Mark glanced at Annabelle and saw her close her eyes. ‘‘Mother, you don’t have to worry. Now, what’s the latest with Aunt Polly? Has she given up the idea to run for mayor or is she still causing trouble?’’
With that, she successfully distracted her mother, and Mark quit listening quite so closely to the conversation. Locating Pine, he made the right turn and spied the sign for Mercer Gallery in the next block. Despite the lack of tourists in town, parking spaces were at a premium and he drove around a few minutes looking for one while Annabelle finished her call.
‘‘I’ve gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow. Yes. Yes. Me, too. I love you.’’ She flipped her phone shut and said, ‘‘There’s a parking place. Around the corner. See?’’
Mark knew he shouldn’t comment on the call, and as he made the turn, he tried to keep his trap shut.
He failed.
‘‘Still lying to your mother, I hear,’’ he casually observed.
He could see the torque in her jaw as she gritted her teeth. When she failed to respond, it just egged him on more. ‘‘I guess you probably haven’t told her about the divorce . . . since you never got around to telling her that we got married.’’
She whipped her head around and sneered. ‘‘That’s rich coming from you. Your brothers filled me in on your history. At least I’ve only kept one spouse secret, not two.’’
Mark pulled into a parking space, shifted into park, and stifled his smile. It was contrary of him to intentionally annoy her, but dammit, he didn’t like being frozen out. ‘‘But I didn’t lie to my mother. That’s a much bigger deal.’’
She gave him the Annabelle Monroe version of the evil eye. ‘‘You seem to have forgotten the discussion we had at the pub, Callahan. You don’t get to talk to me about personal things.’’
Mark switched off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. ‘‘At risk of sounding childish, what are you going to do to stop me?’’
Her mouth gaped a bit in disbelief as he pressed on. ‘‘If we are going to work as a team, we need to be able to talk to each other. You and I aren’t comfortable the way things are, and that could work against us in an emergency situation. It could work against us in this interview if Ms. Mercer senses a problem and holds something back as a result of it.’’
‘‘I don’t believe you.’’ Annabelle shoved an errant lock of hair behind her ear. ‘‘Now you’re trying to tell me that in order to be a professional, I have to let you into my personal life? You have more nerve than a broken toe, Callahan.’’
His lips twitched as he opened the SUV’s driver’s-side door. ‘‘Just how is your family doing these days, Belle? Are your sisters still mad because you didn’t want to come home and help run the bakery? Did your dad get that heart problem taken care of?’’
‘‘I am not talking to you about my family.’’ She yanked at her seat belt and gathered up her purse.
He climbed out of the SUV and waited for her. Sunshine glistened on her hair and distracted him for just a moment. Then she lifted her chin and her snooty attitude got to him. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and shrugged. ‘‘I’m just curious since I gave you my mother’s secret muffin recipe to bribe your sisters with, not to mention the fact that I compiled all that research about doctors, procedures, and facilities to help your father make his decision.’’
She drew a deep breath, then blew it out on a heavy sigh. ‘‘Lissa and Amy mostly are over being angry about my choice of career. The lemon muffins sell out every day. Dad had the surgery . . . oh, it’s been eighteen months ago now.’’
‘‘He’s doing well?’’
‘‘Very well.’’ She hesitated, then added, ‘‘Thank you.’’
Now he couldn’t hold back his smile.
That was like pulling teeth.
‘‘You’re welcome. I’m glad it all worked out. Whatever happened with that tavern your brother-in-law was thinking about opening? Did he follow through on it?’’
She gave him a long look, then surrendered. ‘‘Jason opened the Flying Saucer almost a year ago now. It’s doing phenomenally well. Adam still works the farm with Dad, and he and his family are all doing well. That catches you up on the Monroes. Now, shouldn’t we discuss our interview with Rocky’s friend? Do you want to ask the questions or shall I?’’
Before he could answer, her cell rang again. She checked the number and smiled. ‘‘Paulo!
Pronto.
’’
Mark grabbed the phone away from her. ‘‘She’s working now. She’ll have to get back to you.’’
‘‘Dammit, Callahan!’’ she exclaimed as he flipped the phone shut.
He continued as if the Italian Stallion had never called. ‘‘You take the lead. You know what to ask, and that way if she gives us a description of Radovanovic or one of his goons, you can’t say I influenced the description.’’
‘‘But—’’
‘‘Focus, Monroe.’’
