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“Your wife just said something similar,” Scarlet pointed out. “She agreed they’re above reproach.”
“That doesn’t equate to trust,” Mitcham argued. “They can excel at their jobs. It doesn’t mean someone who works for me won’t steal from me.”
“Then you believe it was an inside job?” Scarlet asked.
“What I believe,” Mitcham said as he pushed aside his half-eaten plate of food, “is that someone stole something that meant a lot to my wife. And if I ever get my hands on the lousy SOB who orchestrated the robbery, I will happily wring his fucking neck.”
He shoved back his chair and stood. Tossed his napkin on the table, bent at the waist to kiss his wife on the cheek, and then stormed off.
Scarlet watched him go. That wasn’t just anger that radiated from the man. It was torment.
Because he’d assembled something significant for his wife and someone had been Machiavellian enough to swipe it from under his nose—and devastate the woman he loved.
Scarlet slid her glance to Michael. His prominent features were hard as stone. His fist was wrapped around his Bloody Mary glass.
She shifted her gaze to Sam. He was also visibly disturbed. Scarlet was certain that was because his mother was essentially reliving the nightmare.
Because of Scarlet.
Somehow this had become an even more complex scenario than any other case she’d ever tried to solve. There were too many personal connections this time. Michael and Sam, sure. But Scarlet couldn’t deny the admiration she had for Mitcham Vandenberg, a man who’d come across initially as too condescending, too arrogant, too powerful, to give her more than a few seconds of his time. Not to mention a man who found it all too easy to tell her to go to hell when she pried into his business. But he clearly still loathed the fact that something Karina had adored was now long gone.
As Scarlet considered Karina in her peripheral vision, she recognized that the very lovely blond-haired, blue-eyed woman was just as distraught.
But with Karina mostly dropping her gaze to her plate following Mitcham’s departure, Scarlet couldn’t help but wonder if there was more going on here.
The complication came from having Michael and Sam at the table. It hindered Scarlet because she honestly didn’t want to probe deeply when they were here. She wasn’t trying to upset either of them. Just wanted to get to the truth.
Unfortunately, in order to do that, she had to push a little harder.
She asked Sam’s mother, “Who was the one to discover the paintings were gone?”
“A housekeeper. She was in charge of maintaining the gallery and she performed that duty in the evening so she didn’t disturb anyone in the room during the day. I used to take my afternoon tea in there.”
“I see. And may I speak with this housekeeper?”
“She’s no longer with us.”
Scarlet’s interest piqued. Skyrocketed, actually, when both Michael and Sam visibly tensed. Her pulse hitched a notch.
“When did she leave your employ?”
“Shortly after the theft.”
Scarlet eyed Michael once more. Why hadn’t he mentioned this? Talk about suspicious behavior on the housekeeper’s part!
To Karina, she said, “Do you have forwarding contact information so that I can get in touch with her?”
“I most certainly do not,” Karina huffed, suddenly indignant.
Scarlet’s gaze narrowed. They were definitely on to something here.
“If you could please provide her name, that would be helpful,” Scarlet encouraged. “I’d like to ask her—”
“Scarlet,” Sam interjected.
Beside her, Michael quietly said, “She’s dead.”
“Oh.” Her spirits sank. Her pulse returned to normal. Well, relatively speaking. It was as normal as possible while she was in Michael and Sam’s presence.
