Page 47 of The Murder Club

Without warning, Dom appeared next to Bailey, his arm resting over her shoulders with a comforting weight.

“Bailey is no one’s muse,” he growled, proving he’d been listening to their conversation.

Ford held up his hands, taking a step backward. “Hey, that’s fine with me. I’ll get my phone back from Eric and make sure he understands my request wasn’t an invitation to spy on women. Is there anything else?”

Dom didn’t look satisfied. “How long do you intend to stay in the area?”

“As long as my creative juices are flowing.” Turning, Ford moved to the door and pulled it open. A less-than-subtle hint that the impromptu meeting was over. “Once they dry up I’ll pack my things and move on.”

Dom and Bailey exchanged a glance before they grudgingly headed out of the lodge. The door shut behind them—not a slam, but hard enough to rattle the windows.

“I don’t trust him,” Dom muttered as they climbed off the porch and headed around the corner toward the parking lot.

“Do you trust anyone in Pike?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.” Bailey glanced up at the building that loomed over them with a decaying threat. She heaved a sigh. “It’s awful.”

They didn’t speak again until they were back in the Land Rover, driving away from the secluded lodge.

“See if you can pull up any information on Ford Smithson,” Dom abruptly requested.

Bailey dug into her purse and grabbed her phone, typing Ford’s name into a search engine. Surprisingly, dozens of links popped up, along with various images of paintings that featured bleak landscapes and stormy skies.

“I think he must be famous,” she murmured, pressing one of the links. “Here’s the latest news article.” She read it out loud. “‘Ford Smithson is a modern American artist who rose to fame with his conceptual interpretation of the rural Midwest. Ford is a renowned recluse who has transformed postmodernism. His latest show will open at the Signs of the Times Art Gallery in Minneapolis on Halloween and run through the new year.’”

“Is there a picture?” Dom demanded.

Bailey scrolled through the various articles and biographies, finding nothing. She hopped over to social media, hoping for better luck.

“There are thousands of photos of his artwork but not of Ford,” she muttered in frustration. “I can’t find anything personal beyond the fact that he was born in Oregon, Illinois, in 1986.”

“He’s about the right age,” Dom grudgingly conceded.

“And he mentioned traveling to Minneapolis.”

“He still feels sketchy,” Dom insisted. “It would be easy to pass yourself off as a reclusive artist who doesn’t allow any public pictures.”

“Plus, he’s slick.”

Dom sent her a baffled glance. “Slick?”

She shrugged. “You know ...slick. Handsome and charming. And he had an answer for everything.”

Dom’s brows drew together. “You think he’s handsome?”

She rolled her eyes as he missed her point. “What I mean is that if this was a movie, he would be my first suspect.”

Dom snorted, returning his attention to the sorry excuse for a road. “If this was a movie, I would have found a clue while I was searching the room and solved the case.”

“You didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?”

He shrugged. “There was sawdust near the bookcases. I’m guessing that place is riddled with termites. But that’s it. No hidden weapons or detailed plans of mayhem and murder.”

She dropped her phone back into her purse. She didn’t have the skills to do the sort of online snooping that would reveal if the man staying at the lodge was the true Ford Smithson.

“Hopefully, Zac will run a background check on him.”

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