Jane Everett also did well at the station; she charmed Frank Vine, Jimmy Callahan and the other deputies milling around her. She described how researching the general’s picture—determining who’d created it and how it had ended up in the woods—might help them uncover just what was going on.
At the morgue, Dr. Wilson had already cut into Aaron Bentley. His assistants were sewing up the body when Dustin arrived, but Dr. Wilson showed him just what electrocution did to the body.
Blood samples had been sent to the lab and Wilson suspected they’d find trace elements of whatever medication Aaron had been given in the hospital—but nothing else. Too much time had passed. However, it appeared that he’d died because of his own carelessness in knocking the iPod charger into his bathwater.
“It’s like a closed-door mystery,” Wilson said, frustrated. No way in, no way out.” He shrugged, asking, “Do you think Aaron might’ve just been tired and sloppy? After all, there was no one else in the house.”
“There was no one else that we know of,” Dustin reminded him.
“I wish I could help you more—that the body was telling me more,” Wilson said. “But in this case...it really does appear to be accidental.”
He shook his head. “If only a corpse could talk...”
Dustin stared at the corpse, wondering if this one could. At the moment, he saw nothing, felt nothing, to suggest that Aaron Bentley could suddenly speak to him, tell him what happened.
“Naturally, when I get the lab results, I’ll let you know immediately,” Wilson said.
Dustin thanked him and drove to the police station to collect Jane. By the time he arrived, she was ready to leave, having taken dozens of photographs and done considerable research on the internet. She summarized what she’d discovered thus far.
“The cheesecloth is cheap and available in almost every art store in the United States. The rendering of the general was done in chalk and watercolor—and wouldn’t withstand a rainstorm. The artist was fairly decent, so I’d say you’re looking at the work of an art student, either someone who went to a good school or is still taking classes. That’s what I have so far.”
“So,” Jimmy Callahan said, “we’re looking for someone with access to the workers at the Horse Farm, someone who knows their hours and their habits. This someone also knows the campsite and the surrounding area. And he or she knows about tranquilizer drug concoctions that don’t show up in blood tests at a customary autopsy. And this person happens to be a fairly decent artist.”
“Except maybe our killer doesn’t need to be an artist at all, decent or not.”
“Yes,” Jane agreed. “This person—the killer—could have bought the image.”
Dustin nodded. “The murderer knew that Mariah would go snooping if she thought she was about to see the general. Although I don’t think she ever got to see this picture of the general floating in the forest mist. She happened on the pieces of coyote-torn cow first.”
Frank sat on the edge of his table and shook his head. “How did this person lure Mariah out—and hit Aaron Bentley with a dart at the same time?”
“It could’ve been done,” Dustin said. “The plans would have had to be laid the night before. And then the killer had to count on luck, as well. But most people know that Mariah is the local historian and ghost-queen. An eerie sound would definitely have caught her attention. Not a rebel yell or anything like that—too loud. A whisper? A distant bugle? Whoever this was came prepared.”
Frank shook his head again. “You still think Sandra?”
“At the very least, I think she knows something.”
“What’s your plan?” Frank asked.
“I’ll take a group riding—retrace our steps again, see what we can discover,” Dustin told him. “I particularly want to check out the stream.”
“My partner and I will be at the Horse Farm,” Jane told him quickly.
Frank looked at Jimmy. “Go pay Sandra Cheever a visit. Tell her you’ll be watching over her so that she can get some rest. See if you can stay inside at her place, rather than out in the car.”
“Yep, you got it.” Tipping his hat to Jane, Jimmy left the room.
“Is this crazy, or what? Is everyone at that place supposed to die in some kind of presumed accident?” Frank asked.
“Could be. What’s still eluding us is the reason,” Dustin muttered.
“You’ll be watching over Olivia, right?”
“A killer would have to get to her over my dead body,” Dustin assured him. “And you know that Malachi Gordon—Olivia’s cousin—is here, too.”
Frank nodded. He walked around to his desk and rummaged in his bottom drawer, then handed Dustin an outdated walkie-talkie. “You can reach the station with this. Keep me apprised of your movements.”
Dustin agreed to do that. As they drove back to the Horse Farm, he asked Jane, “There was nothing else you could get from that image of the general?”
She shrugged. “I’ve just spent a couple of hours with Frank Vine. We’re working with the facts, sir, just the facts. Like I said, the artist was decent. The rendering seems relatively accurate, judging by some of the Civil War photographs I looked at online. And some of the shading was really nice. This artist probably does have a career in his or her future.”
“So, you’d say a young artist?”
“I think so. Although art is—no pun intended—a sketchy field. It might be an older artist who’s a better technician than he or she is at finding a personal style. That’s my opinion. I work with reconstruction a lot. Or doing sketches from someone’s description. This seems to be along those lines. There must be a portrait of the general like that somewhere. I didn’t come across it in my online research but I’ll keep looking. The artist almost certainly copied the painting—or maybe even a photograph. I asked Frank, but they weren’t able to lift any fingerprints, nor did they find hairs or fibers or anything that might help.”
“So, we have to locate the artist.”
“We have to locate the artist,” Jane agreed.
It wasn’t that she’d been away for any length of time, but Olivia was glad to be at the Horse Farm. Everything was in good shape, just as it always was. Stalls were clean; horses were well fed and watered. Drew told her that Sydney had even gone on a cleaning binge in the office.
The two of them knew Malachi from other visits he’d made over the past several years, and they seemed to like Abby Anderson when they met her, as well. While they waited for Jane and Dustin to return, Drew and Sydney took them by the stalls, introducing them to each of the horses, the cats prowling around and the Horse Farm dogs. By the time Jane and Dustin returned, they were ready for their ride. Olivia, of course, would be on Shiloh. Dustin would take Chapparal. Malachi would ride Zeus, the big paint—a horse he’d ridden before—and Abby, who hadn’t been on a horse all that often, would be on the palomino mare, Carina. Carina could move when needed; she was also extremely gentle.
But while Olivia rummaged around in the cupboards below the coffee machine in the office, gathering supplies, Jane told them about the rendering of the general she’d studied.
Olivia paused. “You think it was a copy of another work?” she asked.
“Yes. The general appeared to be posed—as if for a picture,” Jane said.
“I think I might know the painting, then. Of course, I haven’t seen this particular rendering. But there’s a Civil War picture of the general in the county archives. It was actually taken by Matthew Brady—according to local lore. And it’s possible, since the general had been assigned to different fields of battle during the war, although legend has it that Brady did take the picture of him somewhere in Tennessee. Both he and the general were at Chattanooga. I’m sure there are copies of the picture here and there. I only know of one, but it’s in a coffee shop near Vanderbilt University.”