Murder Checks Out, page 12
Kurt’s historic estate, Highview, was located up in the mountains just outside Taylorsford. The gravel road that led to the entrance of the estate was riddled with potholes and ridged like an old washboard, but all that changed as soon as I turned onto the driveway. Stone pillars topped with urns sat at either side of a metal gate. I lowered my window and leaned out to press the buzzer on the intercom embedded in one of the pillars. As soon as I gave my name, the gate swung open.
The driveway was paved, its blacktop surface smooth as a satin ribbon. Surrounding the trunks of the bare-branched hardwood trees that lined the driveway, azaleas and rhododendrons, their glossy leaves still clinging to their interlaced limbs, provided a pop of midnight green amid the brown-and-gray winter landscape.
Sunlight flooded through the windshield as I rounded a corner, making me slow the car. Set in the middle of a large clearing, Kurt’s home was old enough to look like it had sprung up as a natural part of the landscape. The three-story central section was constructed from variegated fieldstone that had once been prevalent in the local fields. Tall windows with wavy antique glass punctuated the expanse of mottled gray stones. The two-story wood-framed wings were painted a pale jade green and extended from either side of the central structure like welcoming arms. Square windows framed by black shutters gleamed against the wood siding, and a lacy veil of ivy draped the stone chimneys.
As I parked in the circle of blacktop at the end of the driveway, I noticed another car—an older-model compact sedan with an angry scratch marring the navy-blue paint of its passenger side door. Dylan Blackstone must’ve already arrived, and judging by his vehicle, he was definitely not taking advantage of his family’s money.
I crossed to the small roofed porch with its Grecian-style pillars. One of the wreaths Kurt had purchased from the garden club hung on the forest-green front door. The only other decorations visible from outside the house were the sprays of evergreens and holly berries surrounding stout pillar candles—undoubtedly electric, given Kurt’s valuable art collection—filling each deep windowsill.
Kurt greeted me, opening the door before I even pressed the doorbell. “Heard your car,” he said as he led me into the wide hall that ran from the front to the back of the house.
Unlike the understated exterior, the hall had been lavishly decorated. Fresh pine garlands hung from the wide white moldings and draped each doorway. The garlands were festooned with crimson berries, ruby velvet bows, and pinecones and laced with tiny white lights. This decorative style continued into the large living room, at least in terms of the tables and sideboards as well as the stone fireplace that dominated the outside wall.
But there were no decorations placed anywhere near the numerous paintings that hung on the ivory plaster walls. Of course not, I thought. Kurt would never allow any vegetation or other decorations anywhere near his valuable original artworks.
Looking around the room, I caught the eye of a young man seated in a wood-framed chair I knew to be from William Morris’s nineteenth-century Arts and Crafts studio.
Dylan Blackstone’s resemblance to his mother was uncanny—he had the same slender build, large eyes, and angular face. But there was a softness in his hazel eyes and a wariness in his expression that Wendy had never displayed. At least, not in my presence.
“Please don’t get up,” I told him as I crossed to one of the room’s leather sofas. “Hello, I’m Amy Muir.” I sat down and stretched my arm across the sofa’s buttery-soft armrest.
“Dylan Blackstone.” He clasped my hand for only a second and then immediately sat back. “Mr. Kendrick told me that you’re related somehow?”
Settling onto the sofa across from me, Kurt flashed a wolfish grin. “In a roundabout way.”
“Kurt was the foster son of my husband’s great-uncle, Paul Dassin,” I said, shooting Kurt a questioning look.
He leaned back, stretching his long legs out across the Persian rug that covered the hardwood floor between the sofas. “That’s one connection. I also knew Amy’s aunt, Lydia Talbot, or Lydia Litton as she was known then, when we were young. As a matter of fact, I was good friends with her husband, Andrew Talbot.”
“The artist?” Dylan gripped the wide wooden arms of his chair. “I saw an exhibition of his paintings in the lobby of the Smithsburg theater not long ago.”
