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"Well, you're not her."
"I'm her daughter. Arthur was my stepfather."
"He said you didn't like him much."
She ignored that. "You can talk to me, or you can talk to the FBI. I know what I would pick if I were you."
"Fine. You can come in."
As Layana unlocked her studio door, Callie had the sudden thought that going inside with this crazy woman might not be the smartest idea, but she'd come this far, and she didn't want to leave without knowing what was between Arthur and Layana.
The studio was beautiful, with Layana's portraits covering most of the wall space. In the back, she could see the workshop with easels and paints, but for now Layana seemed content to move behind the counter where she had her computer and phone.
Callie was fine with that. She was near the door. Escape was not that far away, if she needed it. But she wasn't really afraid of this woman hurting her. She was more afraid of what the truth would do to her mother.
"You were having an affair with Arthur," she said, not bothering to make it a question. "How did it start?"
"Arthur and I fell in love while I was painting his portrait. We didn't mean for it to happen, but it did."
"How long has it been going on?"
"Three months. He was going to leave your mother. He said he needed to be with an artist, someone creative, bold, rebellious and beautiful." Layana's hand shook as she sipped her coffee. "But now he's dead and that won't happen. Your mother got her revenge." She drew in a ragged breath. "It's my fault. I taunted her. I wanted her to leave him, not kill him. But he'd always said she'd lose it if she found out, and that he had to be careful what he said and when he said it. He didn't trust what she would do. I thought he was just making excuses. And I was angry."
"So you sent her the email. But she didn't open it. It was unread in her inbox."
Layana stared back at her. "She must have opened it. Because Arthur is dead. And he was really upset on Wednesday night, hours after I sent the email. He was supposed to see me when he got back from Palm Springs, but he called off our date. I think Juliette showed him my message. He said we had to talk, but it would have to wait until the weekend. Only the weekend never came." Layana's lips trembled as she struggled for composure. "Juliette pushed him over the railing. She punished him."
"She didn't do that, Layana."
"Are you sure? Were you with her when he died?"
"No, but I know her. She's not a killer."
"People I've talked to don't seem as sure."
"Who would those people be?"
"Art people. Rumors are flying. Don't you know that?"
"Those rumors aren't true."
"I don't think you're as sure as you're pretending to be," Layana said. "Where is your mother now? Why didn't she come here to confront me?"
"Because she's grief-stricken; she just lost her husband," Callie reminded her. "She loved him, Layana. Maybe he fell out of love with her, but her feelings didn't change." Pausing, she added, "My mother hired you to paint Arthur's portrait. Did you not ever have one moment of guilt, one second where you thought you were wrong to go after someone else's husband?"
"I loved him so much. I couldn't think. I couldn't see her. All I could see was him. We were soul mates. We would talk for hours. It wasn't just sex. We were like two parts of the same person. It was a great love story, the kind people paint."
She almost felt sorry for Layana, because she doubted Arthur had loved her the way she'd loved him. But then her compassion faded when she remembered the threatening message Layana had sent to her mother. "If you think trying to pin Arthur's murder on my mother is a good idea, you should keep thinking. Because she didn't do it. Which means someone else did. If you want that person to pay, then you need to start considering who else might have wanted him dead."
"No one wanted that. Everyone loved him."
"Was Arthur buying stolen art?"
Layana's gaze sharpened. "Why would you ask me that?"
"Because apparently you knew him really well, so tell me—was he purchasing art that had been stolen?"
"No. Arthur loved art. He spoke of how a certain brushstroke could sweep him away. I can't imagine that he would buy something that had been stolen. He had too much respect for art. We had that in common." Layana dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. "He was such a good man."