“Ms. Benedict, we’re from Walton and would like to ask you a few questions about a case we’re investigating.”

“An investigation?”

A bell jingled and two young women entered, causing Frost’s posture to straighten. A flash of something Charlie couldn’t identify passed over Ms. Benedict’s face.

“We need help identifying an artist.” Charlie pulled out his phone. He’d taken a screenshot of the Facebook page. “These paintings in”—he held up the phone—“this picture were taken outside your gallery.”

Ms. Benedict pulled on the bright red glasses dangling from her neck and studied the pictures on the phone. “And why do you need to know who the artist is?”

“Like I said, ma’am, it’s part of an investigation.”

Frost’s gaze followed the two girls wandering through the gallery. One had hot pink hair and a nose ring. The other carried a large black tube slung across her back and wore a shirt with the initials SCAD on the front. They didn’t look much older than Sydney. Would they have known her?

“I wish I could help you, but unless I have permission from the artist I’m not at liberty to tell you who they are,” Ms. Benedict answered, removing her glasses.

“Why not?” Charlie lifted one eyebrow.

A thin laugh pushed through equally thin lips. “Some artists want to be known. Others wish to live in obscurity, allowing their art to have the spotlight.”

“I don’t think this artist is going to be worried about the spotlight anymore.” Charlie locked eyes with the dismissive owner. “We believe this artist was murdered.”

“What?” Ms. Benedict clapped her hand over her mouth. “Killed? How terrible.”

“So, you know the artist?”

“I do.” She nodded.

“Can you confirm the name of the artist?”

“Sydney. Sydney Donovan.” She clutched her throat. “I . . . I really just can’t believe it.”

“How long have you known Sydney?” Charlie pulled out his notebook and pen.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I really knew her. I know her art, of course, but I didn’t have much contact with her.”

“And you’re sure these are her paintings?”

“Yes. Follow me.” Ms. Benedict turned on her heel and walked to the back of the gallery. She stopped in front of a display with varying sizes of painted art pieces. “This”—she pointed to a medium-size picture off to one side—“is one of Sydney’s pieces.”

Deep reds faded up into lighter shades. The piece was named Burning Dawn.

Frost pushed up his glasses and leaned close to the painting. Then he pulled back, removed his glasses, and looked again. “There’s no signature.”

“Not all artists sign their names in the way we expect.” Ms. Benedict stepped forward and drew a line with her finger along a bright red stroke. “If you look closely, you can see her signature.”