Kurt stared over my head, avoiding my direct gaze. “Ah, yes. To be honest, I actually set up that particular show. I like to keep Andrew’s work alive in the public consciousness when I can.”
“Because you were good friends?” Dylan’s knuckles blanched as his grip tightened. “Like you were good friends with my grandfather?”
“Not exactly.” Kurt turned his icy gaze on Dylan, who slid back in his chair. “Steven Barclay and I were friends, but it was hardly a lifelong relationship.”
“My mother would never provide any details about that, although she was always bitching about how you ruined her father’s life. And, by association, hers.” Releasing his hold on the chair arms, Dylan dropped his hands into his lap. “That’s one reason I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Kendrick. I’ve heard so many half-finished sentences and vague accusations related to you over the years. To be honest, I’ve always wondered what Mom was hiding.”
“I’m not sure if she had anything to hide. I certainly don’t.” Kurt’s laconic tone didn’t fool me. I could sense the intensity behind his words.
“You never knew your grandfather?” I asked Dylan.
“No, Granddad Barclay died when my mother was only thirteen.” Dylan glanced at me. “He was killed in some random shootout. Wrong place, wrong time. But you probably already know that. Mr. Kendrick said you were a librarian and obsessed with research.”
I nodded. “I’d heard something about it. It was connected to an art deal gone wrong.”
“Yeah. That’s the story the family always told, anyway.” Dylan toyed with the zipper pull on his hooded sweatshirt. “But privately, Mom used to say that you”—he turned to face Kurt—“set him up.”
“Really? How extraordinary.” Kurt leaned forward, his large hands resting on his thighs. “I can assure you I did not.”
Dylan lifted his sharp chin. “She also said you were a drug dealer. Is that true?”
“Eons ago, yes. But not when I knew Steven Barclay,” Kurt replied, his tone razor sharp.
To his credit, Dylan’s gaze didn’t falter. “But that was Mom’s argument—that my grandfather ran afoul of some of your criminal pals. Cheated them, or at least they thought so. Which led them to murder him. And, according to Mom, you did nothing to stop it.”
“Your mother was quite mistaken.” Kurt sat back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “In point of fact, I actually warned Steven to stay away from certain people, but he refused to listen to me. He was too eager to prove … something.”
Dylan sniffed. “You got him into dealing art, though.”
“I won’t deny that. But only because he desperately wanted to get involved. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but Steven and I were friends, so”—Kurt shrugged—“I overruled my own better judgment and agreed to help him start buying and selling a few pieces. I admit that was a mistake. He was too eager to make a big score, too easily and too soon.” Kurt examined Dylan with a quizzical expression. “What else did your mother tell you about the situation?”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing, really. But I always thought there was more to it. And it’s made me wonder …”
“If she had some dirt on me and I killed her to keep her quiet?” Kurt bared his teeth in a humorless grin. “That’s what’s this is really all about, isn’t it? You wanted to try to get me to implicate myself in Wendy’s death, and you wanted a witness so you’d have someone to back up your accusations.” Kurt shot me a raised-eyebrow look. “Sorry, Amy, it looks like Dylan has been trying to play us both.”
Dylan leapt to his feet. “That isn’t it! I never planned to turn you in.”
“You wanted Kurt to confess and then you’d just do nothing?” I asked, as Dylan paced back and forth across the rug. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Actually, it does.” Kurt stood and halted Dylan by gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re afraid someone else killed her, aren’t you? You were hoping to hear me say I was at fault so you could set your mind at ease.”
Dylan jerked his shoulder free. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is it your sister? I’ve heard a few rumors that she and your mother were recently at odds. A lot of shouting was mentioned.” Kurt looked down at Dylan with a sympathetic smile. “Families can have serious issues, and when money is involved …”
“Nadia had nothing to do with Mom’s death,” Dylan spoke forcefully, but the tremor in his lips told me he wasn’t entirely sure this was true.
