Faking It

Chapter 13

“DAVY, I HAVE to work tomorrow.” Tilda squinted at the clock. “Oh, hell. I have to work today. It’s past midnight.”

“The furniture in the basement,” Davy said and she sat up, awake and breathless.

“What were you doing in the basement?”

“We’re going to sell the furniture down there,” Davy said, as Steve poked his nose out from under the quilt to see what was going on.

Tilda tried to take a deep breath. “How did you get in the basement?”

“Door was unlocked. Pay attention. You have a lot of furniture down there.”

“It was not unlocked,” Tilda said, wheezing a little on “was,” and he bent over her and covered her mouth with his hand.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “We are going to have a show of that furniture very soon. And we are going to invite Mason to host it. And Clea will come with him. And…”

Tilda pushed his hand away. “And we can go steal our stuff back. Why can’t we just invite them to dinner?”

“Because they now have staff,” Davy said. “In fact, you’ve met the staff. You kicked its head in.”

“Oh.” Tilda sat up a little more, making Steve shift over, trying for deeper breaths. “But what-”

“You’re going to need a caterer for the opening. You’ll hire him.”

Tilda shook her head. “There’s got to be an easier way-”

The wheeze was more pronounced on “easier,” and Davy opened her bedside table drawer and got out her inhaler. “Not one that will also make you money,” he said, handing it to her. “You’ve got a small fortune down there.”

She hit the inhaler and frowned at him. He looked sincere, but then, he always did, even when he was lying through his teeth. “Davy, nobody’s going to want to buy that furniture. I painted that when I was a kid.”

“You painted it?”

“Yes,” Tilda said, not in a mood to be sneered at. “Why?”

“It’s really good.”

“And that’s a surprise?”

“I thought you only did the murals,” he said, backing off a little. “And I’ve never seen one of them. I had no idea how good you were. Oh, and I’m buying the bed.”

“Why?” Tilda said, now really wary as she put the inhaler back in the drawer.

“My sister’s anniversary,” Davy said. “I’ll pay you after I get my money back.”

Tilda waved her hand. “Take it. You’ve more than earned it this week. But about this show-”

“You need the money, we need the diversion, and all it’s going to cost us is some paint and advertising,” Davy said, stripping off his shirt. “It’s a no-brainer.”

“Paint for what!”

“The gallery.” He shoved off his jeans and crawled into bed beside her, making Steve shift again. “You’ll never con people into paying a hundred bucks for a footstool with the place looking the way it does now. Perception is reality, babe. We have to bring this place back from the dead.” He settled into his new pillows, looking very pleased with himself.

“No.” Tilda’s breath went at the thought.

“Yes,” Davy said. “I don’t know why you want the gallery to fail, but you’ve got to get over it. We need a successful opening to keep Mason busy, and you need the money.”

“I don’t want the gallery to fail.” Tilda felt the familiar scraping wheeze begin in her lungs.

“Right,” Davy said. “You’re the only one with the brains and the push to make this place work, and you spend all your time on the road, leaving Gwennie to sell Finsters. You’ve done everything but put a stake through its heart.”

“I have not-” She tried to take a deep breath.

“Which I wouldn’t care about but it’s a pretty sweet setup, Tilda. It’s a crime to let it go to waste.”

Tilda heard “crime” and reached for her inhaler again. “I’m not much of a salesman. Woman. Person.”

“I am,” Davy said. “We’re selling the furniture in the basement.”

“Is that why you want to do this?” Tilda said. “Because it’s a sweet setup and you’re a salesman?”

“No,” he said, looking unsure for the first time since he’d ruined her sleep. “Matilda, I want to sell that furniture. You’re not doing anything with it. How long has it been down there?”

“Seventeen years,” Tilda said.

“Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t do this.”

Because anybody with any kind of an eye at all could tell that furniture was painted by the same person who painted the Scarlets.

Tilda’s stomach heaved at the thought.

“I’m waiting,” Davy said.

On the other hand, there were damn few people who had seen the Scarlets. Davy had, and he hadn’t figured it out. Clea had, but she didn’t appear to have much of an eye. Mason had, but he was so caught up in the fine-art thing, he wouldn’t want to believe Scarlet had painted them.