She snapped her mouth shut and nodded. Minutes later, they arrived at the art gallery. Mark noted the CLOSED sign in the window, but tried the door anyway. Locked. The interior of the building looked dark.
He checked his watch. They were well within the time frame he’d given the woman when she called. ‘‘I don’t have a good feeling about this.’’
‘‘What time did you tell her to expect us?’’
‘‘I gave her a two-hour window. We’re right in the middle of it.’’
Annabelle shielded the sides of her eyes with her hands and peered through the plate glass window. ‘‘I see movement. Someone is inside.’’
Mark rapped on the door loudly. Annabelle said, ‘‘Here she comes.’’
The lock
snick
ed and the door cracked open. ‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘I’m Mark Callahan. This is my partner, Annabelle Monroe.’’
‘‘Thank goodness you are finally here.’’ The door swung wide and a woman ushered them inside, then quickly locked the door behind them. She immediately moved to the back of the room.
This was one frightened woman, Mark thought. One drop-dead gorgeous frightened woman, too, he amended when she switched on the track lighting to a soft, low glow. This woman was a classic, classy brunette with angular features, a long, lean build, and a hundred-dollar haircut. She wore black slacks and a gray silk shirt and pearls. He caught a whiff of Chanel and hid his surprise.
She was not what he had expected. The women he’d seen Stanhope go for in the past had been outdoorsy, earth-mother types. ‘‘Ms. Mercer?’’
‘‘Yes. I’m Brooke. Please call me Brooke. Thank you so much for coming. I’ve been so afraid. Rocky . . . oh . . . I can’t believe . . .’’ She closed her eyes and her breath gave a little hitch. ‘‘I’m just so . . . I don’t know. . . .’’
Annabelle reached out and gave Brooke Mercer’s hand a quick, comforting squeeze. ‘‘I know this must be a trying time for you. Rocky was a special man. He had a way of coaxing a smile out of you even under the most difficult circumstances.’’
‘‘He loved to make me laugh. He loved me and I loved him.’’ She grabbed a tissue from a box on the desk at the back of the gallery and dabbed at her watery brown eyes. ‘‘This has been such a nightmare.’’
‘‘I’m sure it has,’’ Mark agreed.
He waited a bit impatiently for Annabelle to jump right in with questions about Rocky. Instead, she chose to approach the subject slowly. ‘‘You have a wonderful space here. Are these local artists?’’
‘‘Colorado artists. We like to showcase our own.’’ She managed a wobbly smile. ‘‘I have two of Rocky’s works. Would you like to see them?’’
Annabelle and Mark shared a look of surprise. Then Mark asked, ‘‘Rocky painted?’’
‘‘Yes, of course. That’s how he and I met.’’ She led them around to a side wall where two abstract paintings hung. One was dark and disturbing, a study of shapes. The other was an explosion of color. ‘‘He was brilliant.’’
He was troubled, Mark realized, recognizing the import of the gold chain depicted in the painting on the left. He glanced at Annabelle and saw that she had made the connection, too. On the team’s last mission in the field, their Pakistani mountain guide had been a thirteen-year-old boy with a ready smile and an unpronounceable name. Since his most prized possession was the gold-link necklace he’d worn around his neck, everyone called him Goldie. Goldie liked to laugh, throw a football with Stanhope, and eat chocolate.
One night he disappeared from camp. They came across a headless body nailed to a tree two days later. They recognized the boots and the gold necklace.
Stanhope never got over it.
‘‘If the paintings are still for sale, I’d like to buy this one,’’ Mark said, deciding on the spur of the moment. ‘‘The colorful one.’’
Brooke Mercer’s face registered surprise, but she nodded. ‘‘Yes, of course. I’m sure Rocky would like that.’’
She named a price that Mark considered fair and he peeled off hundred-dollar bills from his money clip, then withdrew a card from his wallet and handed it to her. ‘‘Call this number and ask for Frank McGee. He will give you a purchase-order number and the shipping address for my condo in Jackson Hole.’’
He noted curiosity quickly banked in Annabelle’s gaze. He’d bought the Wyoming mountain home since they’d split. In fact, he’d bought three vacation places since the divorce was final. Luke’s wife, Maddie, said there was a message in that for him, but he didn’t see it.
‘‘Perhaps we could ask you a few questions now?’’ Annabelle inquired.
‘‘Yes, of course. Let’s move to the back. I’d rather we not be interrupted.’’