“Wait—was your sister even around on the night your mom died?” I rose to my feet and cast Kurt a warning look. “I mean, if she has a solid alibi, it doesn’t matter how many arguments they’d had. To be a viable suspect, she’d need opportunity as well as motive.”
Dylan took a step back and swept his shaggy dark-blond hair away from his face with both hands. “I don’t know. I was at work.” He sent me a sidelong look. “I work at the county humane society and do a lot of overnight shifts. That’s where I was the evening my mom died. So I have no idea where Nadia was. Or Tim Thompson, for that matter.”
“They were an item, weren’t they? Nadia and Thompson, I mean,” I said, earning a swift, surprised glance from Kurt.
“Yeah. I thought it was gross. I mean, Thompson’s so much older. And he’s such a snake. I didn’t understand what she saw in him.” Dylan shook his head. “I think it was just that he had all these ideas on how to expand the company and make even more money and that’s what attracted her. That’s what Nadia really loves, you know. Money. She can never seem to make enough of it to satisfy her.”
“While I’m assuming you aren’t that interested in it, judging by your choice of job,” I said.
“That’s right.” Dylan cast Kurt a derisive sneer. “I bet you can’t understand that. Just like Mom never could. I’m not money hungry. I want to make a positive difference in the world. My current job has shown me the changes that are needed. I plan to go back to school for an advanced degree—learn enough to work with an organization that’s trying to stop species extinctions and save animals. My mom thought that was nonsense.”
“Hence the estrangement,” Kurt said. “And despite my wealth, son, I do understand.”
“Really?” Dylan’s gaze swept the room, taking in the expensive furnishings and priceless artwork. “I doubt that. But anyway, I didn’t want anything to do with the family business, which drove Mom nuts. Sure, she had Nadia on board, but she was still old-fashioned enough to want her son to eventually take over.” He cast me a sardonic smile. “Trust me, that drove Nadia up the wall. She hated the fact that Mom preferred me as an heir apparent. But even if I was interested in real estate, which I’m not, there are things about my family’s business practices that I don’t like …”
“Such as?” I asked.
Dylan must’ve caught something overeager in my expression. He shook his head. “I won’t go into that right now. I don’t have all the facts yet.”
So much for extracting more information about Nadia or her plans for expanding the business from him, I thought. “What about Tim Thompson?” I asked, sitting back down on the sofa. “Didn’t he want to be in charge?”
Dylan strolled over to the fireplace. “He did, or at least that was my impression. I think that’s why he went after Nadia. He got a divorce not that long ago, so now he’s free to marry her.” He turned to face Kurt and me. “So yeah, maybe I’m worried that Thompson convinced my sister to do something crazy, like shove Mom down a flight of stairs. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Or maybe Tim Thompson was the one to give Wendy that push,” Kurt said. “I think that might be more likely.”
“But if Nadia is covering for him”—Dylan looked from me to Kurt—“she’ll still get in trouble, won’t she? Aiding and abetting and all that.” He lifted his hands. “There’s six years between us, and we don’t always get along, but she’s the only family I have left.”
Kurt’s expression softened. “Look, son, I wouldn’t worry too much. Personally, I doubt your sister was involved. At least, not knowingly or willingly. But as Amy said earlier, I have some sources who might be able to provide more helpful information. I don’t mind using them to look into the matter.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his tweed trousers. “And while I can assure you that I had nothing to do with Wendy’s death, I don’t mind remaining under suspicion if it helps widen the investigation. If they aren’t focused on just one individual, they may come across more pertinent information.”
I caught Kurt’s eye and offered a wan smile. “Let’s hope so, anyway.”
“Okay.” Dylan took a deep breath and crossed over to stand in front of Kurt. “I really just wanted to meet you to see if you were the ogre my mom always said you were. I thought if I talked to you, I could make up my own mind.”