“Okay,” Tilda said. “Okay. But you’re going to be the one who tells Gwennie.” She fell back against the pillows. “I’m sure this is a mistake.”

“You have no faith.” He leaned over and picked up his jeans from the floor and pulled something from the pocket, and then he slid his hand under her chin, warm on her skin, and before she could say, “Hey,” he’d stuck something papery down the neck of her T-shirt.

“Off.” She batted his hand away and pulled the neck of her T-shirt open to see two twenties and a ten on her chest. “I don’t take cash.”

“That’s your cut from the twenty I borrowed,” Davy said. “Half my winnings.”

“Maybe I should just send you out to play pool,” Tilda said, fishing the bills out of her T-shirt.

“We’ll use that as a backup,” Davy said. “First, we’re going to sell furniture.”

WHEN TILDA woke up the next morning, Davy was gone, but he’d left a note that said, “Don’t forget to tell Gwennie.” Great, she thought, and went downstairs with Steve to get orange juice and ruin Gwennie’s day.

“Hi,” Gwen said when Tilda came into the office. “Davy still alive?”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “And that’s not funny.”

Eve waved at her from the table, her mouth full of muffin. “How’s Monet?” she said when she’d swallowed.

“Boring as ever,” Tilda said, as Steve went to sit at Eve’s feet in hopes of muffin. “He deserves to be on a bathroom wall. Oh, and speaking of Davy, he wants to do a gallery show of my old furniture and I said yes. Well, gotta go to work.” She headed for the door.

“Hold it” Gwen said, sounding panicked, and Tilda sighed and turned back to get orange juice and fill them in on the night before.

“He’s convinced this is the way to get everything back,” Tilda said as she finished. “I argued, but-”

“Don’t argue.” Eve hauled Steve onto her lap to pet him better. “They’re FBI. Which I actually find sexy.”

“That’s Louise,” Tilda said. “Pull yourself together. Or in your case, separate yourself better.”

“I’m against this,” Gwen said gloomily.

“I know,” Tilda said.

“Mason’s going to be thrilled,” Gwen said, even gloomier. “He’ll be all over the place. There’ll be dozens of people all over the place. I’ll never finish another Double-Crostic again.”

“I know,” Tilda said.

“At least Mason isn’t a hit man,” Gwen said.

“Plus there’s all those free lunches he shells out for,” Eve said helpfully. “A man who pays for food is good.”

Gwen frowned at Tilda. “Is there any chance that the four of them are toying with us? Like this is a plot they’re doing together?”

Tilda looked at her over her glasses. “Any chance that Davy, Simon, Ford, and Mason decided to drive us crazy at random? Sure, why not? I have to go. Give Steve to Nadine for the day, be nice to Davy when he comes back, and don’t let Ford kill him. The last thing we need here is a murder investigation.”

“I won’t be here,” Gwen said. “I’m having lunch with Mason. Someone else will have to draw the chalk outline.” She got up. “This is going to be a disaster.”

She went out to the gallery, and Tilda frowned after her. “We should do something about her.”

“Like what?” Eve said, still cuddling Steve. “The only thing that would make her happy is a nice trip somewhere on a boat-”

“A boat?” Tilda said.

“-and you know she wouldn’t go. She won’t leave us.”

“Why a boat?”

Eve shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s doodling boats on everything now. And her pencil cup has five little paper umbrellas in it. She says she’s saving them for a rainy day.”

“Boats and umbrellas.” Tilda sighed. “Well, at least it isn’t teeth. I have to go to work. Davy has plans for after lunch.”

“Naked plans?” Eve said.

“No,” Tilda said. “We’re not doing that anymore.”

“Me, neither,” Eve said, and didn’t sound happy about it.

“Simon misses you,” Tilda said helpfully.

“Simon misses Louise.” Eve put Steve on the floor. “He doesn’t know me.”

“His loss,” Tilda said.

“I don’t know.” Eve pushed her orange juice glass away and sat back. “I’m not that interesting. Not like Louise.”

