Illicit Artifacts Read online

  Who would ever suspect a university professor with a kid? Is that the only reason Elise had taken her in? To doctor her image?

  MacLeod leaned back in his chair, a smug look crossing his face. “You had no idea about her underground life, did you?”

  She met his gaze but didn’t say anything. She could ask, but she really didn’t want to know.

  “She was good, you know.”

  Jil’s head seemed to be nodding without her volition. “I know.”

  MacLeod tugged on his beard. “But everybody has a dark side. You know that.”

  Jil swallowed. She stared straight back at him. “You were her dark side.”

  He licked his broad lips and chuckled. “Yes, I was. But she was a match, even for me, back in those days.”

  “That’s not what I want to know.” No? Wasn’t that exactly why she’d come?

  “I think you do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But have it your way. Ask me whatever other question you think you need to ask. But make it count.”

  Jil took a deep breath. She wasn’t wasting her time on Fraser’s vendetta or anything else. There was only one thing she really wanted to hear from him. “About the Monet.”

  He frowned, and this time, his surprise showed.

  “The one she hung upstairs. It’s gone.”

  He stared at her. “The one that’s hanging there now is not the one that I grew up with. It doesn’t make sense that someone would switch a replica for a replica. So I need to know—the painting that hung on our wall…was it real? How did she get it?”

  MacLeod chuckled. “That’s it? You can’t figure that out for yourself? Or you just don’t want to believe Elise Fitzgerald could have talents that weren’t exactly above board? Well, believe me: Elise was no innocent. She had a game to play and she played it well. You want to know where she got that gorgeous painting? She stole it. Forty years ago. With me.”

  Jil felt the color drain from her face.

  MacLeod shook his head, looking like he felt genuinely sorry for her. Then he rapped on the top of the table with his knuckles. “Time’s up. I enjoyed our chat.”

  *

  Jil drove home slowly, not caring that she hit every red light. A few times, she failed to accelerate fast enough for the driver behind her and heard honking. The second time, she felt her chest constrict. Hot pins pricked her nape and hairline, and she pulled off into a Tim Horton’s parking lot to get a grip. Believing in innocent until proven guilty was getting harder by the hour.

  MacLeod’s words kept pounding against her ears. “She had a game to play and she played it well.”

  What role had Jil played in Elise’s game, exactly?

  And could this money have been a payoff for the truth she was only now discovering—that Elise had only ever used her to create the image of a family? That she’d never loved her at all?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Cracked Palette smelled of incense and melting scented wax which dripped from broad sconces in the gathering space. The lights had been dimmed, but the spotlights shone warmly on the walls lined with exhibited art. Jess took a glass of wine from a proffered tray, then joined the people who stood milling around holding crystal tumblers of spirits and glasses of the same ruby Bordeaux she sipped. She considered perching on one of the high metal barstools, but if she sat down now, she’d have a hard time getting up later.

  In all likelihood, she probably shouldn’t drink with the medication, but arthritis could fuck itself tonight.

  She browsed the art, working her way slowly from one side of the room to the other, scanning each piece carefully. Many pieces she recognized. Perhaps she’d absorbed more artists’ culture during her time with Lily than she’d realized.

  She’d looked through the book of famous stolen artwork—Mila’s specialty—but she couldn’t be entirely sure which of the pieces in front of her might be from that list. There were several she knew for sure were not included, and she could skip over those.

  Any piece belonging to Mila would have a tiny signature mark etched into the frame at the lower right hand side—a symbol few would ever notice unless they were looking for it explicitly. Bernard had tried to describe what it looked like, but his art skills were definitely lacking. She had a vague idea but wondered if she’d be able to see it, even if it stared her in the face.

  On the last picture in the first row, she spotted something that looked like a pencil lined scrawl. It might have easily been part of the texture of the wood, but she couldn’t be sure from this distance. As she stood squinting at the piece, a hand brushed her fingers. “You like it?”

  She turned to the speaker. A slight woman with chestnut hair stood inches from her. The faint scent of turpentine and coffee wafted from her paint-stained pants. Her jewelry and top were pristine, so clearly the pants were a statement—a way to stand out from the buyers? Make it easier to be found?

  Jess noticed an angel wing earring dangling from one ear. “I do,” she answered. “Any idea who the artist is?” She smiled slightly.

  “I might. My name is Mila.” She held out her hand and Jess shook it. It was dry, almost chalky. She wasn’t nervous, then. This must have been routine for her.

  Jil would be proud of her sleuthing skills.

  “I hoped I might find you here.” Stick as closely to the truth as possible. Trying to feign surprise would only make her stand out.

  “You’re looking for me?”

  “Well, I’m looking for an artist. My friend Bernard has the most amazing painting…”

  “Bernard? There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.” Mila winked. “He was fun.”

  “He’s something. You come highly recommended.”

  “I hope so, after everything he put me through. But I’m surprised he sent you to me. We had a confidentiality agreement.” Her eyes scanned Jess’s, searching for something—deceit, maybe?

  “Which I think he’s maintained,” Jess put in quickly. “He wouldn’t tell me much, only that I should show up here during the wine and cheese and I might get lucky.”

