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.”

His calm demeanor was aggravating, and she blurted her accusation. “You followed me and pushed me into the river.”

He froze with his cup halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“How? Why would I …? Where were you that I would have …?” He set the cup down with a clatter. “You followed my brother down to the river after dinner, didn’t you? You got him drunk, and when that didn’t get you anywhere, you decided to spy on him.”

“I had him under surveillance.”

“Surveillance. A government euphemism for a sleazy activity.”

“While I had him under surveillance, you shoved me into the river.”

“What do you want from us, Agent Saint Clare?”

“Where were you that night?”

He stood up. “I was going to give you those damn files this week.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

“I had a chance to speak with my attorney, and he advised me to give them to you.”

“Did he also advise you to try to drown me?”

“You’re crazy,” he sputtered.

“Is that your expert medical opinion, Doctor? If I were you, I’d refrain from making—”

“Get out of my house,” he interrupted.

She stood up. “Trying to kill an agent of the government is a big crime, Dr. VonHader. Big crimes get big time behind bars.”

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Don’t you think it’d be wiser to cooperate? Isn’t that what he advised you to do?”

“He didn’t know you were going to accuse me of attempted murder.” He pointed toward the front door.

“I can find my way,” she said.

He followed and pulled the door open. “Any additional communication to me, my brother, or my office staff must come through my attorney. There’ll be no more drunken dinner dates behind my back.”

She spun around and faced him. “What are you hiding, Doctor? Was Kyra Klein’s death the result of your malpractice, or were you involved more directly?”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Did you murder Kyra Klein?”

“No!”

“Does the name Zoe Cameron mean anything?”

“She’s another one of my patients.”

“I guess the police haven’t contacted you yet. That’s okay. You probably already know that she died yesterday, and that in her purse they found a bottle of meds with your name on it.”

He took a step back. “I don’t believe you.”

“What about Shelby Hammond?”

“Who? That girl in the news? No! I had nothing to do with … What are you insinuating?”

“Do you like to take baths or showers, Luke?” She ran her eyes up and down his figure. “I’d say you’re a tub man. Did I peg you right?”

His face whitened, and he stood motionless with his hand on the open door.

She decided to toss one last hand grenade at him, looking for an answer to a question that her gut told her had something to do with the case. She pointed to the room they’d just left. “What’s the story on the missing portrait? Whose picture did you take down? Who’s the black sheep?”

Dr. Luke VonHader—family man, respected psychiatrist, and winner of numerous professional and civic awards—looked ready to puke on the shoes of his departing guest. He opened the door wider and said hoarsely, “Get out.”

Bernadette walked through the door and felt the breeze against her back as it slammed behind her.

THE RAIN had stopped. Maybe she’d take the rest of Sunday off and hit it hard on Monday. Checking her watch, she figured that Garcia would be back home. She felt guilty about cutting him off when he had suggested mass. She fished out her phone and called him.

“How was church?” she asked cheerfully.

“Good,” he said. “How’d it go with the doc?”

She told him about it and her plans to pick it up on Monday with more research into the doctor’s family.

“What are you doing the rest of the day?” he asked.

“Crashing with a heating pad on my back.”

“Want me to bring over some lunch?”

“I’m not up for company, Tony. My back is really sore.”

A long silence on his end. “Take care of yourself … Check in tomorrow.”

He hung up, and she closed the phone.

Chapter 31

“WHAT’S UP?” ASKED creed.

“Jeez,” she said, slapping her hand over her heart. He hadn’t been there when she’d first walked into the office on Monday morning, and his sudden presence at his desk startled her. “Can’t you give me some warning before you pop in?”

“What kind of warning?”

“I don’t know. Beep like one of those vans backing up or something.”

“Beep, beep, beep.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, and turned on her computer.

“I have to ask. Did Alice have a crappy time in Naked Land last week? Was it helpful at all?”

“Not really. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“What about our ASAC? Did he enjoy himself?”