“Okay,” Aida said. “I see why Jerry Granger might be a bit put out if he caught sight of that.”

Just then we heard a heard a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it,” Aida said. “Just in case it’s not Randall.”

I flipped through a few more pages in the sketchbook. Several more flattering sketches of Felicia. A distinctly unflattering but highly recognizable one of Jerry Granger. Until I saw Clay’s sketch, I hadn’t quite realized how large Jerry’s jaw was, or how Neanderthal it made him look.

On the next page was a sketch of Ivy. Ivy in the show house, hunched over in a corner of the hallway with a paintbrush in her hand, peering at the wall she was painting. He’d exaggerated the height of the walls looming over her, so she looked more like a mouse than a human. But unlike the one of Jerry, this sketch didn’t feel unkind or mocking. More … bemused.

I kept turning the pages. Apparently this was a very recent sketchbook—all the denizens of the show house were there. I could tell he didn’t like Mother—he’d sketched her looking at Ivy’s Snow Queen mural, and made the Snow Queen look the warmer of the two. He didn’t like Eustace either, but about the only unflattering thing he did was exaggerate Eustace’s neat little paunch into a huge Santa-like belly.

He had a wicked take on Linda, showing her in her room, not only surrounded by chintz but even dressed in it, and when you looked at her feet you saw that she was gradually being sucked in, as if the chintz were quicksand and she its unwary prey. And of course he’d turned Vermillion into a stereotypical vampy figure reminiscent of Morticia Addams, which showed he hadn’t looked too closely at her.

I was surprised that the sketches he’d done of me were pretty accurate and made me look reasonably good. Violet and Sarah came off pretty well, too. And he had a sketch of Martha that was downright flattering. Flattering and noticeably younger than she was.

One sketch stopped me cold—a sketch of Clay himself. He’d been a handsome man. Not my type—too brooding and saturnine. But handsome. Probably a real heartbreaker when he was in his twenties, back in his New York art world days. Funny that I couldn’t remember noticing his good looks when I’d first met him, probably because he’d barged into the middle of a conversation I’d been having with Sarah, intent on bullying me into something or other, and after that it was all downhill. Looking at his sketch made me sad. It was accurate enough, but somehow not the least bit flattering. I hadn’t liked Clay, but I felt sorry for the man who’d drawn himself with such mockery, self-loathing, and pitiless honesty.

I couldn’t understand why anyone with Clay’s talent would give up his art. And I couldn’t decide who to be angrier with: Clay, for doing so, or the killer who’d removed any hope that he’d ever change his mind.

The sketch of Clay was the last one in the book. No, wait—I flipped past several blank pages and came across another one.

Martha. But not the flattering version that had appeared earlier in the sketchbook. This one was a nude that showed every blemish, bulge, and bit of sagging skin with cruel precision. And her face didn’t have the pleasant, almost dreamy look of the first sketch but a look of utter fury, as if he’d imagined how she’d react if he showed her the sketch. Imagined, or maybe seen?

And the pose—wasn’t it curiously similar to the one in the unfinished painting in the attic? I pulled out my phone to check. No, not just similar. Exactly the same pose. Only with fifteen or twenty years added—that, and a whole lot of anger.

“Meg?” Aida called. “You coming?”

“On my way.”

If this were my sketchbook, I’d have torn out that last drawing. No one deserved to see that kind of hateful picture of herself. But it wasn’t mine, so I tucked the sketchbook into my tote. If anyone challenged me on it, I could say that I was keeping my options open in case one of the paintings proved too big for its space. My permission form from the brother did say as much artwork as I needed, not just paintings. And in the meantime I could glance through it and learn more about Clay. And of course, I could always take it to the chief if I thought any of the sketches had any relevance to the murder case.

Out in the foyer, Randall was standing with his arms crossed, staring at the paintings.

“Someone wasn’t taking his Prozac.” He shook his head as if throwing off a baneful influence. “I brought some furniture pads to wrap them in.”

Randall and I hauled the paintings back to the show house, and he helped me hang them.

“Looks good,” Randall said. “Not that I like the paintings all that much, but they look better here in this room. The red walls sort of keep them from being such a downer.”

“They’re still a downer.”

Martha was standing in the doorway, glaring at us. She stepped into the room and did a quick survey. Was I only imagining it or did she relax just a little when she’d seen all three paintings. Did she know about the unfinished painting that was probably of her?

“Why’d you pick these paintings, anyway?” she asked.

“I didn’t exactly pick them,” I said. “These three were the only ones he had.” At least the only paintings that were complete, and framed. It wasn’t such a big lie.

“Seriously?” Martha asked.

I nodded.

“Damn,” she said. “I wonder what happened to the rest of them. He was prolific, once upon a time.” She made “prolific” sound like a put-down.

“Maybe he sold them all,” I suggested.

“No.” She shook her head. “Not a lot of his work is out in the market. Whoever owns these will make a mint on them, now that he’s dead.”

“His brother will be happy to hear that,” I said. “It seems he’s inherited these.”

“There could be others out there,” Martha said. “The chief should look into that. Follow the money. See if someone, like his dealer, has a stash of them ready to put on the market.”

“I thought Clay murdered his dealer,” I said.

She looked startled at that. Was she surprised that I knew? Or just surprised at my bluntness?

“True,” she said. “No use trying to contact his original dealer. But he could have gotten another one.”

“Unless he gave up painting entirely,” I suggested.

“Maybe he did.” She was staring at the cityscape now. “What a waste. All that talent gone.”

She didn’t look as if she were sad over the waste. She looked as if she couldn’t decide whether to feel envious of the talent or triumphant that its owner was dead.

“He was very talented,” I said.

“Yeah,” Martha said. “Always thought he was a cut above everyone else because he was an artist. And look at him now. He’s dead, and the used-car salesman gets his precious paintings.”

She said it with such venom that I was speechless.

“Well, life goes on,” she said after a few moments. “And my rooms aren’t going to finish themselves.”

She left.

“If you ask me,” Randall said, “she’s lucky her alibi checks out.”

“You’re sure it does?” I asked.

“The chief seems pretty focused on the Grangers right now,” Randall said. “And he’s checking out the possibility that the killer was someone blackmailing Clay over his prison history.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said.

“Does to me,” Randall said. “I’m not sure how all those rich clients of Clay’s would feel if they found out they were hiring an ex-con. And a convicted murderer, no less.”

“Yeah, but why would the blackmailer kill Clay?” I asked. “Clay killing the blackmailer, maybe. But why would the blackmailer kill the goose that’s laying golden eggs?”

“Clay had a temper,” Randall said. “Maybe they quarreled, and the blackmailer killed him in self-defense.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, not our problem. I hereby declare this room finished. And in the nick of time.”

“Today’s not the nick of time,” he said. “That would be tomorrow morning, when the photographer rings the doorbell.”