Faking It

Chapter 10

THREE BLOCKS AWAY, Clea went into her bedroom to get her purse for an early brunch with Mason and saw Ronald standing over the unconscious body of Thomas the Caterer.

“What are you doing here?” she said to him, closing the door behind her. “And what did you do to Thomas?”

“He was in your closet,” Ronald said virtuously. “I caught him stealing.”

Clea forced herself not to frown. Then she forced herself not to beat Ronald senseless with her Gucci bag. “Ronald, you caught him cleaning. He’s the new hired help.”

“Oh.” Ronald looked down at him. “Well, I just tapped him a little.”

“With what? A tire iron?” Clea tilted her head to look at Thomas. He was breathing okay and he didn’t look unnaturally white or red even though he had a red mark and a bad bruise on his forehead. “Why’d you hit him twice?”

“I didn’t,” Ronald said. “The first bruise was already there.”

Clea straightened. “Well, now what are you going to do with him?”

“I’ll get rid of him,” Ronald said. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“You will not get rid of him, I need him to make dinner tonight.” Clea shook her head at his general callousness and stepped over Thomas to get to her dressing table. “What are you doing here, anyway?” she said, as she sat down to check her face.

“I had to see you.” He beamed at her as he sat beside her on the vanity bench. “Darling, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said automatically. “How did you get in?”

“The back door was unlocked.” Ronald put his arm around her. “I had to see you. I had to make sure you were all right. I’m taking care of you.”

“Yeah,” Clea said, disentangling herself from him. “You knocked out my help before he could do my laundry, and you sent me a hired killer. Thanks a bunch.”

Ronald looked wounded. “I thought you wanted a hired…” He made vague motions with his hand.

“No,” Clea said patiently. “I wanted you to send one to Davy. Direct trip.”

“I wanted you to know I’d come through for you,” Ronald protested. “I paid him, you know. All you had to do was tell him what to do.”

“That’s true,” Clea said, “that was nice of you to pay him. Thank you, Ronald.”

Ronald relaxed.

“But next time just do it,” Clea said. “He was a very scary man, Ronald.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ronald said. “I talked to him on the phone and wired him the money.”

Clea looked at him, exasperated. “So for all you knew, you were sending me some crazed serial killer.”

Ronald blinked back at her. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

Where do I find these guys? Clea thought. Do I have some kind of homing device that draws them to me?

“I thought we could go out and celebrate,” Ronald said, moving closer. “Or stay in.”

Clea shifted away. “Not a good time, Ronald. Maybe next week.” She stood up. “Now really, you have to get out of here.” She looked back at the body on the floor. “And do something about Thomas before-”

“Is that one of the paintings you bought?” Ronald said.

She turned and saw the Scarlet Hodge leaning against the wall, back from being framed. “Yes. That’s part of the collection.”

“I like it,” Ronald said. “You have very good taste.”

Clea looked at it doubtfully. It looked sort of amateurish to her, and it had a lot of colors. And she already knew how bad Ronald was at valuing art, the dummy.

“The artist has a very distinct style,” Ronald went on. “What did you pay for it?”

“A thousand,” Clea said, still bitter about that even though she hadn’t actually written the Goodnights a check yet. “And she can’t have been very good. She only painted six of them before she died.”

“She’s dead?” Ronald whistled. “That really increases the value. You’ll probably make a nice profit on it. We should take it down to Miami where there’s real money.” He stood up and put his arm around Clea’s shoulders. “You really have an eye, honey. Too bad you couldn’t get all six.”

Clea looked up to tell him not to call her honey, and he kissed her. It was an okay kiss, better than some, worse than others, but his timing was terrible. Still, she let him finish. After all, he was paying Ford. And he’d promised to check up on Gwen.

“So,” she said when he was done. “Did you find out anything about Gwen Goodnight?”

Ronald blinked, looking a little taken aback, and then he said, “Well, she’s broke. The place is mortgaged to the hilt.”

“How is that going to help me?” Clea moved away from his arms.

“Help you what?” Ronald said.

