Blue Smoke and Murder

33

SEPTEMBER 15

11:18 A.M.

This time I’m the hard case and you’re the sympathetic one,” Zach said as they walked up to the next gallery.

“Does that mean the sweet thing actually gets to speak?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Was I stepping on your lines back there?”

“What lines?”

“That’s why I did most of the talking,” he said blandly. “You don’t know your lines.”

“Really? I thought you’d been taken over by an astonishingly polite alien.”

“Get ready for the rude alien.”

“Nothing alien about that,” she muttered under her breath.

“Aliens have excellent hearing.”

She shut up and stared at the door buzzer, the locked door, and the very visible guard. “Looks like a bank.”

“Fine art is portable and pricey, a combination that crooks can’t resist. Worthington is getting ready for the Las Vegas auction. Some really high-end canvas wealth is stashed in this gallery, waiting to be escorted to Vegas.”

“But the auction is only four days away. Why is it here?”

“The hotel probably didn’t want the insurance risk of storing the paintings until the auction. Or the individual insurers balked. I keep telling you, art is a business.”

As Zach hit the buzzer by the door, he noticed that there was a bright new sign painted on the glass.

RAMSEY WORTHINGTON, FINE ARTS

Specialist in Western Works

“He’s really making his move up,” Zach said.

“What?”

“Worthington.” Zach pointed to the sign. “He’s not emphasizing Western art in his new sign.”

“Hard to be the next Sotheby’s wearing shit-kickers and a bolo tie,” Jill said dryly.

Smiling, Zach hit the buzzer again.

“No one’s hurrying out to greet us because you don’t look like you fit in this place,” Jill said quietly.

“That’s the whole point.”

“I don’t look like I fit, either.”

“Sure you do,” he said. “West of the Rockies, a lot of very wealthy people prefer casual chic.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “I’ve never had my go-to-town jeans referred to as chic.”

“It’s the whole package, not just the clothes.” Zach looked at her and hoped his tongue wasn’t hanging out. The blouse she wore wasn’t cut low or tight, but the material clung to her breasts like a shadow. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

It had been driving him nuts.

“You have a lot of confidence, physical and mental,” he said, forcing himself to look at the gallery rather than what was beneath the silky blouse. “Subconsciously, people-especially smart salespeople-associate your kind of assurance with wealth. You set styles, you don’t follow them. You have enough money to be a maverick, remember?”

“Then what am I doing hanging out with a rough-looking dude like you?”

“The usual.”

“Which is?” she asked.

“Down-and-dirty sex.”

Jill was still choking on Zach’s answer when a young woman unlocked the door and smiled at them. The employee was a bright, cheerful blonde just past college age. She looked more like a marketing major than an art student. Her name tag said Christa Moore.

The front door guard didn’t smile. He watched Zach.

Zach approved the guard’s instincts.

“Welcome,” Ms. Moore said warmly. “How may I assist you?”

“You can’t, unless you’re Ramsey Worthington in drag,” Zach said.

Even though Jill was expecting it, she was surprised at the edge in his voice.

Ms. Moore looked over her shoulder reflexively. A door marked private stood between a striking portrait of an Apache woman and a buffalo sculpture sniffing the breeze. The buffalo was motionless, yet explosively alive.

“Did you have an appointment with anyone in particular or-” she began.

“Ramsey Worthington,” Zach cut in impatiently.

The woman blinked and automatically backed up a step or two. Jill moved into the opening, with Zach right on her heels.

The young woman made a humming sound of distress. “Oh, dear. Mr. Worthington didn’t tell anyone that he had an appointment.”

Zach shrugged and began glancing around at the gallery in the manner of someone who wasn’t impressed by her problems or her workplace.

“Please tell Mr. Worthington that I want to look at what he has in the way of fine Western art,” Jill said smoothly.

“Well, that’s just it, I’m afraid,” the woman said, turning to Jill, obviously relieved to be dealing with someone less rough-looking than Zach. “Mr. Worthington is in the midst of preparing for the auction in Las Vegas and he was very firm about not being disturbed. Why don’t I get Mr. Cahill, the manager?”

“Why don’t you get Worthington,” Zach said without looking at the woman. “We’ve got a plane standing by to take us to Telluride. If the big man is too busy to sell us his goods, we’ll find another gallery.”

“Um, well, yes, of course,” the woman said. “Excuse me while I conference with Mr. Worthington. It may take some time, especially if he is talking to one of his collectors about the upcoming auction.”

“We’ll either be here when he comes out or we won’t,” Zach said. His voice said that he didn’t care much either way.

The young woman hurried off.

Jill glanced around, taking in the guard at a console. He was dividing his attention between Zach and the five closed-circuit TVs that displayed whatever was in view of the cameras scanning every inch of the gallery.

Just as saleswoman opened the door marked private, Zach said in a carrying voice, “Tell him it’s the owner of the newly discovered Dunstan that was sent to him for an opinion.”

Moore froze, then shot through the door like a housecat with a coyote on its heels.

“At least she knew what painting you were talking about,” Jill said in a low voice.

“Yeah.”

Finally.

Now all he had to do was pray that Ramsey Worthington took the bait.