This was her chance.
In her mad dash through the cottage, she hadn’t run across any packing boxes—or places to store them. Bailey did a mental accounting. No garage, attic access from the back hallway, via pull-down ladder, nearly nonexistent closet space.
That left here. She did a slow three-sixty, gaze stopping on two doors at the back of the studio. Both closed. Storage closets? Perhaps.
The first one she tried proved to be a washroom, not a closet. Basic head, sink, mirror. Light was burned out. The next door she found locked.
A ring of keys. Hanging off the ear of a small gargoyle, sitting watch near the studio entrance. Car key. What she assumed were house keys. She wondered if Raine had a key to her and Logan’s. The thought left her uncomfortable.
She snatched up the ring and crossed to the locked door. Raine had a half-dozen keys on the ring; Bailey tried each one.
The last opened the door. She flipped on the light.
A storage room. Almost a mini gallery. Paintings on the walls, on easels, on racks.
And they were all of True.
Bailey stood in the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. Some lovely portraits. True’s features glowing, as if from the inside, making True appear an ethereal beauty. An angel come to earth. Others dark. Vile and violent. True with the black heart of a beast. Of a True torn apart by imaginary wolves, screaming in pain. Her fear and despair as palpable in this oil painting as Raine’s was in real life.
And in one of these terrible images, True wore red shoes.
Heart thundering, Bailey studied the painting, those small red splashes. Unmistakable, although with them rendered in Raine’s expressionistic style, it was impossible to tell what style of shoes they were.
It didn’t prove anything. But it could mean everything. It could be the answer she’d come here looking for. Had she painted those shoes from imagination? Or memory?
Only Raine had the answers.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Bailey whirled around. Raine stood behind her, face white with rage.
Bailey held a hand out. “This painting of True, she—”
“Get out.”
“The shoes, Raine, the red shoes, I have to know—”
“These are private! This room is private!”
“Please—” She lowered her voice. “I meant no harm, I promise. I have to know, why did you put her in red—”
She curled her hands into fists. “I should kill you.”
“What did you say?”
“I could. Right now, with my bare hands. Or I could get my gun—” She took a lopsided step toward Bailey, eyes glittering. “I have one, you know. I grew up hunting with Logan and Roane. And I’m an excellent shot. I could just”—she lifted her hands in a facsimile of a gun—“blow you away.”
Shatter every window ’til it’s all blown away …
“You’re talking crazy.”
She swayed and grabbed the doorjamb for support. “That’s me, poor, crazy Raine.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No.” Raine caught her arm as she moved past, her grip surprisingly strong. “What were you looking for?”
Why not? Bailey wondered, looking her straight in the eyes. What did she have to lose? “True’s shoe size.”
The other woman looked comically surprised. “What the hell for?”
“You wouldn’t tell me anyway.” Bailey jerked her arm free. “Forget it. Enjoy the brownies.”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s crazy!” Raine called after her. “Not me.”
Bailey reached the door, opened it, started through.
“What does it matter!” Raine’s voice turned high-pitched, hysterical. “Same size as mine! Six and a half!”
Bailey didn’t turn back or even slow her steps until she reached her own driveway. There, she stopped. Breathing hard. Legs rubbery.
Six and a half. About the size of the red shoe.
The garage door stood open. The big, blue trash bin there to the far left. Mocking her. Taunting her to take a look. “Come see,” it seemed to call, “then you’ll know for certain!”
Even as she tried to reason herself out of it, she started toward it, a sensation rolling over her. Heavy. Almost smothering.
Her head filled with the image of Raine’s painting. True, wearing red shoes.
Size six and a half.
What are you doing, Bailey? Just leave it alone. You’ve already damaged your marriage.
She couldn’t leave it alone. It felt as if she was being drawn by some invisible but powerful force. She stepped into the garage. Crossed to the bin. Lifted the lid. Peered inside.
The shoe was gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, April 23
10:00 A.M.
All the Wholesome old-timers had turned out for Henry’s funeral as well as a smattering of others. Stephanie’s friends and coworkers. The staff of Abbott Farm. The curious.
Oddly, Billy Ray was not one of them.
Bailey stopped in front of a table displaying photographs and memorabilia from Henry’s life. He’d been movie star handsome before the accident. Dark and dashing. He’d been an accomplished horseman, she saw by the number of show ribbons and medals.
And kind. She saw it in the photos, shining from his eyes.
No wonder Elisabeth Abbott had fallen in love with him.
Faye came up beside her. She had closed the diner so she and the staff could pay their respects. “He was a heartbreaker, that’s for sure. Wasn’t a woman in the parish who set eyes on him who didn’t swoon.”
She chuckled, almost to herself. “Him, he hardly noticed. He was just good people. Before the accident and after.”
Before Bailey could reply, a collective murmur moved through the room. She turned. Two uniformed officers. One young and gangly, the other old and portly, both in uniform, sidearms included.
Bailey heard the whispering. The word “murdered” breathed from one ear to the next. She saw by Stephanie’s expression that she heard, too. It infuriated her. This day was to honor Henry’s life, his good spirit, not to gossip about his death.
She cornered the young one. “What’s your name, Officer?”