  Mila looked her up and down in a slow, appraising way, a teasing smile lighting her lips. Her eyes traveled back to Jess’s face, and Jess felt a hot prickle travel up her neck. Mila was flirting with her. Which meant that she was either bisexual or that she had sussed Jess out in the three minutes they’d been standing there and was now using her knowledge to charm her.

  Either way, Mila outmatched her. This woman was a professional forger and possibly a thief. Jess had to play her hand and get out of there before she ruined her own plans.

  What could she say?

  As close to the truth as possible.

  She gestured to Mila to follow her and snagged a barstool. Normally, she would be embarrassed to have someone see the robotic way she maneuvered into the chair, but tonight, it might actually help her cover. “I’m glad I found you now because I’m afraid I’m running out of steam and I have to go.”

  “Are you tired?” Mila frowned, and Jess realized she’d failed to conform to the script that Mila must have been expecting. She was like a newly minted drug user negotiating her first heroin deal—badly.

  “That’s my normal state of affairs, I’m afraid. A slight mobility problem.”

  “I see.” A brief flicker of confusion crossed Mila’s face.

  Could it be that she’d gained the upper hand, if only for a second? Thrown her off enough that she might be able to do this?

  She let Mila fill the silence. “Well, why don’t you tell me what you had in mind?” Mila said.

  Jess leaned back in her chair. “Something small for my home office. I have a few art pieces left to me by my…aunt…and I’d like something to complement them.”

  Mila leaned in, cocking her head to the side. “Why not go to an art gallery? Pick up something that matches the decor?”

  Jess sipped her wine. “Well, Mila. My decor leans more toward the classics. It’s hard to find those for sale at the gallery.”


  Mila pursed her lips, seeming to think for a moment. “Why don’t you give me your number? I can meet you again this week and show you some photos. You can pick the style you like and we can go from there. Agreed?”

  “Yes, that would be great.”

  *

  Jess closed the front door behind her and laid Mila’s card in the tray on the table. What exactly could she do with this contact information? Take it to Jil? Only to find out the whole thing was a giant misunderstanding and Mila was not involved at all? Worse, that Jil had moved on—in more than one way?

  She felt like crying. This evening had been a waste of time. In fact, the whole studio tour and amateur sleuthing were just an embarrassment. She and Jil weren’t speaking, and that wasn’t likely to change.

  She needed to forget her. Stop involving herself in her life. Move on.

  She ran the bathtub, turned on the jets, and lowered herself into the hot, soapy water. She couldn’t shake Jil from her head—no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on something else.

  A vision of Jil, naked, sitting across from her in the tub, flashed through her mind. She’d love to swing her around, wrap arms and legs around her, and kiss all the way from her hairline to her shoulder…

  A tear fell from the corner of her eye. She missed her so much.

  Just the thought of Jil’s naked body sliding against her own had been enough to stir heat in the pit of her stomach. She imagined Jil’s hand sliding up her thigh, higher, and her fingers making deft, gentle strokes…

  The hot water made her tense muscles relax. She leaned back in the tub and closed her eyes, let her thighs fall apart, and slipped two fingers between her legs.

  The contact made her moan immediately.

  Just fantasizing about Jil was still enough to get her to come almost effortlessly—the way Jil made her come.

  She’d never experienced that before. And maybe she never would again.

  She pushed that thought out of her mind and imagined Jil’s mouth on her breasts, teasing her sensitive nipples with her hot tongue. Jil’s hands on the small of her back, pulling her closer, pushing her down on a bed, on the floor of the closet, on the couch at her place, where they’d been the first time…

  Heat melted her from her core and spread through her thighs and legs. Her breasts popped out of the water as she stroked herself. Nothing felt as good as Jil touching her, and the memory of it made her dizzy.

  A jolt of pain shot down her legs as her hip locked, and she gasped in pain. She dug her fingers into her thigh to loosen the spasming muscle that twisted her ankle out and splayed her toes.

  She breathed out, willing the pain to pass. Then, clenching her teeth, she eased her legs closed.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The knock on the door came just after dark—loudly enough that it made Jil jump. She pushed herself out of the chair at the kitchen table and followed Zeus to the door. A quick peek outside revealed uniformed police.

  She slid back the dead bolt and let them in.

  “Are you Jillienne Kidd?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me to the station, please.”

  Jil looked at the officer’s weathered face, his furrowed brow, and the tight set to his jaw. “What’s this about?”

  “We’ll discuss it at the police station.”

  Jil stood firm. “According to the law, I have the right to know why I am being questioned, particularly if I am to be detained.”

  The officer nodded once. “You’re a person of interest in the death of your foster mother, Elise Fitzgerald.”

  Jil felt her heart squeeze—too tight—and all the air rushed out of her lungs. “I didn’t kill Elise!”

  “You’ll have to come with us, please.”

  Zeus whined.

  “I need to make a phone call, please. Someone will have to come look after the dog.”

  The officer handed her his own phone. “On speaker only.”