“And have you?” Kurt asked.
“Yes.” Dylan thrust out his hand. “She got it wrong somehow. I don’t believe you had anything to do with the death of my mother, much less my grandfather. I think that was all in her head.”
Kurt gave Dylan’s hand a firm shake. “Good to hear. Now, if that’s all, let me show you out. Apologies, but I do have some other business to take care of this afternoon.”
Dylan told me good-bye and followed Kurt out into the hallway. After I heard the front door open and close, Kurt returned and sat down on the sofa across from me.
“I know that speculative look. You have questions,” he said, relaxing against the cushions.
I scooted to the edge of my seat. “Wendy thought you and her father were having an affair, didn’t she?”
Kurt’s stoic expression confirmed my suspicions. “Wendy was only twelve or thirteen when Steven and I met and became friends. Friends,” he reiterated, holding up a finger. “That’s all it was, at least on my part.”
“But Wendy thought otherwise.”
“Yes. Probably because her father had finally allowed feelings he’d buried all his life to rise to the surface. It drove him to leave his family in the end.”
“So he came out as gay, and Wendy blamed you. Did she think you’d seduced him or something?”
“I suppose she did.” Resting his elbow on the arm of the sofa, Kurt cradled his chin in his hand. “It wasn’t true. Steven developed romantic feelings for me, but they weren’t reciprocated. I liked him, but only as a friend. Sadly, he thought he could convince me otherwise.”
“So he was pursuing you? I guess Wendy didn’t see it that way.”
“No, she thought I was the big, bad wolf”—Kurt flashed a toothy grin—“who’d lured her dad away from his family and led him down a disreputable path.” Pausing for a moment, Kurt stared up at the elaborate plaster medallion encircling the overhead light fixture. “The truth is, because I’ve had relationships with both men and women, people like Wendy think I’m some sex-crazed predator who wants to seduce everyone I meet. Which is far from the truth, believe me.” He lowered his eyes, meeting my questioning gaze. “I’m actually quite discriminating. I prefer my independence and only embark on a relationship if I meet an individual who I can connect with on a deeper level.”
“Steven Barclay was not such an individual, I take it?”
“Hardly. He was an enjoyable companion, as a friend. But I had no interest in having a romantic relationship with him. Which, unfortunately, made him rather reckless.”
“You said he wanted to prove something. Was that to you?”
“He was determined to score a big art deal—something that would show me he could be a useful partner in the business. I suppose he thought that was step one to becoming partners in other ways.” Kurt drummed his fingers against the sofa arm. “Unfortunately, he knew about some of my less-than-legal connections in the art world. I warned him not to make any deals with them, but …”
“He did it anyway.” I pressed my knuckles against my jaw. “I bet he thought if he showed you that he could negotiate deals with such a dangerous crew, you’d respect him more. See him as tough and dynamic. He probably thought that would make you desire him or something.”
“Undoubtedly true.” Kurt’s sigh filled the air between us. ”It wouldn’t have changed anything, of course.”
“So he brokered a deal with criminals and got killed when something went wrong. That is sad, but not your fault,” I said.
“No. Anyway, it’s certainly not one of the things that have weighed heavily on my heart over the years.” Kurt cast me a rueful smile. “Yes, there are many others that do, but not Steven Barclay’s death. That was his choice, and I can rest easy knowing I did everything I could to dissuade him.”
I glanced at my watch. “Oh dear, look at the time. I’d better go. I need to be home when Richard brings the twins back from rehearsal.”
Kurt stood as I rose to my feet. “Thank you for coming over today, Amy. I really didn’t want to meet with Dylan Blackstone alone.” He quirked a bushy eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure what Wendy had told him, you see.”
“Were you afraid he’d come armed with a gun?” I asked as we walked to the front door.
“The thought did cross my mind,” Kurt said, opening the front door.
I looked up at him from under my black eyelashes. “Loaded with a silver bullet?”
