The Fine Art of Murder by Emily Barnes Page B

waiting for the weather report to wrap up.
    “Mother?” Lizzie stood at the door, looking like a snowball in her fluffy white robe. “What are you doing up so early?” She squinted at the clock near the stove. “The kids don’t even get up for another hour.”
    When the anchorwoman with the bad hairdo came on the screen, I shushed my daughter. “I want to hear this.”
    “The body of twenty-eight-year-old Stacey Jordan, a recent graduate of the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, was found last night at the Pierce estate. Ms. Jordan suffered a fatal blow to the head and was pronounced dead on the scene. No murder weapon has been found. She had been assisting Antoine Rousseau, who was recently hired to oversee the restoration ofthe mansion. Mr. Rousseau, a French citizen, is a person of interest. The police are asking for your help in solving this senseless crime. If you have any information, please call the eight-hundred number at the bottom of your screen or go to our website.” Then, as an aside, the woman added, “Some of you may remember that Marshall Pierce Senior also died in the estate under mysterious circumstances.”
    Before either one of us could speak, Lizzie’s office phone rang. While she went to answer it, I put bread in the toaster, poured four glasses of orange juice, and started scrambling eggs before she returned, five minutes later.
    “Well . . . you’ll never guess who that was,” she said, accepting the coffee mug I handed her.
    “Who?”
    “Randy.”
    “Randolph Pierce?” I asked. “What did he want?”
    “He’s at the police station; they brought him in for questioning.”
    I shrugged. “Standard procedure. After all, Stacey was found on his property. Is there a husband or boyfriend somewhere?”
    “Not that I know of,” Lizzie said.
    Trying not to sound as though I was cross-examining her, I asked, “So why would he call you? It’s not as if you two are close . . . or anything.”
    “He needs a lawyer.”
    “But you don’t practice criminal law anymore. Didn’t you tell him that?”
    “Yes, Mother, I told him—several times. But he begged me to help, as a friend.”
    Friend? I studied her face, looking for some expression that would tell me more than her words or tone. There was no surprise around her eyes, no confusion tugging at the corners of her mouth. The last I knew, Lizzie couldn’t stand Randolph. She’d disliked him when they were kids, and after more than twenty years, she still wasn’t too fond of him. Granted, my daughter had always been compassionate and empathetic, but this was something else. She looked as though she’d been expecting his call.
    “Did you know about Stacey before you went to bed last night?”
    “How could I?” she asked defensively.
    “Facebook, Twitter, e-mail, phone, local news websites—take your pick.”
    “All I knew was that you and Nathan ran off somewhere. After you left, I took a bath and went to bed. I didn’t even hear you come in last night. Is that where you went? To the mansion?”
    I nodded.
    “Well, I better get dressed,” she said, turning to leave.
    “At least have some breakfast first,” I said pulling out a chair for her at the table. “No waiting—it’s all ready. It would be a shame to waste all this good food.”
    “You’re right.” Lizzie plopped down on the chair and started in on her eggs.
    We had about twenty minutes alone before Cameron and Chloe got up. Then while the three of us ate, Lizzie ran around, getting dressed, looking for her briefcase and keys.
    “Have a good day at school,” she said, kissing each child on the head. “Grandma will take you and I’ll pick you up.”
    I stood up, positioning myself for a hug. “Go get ’em, counselor.”
    ***
    The kids chattered in the backseat while I mentally went over the list I’d made the night before. Randolph Pierce was with detectives at that moment, so I’d have to speak with him later. Hopefully Antoine Rousseau had been