The Fine Art of Murder by Emily Barnes

exposed. What a difference from the last time I’d visited the mansion when Marshall Seniorwas alive. I could hear voices on the second floor and started toward the staircase, also covered with cream-colored tarps.
    The second floor, unlike the first, was so lit up I had to stop a moment to let my eyes adjust.
    “Well look who’s here!” a voice called. “Chief Sullivan! Long time, no see.”
    I’d recognize that raspy voice anywhere. “Officer DeYoung,” I said, walking toward him. “You still partnered with Browman?”
    “Some things never change, Chief. I thought you moved away from our little burg.”
    “You can take the girl out of Edina but . . . you get it,” I laughed. “So what have we got here?”
    “Whoa, hold up there.” Dean Bostwick marched over authoritatively. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Sullivan? Shouldn’t you be looking at rocking chairs instead of my crime scene?” He smirked, straightening his expensive tie.
    “I was hoping you’d grown up while I was gone,” I told him. “But it looks like you’re still going to need more time.”
    This generational warfare had been going on since he’d joined the force. I guess there was just something about me that irritated Bostwick, besides the fact that I was a woman. He’d been gunning for my job, jabbing me with snide insults, for years. Long before I retired, his childish routine had ceased to make anyone at the station even offer a slight smile toward me.
    When he finally got promoted to chief of police, I congratulated him and even chipped in with the rest of the guysfor a gift. But attending a party in his honor at Arezzo’s—that was too much. I saw no reason to ever see the man again. And yet, there I was, staring into his angry eyes.
    “I should have known you’d show up,” Bostwick said. “You’re hard to get rid of.”
    “Aren’t you too old to be acting like a little boy?” I asked.
    “Officer,” Bostwick said to DeYoung, “please escort Mrs. Sullivan back to her vehicle.” Then, turning to me, he added, “I assume you drove here. You can still do that, right? They didn’t take away your license, did they?”
    Before I could think of a snappy comeback, Nathan entered the room.
    “Yo, Walker,” one of the officers called out.
    “Hey,” Nathan waved in our direction. “You okay, Kathy?” He glared at Bostwick. “’Cause I’d just love an excuse to knock this smartass on his—”
    “I’m fine, Nathan. Relax.”
    Bostwick was obviously insecure, always overcompensating for something none of us knew about. But underneath it all, he was a good cop. His performance at the academy had been outstanding and he deserved to be chief. However, because of his inadequacy issues, he struck out at everyone. And, like me, Nathan had just about had enough.
    Bostwick snapped at Nathan. “You know better than anyone what the penalty for striking a police officer is. Just try something and I’ll haul your ass into jail faster than you can—”
    “Cut the macho crap,” Nathan said. I could hear the other men in the room chuckling. “It isn’t every day you get amurder in a place like this, is it? If I were you, Dean, I’d take advantage of two extra pairs of eyes belonging to seasoned, experienced officers who could make you look good. Know what I mean?”
    “I don’t need your help to make me look good.”
    “It would sure be a shame if word leaked out that you refused our professional expertise. Don’t you think the Pierce family would consider it smart of you to consult with us?” I asked.
    Bostwick threw up hands. “All right! I give up. But don’t—”
    Nathan turned to me. “Do you think he’s actually going to tell us not to touch anything?” he asked sarcastically, making sure everyone in the room heard.
    “Oh, he knows better than that,” I said. “Right, Dean?”
    Bostwick sucked in his bottom lip, obviously trying to keep himself from saying another word, and returned