“Eve, you are Louise,” Tilda said. “You know, maybe you should pull yourself together after all. Tell Simon the truth.”

Eve closed her eyes. “There’s a part of me that wants to. I think, ‘He’s great in bed and he likes Nadine and he’d be the perfect lover and husband and father to my kid,’ I mean, he’s the guy who really could pull me together.”

“So tell him.”

Eve tilted her head back so she could meet Tilda’s eyes. “Are you going to tell Davy you’re Scarlet?”

“Never,” Tilda said.

“Yeah, that’s what the other part of me says.” Eve stood up. “Especially with Simon’s damn mother rule. Maybe I should do what you do, bury Louise in the basement and never let her see the light of day.”

“Hey,” Tilda said. “There’s only one me. Nobody’s buried in the basement.”

“Tell that to Scarlet,” Eve said.

AT NOON Clea met Ronald for lunch. “This better be good, Ronald,” she said as she sat down at the patio table, already annoyed because Mason had left for another business meeting without telling her where he was going. He’d been having a whole hell of a lot of business meetings, and she was pretty sure he was having them with Gwen Goodnight. And now Ronald was taking her to lunch in the sun, but her picture hat kept most of it from her face, and she looked wonderful in picture hats, so that was better. She relaxed into her chair and looked around at the other women, chatting away while the rays destroyed their skin. What were they thinking?

“It’ll be good,” Ronald said. “It’s the best restaurant in German Village. Well, one of the best. It-”

“Not the food,” Clea said. “What have you got on Gwen Goodnight?”

“Oh.” Ronald sat back. “So that’s why you wanted to meet.”

“Ronald,” Clea said, “I’m having a very, very bad week. Tell me Gwen Goodnight had a sex change and is really a retired shoe salesman from Des Moines.”

“No, she’s Gwen Goodnight,” Ronald said, looking puzzled. “Her maiden name was Frasier. She was an actress and a dancer.”

“Good,” Clea said, feeling cheered. “There must be something shady in her past, then.”

“Not really,” Ronald said. “Her first daughter was born six months after she was married, but that’s not really scandalous anymore.”

Clea stared at him coldly. “Ronald. You’re not helping me.”

“There was a lot on the Goodnights,” Ronald offered. “They changed the family name in 1948 from Giordano. They moved here in the sixties.”

“I need dirt, Ronald,” Clea said.

“One of them went to prison for art forgery,” Ronald said helpfully. “That’s when they changed their name.”

“In 1948,” Clea said. “Do you have anything from this century?”

“Not really,” Ronald said. “They haven’t done anything since Gwen’s husband Anthony died. I told you, the gallery’s on its last legs. There’s nothing there.”

Clea resisted the urge to slap him. It wasn’t his fault there was nothing there. Also, she was beginning to suspect that Ronald liked being abused. “Well, thank you for trying, Ronald.”

Ronald leaned forward. “I’ll do anything for you, Clea, but really, can’t we forget this whole thing, go back to Miami -”

“No,” Clea said. “My art collection is here, Ronald.” My future husband and his money are here, Ronald.

“Did you find the rest of the Scarlet Hodge paintings?”

“No,” Clea said, feeling bitter just thinking about it. “But I found two people who had sold them. Somebody else is collecting them.”

“Why?” Ronald said.

Clea blinked at him. It was a damn good question. The only person who wanted them was Mason, but he didn’t fit the descriptions of the buyers, tall men with dark hair and very different wives… Clea sat up slowly. “Davy Dempsey.”

“Why would he want paintings?” Ronald said. “He has no interest in art.”

“He’s living at that gallery,” Clea said. “You said Gwen Goodnight had been an actress, right? It was the two of them. He’s running some con at that gallery.”

“He’s gone straight,” Ronald said.

“Oh, sure, like you did.” Clea bit her lip, and Ronald breathed faster. “No. He’s up to something with Gwen Goodnight. I bet they’re scamming Mason. They’re going to use those paintings to get him to propose to her. Then Gwen will pay off Davy.”

“That’s not Davy’s kind of con,” Ronald said.

“Davy is capable of anything,” Clea said.

“No,” Ronald said, and Clea looked at him, surprised. “I’m sorry, but that’s not his con.”

