The Art of Love and Murder by Brenda Whiteside Page A

little about them. My main purpose was to find out if the sketches that belonged to my mother had any value—for my daughter. In my search, I’ve learned some things about my mother, Kaya, that are interesting. For one thing, I didn’t know the brother Carol and Kaya shared had piloted the plane that crashed, killing my parents. He died, too. I was the only survivor.”
    She paused a beat to judge if she’d babbled on too long, but his eyes showed only interest in her tale.
    “There’s a great deal of animosity in that family toward my grandfather and Kaya. I guess I can understand some of it toward my grandfather. Kaya may have carried the burden of their hate because of her father. And he favored her. But then, I don’t really know all the reasons without knowing her.” Carol had her reasons to carry a grudge against Kaya, and, unreasonably, hold that grudge against her. “I’ve decided I’d like to know my mother better.”
    “That makes Kitty your cousin. Sort of.” He quirked a brow.
    “I don’t see her claiming me, do you?”
    “Small world, as they say.”
    He ran a hand through his hair, and she figured his thoughts ran to how closely she had ties with his friend, Kitty, although he gave nothing away with his expression. She suppressed a smile. It was difficult to tell if this news made him uncomfortable, but the new twist amused her.
    Laura returned with their dinners, and Lacy studied his face during the interruption. She’d have loved to ask him about his involvement with the voluptuous, pushy Kitty Katz. The woman clearly marked her territory for Lacy’s sake. The sheriff hadn’t seemed to recognize those boundaries. His dark streak didn’t tame so easy, she guessed.
    “Certainly is a small world.” She couldn’t help renewing the line of discussion once Laura moved away.
    “Getting smaller.” He took a sip of wine. “Laura, our waitress, is also your cousin.”
    “How? Is she Kitty’s daughter?”
    “No. Her jerk husband, Clark, is Kitty’s son.”
    Her mouth fell open, and she shook her head. “That cute thing is married to Clark?”
    “You’ve met him?” His glass stopped in route to his mouth.
    “Yes, and I would never have guessed he’d be married to someone like Laura.”
    “She’s cute, but,” he glanced in her direction and smiled, “she’s a little tiger, so I wouldn’t be too concerned. And I doubt that marriage will last.” He cocked his head. “How do you know Clark?”
    “I think he tried to break into my car today. Or at least tampered with it, right in front of Carol’s house.”
    “Can’t say that surprises me.”
    “Really?”
    “He’s had minor infractions of the law in the past.”
    “What a fam—” She bit her lip. His relationship with Kitty didn’t come across as all that tight, but without knowing the extent of his involvement, she should keep her opinions to herself. “What I’ve found out is that my mother is somehow tied to a sculptor named Muuyaw whose work is highly coveted in this area. I’m beginning to think—”
    “Muuyaw?” Chance’s fork stilled on his plate; his face lost some color.
    “Yes, you know the artist?”
    “I only know of her because of a case about eight years ago, when I was on the Flagstaff police force.” He pushed a piece of salmon around his plate.
    “And?” An anxious ripple tightened her stomach at his discomfort.
    “A couple of sculptures by an artist named Muuyaw were stolen.”
    “Oh, yes, I heard about that today from Justine Watts.” Lacy leaned forward. “But no details. Were you involved with the case?”
    He settled back in his chair, still pushing the same piece of salmon around his plate.
    “Two women were shot.” He swallowed, his eyes squinted.
    She stilled at the fierce glare directed in the air above her head.
    “And one died.”
    “Oh, my gosh. Did they catch the thief?”
    Chance’s nostrils flared, and he glanced around as if avoiding her interest. He pitched forward and