amusement, and a little lopsided smile that, at any other time, would have made her want to smile back. Not this time.

“Maybe you should put your weapon down before it misfires – ”

“And maybe you should stop cracking jokes and take this situation a little more seriously.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you aware that breaking and entering is a crime?” Resting the shovel on her shoulders and holding it with one hand, she used the other to take her mobile phone out of her bag.

“I wasn’t breaking and entering.”

“You did last night. I have the bump to prove it.”

“I’m sorry about the bump. And the concussion, but the man who inflicted those injuries wasn’t me.”

Her finger above the nine key, she stopped. “How do you know about the concussion?”

“My father told me.” When she frowned, he added, “I’m Matt Baxter.”

The phone almost dropped out of her hand. Matt Baxter. The FBI agent.

Also available from Christiane Heggan

NOW YOU DIE

THE SEARCH

SCENT OF A KILLER

DEADLY INTENT

DECEPTION

To Gerd and Maria, for their warm

and wonderful hospitality.

To Anne and Jerry for persuading us

to accompany them to Austria.

And to Bob, who turns every vacation

into an unforgettable adventure.

Prologue

Point Pleasant, Pennsylvania June 13, 1986

“What do you mean, she’s dead?”

The two men stood under the moonless night sky. They were in their early twenties, solidly built, with the speaker only an inch or so shorter than his friend. Both had been celebrating, and while they had drunk more than their share, they were sobering up fast.

“I don’t know what happened.” The other man’s voice shook as he ran his hand through his hair. “One minute she was fine and the next she stopped breathing.”

“Don’t give me that crap! You were having sex with her, for God’s sake! You have to know what happened.” He kept stealing quick, frightened glances toward the car, but made no move to approach it. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing! I slapped her a little when she started hitting me, not hard, just enough to shut her up, and…” He took a shallow breath. “She hit the back of her head on the door.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her, I swear.”

“Maybe she’s not dead.” Finally gathering the courage to take some kind of action, the shorter man walked toward the old Chevy Impala parked off the road, and peered inside. At the sight of the lifeless body sprawled on the backseat, one arm dangling, he swallowed. Fighting off a wave of nausea, he opened the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if she’s dead.” He leaned over the body and pressed two fingers to the girl’s throat, waiting to feel a pulse.

“Well?”

“She’s dead. And we’re in deep shit.” He sat on the ground and took his head between his hands. “I told you this was a bad idea, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Hey, I didn’t hear you complain once we got underway, did I? You were just as anxious to screw her as I was, standing there, waiting your turn.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s the truth. You’re in this just as deep as I am.”

“You’re the one who killed her.”

“And you’re the one who forced her into the car.”

“I’m going to be sick.” He wrapped his arms around his midriff, and started rocking back and forth. “What are we going to do?” he moaned.

“First things first.”

“Meaning what?”

“We have to get rid of the body.”

The man on the ground looked around him. “Where?”

“The river?”

“Are you crazy? That’s the first place the cops will look. And once they find the body, there will be evidence, you can be sure of that.”

“Then you think of something, Einstein.”

There was a short silence before the man on the ground stood up. “She was hitchhiking, which means that anybody could have picked her up, right?”

“Right.”

“And everyone in town knows that she has a history of running away, once when she was fifteen, and another time when she was seventeen. She ended up in Tennessee that time, and stayed there for a whole week before she called her folks to say she was all right.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Nobody’s going to be surprised to hear that she did it again. If you remember, Chief Baxter was pretty pissed off the last time. His entire police department and more than a hundred volunteers combed the countryside for days, looking for her.”

“So?”

“So they’re not going to bust their asses looking for her now. Sure, they’ll go through the motions, but after a few days, they’ll assume that she took off again, and this time she intends to stay away.”

His friend finally got it. “And all we have to do is bury her someplace where they won’t find her.”

“That part isn’t so easy.”

“Yes, it is. I know a place.”

One

Boston, Massachusetts October 9, 2006

“Oooh, and don’t forget this baby.” Angie Viero took the black dress out of Grace’s bedroom closet and held it at arm’s length. “No vacation is complete without a sexy little number like this one.” She was a short, compact woman of thirty-five with a lovely, expressive face and thick, curly black hair everyone loved except Angie.

Grace McKenzie snapped the dress from her friend’s hand and hung it back on the rack. “I’m going to Napa Valley to visit my father, not to audition for an X-rated movie.”

“How will you ever find a man if you don’t advertise?” Angie lamented. “You’ve got a great body, girl. Show it off.”