“Get me something better,” Clea said. “Find out that she was a hooker or killed her husband or something. Get me something that will bring her down and that gallery with her.”

“I don’t think she’s that kind of woman,” Ronald said doubtfully.

Clea stepped close again and looked up at him, and he swallowed.

“Every woman has secrets, Ronald,” she said softly. “Find out Gwen Goodnight’s and I’ll show you some of mine.”

“Okay,” Ronald said faintly.

Mason knocked on the door and said, “Clea?” and Clea thought, Honestly, and shoved Ronald toward the closet.

“Get in there,” she said. “To the back. And to the right, the far right, in case he opens the door. And do not make a sound.”

“But-” Ronald began and then saw her face. He nodded and backed into the closet, and Clea closed the door on him. She remembered the painting and opened the door again to shove it in after him. It was supposed to be a surprise, given to Mason on his birthday with cake and wine and sex in return for a nice ten-carat engagement ring. It was too soon to let him see it. Rushing a man was always a mistake.

Then she turned and almost fell over Thomas.

Honest to God. Well, Mason just couldn’t come in her bedroom. She grabbed her jacket, stepped over Thomas, and eased herself through the door so Mason couldn’t see inside.

“You ready to go?” he said.

“Absolutely,” Clea said, cheerful and supportive.

She looked at Mason from the corner of her eye as they went down the stairs. She could tell him Gwen Goodnight was broke and the gallery was in hock, but would that put him off Gwen or make him decide to rescue her?

“You look lovely,” Mason said, smiling at her.

He’d rescue her. Ronald was going to have to dig deeper.

“Thank you,” Clea said and kissed him on the cheek.

And she was going to have to try harder. “Too bad you didn’t get all six,” Ronald had said. That meant Mason would like all six. It would be a fabulous birthday gift. Well, how hard could that be? She could put an ad in the paper, see if anybody had one of the dumb things in an attic.

“I have an appointment after brunch,” Mason said as he opened the door to his Mercedes for her. “But this evening, the museum is having an opening. I thought we’d go.”

“I love it there,” Clea said, and thought, Oh, hell, more paintings. When Mason died, her next husband was going to be in something bearable, like fashion. She saw herself in the front row at all the runway shows and smiled.

“You really do, don’t you?” Mason patted her hand. “I had no idea.”

“Oh, there’s a lot about me you don’t know,” Clea said, and sat back in his Mercedes to plan.

TILDA SEEMED more cautious than usual with Davy when she came downstairs after lunch, and he thought it might have been the hair and the clothes: she was a redhead with dark eyes wearing a blue jacket that looked very businesslike and remote. To cheer her up, he found Shelby Lynne on the radio.

“Terrible jacket,” he told her when she was in the car.

“Gwennie’s,” she told him, keeping her eyes on the radio. “She interviewed for a job once.”

“Once?” Davy said.

“Not her thing,” Tilda said. “Any instructions?”

“Same as yesterday,” Davy said, trying not to stare at her eyes. Funny what a difference dark contacts could make. “I miss your eyes,” he said, and she looked over at him, startled, and then she smiled, that great crooked Kewpie-doll smile, and he thought, Good, I got her back.

“You can see them again when we get the mermaids,” she said, relaxing a little into the car seat.

“Mermaids,” Davy said and put the car in gear. “Can’t wait.”

The Olafsons lived in a neat little foursquare, surrounded by a neat patch of lawn that was rimmed with even neater strips of concrete. A single row of petunias edged the walk, each spaced precisely six inches apart. The only thing that jarred, aside from the whole anal-retentive landscape, was a tire leaning up against the trim white garage.

“Somebody who lives here likes order,” Davy said. “And somebody else does not.”

“Okay,” Tilda said.

“Pray I get the one who doesn’t,” Davy said, putting on his horn-rims, “and that the one who does is out.”

“Praying.” Tilda nodded. “I’m on it. I was wondering what happened to those glasses.”

“This time I’m Steve Olson,” Davy told her. “You’re definitely my wife. With any luck, I can do this without you, but if not…”

“I’ll come up and weed the petunias,” Tilda said.