  If Padraig had been here, of course she would have called him. And in the midst of the chaos, something clicked in her brain. Why the hell wasn’t Padraig here? This timing wasn’t just shite; it was convenient.

  He was keeping something from her. Seemed to be a theme lately.

  She took a deep breath and dialed the only other person she could imagine might come for her.

  The line clicked. “Hello?” The sound of her crisp, clear voice sent a shiver from Jil’s ear to her arm.

  “Jess, it’s me,” she said. Before Jess could say another word, she rushed on. “I don’t have time to talk, because the police are in the foyer.”

  “The police?” Jess’s voice rose in concern.

  Jil felt a rush of gratitude that she hadn’t hung up as soon as she’d heard her voice. “They’re taking me in to the station.”

  “Why? And which one?”

  “Oxford Street..?” Jil looked at the officer for confirmation. He nodded. “Did you catch that?”

  “Yes, I did.” She was using her principal’s voice, and Jil felt a surge of hope.

  “Can you please come to Elise’s and let Zeus out if I’m not back? I’ll leave the door open. You’re the only one he’ll let in the house.”

  “Yes. I will be there.”

  Jil handed the phone back to the officer and followed him out to the car, remembering at the last minute to leave the key inside where Jess would find it.

  “On guard,” she told Zeus.

  *

  “Laine St.Clair, homicide.” The slender detective with the crisp white blouse and large belt buckle set her files on the table between them and hovered over the table. Jil sat with her hands folded on the tabletop and met her gaze.

  Her dark red hair spilled to her shoulders in loose ringlets, and light hazel eyes followed Jil’s every move.

  “We have reason to believe your foster mother, Elise Fitzgerald, may not have died of natural causes.”

  “Could you be more specific, please? And how did you come to suspect this?” Karrie wouldn’t have said anything. Which only left Nic.

  Laine raised her eyebrows. “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “Fine. Ask away.”

  “You don’t seem surprised to hear this. Did you know?”

  Jil thought about lying, but what would that accomplish? “I was told the results were inconclusive.”

  “No evidence, in other words.”

  “That’s what I assumed.”

  “So you inquired about the tox screen results? To make sure you had covered your tracks? To be certain the ME didn’t find anything?”

  “What do you mean? If I’d killed her, why would I inquire about her tox screen? Don’t you think that’s a little stupid on the part of a murderer?”

  “Well, I don’t know. It seems pretty suspicious to me already. You’re the primary beneficiary of millions—millions—of dollars, you’re not actually a blood relation, and you were the last person to see Mrs. Fitzgerald alive. Now, you’re admitting that you knew she was murdered. Why wouldn’t you report it?”

  “To whom?”

  “To the police—who do you think?”

  “And how would you suggest I do that? Elise’s body had already been taken to the funeral home, prepared for burial by the time I got to see her. The ME had examined her and found that she’d died of natural causes.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m not a doctor,” Jil said. “I had no proof. When I brought the robbery of our house to the attention of the police, I practically had to pin Detective Fraser to the floor to get him to take my report. How do you think they would have reacted if I’d said I had a hunch Elise had been poisoned? The ME admitted he’d found some irregularities but nothing conclusive. Did you want me to ask them to run more tests? They would have said ‘thank you very much—we’ll get back to you’ and never called me.”

  “Maybe they would have suspected you of murdering her. Maybe you did murder her. Maybe that’s why you didn’t
say anything—”

  “Or maybe I’m a PI who’s doing a better job of investigating a theft, and some detective’s got his nose out of joint. Who reopened Elise’s file, anyway? What reason was given?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that, Ms. Kidd.”

  “See, this is why I flipped the bird at becoming a police officer. I can get things done without yards of red tape and city politics always in my way.”

  Detective St. Clair leaned over farther. “I’d be very careful about my next move,” she said in a low voice.

  Jil knew she was treading through dangerous territory here, provoking the officer who could detain her, but the whole situation made her so angry she could barely speak. No help from the police from Day One, and now they were actively getting in her way—accusing her of murdering Elise?

  “Are you going to arrest me?” Jil leaned in, until she could smell the detective’s light vanilla perfume and the faint after-scent of her cucumber deodorant. “Because if not, I have things to do.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as live my private life as a private citizen.”

  Detective St. Clair stood up straight, then fixed Jil with a careful stare. “We’re getting an exhumation order for Mrs. Fitzgerald’s body.”

  “Exhumation?” Jil echoed. “She’s not buried yet. She’s at the mausoleum at Beechgrove cemetery.”

  “We need an order to unseal the casket,” she said. Almost immediately, she straightened up again and regained her detachment.

  But for a moment, she’d dropped her guard. For a moment, she’d treated Jil like an equal. And from that, Jil knew—as much as she might have wanted to pin this on her and solve her case—she didn’t really suspect Jil had killed Elise.

  “Can you provide an alibi?” Her tone was frank, almost gentle.

  Of course she could. She’d been in bed with Jess when she got the call about Elise. But she could hardly say that out loud. Jess couldn’t even have dinner with her in public, let alone make a public statement about sleeping with her.

  “No.”

  St. Clair sighed. “Now’s not the time to hold back, Ms. Kidd.”