“Well then, why does he want the paintings?” Clea said.

“I don’t know,” Ronald said.

“Find out,” Clea said and picked up her menu, feeling much better now that they were making progress.

“No,” Ronald said.

Clea frowned. “It was interesting the first time you said it, Ronald. Now it’s just annoying.”

“I’m not hired help, Clea,” Ronald said. “I’m your lover. I deserve some respect.”

Clea thought about it. On the one hand, life would be simpler if she let him storm off into the sunset. On the other, he was useful. And he was going to pay for lunch.

“You’re right, Ronald,” she said, smiling at him ruefully. “You’re absolutely right.” She leaned toward him, bathing him in her smile and her cleavage. “But you will find out what Davy’s up to, won’t you? For me?” She breathed in deeply.

Ronald breathed deeply, too. “Of course.”

“Oh, good,” Clea said and went back to the menu.

THAT AFTERNOON, Davy borrowed one of Simon’s shirts for the flea market, trying to look prosperous but not rich, somebody Colby would buy as honest.

“It has to be my shirt?” Simon said.

“Tilda doesn’t have anything that fits me,” Davy said. “Boy, one night without Louise, and you’re a mess.”

“Four nights,” Simon said. “Does that strike you as odd?”

“That a woman would avoid you for four nights? No.”

“I checked her out through the Bureau,” Simon said.

“You what?”

“I was curious. I did it informally.”

“Oh, good,” Davy said. “You know damn well Tilda’s up to something, and you alert the FBI.”

“They were already alerted,” Simon said. “Someone’s up here looking into them.”

“Fuck,” Davy said.

“It’s part of something larger,” Simon said. “Some rich old man who died after a warehouse burned down. His grandson is insisting it’s arson. But the Goodnights are definitely on the list.”

“Keep an eye on that list,” Davy said. “If they start to look like they’re going for anybody here, let me know.”

“Certainly,” Simon said. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

Downstairs in the gallery, Tilda was also annoyed.

“I don’t get to come?” she said when Davy got the car keys from Jeff. “I leave work early and you’re doing this without Betty and Veronica?” She stopped. “Oh, good, I sound like an Archie comic.”

“Stay close to the phone,” Davy said. “If I need you, I’ll call. Oh, and you,” he said to Nadine, who was trying to get a sock away from Steve. “You stay here, too. We may need you.”

“For what?” Nadine said, looking up. “I get to play?”

“This is not play, my child,” Davy said. “This is art.”

“Uh-huh,” Nadine said and went back to retrieving her sock.

Colby was on the edge of the market when Davy finally found him, directed there by an exasperated woman in a pink My Little Pony T-shirt who was trying to sell “real old handmade reproductions” of advertising signs. He looked like he was trying not to fit in, his polo shirt neatly pressed and tucked into Dockers that failed to disguise his paunch. He was at the age when his hairline was gathering strength to recede, and he smirked under its creeping edges, smug in the knowledge that he was better than everybody else there.

Take him for everything he’s got, Davy’s inner con whispered.

Davy strolled over and began to leaf through the prints that Colby had displayed in a V-shaped easel.

“Those are all original artwork,” Colby said, which was such a blatant lie that even Davy was taken aback.

“I’m really more interested in paintings,” Davy said.

“Got those, too,” Colby said, sweeping his hand behind him to show a selection of framed artwork, very few of which were actual paintings.

“Something colorful,” Davy said, and Colby offered him a still life of throbbing purple grapes and a portrait of a clown that looked as though it had been painted in orange Kool-Aid.

“You know what my wife likes?” Davy said. “Dancers. And wouldn’t you know it, I can’t ever find a dancer painting.”

“Don’t have one,” Colby said with real regret.

Oh, hell. “Got anything close? People dancing in the air. Flying?”

“Got just the thing,” Colby said. “It’s got no frame, though.” He began to dig under the table, and Davy thought, There is no chance that this-

And then Colby was holding up the Scarlet, this one a checkerboard sky with two people with smeared heads who were sure as hell not dancing, not with that body language. Scarlet got more interesting with every painting.