“Do you remember-”

“Betty’s the ditz, Veronica’s the bitch, and Vilma’s the slut.”

“Actually, I’m quite fond of all of you,” Davy said, and patted her knee.

When Mrs. Olafson opened the door, she was five feet nine and heavy, frowning at him, and Davy thought, Too much to hope for that I wouldn’t get the bully, and smiled at her. “Hi,” he said. “I’m…”

“Are you here for the tire?” Mrs. Olafson said, her voice a little weak. “Because I really need to have that moved before my husband gets home.”

“Oh,” Davy said, kicking himself for jumping to a stupid conclusion. “No, I’m not, but if you’d like, I can take it away with me. I’ve got room in my trunk.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Mrs. Olafson said, her frown clearing. “He was upset about that. He likes things neat.”

“Oh,” Davy said. “I know how that is. My wife…” He shook his head. “Some days I want to track mud across the linoleum for the sheer heck of it.”

Mrs. Olafson drew in her breath and then smiled, and Davy thought, Bingo.

“I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “My wife’s aunt is coming into town for her sixtieth birthday, and my wife wants to buy her a painting that she saw here once.”

“Here?” Mrs. Olafson lost what little smile she had. “I don’t-”

“She came with a friend several years ago,” Davy said. “She saw a painting of mermaids-”

“Oh,” Mrs. Olafson said, and pressed her lips together. “That’s my husband’s painting.”

Fuck, Davy thought. “My wife really wants that painting, Mrs. Olafson. Do you think your husband would sell it for two hundred dollars?”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Olafson said, resentment clear in her voice. “He seems to like it.”

Davy put his hands behind his back. “Oh, boy. I’m going to catch heck for this one.”

Behind him, Tilda closed the car door and came up the steps, and Mrs. Olafson frowned again.

“Now, Veronica.” Davy turned to Tilda and watched her face contort with rage.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Tilda said, slapping her bag against his arm. “Aunt Gwen is going be at the airport waiting for us, and you know how I hate to be late.”

Davy rubbed his arm. “Yes, I know but-”

“I should have known better than to send you up here,” Tilda fumed. She turned to Mrs. Olafson. “Look, I’m sorry about this, my husband never does anything right. We’ll pay you a hundred dollars for the painting. Cash.” She smiled, looking very self-satisfied, and Mrs. Olafson shifted closer to Davy.

That’s my girl, Davy thought, but he said, “Well, actually, honey,” and moved closer to Mrs. Olafson as he ducked his head away from Tilda.

“You offered her more,” Tilda said, exasperation oozing from every pore. “Honestly, Steve-”

“I know, Veronica,” Davy said. “I know you’re upset, and rightly so…” He held up his hands. “But Mrs. Olafson says her husband really likes that painting.”

“Well, so does my aunt,” Tilda snarled.

Davy exchanged a helpless look with Mrs. Olafson. “Honey, if you’ll give me a chance.”

“I’ll give you five minutes,” Tilda snapped. “Then I’m leaving for the airport without you.” She stomped down the steps like a woman possessed, and Davy watched her go, thinking, There’s a woman who’s worth her weight in rubies. Real ones.

He turned back to Mrs. Olafson. “She’s really very nice, she’s just upset. About the painting.”

Mrs. Olafson shook her head in sympathy. “She shouldn’t treat you like that.”

Davy shrugged. “Well, what are you going to do?”

Mrs. Olafson nodded.

“Listen,” Davy said, letting a little desperation creep into his voice. “You think your husband might sell the painting for two fifty? I can tell Veronica I got it for a hundred after all. She wouldn’t need to know.”

Mrs. Olafson looked torn. “He really likes it.” Her face changed. “And it’s disgusting. Naked mermaids.”

“Oh,” Davy said, feeling a little more sympathetic toward Mr. Olafson. “That must be awful for you. To have to look at that every day.”

“It is.” Mrs. Olafson shook her head. “It’s vile.”

