Fifteen miles later, Jo slowed to a walk and her surroundings began to come into focus once again. The woman on the treadmill to her right caught Jo’s eye and gave her a wave. To her left, a petite brunette was running at an impressive pace. Something about the woman’s posture made Jo do a double take. The large silver headphones she wore made it hard to identify her by her profile, but Jo could see enough of her face to be intrigued.
She hung out by the free weights until the treadmill stopped. When the woman stepped off, Jo headed her way. Seen from the front, the woman’s delicate features were unmistakable.
“Claude?” Jo asked.
The woman lifted a finger and pulled off her headphones.
“I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Jo Levison. We met at Jackson Dunn’s Memorial Day party.”
“Of course I remember you!” Claude’s smile grew as she used a towel to dab at the sweat dampening her hairline. “You’re one of Leonard’s whale-watching buddies. Your name is Jo and your friend is Harriett.”
“That’s right,” Jo said. “And this is my gym. I haven’t seen you here before. When did you become a member?”
“This is your gym? How amazing! I just joined this afternoon,” Claude replied. “I don’t usually run indoors, but, as I’m sure you’ve heard, we’ve been having some problems out on the Pointe that have made outside exercise a bit challenging.”
“I haven’t heard anything,” Jo told her. “What’s going on out there?”
“An invasive species of weed sprang up on the Dunn property and spread around the entire neighborhood. The flowers smell delicious and they’re really quite pretty. The only problem is, they’ve attracted a rather large swarm of bees.”
“Bees?” Jo barely got the word out.
“Yes. By the thousands, I’m afraid. Leonard won’t do anything to harm them. I think he loves bees almost as much as he loves whales. I’ve got the best bee wranglers on the East Coast out on the Pointe trying to round them all up. But between the bees and the clouds of pollen, the plants have made outdoor exercise impractical for the last few days. So wait—does this mean you don’t know about Jackson?”
Jo felt her stomach drop. She’d had a hunch where the story was heading the moment she heard the word bees. “No, what happened?”
“He’s in intensive care in the city. Apparently, he was up on his roof deck yesterday when he was attacked by a swarm. He’s deathly allergic, unfortunately. They’re not sure he’ll make it.”
“Oh my God.” When Harriett had tossed seeds off the roof of Jackson Dunn’s home, she’d known exactly what she was doing. It hadn’t been a prank. It was attempted murder.
“Between Jackson, the bees, and Rosamund Harding, this has been a difficult summer. I imagine you heard the tragic news about Rosamund?”
“I did. She was a client of mine.”
“I remember,” Claude said. “You spoke to her husband at the party. You and your friend seemed convinced that Rosamund wasn’t safe with him. I think you were right, and I wish I’d done more to help her.” Claude was hinting at something and Jo eagerly took the bait.
“What makes you think we were right?”
“Leonard can’t stand Spencer. He’s heard through the grapevine that Spencer launders money for some pretty bad men. Drug lords, dictators, oligarchs—you know the type.”
“What? I thought Spencer Harding was an art dealer.”
Claude sighed. “I was an art history major in college. I even managed my dad’s collection for a while. I thought rich people bought paintings because they love great art. Maybe some do. But for many, the art world is a racket. Let’s say you’re looking to sell a ton of heroin or a bunch of illegal weapons. How are you going to get paid? You can’t take cash and put it in a bank. The authorities would want to know where the money came from. So instead you buy an expensive work of art and then sell it to an anonymous buyer for an enormous profit. Now all that money can go right into your pocket, and no one looks at you funny. Leonard says deals like that are how Spencer got so rich so fast. Rumor has it, he also shares some unsavory habits with his clients.”