Where Truth Lies. Christiane Heggan

glad she did.”

      As an afterthought, Fred asked, “You’re staying at the house, aren’t you?”

      “Not this time, Pop. I checked into the Centre Bridge Inn.”

      “Lucy will be disappointed.”

      “I’ll talk to her.”

      “Okay, but remember, my house is your house. Nothing will ever change that.”

      “I appreciate that.” He leaned against the wall. “Now, how about you give me your version of what happened?”

      Fred was silent for a long time. Matt folded his arms and just waited.

      “You were right, you know,” Fred said at last.

      “About what?”

      “Denise. I shouldn’t have married her. She was too young, too energetic, too unpredictable.” He paused. “Neither one of us had any luck with the Newman sisters, did we? You were the smart one, though. You had enough sense to break up with Felicia before things got too far. I, on the other hand, allowed my infatuation with Denise to turn into something so powerful, I couldn’t have walked away if I had wanted to.”

      “We don’t have to talk about that now.”

      “Yes, we do. Your disapproval of Denise changed our relationship, and I hated that. The truth is, I was too blind to see her for what she was.”

      “She made you happy.”

      “That she did. Until I heard about her affair with Steven Hatfield. It’s true what they say, the husband is always the last to know.”

      “Lucy said that you didn’t find out about Hatfield until last week. Is that right?”

      Fred ran a hand through his gray hair. “Yeah. I had been visiting some friends in Doylestown, and on the way back I decided to stop at Pat’s for a beer. The Badger brothers were already there, drinking and telling dirty jokes. That’s when I heard Denise’s name being mentioned.”

      “What did they say?”

      “Something about knowing all along that she’d be a good lay, and maybe they’d have to ask Steven Hatfield just how good she was.”

      “They happened to say that just as you walked in?”

      “Yeah. I was too steamed at the time to think much about the timing. Later, I wondered the same thing.”

      “What happened after you heard that remark?”

      “I should have ignored them, but I didn’t. I was pissed off.”

      “You picked a fight with them.” It wasn’t a question. Lucy had already told him about their sweet old dad trying to take on two men the size of Texas.

      “Wouldn’t you have?” Fred asked. “If they talked about your wife that way?”

      Matt made a mental note to talk to the notorious Badger brothers, two former little punks who had grown into bigger punks. “Probably, but go on.”

      “Fortunately, Eddie split us up before we could do any real damage to his place. I stormed out and went home to confront Denise. She wasn’t back from the shop yet. Before you ask, no one saw me come home.”

      “And everyone at Pat’s assumed you were going to the Hatfield Gallery.”

      “What was I supposed to do? Carry a sign?”

      “Why didn’t you just walk over to the jewelry shop?”

      “Because I didn’t want to make a scene. I was never much for airing my dirty laundry in public. And while I was home, Steven was being murdered.”

      “With your gun.” When Fred remained silent, Matt added, “Mind telling me how it ended up in the flower bed of the Hatfield Gallery?”

      “If you mean, do I have an idea who could have planted it there, no, I don’t. And make no mistake, it is a plant, made to look as if I dropped it in my haste to get away. As if I would do a dumb thing like that.”

      “Who knows where you keep your gun?”

      “It’s no secret to those who know me well that I keep my guns locked up in the bedroom armoire.”

      “So whoever framed you not only had the key to your house, but the key to the armoire as well? Is that what you’re telling me?”

      “When I come home, I’m in the habit of dropping my keys on the kitchen hutch. The kitchen is where I read my paper and have coffee with my friends, or whoever feels like dropping in. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to make an impression of both keys at the first opportune moment.”

      “Any idea who that someone might be?”

      Fred shook his head. “Nope. Some weeks I can’t even tell you how many people stop by, especially now that I’m retired.”

      He wasn’t exaggerating. Fred Baxter had been just as popular when Matt was growing up. The house was always filled with friends and neighbors who came to chat, to tell the chief their troubles, or to just play a few rounds of poker.

      “So the question is, who hated Hatfield enough to kill him?”

      “He wasn’t very well-liked, especially by the men. Did they hate him enough to kill him?” Fred shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wanted to kill him myself when I heard about him and Denise.”

      “Who would you put at the top of that list?”

      Fred was thoughtful for a moment. “Once I would have said Buzz Brown, but too much time has gone by. He was pissed off, though, blamed Steven for his wife’s death.”

      “Why was Steven so set on not having that land developed?” Matt asked.

      “Oh, the usual reasons—traffic, taxes, overpopulated schools. Buzz didn’t buy it, though. He thought it was personal.”

      “Personal how?”

      “Don’t know. You can ask Buzz when he comes back from his trip to Kansas in a few days. Or you could talk to Duke Ridgeway. He sits on the planning board and played golf with Steven. He might know something.”

      “I’ll give him a call, and talk to Buzz as well when he gets back. Who else is on your list?”

      “Hatfield was the town’s heartthrob. He got in trouble at the local college where he taught a weekly art appreciation course. A sexual harassment complaint from a young coed almost got him fired. And then there was this artist from Milford. Steven had promised to feature her in a one-woman show but never did. Witnesses saw them at the gallery, shouting at each other.”

      “Do you have her name?”

      “Elizabeth Runyon. She works part-time at her aunt’s antique shop on Church Street.”

      Matt wrote the information down. “It won’t hurt to check her out, but I wouldn’t hold too much hope with those two,” Matt warned. “There isn’t much of a motive for murder with either one.”

      “And that’s why I’m the only viable suspect. With me, they’ve got it all, Matty—motive, opportunity and the kind of evidence not even Clarence Darrow could dismiss.”

      Matt tried to stay optimistic. The last thing his father needed right now was for his own son to tell him that his case was hopeless. But the truth was, the killer had engineered and executed what looked, at least on the surface, like the perfect crime.

      “Something odd happened last night, though,” Fred said as an afterthought.

      Matt’s antennae went up. “I’m listening.”

      “You may not know this yet, but in his will, Steven left the gallery to his ex-fiancée, a curator at some Boston museum. She arrived in town last night, presumably to take over, and surprised