“Boy, if you could sell it to me, you’d never have to look at it again, and I wouldn’t have to…” Davy looked back at the car, and Tilda reached over and hit the horn. I love you, Veronica, Davy thought. “And he’d have the money, too. That’d be good, right?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Olafson said thoughtfully. “He’s been wanting to get the driveway cleaned.”

Davy looked over at the spotless cement. Mr. Olafson’s obsession with cleanliness, control, and disgusting mermaids was not making him someone Davy wanted to meet. “You wouldn’t get in trouble, would you?” he said, suddenly feeling guilty about Mrs. Olafson.

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Olafson said.

Davy got out his wallet and began to count through the bills. “I have an extra ten here and a five and two ones. That would make it two sixty-seven. Do you think-”

Down in the street, Tilda slammed the car door as she got out and walked around to the driver’s side.

“Just a minute, honey,” Davy called, panic in his voice.

“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Olafson said and went inside.

“Really, just another minute,” Davy said, going to the edge of the porch to look beseechingly at Tilda.

Tilda started the car and gunned the motor, and Davy began to picture her in leather again.

Mrs. Olafson came back to the door and handed Davy the painting, and he handed over the bills.

“You can count it,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder at Tilda.

“I trust you,” Mrs. Olafson said. “Go.”

“Thank you,” Davy said and ran down the steps to give Tilda the painting. “Here you go, honey,” he said, loud enough to carry back to Mrs. Olafson. “Just one more thing.”

Tilda opened the door and took the painting, and Davy started back up the drive. “Where the hell are you going?” she said, her voice like a knife.

“Just a minute, sweetie.” Davy picked up the tire and waved to Mrs. Olafson who beamed at him in return. Then he headed back to his shrew of a wife, who popped the trunk open for the tire.

Damn, I married well, he thought and got in the car.

WHEN THEY WERE almost to the highway, Davy said, “Pull over up here,” and Tilda obliged. An obedient woman, he thought. God, she’s hot.

“Okay, what-” she said, and he leaned over and kissed her hard, and she clutched at him and kissed him back, and for a minute, Davy forgot his own name. “Oh,” she said, coming up for air. “You’re really good at that. What was it for?”

“You are magnificent,” he said, trying to get his breath back.

“I am?” She hit him with that crooked grin again.

“You do a beautiful bitch,” Davy said. “You got any chains in the attic?”

“You’re disgusting,” Tilda said cheerfully.

“That reminds me.” Davy dragged the painting out of the back seat. It was full of round-bodied, sloe-eyed, rosy-breasted mermaids who swam in a checkered sea, looking inviting and edgy but not unwholesome.

“What?” Tilda said, looking at the painting.

“Mrs. Olafson thought this painting was disgusting,” Davy said, imagining the mermaids bobbing in the sea. “I’m not seeing it.”

“Bare breasts. And they’re not ashamed.”

“My kind of women. They do look a little…” Davy searched for the word. “Aggressive. But in a good way.”

“Poor Mr. Olafson,” Tilda said. “He lost his mermaids for a lousy two-fifty.”

“I went to two sixty-seven,” Davy said, now imagining Tilda bouncing in the sea. “You know, these mermaids kind of look like you.”

Tilda took the painting from him. “You’re projecting, Dempsey. Keep your mind on the job.” She traced one of the foamy waves with her fingertip, looking a little sad.

“You okay?” he said.

“I am magnificent,” she said and put the painting in the back seat again.

When they got back to the gallery, they heard voices in the office. Davy followed Tilda in and saw Eve and Gwen and a rotund younger guy he’d never seen before gathered around a tearful Nadine.

“Oh, no,” Tilda said, and went straight to her niece.

“What happened?” Davy said, looking for blood or broken bones.

“It’s a Poor Baby,” Tilda said, not turning around.

“That miserable little tick Burton dumped her,” Eve said, standing militant in front of her daughter. “I think he should be castrated.”

“Later for that,” the new guy said, his arm around Nadine. “Poor Baby first, revenge later.”

That’s got to be Jeff, Davy thought.

“He was just wrong for you, Poor Baby,” Gwen said from Nadine’s other side. “He had no soul.”

