The Fine Art of Murder by Emily Barnes Read Free Book Online Page A

area, rubbernecks gathered. I tried to stay calm and in control, but for a few horrible moments, it was utter chaos.
    Then deafening quiet.
    Sully was down and I ran to him, shouting to the EMTs to hurry. Then I gave the order to rush the building.
    There were two casualties that day: one of the robbers . . . and my husband.
    Eventually Nathan’s survivor’s guilt rendered him useless out on the street and I put him behind a desk. The police psychiatrist ordered us both to take a month’s leave and attend weekly sessions. But we’d been around too long and had heard the same tired phrases the shrink threw at us too many times for any of it to stick. Our strength was in each other, the shared bond we had loving Sully.
    We’d go to the sessions because they were mandatory, but the real healing came when we talked one on one. We could cry together without any embarrassment, say anything without fear of being judged or having our words repeated.
    When Nathan heard about a police veteran who was looking to sell his security business and move to Florida, he didn’t think twice about retiring and buying it.
    Somehow I managed to handle my duties as chief for a few more years until realizing I could easily retire and never look back. I had Lizzie and the kids to occupy some of my time. I broke out the art supplies and took a few watercolorclasses. Sometimes I’d invite Nathan and his beautiful wife, Terry, over for dinner. Sometimes I’d go to their place. But without Sully, it all seemed so frivolous, just filler to take up time.
    Then one day another of those travel brochures arrived. But that one wasn’t for a cruise to Mexico or a helicopter tour of the Hawaiian Islands. There was an artist’s retreat in Maine. The pictures showed six cabins scattered throughout a ten-acre area. A large meeting hall was available for three meals a day as well as group discussions. I was on a plane the following week.
    Nathan and I communicated daily either by phone or e-mail, just to make sure the other was doing well. Our conversations gradually became less full of Sully and more full of the adventures we were both having in our new lives. I’d been at the retreat ten days when he called to tell me Terry had died.
    Of course, I offered to fly home immediately, but he told me to stay put. If I came back to Edina, he said, it would be like replaying Sully’s death. He needed to grieve with his family; he had to make it different this time. And so I respected his wishes. But I still called everyday just to talk him through his loss.
    After that, whenever I was in town, we’d meet. He’d ask about what I was working on and listen attentively as I described a new piece or gush over a new artist I’d recently discovered. I’d listen while he talked about the security business and the two men and two women he liked to call his crew.
    ***
    “We’re both retired, you know,” I told Nathan as he drove toward the mansion.
    “Just because we’re out to pasture doesn’t mean we can’t jump the fence every now and then.” He laughed.
    “I know that. And you know that. But your timing couldn’t be worse. I was just getting a lecture from my daughter. She was complaining that I’m always profiling and analyzing.”
    “And are you?” he asked.
    “Of course. But that’s not a bad thing . . . is it?”
    “Look who you’re asking.” When he smiled, he always reminded me of Denzel Washington. It didn’t matter that he was now sixty-four or had a few scars across his cheek and some extra pounds around the middle. He was still a ruggedly handsome man. The women at the station had been crazy for him. But back then, Nathan only had eyes for his wife.
    “So how did you find out about the murder?” I asked.
    “We have a police scanner at the office. A call came in about half an hour ago that a body was found on the second floor of the Pierce estate. The police are there now.”
    “Do you have any idea who it is?” I