“It’s a little weird,” Colby said. “But it’s colorful.”

“It’s smudged,” Davy said. “Their heads are all messed up. I don’t know. How much do you want for it?”

“Well, this is an original artwork,” Colby said. “So it’s five hundred dollars.”

Davy shook his head. “It’s messed up.”

“It’s original,” Colby said.

“Let me think about it,” Davy said and walked away before Colby could come down on the price. He crossed over to the next lane where he could see Colby between the booths while he punched in Tilda’s number on his cell phone. Colby was not a happy art dealer.

“It’s me,” he said when Tilda answered. “He’s got it. Get Nadine and get ready.”

“Okay,” Tilda said. “Andrew said he’d watch the gallery. Anything we should know?”

“Colby’s an idiot,” Davy said. “Let him look down your blouse and you’ve got him. He’s also big on frames. Listen, when I pick you up, I don’t want to recognize either one of you.”

“Okay,” Tilda said, a little more slowly. “Any special requests? Fishnet stockings? Funny hats?”

“Nadine should look like a normal teenager,” Davy said, trying not to think of Tilda in fishnets. “I know that’s a stretch but she should be completely unmemorable.”

“Okay,” Tilda said.

“And you should look like an art dealer. Look professional and successful and bored. Be Veronica with money.”

“Story of my life,” Tilda said. “Except for the money. Come and get me.”

“That’s my plan,” Davy said.

NADINE HAD outdone herself in jeans, a Britney Spears T-shirt, and a honey-brown wig with a ponytail. She’d done a clumsy enough job on her makeup that she looked completely authentic, a perfect replica of a teenager.

“She looks normal,” Davy said to Tilda when they were back at the flea market and he’d given Nadine her instructions and sent her off to Colby.

“I know,” Tilda said. “We were all so proud when we saw her. It’s a triumph of illusion.”

“You did pretty good yourself.” Davy surveyed Tilda’s red silk separates and razor-cut wig. “I hadn’t thought of you as a blonde. You look like Gwennie. With a lot more edge.”

“Blondes are hot,” Tilda said, watching as Nadine approached Colby. “I am cool. All she has to do is leave the print there?”

“Yep,” Davy said. “Hot, huh? I don’t suppose you’d consider wearing that wig-”

“In bed with you? No.” Tilda squinted across the market. “She’s there.”

Davy turned back and saw Nadine slow in front of Colby’s booth. He sprang to life, smiling at her until she began to talk, gesturing to the painting. Then Nadine held up her print to show him, and his smile disappeared as he shook his head.

“What is that print?” Davy asked Tilda.

“It’s a Finster,” Tilda said. “One of her damaged proofs.”

“You’re going to convince Colby a Finster is valuable?” Davy snorted. “Good luck. We’re doomed.”

“No,” Tilda said. “Dorcas is really good. She’s just depressing.”

Nadine talked on, and Davy imagined her with her eyes widened and her voice lightened, channeling Marcia Brady. “I hope she doesn’t overplay it.”

“Oh, relax,” Tilda said. “None of us overacts. We could underplay in the cradle.”

Across the way, Nadine held up her finger in the universal “Wait a minute” sign. She dropped the print on Colby’s table and started off down the fairway while he gestured to her to take it.

“Give him a couple of minutes,” Davy said. “Then go over there and discover the print. It’s worth a lot of money, but you’re cagey about it.”

“But Colby catches on,” Tilda said.

“Then you confess that it’s worth thousands.”

“Thousands,” Tilda said doubtfully.

“Well, a lot of hundreds then,” Davy said. “You’re the art expert here. You’ll give him a lot of money for it.”

“What if he sells it?”

“He won’t,” Davy said. “Nadine’s coming back and he knows it. He’ll tell you it’s on hold or something and ask you to come back.”

“I don’t see how we’re getting the Scarlet,” Tilda said.

“You don’t need to,” Davy said. “Go over there and convince him that you’ll pay a lot of money for that thing.”

“Right,” Tilda said, and he watched her thread her way through the crowd to Colby.

