The Artist's Alibi

Content warning: story covers themes of crime and a presumed suicide

Most people looked at Bob’s paintings and saw peace. No one ever noticed the clues in the trees.

From where I sat at my desk in the third precinct of the Sunset Valley Police Station, my wall was starting to look more like a gallery than an office — a gallery filled with Bob Ryan’s paintings.

Around here, Bob was a minor celebrity. Everyone knew him: the calm, grandfatherly figure who taught weekend art classes at the library and spent weekdays inspiring kids at the school. His landscapes hung proudly in every diner, doctor's office, and community hall from here to the next county.

But almost no one knew anything about Bob’s life before he drifted into Sunset Valley.

He moved here in his late fifties, telling anyone who asked that he was a widower with grown children. Said he came looking for a quiet place to draw inspiration from our lavender fields, winding streams, and those sunsets that made the valley glow like a furnace.

Prior to his presence here, the worst crimes that occurred were that patrons were too intoxicated at a bar or perhaps the occasional neighborly dispute, domestic abuse calls, or traffic violations like speeding and joy riding. There were bad apples in every community and those who were notorious trouble makers, but it was nothing that the police department couldn’t handle.

Meanwhile, it wasn’t unusual to see Bob around town with his easel and painting supplies.

He'd sit on Main Street, capturing the nostalgic, worn-down buildings with meticulous detail. Other days, you’d find him perched by the pond, painting the wildlife so vividly you’d swear the ducks might waddle off the canvas. At sunset, he’d station himself near the fields, somehow bottling that impossible, burning glow as if he were trapping light itself.

His paintings quickly gained traction around Sunset Valley — praised not just for their realism, but for how they seemed to catch the soul of the town itself.

About six months after Bob settled in, though, things started to change.

It started with a morning that seemed no different from any other.

As a detective, I was always on call, but Sunset Valley was quiet enough that weekend calls were rare. That morning, I followed my usual routine: breakfast wrap, chai latte, and a newspaper at the Main Street Café.

I had just settled into my usual corner booth when chatter crackled over the police radio behind the counter. A 911 call. My ears perked up.

In Sunset Valley, a call to 911 usually meant a lost dog or a fender bender. This one, I could tell by the tightness in the dispatcher's voice, wasn’t either.

A group of kids had been fishing at the pond when they stumbled on what they first thought was a mannequin. But when they got closer, the smell hit them — rancid and unmistakably real. They panicked, ran for their parents, and the parents wasted no time calling it in.

By the time I got the chatter over the radio, a crime scene unit from our neighboring town was already en route to secure the scene. Sunset Valley’s own officers were there too, taking witness statements and keeping the curious onlookers back behind the tape.

I asked the café owner for a takeaway box, packed up my breakfast, and headed to the pond.

When I arrived, the body had already been pulled from the water and was being loaded into the van for transport to the county morgue. I caught a glimpse of the face — bloated, bruised, and yet still recognizable. Chris Dalton. He was a local — infamous for his drinking, and even more infamous for the bruises he left on his wife and kids.

I don’t wish death on anyone. But I wasn’t about to shed a tear over Chris, and if I was any judge of the town’s mood, neither would Sunset Valley.

As I stood by my car, taking in the scene, Lieutenant Benson walked over.

She looked like she’d already been through the wringer, her hair pulled back in a messy knot, her shoulders tight with the weight of it all.

She shoved her pen into her pocket, snapped her notebook shut, and leaned against the hood next to me.

For a while, we just stood there in silence, the air thick with the smell of mud and pondwater.

Finally, as if reading my mind, she exhaled and said, "Can’t say anyone’s gonna miss him."

I chuckled dryly.

"Any word from his wife?" I asked.

"Ruled her out," Benson said, brushing hair from her forehead. "She’s about half his size and seven months pregnant. No way she’d have the strength to pull this off. Her brother — now, he’s a different story. Had every reason to hate Chris, but turns out he was at the barbecue eating contest in Westford. Two hundred fifty witnesses and about a thousand photos to prove it."

"Any actual witnesses to the murder?" I asked. "Or just the discovery after the fact?"

She shook her head. "No witnesses. Whoever did this, they covered their tracks real good. Between the fishermen and the boat launches, the place is a mess — footprints everywhere, tire marks crisscrossing the dirt. No drag marks, no blood trail we can find. Nothing."

"Well," I said dryly, "whoever did this might deserve a medal from the mayor."

Benson barked out a laugh, the first sign of life I’d seen in her that morning.

We stood there a moment longer, letting the dark humor loosen the knot in our chests.

I glanced over at the crowd gathering behind the tape. Most wore faces of concern, curiosity, relief, or plain shock — the natural reactions to something like this in a town where the most exciting news was usually a bake sale.