“He was a vampire. Pasty little bastard,” Jeff said. “Poor Baby.”

“But he was so cute,” Nadine wailed.

“This is true,” Tilda said.

Gwen glared at Tilda. “You’re not helping.”

“Poor Baby,” Tilda said obediently. “The thing is, Dine, the good-looking ones are always doughnuts. They’re so pretty they don’t have to develop fiber. Look at Davy. Perfect example.”

“Hey,” Davy said, faking outrage. “I’m full of fiber.”

Nadine sniffed but she stopped dripping tears to look at him.

“I,” he went on, “am clearly a muffin.”

“As in ‘stud’?” Tilda said. “No.”

“Hopeless doughnut,” Gwen said, and Nadine gave Davy a watery smile.

“Muffin,” Davy said, “and to prove it, I’m willing to go find Burton and beat the crap out of him.”

“Absolute doughnut,” Tilda said, turning her back on him. “So what did this Davy-in-training give as his miserable excuse? Poor Baby.”

“Who cares?” Jeff said. “He’s scum. You deserve better. Poor Baby.”

“He said I was too weird,” Nadine said, wincing, and Davy felt like beating up the kid for real.

“Okay,” Tilda said to Davy. “Go get him.”

“No,” Nadine said, sniffing, “I mean, really, that was it for me. I wore the Lucy dress to his gig, and he told me today that I had to stop wearing such weird stuff or it was all over.”

“And you said it was all over?” Tilda said.

Nadine nodded, and Eve said, “Oh, that’s my girl,” while Jeff pounded her on the back and said, “Way to go, kid.”

“Clearly not the kind of guy who deserves a Goodnight,” Davy said.

“He was only a speed bump,” Tilda agreed, “on the great highway of love.”

“I know,” Nadine said, sniffing again. “I’m not really crying for him. I just needed to get it out, you know?”

“Of course,” Gwen said, “you should always get it out,” and Davy wondered if there had ever been any emotion that any Goodnight had ever left unexpressed.

Except for Tilda. He watched her comfort Nadine and wondered what she’d been like when she’d been part of the Rayons, when she’d been singing and laughing with Eve and Andrew. If she’d ever smiled all the time like she’d smiled at him today.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Gwen was saying to Nadine. “I can stay.”

“Where are you going?” Tilda said.

“She’s having a late lunch with Mason Phipps,” Eve said, raising her eyebrows to her hairline. “It’s a day-yate.”

Uh-oh, Davy thought. Clea was not going to be happy about that.

“No it is not,” Gwen said. “He wants to talk about the gallery. And I get free food.” She turned back to Nadine. “Unless you want me to stay.”

Nadine sniffed. “Bring me your dessert if you don’t eat all of it.”

“Good enough,” Gwen said and went out into the gallery.

“Ice cream,” Eve said to Nadine. “I’m thinking Jeff drives and we all go to Grater’s.”

“That would be good,” Nadine said, and sniffed again, but Davy got the distinct impression that she was now enjoying herself. Well, good for her.

Jeff stopped by Davy on his way out the door. “Welcome to the family,” he said, offering Davy his hand. “Andrew says you’re helping Tilda with a problem.”

“Family?” Davy said as he shook Jeff’s hand.

“Anybody the Goodnights rope into problem-solving is family,” Jeff said. “Not that I want to know what the problem is until you need bail.”

“Jeff’s a lawyer,” Tilda said.

“Handy guy to have around,” Davy said.

“Hey,” Jeff said. “Tonight we play poker. It’s our standard Sunday-night family bonding. Do you gamble?”

“Why am I sure he gambles?” Tilda said to the ceiling.

Davy looked down into her weird light eyes, and said, “Yes.”

“I play rough,” she warned. “Don’t bet anything you’re not ready to lose.”

“Not a problem,” he said. “I don’t have anything to lose.”

She grinned that crooked grin at him again, her eyes connecting with his, and he felt dizzy for a moment. There was a possibility that he could lose his shirt to this woman. With a great deal of enthusiasm.