Colby definitely perked up when she arrived, and it wasn’t just because she looked like money. You’re married, you jerk, Davy thought as Colby leaned closer to Tilda. Tilda laughed up at him, compounding the problem. What the hell was she doing? She was supposed to be a cool art dealer, not a fairway floozy. She looked over the paintings Colby showed her, clearly as uninterested in them as she was fascinated by him, and he expanded under her come-on. Come on, Davy thought. Enough of this already. Then Tilda stopped, her body language changing from pliant to alert. She picked up Nadine’s print, and Davy watched Colby’s face shift from lust to greed. It was like watching a silent movie: Tilda pulling back as Colby questioned her, her shoulders slumping as he got her to admit the print was valuable, his shoulders hunching as Tilda looked up and down the fairway for the phantom owner of the print.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Nadine said, making Davy jump.

“Yeah,” he said. “So are you.”

“Thank you,” Nadine said. “So now what?”

“You wait until she leaves,” Davy said. “And then you go pick up your print. He’ll offer you some ridiculously small amount of money for it. You say no, it’s worth more than that, your grandma told you it was worth a lot, although maybe if he has something to trade, does he have anything that would be nice and bright for your room because that’s what you’re here for. You let him talk you into trading it for the Scarlet, and then you meet us back at the car and we’re out of here.”

“Excellent,” Nadine said. “Now?” Davy looked back at the booth. Tilda was gone. “Give him a minute,” he said. “Let somebody else talk to him. Then go.”

Two browsers later, Nadine took off for the booth, and Tilda came back, eating a hot dog. “How’s it going?” she said, handing him one, too.

“Thanks. It’s going the way it always does.” Davy unwrapped the hot dog and bit into it. “Just the way I planned it.”

“It’s so odd seeing these paintings again,” Tilda said.

“You and Scarlet close, were you?” Davy said, not really caring. Across the way, Nadine came back for her print.

“Don’t know her at all,” Tilda said, following his eyes to Nadine. “Is this it?”

“Umhm,” Davy said, his mouth full.

They finished eating while Nadine toyed with Colby. She smiled and he leaned forward. She dug her toe in the dirt, he reasoned with her. She shrugged and he tried harder. Finally, Nadine lifted her shoulders and pointed to a blue bowl.

“What?” Davy said, feeling his heart clutch. “Not the bowl, you dummy.”

Colby evidently felt the same way because he shook his head. Nadine shifted her hip, clearly agitated, and pointed to the Scarlet. Colby leaned in and they began to negotiate.

“You give a woman a simple instruction,” Davy began.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Tilda said. “She knows what she’s doing. Give her some space.”

Colby was shaking his head, but he was also handing Nadine the blue bowl.

“Oh, that’s great,” Davy said. “Now we have a bowl and no-”

Then Nadine handed him the print, and he passed over the Scarlet.

“See?” Tilda said again. “I told you so.”

Nadine bounced happily down the fairway, and Colby looked with satisfaction at his ticket to riches.

“Now what?” Tilda said.

“Now we meet Nadine at the car and go home,” Davy said. “Although I would really like to do something else to Colby.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Tilda said.

He looked at her to see if she was laughing at him, but she gazed back at him, completely serious. “You think?”

“I think Colby’s dead meat,” Tilda said. “And I think I don’t ever want you coming after me.”

“Wouldn’t that depend on what I was after?” Davy said, grinning at her.

“You’re hopeless,” Tilda said and headed for the car.

“Got it,” Nadine said, when she climbed into the back seat a minute later. “And look at this cool bowl.”

“The next time I send you out to get something,” Davy said sternly, as he pulled out of the parking lot, “do not improvise.”

“Let me see,” Tilda said, reaching over the seat to hand Nadine her hot dog. Nadine traded her for the bowl.

“I think it’s pretty,” Nadine said, unwrapping lunch. “It sat there in the middle of all that junk and glowed at me.”

“You have to keep focused,” Davy said. “Not that we’re going to do this again, but-”

Tilda turned it over and looked at the bottom. “It’s Rookwood. Way to go, Nadine.”

“Oooh,” Nadine said around her sandwich. “What’s Rookwood?”

“Something good, I gather,” Davy said, still disgruntled.