Grace took two pairs of blue jeans, both faded and soft as silk, and tossed them on the bed. “I swore off men, remember?”

“It’s been two whole months since you broke up with what’s his name.”

“Preston.”

Angie made a face. “The name alone should have been a red flag. Anyway, just because Preston was a world-class jerk doesn’t mean that all men are created equal. Look at me. I found Mr. Right. So will you.”

“I’m not interested in finding Mr. Right.”

“Girlfriend, you’re about to change your mind.”

Grace let out a groan as Angie took a photograph out of her pants pocket and dangled it in front of Grace’s nose. “What do you think of that? Is he a dreamboat or what?”

Grace glanced at the photograph of a good-looking man in tight shorts and a T-shirt that emphasized his impressive torso. “Where did you find that one?”

“On the Internet. There are dozens—hundreds—of dating services out there, did you know that? No, of course you don’t. You don’t want to make the effort, Grace. That’s your problem.”

“My problem is that when it comes to choosing men, I suck. And I’m not talking just about Preston. There have been other fiascos. It’s enough to make me want to become a nun.”

“No need to do anything so drastic, not when you have me to act as your screener. What do you say? From now on, no more losers for Grace McKenzie.”

“What do you think of this silk blouse? To wear with the jeans?” Grace held the garment against her chest.

“Good men don’t fall out of trees, you know.”

“Or maybe the white pants? No. Too New England.”

Angie held the hunk’s photograph in front of Grace’s nose. “His name is Chuck. Now that’s a man’s name. He’s a marathon runner, likes to kayak, and plans to climb Mount Everest. Oh, and he cooks. You need a man who cooks, Grace.”

“I noticed that you left out his IQ. Wasn’t that listed in his résumé?”

“He graduated from college. Isn’t that enough?” She wiggled the picture. “Tempting, isn’t he? Come on, would you take another look?”

Grace put the white pants back and opted for a navy jogging suit instead. “No, I won’t. Your brand-new career as my official matchmaker has just ended.”

“You didn’t give me a chance!”

“That’s because finding myself a man is not what I want. End of discussion. And before you tell me that the clock is ticking, I’ll remind you that I’m only thirty-four.”

“And the world is full of twenty-year-olds.”

Grace laughed and tweaked her friend’s cheek. “Stop worrying about my love life.”

“Someone has to.”

Although some people might have found Angie’s concern for her friend’s love life intrusive, Grace didn’t. Born and raised in the United States, Angie came from a family with strong, if somewhat outdated, Italian values and traditions. In the Viero household, family came first, and career second—at least for the women.

Angie and Grace had met four years ago when Grace had become the new curator at the Griff Museum of Modern Art where Angie worked as an archivist. Sharing a passion for art, cannolis and old movies, they had become instant friends.

Grace’s foray through her closet was interrupted by the sound of the buzzer. She walked over to the bedroom intercom and pressed a button. “Yes, Sam?”

The lobby attendant answered right away. “You have a visitor, Miss McKenzie. A Mrs. Sarah Hatfield?”

Grace heard Angie gasp and had a difficult time containing her own shock. Ten years ago, Sarah Hatfield had been a breath away from becoming her mother-in-law.

“What could the mighty Sarah possibly want with you after all these years?” Angie whispered.

“I have no idea. I wasn’t aware that she knew where I lived.”

Angie made a spooky face. “Sarah knows all. Me? I’m outta here.”

“You’re not going to leave me alone with her.”

“Sorry, kiddo. You’re on your own. I can’t stand the woman.”

“You’ve never met her!”

“Her reputation precedes her.” She gave Grace a peck on the cheek, whispered a quick, “stay cool,” and was gone.

“Miss McKenzie?” Sam sounded concerned. “Should I send her up?”

Peeking from behind the silk screen that separated the bedroom from the rest of the apartment, Grace threw a quick look at the living area. Two empty mugs sat on the glass coffee table beside a half-eaten bagel, several pages of The Boston Globe were scattered on the floor and yesterday’s unread mail was still on the sofa where she had tossed it last night. The place was a mess. When was the last time she had dusted?

“Miss McKenzie, should I tell her this is a bad time?”

Yes, Sam, you do that. In fact, tell her that I moved and didn’t leave a forwarding address. Tell her that I’ve died. She took a deep breath. “It’s all right, Sam. You can send her up.”