But later that night, sitting around a poker table with Tilda, Eve, Gwen, Jeff, Andrew, and Mason, who had somehow escaped from Clea for an hour, Davy felt back in control. Poker was second only to pool in Michael Dempsey’s list of skills his children should have. It clearly hadn’t been on Tony Goodnight’s or Father Phipps’s list at all. The first deal said it all. They picked up cards and sorted them, and every one of them had faces like billboards: Gwen’s face fell when she looked at her hand, Eve smiled and then frowned to hide it, Jeff sighed and shook his head and pulled his money in a little, Andrew tried to keep a stone face but was clearly delighted, Mason leaned back and folded his arms because he thought he had something, and Tilda-

Tilda was looking right at him.

She shook her head and picked up her cards, the only other person at the table smart enough to know that poker was about the people you were playing with, not about the cards you were dealt. That’s my girl, he thought, and watched her play, bluffing nervelessly, losing and winning without batting an eye, and always, always watching the others.

Nadine joined them later and played almost as well as Tilda, but she also had an unfortunate tendency to buy into bluffs. After Davy had taken her for the third time, he said, “Dine, if it seems too good to be true, get out.”

“I’m optimistic,” she said, her chin in the air.

“Smart is better,” Davy said.

The last hand ended when everyone but Eve and Davy were out, even Mason, whose ironclad optimism had been nothing short of astonishing as he lost hand after hand, making a nice match for Gwen, who didn’t even try to hide her reactions to her cards. Eve tried to bluff Davy out of a pot with nothing, which he knew because when Eve had nothing, she tapped her worst card three times and sighed. It was one of the most blatant tells he’d ever seen, and when she did it this time, he saw Tilda close her eyes in sympathy, and he wondered what it must have been like being the sharp one in the family, the one who watched everybody else and played the smart game while the rest went on their feckless way, having fun.

Maybe it was time she had fun, he thought as he raked in the last pot. In fact, maybe it was his duty as a guest to make sure she had fun.

It was only the polite thing to do.

“SO YOU’RE a cardsharp,” Tilda said to Davy after he’d turned all his winnings over to Gwen “for the muffins and orange juice I’ve been bumming off you.” Mason had gone home to Clea, and the rest of the family had drifted off to bed. “A real Cool Hand Luke.”

“Cool Hand Luke was a convict,” Davy said, opening the refrigerator. “Get your allusions right.”

“Okay, you’re whoever was a really sharp poker player.” Tilda tried to think of one. “Maverick.”

“Very good,” Davy said. “When Gwennie was teaching you to stay in character in kindergarten, my daddy, like Maverick’s, was teaching me not to draw to an inside straight.” He held out the orange juice carton. “Drink?”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “Your daddy sounds like an interesting person.”

“With vodka or without?”

“With, please.” She went over to the couch and stretched her legs out in front of her. She had four of her paintings back, thanks to Davy. It was almost a miracle, and when she had all six, she’d build a bonfire and wipe out her past entirely. Onward into the future. No more mistakes.

As long as Davy didn’t arrest her.

He sat down beside her. “Your drink, Celeste.”

She took the glass and sipped. “Very good, Ralph.” She smiled at him, grateful for the paintings and the drink and that he was there in general. He really is a nice guy, she thought. Even if it turns out he is the FBI. “So your dad, what is it he does?”

“He annoys people.” Davy relaxed into the leather next to her. “Speaking of parents, what is it with Gwennie and the teeth?”

“Huh?” she said, not expecting that one.

“The quilt in my room had teeth on it,” he said, “and so did the sampler. What is that?”

“Oh,” Tilda said, regrouping. “Well, I think she had a lot of repressed anger when my dad was alive.” She frowned at him. “That’s a weird thing to ask.”

“They’re weird to look at,” Davy said. “Repressed anger. This is not something you suffer from, Veronica.”

“I’m not living with my dad,” Tilda said. “He was sort of domineering. She loved him, but she didn’t speak up much. And the older we got, the more he tried to control us and the madder she got, so she took up cross-stitch to relax. She did a couple of samplers the way the graphs showed and then she started changing things, and pretty soon there were all these little animals with teeth in them. Which I thought were neat.”