“ Cincinnati art pottery,” Tilda said, handing it back across the seat to Nadine. “Very collectible. The dumbass never even looked at the bottom to see the potter’s mark. He knows zip about art.”

“That I could have told you,” Davy said. “He put a lot of emphasis on frames.”

“Some frames can be worth a lot of money,” Tilda said. “Especially if it’s the original frame to a good piece of art.”

“Which he doesn’t have,” Davy said.

“So how much is this Rookwood worth?” Nadine said, sticking to basics.

“It depends on the piece and the age,” Tilda said. “There’s a code on the bottom that tells what year it was made. The size and the shape affect value, too. And condition, but that one looks good.”

“The older it is, the better?” Nadine said, squinting at the bottom.

“First condition,” Tilda said. “Then age. Then the rest. When you’re collecting something, condition is everything. It’s like location in real estate.”

“So how much?” Nadine said.

Tilda shrugged. “The mark’s from 1914. Probably somewhere between five hundred and a couple thousand.”

Davy almost drove off the road. “For a bowl?”

“Cool,” Nadine said.

“For art,” Tilda said. “For a thing of beauty that is a joy forever.”

“The possibilities for graft in this business must be huge,” Davy said, trying not to think about it. It was like discovering a great new sport and not being able to play. When he realized Tilda hadn’t said anything, he added, “Because that would be terrible.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Tilda said, turning to look out the window.

“That was a very good plan, Davy,” Nadine said, clutching her bowl to the Britney on her T-shirt. “How did you know how to do that?”

“Good question” Tilda said, turning to squint at Davy through her glasses. “How did you know how to do that?”

“Read about it in a book,” Davy said. “So now we have five, right? One to go?”

“Clea’s.” Tilda stripped off her wig and rubbed her forehead. “The final frontier.”

“A week from tonight then,” Davy said.

“We could do it earlier if we could get rid of the help,” Tilda said. “Mason really wants to get into Gwennie’s files.”

“That’s not all Mason wants to get into,” Davy said. “Let’s hope Gwennie moves fast and Clea hasn’t noticed.”

“Mason wants Grandma?” Nadine said from the back seat.

“Grandma is hot, kid,” Davy said. “Which is good news for you because it means you will be, too, when you hit fifty plus.”

“That’s eons from now,” Nadine said, going back to her bowl.

“It comes faster than you think,” Tilda said.

“It’s good news for you, too, Celeste,” Davy said.

“Not me,” Tilda said. “I’m my dad’s daughter. The Goodnight women are fierce but troll-like.”

“Nope,” Davy said, looking at her loopy curls and icy eyes. “You’re Gwennie all over again.”

“No I’m not,” Tilda said, making it sound final.

“Right,” Davy said. “So about next week. We go in and get your painting and my money, and then we go home and celebrate by making a killing at the preview. That’s going to be pretty much a perfect day.” He patted her knee. “I’m going to hate to leave.”

“What preview?” Nadine said.

“Leave?” Tilda said, the lilt going out of her voice.

“I have to go to see my sister next weekend,” Davy said, talking faster to get past the “and I’m not coming back” part. “She’s mad as hell at me already, I can’t put her off anymore.”

“Right,” Tilda said, nodding a little too fast.

“What preview?” Nadine said.

“We’re going to sell the furniture in the basement,” Tilda said to her.

“Cool,” Nadine said. “Can I help?”

“Yes,” Davy said. “I see you as essential.”

“That’s the way I’ve always seen me, too,” Nadine said.

“So,” Tilda said to Davy, “any instructions for next Thursday? Want me to be anybody in particular?”

“Yeah,” Davy said. “Be Vilma and wear that slippery Chinese thing again. I have good memories of that.”

“And they’re going to stay memories,” Tilda said, looking out the window.

“Slippery Chinese thing?” Nadine said.

“Your aunt is a woman of many faces,” Davy said, watching Tilda oat of the corner of his eye.

“So you’re leaving after that?” Nadine said. “ Australia, I suppose.”

“Yep,” Davy said, looking away from Tilda. “ Australia.”