She released the intercom button and ran back to the living room, grabbing items at random and throwing them behind the silk screen. Sarah hated clutter. It was one of the things, among many, that she had despised about her future daughter-in-law—the clutter. Grace, on the other hand, couldn’t live without it. “It’s an artistic thing,” she had told Sarah. The older woman’s reply had been a haughty lift of her right eyebrow, an expression that had once sent chills down Grace’s spine.

The front doorbell rang, cutting short her anxieties.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she walked over to the door and opened it. The years had been kind to Steven’s mother. Although she must now be close to seventy and was completely gray, the short stylish haircut made her look years younger. Her hazel eyes were still as sharp as ever, although Grace detected something else in them, something she couldn’t quite identify.

“Hello, Grace.” Sarah inspected her from head to toe, taking in the slender figure, the short, tousled blond hair, the Number 12 football jersey with the name Tom Brady on the front, and the blue jeans, ripped at the knees.

Grace gave an awkward nod. Even now that she no longer had to please her, being in the same room with this bastion of Philadelphia society still made her uncomfortable. “Sarah.” She cleared her throat. “This is quite a surprise.”

“I’m sure.” Then, because Grace still hadn’t invited her in, she added, “Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“Sort of, but it’s all right. Come on in, and don’t mind the mess.”

Once inside, the inspection continued, moving from the chintz sofa and matching chairs to the authentic Tiffany lamp and the bright throw rugs scattered over the hardwood floor. Her gaze stopped on the stale bagel. “Did I interrupt your lunch?”

“That was breakfast. Cold pizza is on the menu for lunch. If you care to stay.”

Sarah’s sense of humor was practically nonexistent, but a corner of her mouth curved a little, mimicking a smile. “I won’t stay long.”

Grace removed an art magazine from one of the chintz chairs and set it on the coffee table. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you.” Only then did she notice the suitcase Grace had taken down from the living room closet earlier. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Napa Valley, to visit my dad.”

“He lives in California now?”

“He finally gave in to a lifelong dream of becoming a winemaker. He moved out west a few years ago.”

“Please tell him I wish him well.”

“I will.” Why all this civility? Grace wondered. And why hadn’t Steven warned her that his mother was planning on paying her a visit? Unless he didn’t know. Sarah loved catching people off guard.

“Grace.” Sarah removed her black leather gloves, one finger at a time. “I need your help in a little matter.”

That was another surprise. Sarah had a slew of people who took care of her “little matters”—attorneys, close friends, servants. And even if she didn’t, Grace would be the last person she’d come to. From the moment Steven had brought her to meet his mother, Sarah had made it clear that she didn’t approve of his choice for a wife. Grace was a working girl, a commoner, and as such, she would never understand what it took to be a Hatfield, to stand by her man, to keep a perfect home, to give lavish parties and to sit on the board of half a dozen organizations.

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 realize that my decision won’t change. I won’t accept the inheritance.”

“I understand that.”

Grace looked at the will again. It was difficult to be mad at Steven for putting her in such a situation. He had always been an impulsive person, and often drove her crazy with his last-minute decisions. Nor could she be upset with Sarah for wanting to make sure that her son’s wishes were respected. She may have been angry with him, but her love had remained just as strong.

“Are you all right with Steven’s decision to leave me the gallery?” she asked. “I’m sure you weren’t expecting that.”

“I never doubted your talents as an art expert, Grace.”

That didn’t exactly answer her question, but Grace didn’t push it. “All right. I’ll go to New Hope, for one week. Not a minute more.”

“Those are the terms.” She reached into her handbag again. This time she retrieved a thick envelope. “In here you’ll find everything you’ll need—the address of the gallery, as well as Steven’s cottage, where you’ll be staying, the keys to both, a notarized letter from Steven’s attorney in Philadelphia, in case anyone questions your presence.”

“You think someone will?”

“I doubt it. While I was in New Hope, making arrangements to have Steven’s body sent home, I spoke with Josh Nader, the chief of police there. He was very accommodating. I told him about the will, although I did not mention the special stipulation should you turn the inheritance down. As far as he and everyone else in town is concerned, you are the new owner of Hatfield Gallery. Chief Nader said to call on him if you need anything.”

“Were you that sure that I would agree to go?”

Sarah didn’t answer the question, but pointed at the envelope in Grace’s hands. “I also included five thousand dollars to cover your expenses—”

“I won’t take it.” Before Sarah could protest, Grace opened the envelope, took out the money and handed it to the older woman, whose mouth opened in surprise.

“But why not? You will be incurring expenses.”

“Please put your money away before I change my mind.”

“Is your airplane ticket refundable?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Put your money away.”