“And the quilts?”

“Toward the end the samplers weren’t helping her relax, so she switched to quilting. And for a while she did these beautiful nine-patch quilts, but then she started skewing the nine-patches and they turned into these crooked crazy quilts and then the teeth started showing up again, so she had to quit those, too.”

“And that’s when she started the Double-Crostics,” Davy said.

“No,” Tilda said, “that’s when she started the paint-by-numbers.”

Davy choked on his drink. “What?”

“Paint-by-number paintings,” Tilda said, grinning as she thought about it. “The kits. She’d paint them and hang them up in the office and he’d take them down. They drove him crazy. But then she started messing with those, too, and eventually-”

“Let me guess,” Davy said. “Teeth.”

“Yep.” Tilda took another drink and watched him. “We must have boxes of those things in the basement. Then she went to crossword puzzles, and when those got too easy, she moved on to Double-Crostics.”

“Any teeth yet?”

“Not so far,” Tilda said. “Actually, she stopped with the teeth right about the time I moved out, and that was seventeen years ago. And now my dad’s dead, so she’s not so mad anymore.”

“Right,” Davy said, smiling at the photos on the opposite wall. He had a great profile, straight nose, strong chin. “You have an interesting family, Matilda.”

He had a great smile, too. In fact, when you came right down to it, he had a great everything. And he’d been wonderful all day, working his butt off to get her painting back, offering to beat up Burton, giving Gwennie the muffin money. And all she’d done for him was screw up his chance to get his money back and fake an orgasm with him on the couch and get testy because he might be the law. She should be grateful that he was the law. Assuming he didn’t send her up the river. “I’m really sorry,” she said.

“About what?” Davy said, looking confused. “Your family? I like them.”

“About your money. And about Friday. You know.” She patted the couch. “Here.” She took another drink.

“Get over it, Matilda,” Davy said.

“That was an apology.” Tilda got up and poured more vodka into her glass, making the orange juice fade. “A sincere, heartfelt apology.”

“Have you always had this drinking problem?” Davy said.

“No.” Tilda took the bottle back to the couch, drank more of her vodka and orange juice, and then closed her eyes as the alcohol seeped into her bones. “You are great at that. Getting people to give you things.”

“Thank you.” Davy took the bottle from her.

“It’s because you’re in sales, right?” Tilda hit the vodka again. Come on, tell me the truth.

“Sales?”

“You said you were in sales.”

“I said my father was in sales.”

“So what are you in?”

Davy looked at her for a moment. “Sales,” he said, and topped up her drink.

Tilda sighed. “Like father, like son.”

“Not even close.”

She sipped again and waited. Okay, he wasn’t going to tell her about the FBI. She clearly did not have Louise’s skills. At least she was pretty sure she didn’t. “So here’s a question.”

Davy waited, and she smiled at him again, feeling fairly loose in general.

“Question,” he prompted.

“Right.” She took another drink and steeled her nerve. “How bad was I?”

“You were great.” He stretched to put the bottle on the table. Lovely arms, she thought. Lovely lines to his body. That was probably why the FBI hired him. “You have a real flair for reading people,” he said as he leaned back. “I think Mrs. Olafson-”

“No,” Tilda said. “On this couch the other night. How bad was I?”

“You were fine,” Davy said, suddenly cautious.

“Hey,” Tilda said. “I deserve the truth. We’re partners now. Steve and Veronica. Ralph and Celeste. Whoever that was in the closet and Vilma. Tell me the truth.”

Davy sighed. “Okay. You were terrible.”

“Ow.” Tilda slugged back the rest of her glass. “I was hoping for mediocre. You know. Not so good.”

Davy offered her the bottle.

“Thank you.” Tilda held out her glass.

“It was my fault, too.” Davy poured a quarter inch of vodka in her glass. “I was still on a rush from burgling Clea, and I didn’t-”

“It’s me,” Tilda said.

