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He supposed it was conceivable an artist that talented could draw human figures in an entirely different style. Hard to see, though. The lines of the drawing were precise rather than fluid, despite the woman’s erotic sprawl. He pictured the artist—a man? Tony presumed so, but couldn’t be sure—sketching an outline, then coloring within the lines, in a way. Concentrating on each tiny detail.
The four watercolors were matted, likely by the artists. The erotic drawing hadn’t been. Christine couldn’t have framed and hung it in her house, that was for sure.
He glanced at Beth, who had hunched forward.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I can’t believe my mother let anyone draw this.”
Let? Her mother had posed for the artist. Nothing involuntary about it.
“Beth, did you ever have any reason to suspect she had a lover?”
She shot him an outraged look. “No!” But he’d swear she’d pulled into a tighter ball, like a woman expecting a blow—or sheltering a secret.
Part of his job was to push and push until whomever he was interviewing broke. Look for the tells, like her current posture, and use them. But he flat could not make himself do that, not to her, not now. She was still part of his job, but she’d triggered completely unprofessional feelings in him. And, damn, he’d have to watch that.
In this case… Thinking back to her brother’s hostility toward his mother as well as his father, Tony doubted he’d have to get his answers from Beth. Matt knew about the lover, sure as hell, and was hot-tempered enough to spill as soon as he was asked the right question.
“Okay,” Tony said. “Let’s slide all these into the portfolio, trying not to touch them anymore than we already have.”
“But…we’re wearing gloves.” Beth looked up at him and wriggled her fingers.
“Yeah, but we don’t want to smear an underlying fingerprint.”
“The artist would have had to touch this, wouldn’t he?”
Oh, yeah. Unfortunately, the texture of the paper was rough enough to make Tony wonder how well a print could be lifted, but he had hope. Not that a fingerprint was likely to do much good until he had a suspect, however. What were the odds Christine’s lover had committed a previous crime and therefore was in the system?
He glanced at his watch, calculated and said, “Are you able to go on?”
“On?” Beth followed his gaze to the piles on the far side of the garage, the ones no one had gone through yet. Her sturdy agreement came as no surprise.
* * *
THEY WORKED FOR several more hours, finding nothing of interest to Tony. Beth had to go back to making decisions: keep, recycle, throw away or thrift store.
She came across a tent packed in a long, narrow bag, as well as several sleeping bags. She didn’t remember ever going camping, but Matt might. The sleeping bags they’d taken for overnights at friends’ houses and when friends slept over at their house. Provisionally, she decided to keep those and get rid of the tent.
Two boxes proved to contain back issues of academic journals: The Harvard Review of Philosophy and Philosopher’s Imprint. Beth had a suspicion her mother had gotten tired of the overflow and packed these up without Dad’s knowledge. She was tempted to either drop them into the recycling or haul them over to the Wakefield library to see if they’d like some extra back issues, but her conscience overcame her. She’d ask him what he wanted to do, even knowing he’d be delighted to recover them and add them to the heaps in the house.
She’d intended for some time to get someone to turn either her or Matt’s old bedroom into a real library to supplement the built-ins in the family room and the bookcases in Dad’s office. More wall-to-wall shelves, with the books truly organized, would at least get them off the floor. Until her father added too many more.
Frowning at the periodicals, Tony said, “Your father doesn’t seem like a home improvement guy.”
She gave a small laugh. “That’s safe to say. What are you thinking?”
“The piece of wallboard.” He nodded over his shoulder. “How someone could haul it in here unnoticed.”
“Oh. I think it might have been here.”
