Read Online The Stargazey by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online Page A

stopped him. He shrugged.
    He could not tell from her face whether there was recognition or not; her apparent desire for drama made her hold the picture a few secondstoo long for someone who was looking at a perfect stranger. Something slick in the expression, practiced and artful, avoided committing her to one line or another of response. Finally, she shook her head.
    Olivia asked to see the photo again and, when she had it, said, “She was extremely pretty.” She looked up at Jury, as if to see whether he shared her sadness over the waste of this pretty woman.
    He did, or thought he did. Whoever was responsible for Pansy’s self-centeredness, it wasn’t her aunt. Olivia, he thought, would be generous with her solicitude and her sympathy. And whatever else she was, she was genuinely trying to help. “I wonder if Nick or Ralph—?”
    â€œ Rafe, ” said Pansy, coolly. She was studying her nails. “It’s Rafe, not Ralph.”
    Jury was a little surprised that when she finally contributed something, it was a banal something, since she had been putting so much effort into the appearance of sophistication.
    Olivia smiled at this upbraiding. “Oh, that’s always seemed a bit affected to me.”
    â€œThat’s how he prefers it, Aunt Olivia. It’s his name, after all.” She told Jury that Rafe was a painter and was having a show at the Fabricant Gallery. “It’s very experimental, his work, isn’t it, Daddy?” Her pronunciation of the name was precise to the point of edginess.
    â€œVery. You should visit the gallery, Superintendent. Rafe’s done some terrific stuff. Abstract, minimalist. Do you like that sort?” Seb’s smile was condescending.
    â€œI’m still trying to figure out the Impressionists.” Jury’s smile was genuine.
    Pansy, sensing she had lost control of the room, was walking about it now, trying various venues at which to come to rest: the fireplace, the long windows that faced the street, a satinwood inlaid side chair beneath an interesting still life of a musical instrument Jury couldn’t name.
    â€œNick and Ralph, excuse me”—Olivia gave the name the preferred pronunciation—“went over to this shop in the Brompton Road to collect the money. The shop keeps thirty percent. That seems only right, since they’ve got the work of selling the clothes.”
    â€œNick’s going there—that won’t tell you anything, Libby,” said Seb unhelpfully, as he rattled the melted-down ice cubes in his glass.
    â€œWe don’t know what will or won’t help,” said Olivia tartly. “I expect if the police only investigated what they were sure of, fewer murders would be solved.”
    â€œFewer are,” said Seb, good-naturedly enough.
    Jury was about to laugh as they turned towards the sound of the tires of another car pulling up on the gravel. (Three cars, at least, for the Fabricant family.) A door slammed, then another. Voices, laughter.
    â€œIt must be Nick and Ilona,” said Olivia.
    The French doors opened again, and the man whom Jury presumed to be Sebastian’s brother—or half brother, he supposed—stepped into the living room.
    â€œHere’s the other half of the gallery,” said Sebastian. “Nicholas is the social side; me, I’m the business side, the buying end.” This seemed to put brother Nicholas on a decidedly lower plane, but that was probably where Seb thought he belonged.
    Pansy, who had been moving about, came to rest beside Nick; she lifted his arm and draped it over her shoulder possessively. He gave the shoulder a little squeeze.
    Nicholas Fabricant was younger than Sebastian, by some ten years, and handsomer. His face had the straight classic lines one finds on old coins. His streaked blond hair was cut short at the sides but long on top, and straight, so that it had a way of falling charmingly across his