Davy shrugged. “Well, you know, sex isn’t for everybody. Maybe-”

“I want it,” Tilda said. “I just don’t want it when there are guys in the room.”

Davy lifted an eyebrow at her. “Louise looks like she might swing both ways.”

“I don’t want women, either.”

Davy nodded and took a drink. “Do you have it narrowed down to a species?”

“When I’m alone,” Tilda said, “I’m very interested in men. Very interested.” She thought about Davy in the closet and thought, And sometimes, even with them right there. “I mean, sometimes I have thoughts that are really, well, wrong.”

“These are the thoughts you should share with me,” Davy said, over his vodka.

Like sometimes I have this incredible urge to walk up to you and say, “Fuck me,” just to get it out of my system. Except that would be wrong, not to mention difficult to explain, like the rest of her secrets. Besides, saying “Fuck me” to the FBI? That couldn’t be good.

“No, really, you can tell me,” Davy said. “I’m very open-minded.”

“No,” Tilda said. “There are some secrets you can never tell.” She sighed. “There are things I’m tempted to do, but when there’s another person in the room, there are so many other things to consider.”

Davy shook his head. “Short of ‘Don’t forget the condom’ and ‘Try not to choke on your spit,’ I can’t think-”

“Like how well do you really know this person?” Tilda said, giving him another opening. “Because I think you should know him pretty well before you let him inside you.”

“I’m the one going in,” Davy said, relaxing back into the couch, “so I’m good with strangers.”

“Right,” Tilda said. “It’s my space being invaded.”

“You want a guy who won’t invade your space?”

“Not in theory. In theory, I want a guy who’s all over my space. It’s just-”

“In practice.”

“In the real world,” Tilda agreed. “Space Invaders, not my game.”

“Problem is,” Davy said, “Space Invaders is pretty much the name of the game. Everything else is just a variation on the theme.”

“Maybe I’ll never have sex again,” Tilda said. “I’m trying to decide if that’s a bad thing.”

“Tell you what.” Davy picked up the bottle again. “Small bet.”

“Bet?” Tilda watched as he slopped more vodka in her glass. The pineapple-orange juice was only a pale memory now. “Like poker?”

“I bet you,” he said, handing it to her, “that I can make you come, right here on this couch. No Space Invaders.”

“Uh-huh,” Tilda said dubiously over the rim of her glass. The coming part sounded good, but it was Davy. There was bound to be a catch. On the other hand, it was Davy. And she did want him. Even the FBI thing was a turn-on. Maybe she had some Louise in her after all.

“If you win,” he was saying, “I help you get the rest of the paintings. If I win, we play Space Invaders.” He thought about it. “Which means that you win either way. This is a great deal for you, Vilma.”

“Spare me,” Tilda said, willing to be seduced but not scammed.

Davy shook his head sadly. “I’ve never met a woman who was more afraid of orgasm.”

“I’m not afraid of orgasm,” Tilda said, indignant. “I’ve had plenty of orgasms. I just-”

“When Harry Met Sally,” Davy said. “First diner scene.”

“That was not a movie quote,” Tilda said. “Is everything a game to you?”

“Pretty much.” Davy met her eyes and smiled at her, and Tilda thought, Oh, Lord. “So, do you want to play or can we go to bed now?”

“There are two more paintings left,” Tilda said, her heart picking up speed.

“Fifteen minutes,” Davy said. “Time me.”

She drank the rest of her vodka and orange vapor, regarding him over the edge of the glass. He was so much fun to look at. And as long as she kept her mouth shut, what did she have to lose besides her dignity? Which, let’s face it, had gone with the wind the last time they’d hit the couch. That had to be the all-time low. And if it wasn’t Space Invaders, if she wasn’t letting him inside, maybe she wouldn’t say anything-

“Matilda,” Davy said. “I’m growing old here.”

Her heart began to pound and she swallowed again. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Yep.”

So even if it was bad again, it was only fifteen minutes. And if it was good, it might be Louise. She took a deep breath -there was never enough oxygen around when she started contemplating having sex with Davy- and she nodded. “You’re on.”