THROUGH THE DOWNPOUR, Bernadette squinted at the address over the front door. She looked down at the slip of paper again. This was the right place.
She didn’t know the psychiatric profession could be so lucrative. The mansion had a screened porch that extended across the front and wrapped around one side. A black wrought-iron fence twice her height surrounded the place, giving it the air of a fortress. The home itself was constructed of red sandstone, each rugged block the size of the hood of a Volkswagen Beetle. On each side of the wide steps leading up to the front door was a marble lion, sitting at attention like a guard dog.
Stuffing the scrap of paper in her coat pocket, Bernadette pushed open the front gate. The porch was crowded with statues, probably placed inside for storage before winter. There were robed women—with one or both breasts exposed—and a muscular man in a toga. A terracotta Buddha was biding his time next to a painted statue of the Virgin Mary. All the VonHaders had to do was put out a bowl of candy and the porch would be a perfect haunted house for Halloween.
Urns filled with topiaries stood on each side of the entrance to the house, and a wreath of dried flowers dotted with minipumpkins hung from the door itself. To the left of the door, mounted up high near the ceiling, was a camera. If the VonHaders were like most homeowners, they’d installed a security system but stopped using it after the first month or two. She scrutinized the tall windows looking out onto the porch and was disappointed that they were hung with lace curtains dense enough to keep her from seeing inside. She closed her umbrella, stepped up to the door, and pressed the doorbell. She waited and pushed it again.
Hearing a deadbolt being turned on the other side of the door, she braced herself. He was going to be furious that she’d come to his home, and on a Sunday morning to boot.
He opened the door, his figure blocking the entire entryway. He was dressed in a gray jogging suit and coordinating sneakers. The outfit probably cost more than her work suit, she thought ruefully. The doctor looked past her at the rain coming down in sheets. “Guess I’ll have to postpone my run.”
He opened the door wider and took a step back. “Come inside, Agent Saint Clare.”
She propped her umbrella against the porch wall. “Matt told you to look out for me.”
“Yes, he did.”
As she stepped over the threshold, Bernadette glanced up at him. He was tall and trim, with a runner’s physique. She hadn’t noticed that in the office, under his stuffy suit.
“Cold?” he asked, closing the door behind her.
Her attention went back to the door as she heard him activate the deadbolt. “A little.”
“Let’s sit in the parlor,” he said. “I have a decent fire going this morning.”
“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment,” she said dryly.
“I didn’t think I had a choice,” he said.
She trailed after him as he led her down the long foyer. She saw an open staircase leading to the second story. “Beautiful home.”
“My parents left it to me.”
“Lucky you.” As she followed him to a room on the left, an Oriental carpet cushioned her feet. Walking deeper inside, she got a full view of all the pricey-looking furniture.
“Please,” he said, motioning toward a couch parked on one side of the fireplace.
She lowered herself onto the sofa. “Thank you.”
He extended his hands. “I could take your wrap and gloves.”
“Maybe after I warm up.”
“May I bring you something to drink?”
He was acting way too civilly. That bastard Matthew’s call had given his brother just enough time to prepare for her. “I’m fine,” she said shortly.
“I just put on a pot of fresh coffee.”
She folded her hands on her lap. “Sure. Coffee would be good.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Black, if you please.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
Bernadette watched him leave the room, stood up and went to the fireplace, and held her gloved hands in front of the blaze. The fireplace opening was large enough to roast a pig. The mantel was lined with a row of old oil lamps, many with fluid in the base. Her parents had left her a pair of those lanterns. Never thinking of them as collectibles, she hung on to them for a utilitarian purpose—in case the power went out.
Turning around, she ran her eyes over the large room filled with antiques. Tall chests with brass handles lined the walls. In addition to the couches situated on either side of the fireplace with a coffee table between them, she saw two other sofas across the room, both covered in some sort of maroon velvet. A forest of small tables took up floor space. They had marble tops and wooden tops and were round and square and rectangular. One of the tables had a silver tea set arranged on top of it. A large oak library table was pushed into a corner. She recognized the clean lines as mission style and speculated that it was an original Stickley piece. She was familiar with that furniture maker because her mother had taken her to a farm auction where some of Gustav Stickley’s pieces were up for bids.
The walls of the room were as crowded as the floor, with framed pieces of art from miniature portraits to massive landscapes. She went over to the gallery and studied a set of First Communion photos hanging side by side. The blond, dark-suited boys posing with folded hands, rosaries twined around their fingers, had to be Luke and Matthew. Bernadette’s eyes drifted to the right of the boys’ photos, where she saw a rectangle of bright wallpaper. A photo had hung there for a long time. Whose photograph had been removed?
She pulled her eyes off the gallery and continued her self-guided tour of the museum. Wandering over to a table, she picked up an enamel vase and speculated about how much it cost. “If you have to ask,” she muttered.
“That’s a highly important signed Norwegian vase, circa 1900.”
She turned around with the piece in her hands. “What makes it so important? The signed part, the Norwegian part, or the circa 1900 part?”
Luke set down a silver tray loaded with a silver coffeepot, silver creamer, and porcelain cups and saucers. “Actually, that’s a very good question. I would have to say that all three together classify it as highly important.”
Trying to imagine the price tag attached to “highly important,” Bernadette scrutinized the vase. It looked like an overgrown champagne flute and was decorated with small, dark red flowers set against light blue glass. She thought it was hideous.
“What do you think of it?” he asked as he poured a cup of coffee.
As she set the vase back down, Bernadette employed the word all Minnesotans used when trying to be nice. “It’s different.”
He handed her a cup and saucer. “Yes,” he said tiredly, “I think it’s ugly, too.”
She nodded toward the fireplace mantel. “I like the lanterns.”
“I light them at night to entertain the girls. We pretend we’re camping.”
She smiled, genuinely touched by the idea. “That’s neat.”
“Mother would be horrified. Her things were for show, not actual use.”
She sat down on one of the sofas and pretended to sip. Anyone brazen enough to try to drown an FBI agent could also try to poison one. “I wouldn’t keep things I couldn’t use.”
“As the oldest, I inherited the good and the bad—my parents’ wise moves and their mistakes—and I have to take care of all of it.” He sat across from her and took a sip of coffee. “It’s their legacy to me.”
“What about Matt? Is taking care of him part of the deal?”
“I didn’t appreciate the way you took advantage of his weaknesses. Getting him drunk.”
“He got himself drunk. He doesn’t need help from anyone in the boozing department.” She decided to bait him. “How do you know we had dinner, by the way?”
He took another sip of coffee before he answered. “He told me.”
“Or do you know because you followed us around last night?”
“Ridiculous. I have better things to do with my time than trail after my brother while he’s having one of his misadventures.”