But then there was Bob. He stood a little apart, holding his canvas and supply bag in one hand, as if he had just been on his way to paint the pond when all hell broke loose.

His face was unreadable, calm as a still lake. When our eyes met, he smiled — a small, polite thing — and I found myself smiling back out of habit more than anything else. We didn’t exchange words.

I climbed into my car and headed back to the station to start sorting through whatever evidence we had.

As I drove, my mind churned. In cases like this, we always looked at the classic triad: means, motive, and opportunity.

Plenty of people in Sunset Valley had a motive to see Chris Dalton gone. With his short temper and sharper fists, he’d made more enemies than friends — and he didn’t seem to mind. Fear was good enough for him.

The coroner’s report would confirm it soon enough, but from the bruises and contusions on his face, it looked like blunt force trauma had been the cause of death.

So that left the bigger question: Who had the opportunity to take Chris out — and get away without a single witness?

As the weeks passed, some things became clear — but just as many questions hung heavily in the air. My initial hunch was confirmed: the cause of death was blunt force trauma. We had strong reason to believe Chris had been killed elsewhere and dumped at the pond afterward. There was no water in his lungs, no sign of drowning.

Everyone who had a plausible motive — from drinking buddies to battered family members — had been interviewed and cleared. We weren’t any closer to finding out who had done it.

Frankly, Chris’s wife didn’t seem eager for justice either. She and the kids seemed relieved — free to live their lives without fear now that he was gone.

As summer faded into fall, the town’s shock wore off. The case stayed open, but the media’s interest withered away, replaced by happier headlines about the fall farmers' markets, back-to-school celebrations, and hayrides through the lavender fields. Chris Dalton’s death became just another shadow in Sunset Valley’s past. Until the Fall Festival.

That morning, while volunteers scrambled to check staging and set up booths, a bloodcurdling discovery brought everything to a halt.

The city manager — Sharon Keller — was found hanging from the main stage where the talent show was supposed to be held.

The town was teetering on the edge now, and Sharon’s death sent a fresh wave of questions rippling through Sunset Valley.

Was Sharon depressed? If she was, no one had seen it coming. Sure, money was tight for her family, but they seemed to make it work. Her husband was a hard-working man doing his best, and together they built a simple, honest life for their kids.

Even with early signs pointing to suicide, protocol demanded a crime scene unit. We needed to be certain before labeling it a tragedy rather than something worse.

As I pulled up to the town square, a strange sense of déjà vu crept over me. The caution tape, the murmuring crowd, the crime scene unit — all eerily familiar. In my ten years as a detective, we had only needed outside help twice, and both times had come just months apart.

Oddly enough, no one seemed to draw a connection between the two events. Chris had a reputation that almost made his death unsurprising, but Sharon was different — quieter, more unassuming.

As with the first case, all we knew was what we could see: Sharon had been found hanging from the frame of the stage. No one witnessed what happened, and no one would have wished this fate on her. She was simply... discovered.

For now, all we had were fingerprints from the area and a sliver of hope that some security camera somewhere had captured something useful. I made a mental note to check in with Sharon’s husband. Maybe he knew something the rest of the town didn’t — something hidden beneath the surface that could explain how we ended up here.

As I walked from the scene back to my car, I passed by Bob’s art studio, where he spent most of his time when he wasn’t at the library. He caught my eye through the window and gave a wave. On impulse, I decided to stop in and say hello — it had been a while since we last chatted.

As I opened the door, I noticed a Ring doorbell mounted beside it, the little camera blinking in the morning light.

“Good morning, Bob,” I said, aiming for casual but sounding more worn out than I intended.

“Hi there, Emerson,” he replied warmly, offering a kind smile. “What a morning…”

His voice trailed off as he studied me with quiet concern.

My shoulders sagged, and I gave a weary nod.

“Say, I noticed you have a Ring doorbell,” I said, rubbing my tired eyes. “Would you mind sending me any footage you have from the past day or so? Maybe there’s a clue about who was around.”

“Of course,” Bob said without hesitation. “Just leave me your card and I’ll email it to you.”

I pulled a business card from my purse and placed it on the counter. While I was there, I let my eyes wander across the studio walls, taking in Bob’s stunning collection of paintings. Some of the landscapes were unfamiliar — maybe scenes from previous towns he’d lived in, or imagined vistas. But others I recognized immediately: the view down Main Street, the row of pine trees from the Shivers' farm, the grazing cows from Bryan’s dairy, and the pond where Chris had been found just a few months ago.