TILDA PUT the painting down in the basement and didn’t say anything else about the con, so Davy began to plan the show, enlisting everyone to scrape paint and wash windows, even Simon, who had plenty of energy to work off since Louise hadn’t shown up again. “Did you hear anything else about the Bureau looking around up here?” Davy asked him on Friday.

Simon shook his head. “But they definitely have somebody here.”

This family needs a keeper, Davy thought and went upstairs to shower. He came out of the bathroom, having washed off a lot of paint chips, and met Tilda.

“We’re watching The Lady Eve tonight for the hundredth time,” she said as she walked past him to the bathroom. “It’s Louise’s favorite movie. If you want to watch, too, you’d better call your sister now.”

“Right.” Davy watched the bathroom door close behind her, the FBI receding from his mind. A minute later the shower came on, and Davy thought about joining her. Then he thought about how much pain she could inflict on him and picked up the phone instead.

“Hey,” he said when Sophie answered. “What’s ne-”

“Where are you?” she exploded. “I can’t believe you talked to Dillie and didn’t-”

“ Columbus,” Davy said, moving the phone a little farther from his ear.

“-leave your num- Columbus? That’s two hours from here.”

“I know,” Davy said. “Stop shrieking at me, woman. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m having the week from hell,” Sophie snapped, “and the one person whom I would actually welcome seeing is two hours away and hasn’t even bothered to stop by. How long have you been there?”

“About a week,” Davy said, shaving some time off.

“A week?”

“Okay, you stop yelling now, or I’m hanging up. How’s life?”

Sophie groaned. “Don’t ask.”

“Okay, how’s Dempsey?”

“He’s teething,” Sophie said. “What are you doing in Columbus?”

“Nothing you want to know about. So what’s new with you?”

“I thought you were going straight,” Sophie said, caution making her voice soft again.

“I am,” Davy said. “For me, I’m practically a Boy Scout. So what’s making you nuts? Tell me everything.”

“Well,” Sophie said, mercifully distracted by her own problems. She talked on and Davy listened to the water running and thought about how round Tilda was, and how much fun she’d be covered in soap. Uncovered in soap.

“Are you listening?” Sophie said.

“Yes,” Davy lied.

Sophie went on and Davy went back to listening to Tilda and the water. Someday I’m going to be in there with her, he thought, and then realized he wasn’t. By the time someday got there, he’d be gone.

“Wait a minute,” Sophie said, and the water stopped, so Davy brought his mind back to the conversation. “Dillie says hi and she loves you.” Sophie dropped her voice. “She brought home this boy after school last week so he could help her with her softball swing-”

“Really?” Davy said, trying to sound innocent.

“-and the kid has been over here every night after school, so-”

Sophie talked on as Tilda came out of the bathroom, swathed in a bulky white robe, and pulled the towel from her hair, and Davy watched the little ringlets spring up around her face, shining damply in the lamplight.

“-and I can’t remember if Amy and I started doing boy-girl things at twelve. Did we?”

“I don’t think that matters,” Davy said. “The question is, do they do that now? Hold on a second.” He covered the receiver. “When did Nadine start bringing home boys?”

“Birth.” Tilda crawled up beside him on the bed. “She’s Gwennie’s granddaughter.”

“Right. You’re no help at all.” He uncovered the receiver. “Look, they’re playing softball. Let them alone.”

“Who’s there with you?” Sophie said. “Is it a woman? It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

“Is that your sister?” Tilda said.

“There’s a woman there,” Sophie said. “I can hear her.”

“My landlady.” Davy looked down the front of Tilda’s robe. “She’s asking for my rent. I have to go give it to her.”

“You wish,” Tilda said.

“Wait, don’t hang up, when are you coming down here?” Sophie said.

“Next Sunday,” Davy said, watching the curve of Tilda’s terry-cloth-covered rear as she rolled off the bed away from him. “I have some things to finish here first. But I will be there next Sunday. I swear. I have a present for you.”

“Forget the present, bring your landlady,” Sophie said.

“I don’t think so,” Davy said, as Tilda disappeared into the bathroom again. “She’s not a biddable female.”

“I like that in a woman,” Sophie said.

“So do I,” Davy said. “So do I.”