She led the way into a small office at the back of the building. She moved behind a Queen Anne desk and gestured for them to take seats in the chairs on the opposite side. A crystal water pitcher and a selection of soft drinks sat on a credenza behind her. She nodded toward it and asked, ‘‘Would you care for something to drink?’’
They declined and the art dealer took a seat across from them. She folded her hands and met first Annabelle’s, then Mark’s gaze. ‘‘I know you’ve traveled a long way to ask me questions, but I need to ask you a few things first. Rocky directed me to do this as he lay dying.’’
His former colleague’s caution didn’t surprise Mark. He expected Ms. Mercer to request proof of identity— a piece of knowledge rather than a driver’s license. Instead, Brooke Mercer asked, ‘‘In the past three months, has either of you been contacted by another member of your team?’’
Mark pursed his lips. The arch of Annabelle’s brows signaled her surprise. She asked, ‘‘What sort of contact?’’
‘‘Any sort. Phone calls, e-mails, personal visits— anything.’’
‘‘No, I haven’t,’’ Mark told her. ‘‘Not prior to Russo’s funeral, anyway.’’
‘‘I spoke to Melanie Anderson a couple months ago,’’ Annabelle shared.
Interest lit the other woman’s dark eyes. She didn’t appear quite as fragile as she’d looked a few moments before. Leaning forward, she said, ‘‘You did? Please tell me about the conversation.’’
‘‘She called me on my birthday,’’ Annabelle responded with a shrug. ‘‘We’ve exchanged birthday calls for years. I don’t recall anything unusual about the conversation. What are you looking for?’’
‘‘A message,’’ Brooke Mercer replied. ‘‘Did she perhaps mention any other team members? Maybe she was in contact with one of the others?’’
Annabelle thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘‘Not that I recall.’’
Mark’s patience had run thin. He hadn’t rushed to Telluride to face the third degree and be told nothing in return. Annabelle might be willing to let this drag on for hours, but he wasn’t. ‘‘I’m a little lost here. What is it Rocky told you to do before he died? How did he die? What did you see?’’
The gallery owner winced. ‘‘Just bear with me another minute, please? I have one more question. Have you been contacted by anyone outside of the team regarding current activities of team members?’’
‘‘No,’’ Mark snapped. ‘‘Now, what is this about?’’
Brooke Mercer stared at Annabelle until she shook her head. ‘‘No, I haven’t, either.’’ Annabelle’s voice took on a familiar note of steel. ‘‘Please, Ms. Mercer. Talk to us.’’
Just as Mark was ready to lose his patience and say something he shouldn’t, the woman visibly reached a decision and nodded. ‘‘I believe you. You are not connected to this. Rocky suspected as much—that’s why he gave me your number to call, Mr. Callahan— but he made me promise to question your involvement before I told you his story.’’
She drew in a deep breath, then blew it out in a rush. ‘‘I guess I should start with the phone call. Your phone call, Ms. Monroe.’’
‘‘I didn’t reach Rocky.’’
‘‘No. We were away for a few days camping and he listened to your message when we returned. He was going to call you after dinner. Then he received another call. It was from another one of your team members.’’
‘‘Which one?’’ Annabelle asked.
‘‘I don’t know. Rocky didn’t say. He went out for a long walk and when he came back, he sat down at the computer, wrote for a while, then printed his work.’’ A sad smile flickered on her face. ‘‘It was the first time I ever heard him grumble about not having Internet access at the cabin.’’
Mark had a dozen questions on his tongue, but he held them back. This woman would tell her story at her own pace, and then he’d give Annabelle a go at her. What he’d told his partner on the way here was true. He didn’t want to influence Brooke Mercer’s responses.
‘‘Rocky said we needed to go to town. I went upstairs to shower and change. I had been upstairs twenty minutes or so when I heard the car. I glanced out the window and that’s when I saw him.’’
The killer? Mark tensed and leaned forward. Annabelle placed her hand on his knee and squeezed a silent warning to keep quiet.
The art dealer closed her eyes and lifted a trembling hand to smooth back her hair. ‘‘He appeared ordinary. A man in a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. I thought he was a tourist who had taken a wrong turn and needed directions. I turned away from the window and went back into the bathroom to put on my makeup.’’
She paused and licked her lips. ‘‘I never heard the gunshot. Never heard Rocky cry out. Never heard the car leave. When I went downstairs, he was lying on the floor. Blood was everywhere.’’