"Maggie's daughter. That's her cell number," Jesse said flatly.

"Why would he call Maggie's daughter? You don't think that's odd?"

He shook his head. "Not really. She's his cousin. He's Maggie's nephew." Jesse put the list back in its folder and looked at me for a long time. "Assuming this is Marc's money and assuming that someone knew about it and was after it, that's good news for you. It pretty much leaves your fiance off the hook."

With all the fun I was having being a junior detective, I'd forgotten the whole reason I wanted to find Marc's killer. I nodded but didn't say anything.

Jesse leaned over and put the blue box of invitations on his desk. "So you can mail these out. You left them here."

I touched the box lightly. "I will," I said. "I just have somewhere I have to go first."

"Where?" Jesse asked as I walked out of his office empty-handed.

CHAPTER 49

Maggie answered the door before I had a chance to ring. "There's coffee in the kitchen," she said.

Maggie's home was large and traditional, with classic quilts hanging on many of the walls from the living room to the kitchen. Some were muted, others bright and playful. It was the sort of contradiction that mirrored Maggie's personality exactly.

"My blue period," Maggie said as we noticed two blue and white quilts hanging side by side above the kitchen table. "So you want to find out why Marc called my Sheila."

"Yes." I always felt intimidated in her presence. "I was also curious why you didn't mention Marc was your nephew."

"He was my husband's nephew actually," she said gruffly. "I don't like to take credit for how that boy turned out."

"Still," I said, "you made it clear you didn't think much of him and you never said…"

"Didn't see much of him." She poured more coffee into my almost full cup. "He ingratiated himself to my daughter, though, and she has more tolerance for his kind."

"What kind?"

"Well, she has that art gallery of hers in New York…"

"So, she has a tolerance for artists." I was confused and a little annoyed, and I knew both were showing.

Maggie leaned in. "I have no issue with artists, young lady. Sometimes creative people live a little outside the lines, but it's necessary. It's good. You have to take a step back from accepted society if you are going to comment on it." Beneath the print dress and tight bun was a bohemian. Who knew?

"So what kind was Marc?"

"A petty con. A drifter. He had no direction. He was always looking for the easy way. If he spent his days building furniture, like he always said he wanted to, I would have respected that boy. I would have encouraged him. But he spent his days talking about building furniture. And there is a difference."

I nodded. You can't argue with that. Not that I would have argued with Maggie. I doubt anyone would have.

"I'd love to see her gallery sometime," I said. "I think I told you, I've always wanted to be an artist, or at least be around art. Maybe your daughter can give me some guidance."

Maggie got up from the table and rummaged around in a drawer. She handed me a card. "This is her business," she said, and then she smiled at me. "I'm proud of you for moving forward like this. It's important to go after your dreams."

The gallery was a long, narrow space on Manhattan's west side. It had only twenty or so objects in it, but everything looked ridiculously expensive. A woman who could have been a supermodel in a previous life walked over to me and glanced up and down. Though her facial expression never changed from an insincere smile, it was clear what she was thinking-I did not belong in such a fine place.

"Sheila?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'm a friend of your mom's. A friend of Marc's."

Suddenly the look of bored superiority melted away and an actual smile took its place. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize. How are you?"

"Can we talk somewhere?" I said as I nodded toward the single customer looking at a painting near the front.

"Are you looking into what happened to Marc?"

"Yes," I said, "in an unofficial kind of way." She nodded, as if she suddenly figured something out. Then she looked me over. It took me a moment, but I realized what she was thinking. "I wasn't a girlfriend," I explained. "More of a friend." I was digging a hole for myself, so I stopped talking and let her take the lead.

Sheila motioned me toward the cash register and away from the customer at the front. "Marc called me a few times, including the day he died," she said. "I couldn't believe it when Mom called. She was so upset."

"She was upset?" I repeated. "I got the impression she didn't like Marc."

"She didn't. She liked him as a kid, he was really fun and creative, but he… I don't know, he didn't live up to expectations, I guess." She stared off for a moment. "Still, she was crying when she called. And my mother doesn't cry often."

"I can imagine."

"Why did Marc call you?"

Sheila shook her head. "He said he was going to make boxes. Carved boxes. And he wanted to know if I would sell them in my shop."

"Would you have?" I asked. Looking around, the gallery had a fairly eclectic mix of objects. It was more of a fine craft than traditional art gallery. There were ceramic bowls and blown glass pieces as well as paintings, sculptures and textiles.

"Sure," she said. "Marc was actually very talented. Not disciplined, but talented. He said he had a little money and he was going to use it to start his furniture business. But he was going to start small-with the boxes. If that went well, he'd make bigger pieces. He was quite excited about it."

"But you must have thought that was just talk," I said.

"I suppose I should have, given Marc's track record." Sheila smiled. "But he said he had been inspired by someone to turn over a new leaf, and I believed him. He'd even picked out a display area for the boxes." She pointed to the center of the room. "I'd asked him to make me five, and we would see what happened."

The display case was filled with glass vases that had the texture of sand, as if they were unearthed from some archeological site. But a tag on the table explained that the pieces had been made by an artist in New Jersey. I could picture Marc's boxes sitting there instead, even though I really had no idea what they would have looked like. Still, it was nice to think of Marc as happy, excited, focused-the man I knew-instead of the person I'd been hearing about for days. And strange to think I might have been the inspiration.

The customer at the front of the shop waved toward Sheila. "Excuse me," Sheila said. "I hope you find what happened to Marc. He really was a wonderful guy in so many ways."

I took one more look around the little shop. It was pretty. A place for up-and-coming artists to show their work. But it was something at the back of the shop that caught my eye. The quilts were small, but even from a distance they looked quite beautiful and remarkably familiar.

I should have left, but I walked to the back wall of the gallery. Three two-foot square quilts hung on the wall, each with tiny appliqued flowers, machine embroidered details, and intricate quilting.

"They're Nancy's," I accidentally said out loud. "They have to be."