My breath caught when I spotted the painting of the pond. The vibrant strokes captured its stillness perfectly — but my mind was pulled sharply back to the grim memory of the crime that remained unsolved. I lingered in front of the painting for a few moments, taking it all in, when something unusual caught my eye.

In the corner of the pond, right where we had found Chris, there was a shadow beneath the surface. I leaned in closer, heart skipping. It looked like a human-like shape, just barely visible, as if struggling to break free from the water.

Was it just my imagination — a trick of the brushstrokes — or was there something intentional hidden there?

Before I could examine it further, Bob’s voice broke the silence.

“Emerson?” he called, stepping out from his office where the computer sat.

I jumped, startled.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just sent over the footage you asked for.”

I let out a nervous chuckle, feeling a little ridiculous for being so jumpy.

“Thanks, Bob. I’ll head back to the office and take a look,” I said, giving him a small wave as I moved toward the door.

“I’ll see you around,” Bob replied, waving back, his easy smile lingering in the air as I stepped outside.

I stopped by the café for a coffee before heading back to my office. I needed something strong to help me focus.

Settling into a booth, I sipped the hot drink and mulled over the events of the morning. As I logged into my computer to check for Bob’s email, a sudden realization hit me:

How had Sharon managed to get herself up onto that rope?

She was only 5’2”, and the rope had been tied far higher than that. I hadn’t seen a step stool or any kind of platform at the scene that could have helped her reach it.

A chill ran down my spine.

I picked up the phone and called the medical examiner’s office, requesting that Sharon’s autopsy be expedited. Then I placed a call to Sharon’s husband, Darron, to check on him — and maybe get a better sense of what was happening behind the scenes.

When Darron answered, his voice was heavy with grief.

“Detective Stevens,” he said hoarsely. “I was wondering if I’d hear from you.”

“I just wanted to check in on you and your daughters,” I said, my heart sinking at how broken he sounded. “I didn’t know Sharon was struggling. I wish there had been something we could have done.”

There was a pause, and then Darron spoke, his voice cracking.

“You don’t know?” he whispered. “I found out Sharon was embezzling money from the city.”

I sat up straighter.

“We had our financial problems, sure,” he continued, crying openly now. “But I never thought she’d do something like that. I just thought she was working extra hours, picking up side projects to help us get by. Last night, I looked through our accounts — saw thousands of dollars we couldn’t explain. I confronted her, and… she admitted it.”

My mind raced. We had known about irregularities from a recent audit — some funds missing from the city budget — but no one had pointed the finger at Sharon. Until now.

The autopsy results came back faster than expected. As I scanned the report, my stomach turned. Sharon’s injuries weren’t consistent with a hanging — there was no damage to her spine or carotid artery. There were signs of asphyxiation, but also bruising and handprints around her neck. She had been dead before the rope ever touched her. Cause of death: strangulation.

I pulled up Bob’s Ring footage, my pulse quickening. Around 4:13 a.m., a shadowy figure crossed the street toward the square — short, hunched, familiar. Pausing the video, I zoomed in. It was Bob, carrying something heavy in both hands.

I sat back in my chair, breathing shallowly. My mind raced back to his paintings — the pond where Chris was found, a faint shape lurking beneath the surface. Then, I remembered a new painting hanging above Bob's desk just yesterday. The fall festival stage. But wasn’t there a strange shadow in the corner, eerily similar to the spot where Sharon had been hanging?

How was Bob involved? What did he know about the embezzlement, and how? I needed to return and question him again. Another question gnawed at me: If he knew about the embezzlement, why hadn’t he reported it? Why had he taken matters into his own hands? And was he somehow connected to Chris’s fate as well?

I drove back to Bob’s studio, heart pounding. When I entered, he looked up from a canvas he was working on — a peaceful street scene, the perfect mask for a man hiding in plain sight.

“Emerson! Back so soon?” His voice was too cheerful.

“I need to ask you some more questions,” I said, keeping my tone steady.

Bob’s smile faltered. He set down his brush.

“I reviewed your footage. Saw you near the stage hours before Sharon was found. And your paintings, Bob... they tell a story you shouldn’t know.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he whispered. “I just wanted her to confess. She stole from all of us. She laughed at me when I confronted her... said no one would ever believe me.”

“And Chris?” I pressed.

His gaze flicked to the painting on the wall, the weight of realization finally sinking in. He knew that I knew.

"You can finish explaining down at the station," I said quietly, pulling out my cuffs.

Bob didn’t resist as I read him his rights.

As I led him out into the crisp autumn air, the town square was already bustling. Sharon’s scene had been documented and cleared, and the festival was kicking off. The townspeople, blissfully unaware, carried on with their celebrations — while justice, heavy and tragic, was finally being served.