Shooting Gallery Read Online Free PDF Page A

only a single floating woman.”
    â€œ That’s what was stolen?” I asked, recalling the painting. “What an odd choice. I would have taken—”
    â€œExcuse us, please, Mrs. Brock,” Annette interrupted, seizing me by the elbow. “I have police business to see to, and I need to speak with Ms. Kincaid. A pleasure, as always.”
    â€œAnnie Kincaid!” Agnes Brock bellowed from the doorway as Annette and I started down the museum steps. “If that painting is returned within a fortnight, I shall ask no questions and will drop any charges against your friend. Otherwise , I shall see that he is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. And if the law fails, I have other resources at my disposal. Do you hear me ?”
    I heard her. The tourists at Fisherman’s Wharf must have heard her. Agnes had an impressive set of pipes for a woman her age.
    As Annette and I proceeded down the stairs, I thought about what Agnes’ threats might mean for Bryan. He wasn’t charged with anything, but as I knew only too well a lack of proof would not deter a Brock vendetta. Agnes had enough pull in this town to make his life miserable if she put her mind to it.
    Arriving at the bustling parking lot, I sagged against a dusty Ford sedan and looked up to see Annette’s partner joining us. Inspector Wilson was a taciturn man who reminded me of Ichabod Crane: Tall and skinny, he had a prominent Adam’s apple and no discernible personality.
    I nodded at him. He stared at me.
    â€œOkay, Annie,” Annette said, snapping open her notebook. “Let’s take this from the top, shall we?”
    I described recognizing that the corpse was not a sculpture and trying to convey that information to Anthony Brazil, who had not wanted to hear it. There wasn’t much else to tell.
    â€œDid you know the deceased?” Annette asked. “Tentatively identified as one Seamus McGraw, sculptor?”
    â€œNever met him. What do you mean, ‘tentatively identified’?” I asked. “Could it be someone else?”
    â€œUntil the coroner signs the death certificate it’s always tentative. So. Have you heard anything that might suggest why someone would want to murder McGraw?”
    â€œ Murder? I thought it was a suicide.”
    â€œPeople who hang themselves don’t chop their fingers off first,” Ichabod said self-importantly. Annette shot him a glare and he fell silent.
    â€œChop off . . . ?” I felt bile rise in my throat.
    â€œAny rumors about McGraw owing money, involved in drugs, anything like that?” Annette pressed.
    â€œNo, but I’m not exactly part of the City’s gallery crowd, so I’d be unlikely to hear anything. Ask Anthony Brazil. Can I go home now?”
    â€œNot yet,” Annette said, all business. “How closely did you observe the condition of the body?”
    â€œI could tell it wasn’t a sculpture, but I tried not to get too close. Dead bodies aren’t my strong suit.”
    â€œDid you notice that it was covered with powder?”
    I nodded.
    â€œDo you have any idea what that powder might be?”
    â€œMy guess would be stone dust, from cutting and shaping stone,” I said. “Stone sculptors are usually surrounded by the stuff, like an artistic version of the Peanuts’ Pigpen. We used to tease them about it at school.”
    â€œI thought McGraw sculpted in metal,” Annette said with a frown.
    â€œMost sculptors dabble in a number of media. I saw the manager of Marble World at the show, so I assume McGraw worked in stone as well.”
    â€œMm-hmm. Anything else about the opening seem odd or different?”
    Only that Janice Hewett had hired me to retrieve Head and Torso from its sculptor, but I decided not to share that information. If the police started poking around Pascal’s studio I might lose my seat on the one-hundred-fifty-dollar-an-hour gravy train.
    I