Faking It

Chapter 15

“HOW THE HELL did you find me?” Davy said, when he was staring at Michael across the table in Simon’s room. It seemed odd that there was nothing on the table. He kept expecting Michael to pull out a deck and start dealing.

“That friend of yours, Simon,” Michael said. “I called him in Miami a couple of weeks ago, looking for you.”

“And he gave me up,” Davy said, planning on having a talk with Simon later.

“It took some persuading,” Michael said.

Davy sighed. It was Michael. Simon hadn’t had a chance.

“And then it took me a while to get here,” Michael went on. “I had commitments. And Greyhound is not the Concorde.”

“You took the bus?” Davy said, dumbfounded. “That’s not like you.”

“I am temporarily embarrassed of funds,” Michael said, with the ghost of a grin.

“I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today! My father, Wimpy.”

“I have to keep a low profile,” Michael said. “There appears to be a warrant out for me.”

“That also is not like you.” Davy sat back, unconcerned. “You usually don’t get caught.”

“There was a woman,” Michael said darkly.

“There always is.”

Michael grinned at him. “You should talk. I walk in and find you with three. You’re me all over again, boy.”

“I am nothing like you,” Davy said.

Michael laughed. “You’re right, you’re nothing like me, you are me. Of all my children, Davy boy, you’re my heir.”

“Oh, good. I’ve always wanted to own two decks of marked cards and a penny whistle.”

“Now, Sophie,” Michael went on as if he hadn’t heard, “she had the skill, right from the beginning. She could look at you with those big brown eyes and take you for everything you had. But she didn’t have the heart for it.”

“She has morals,” Davy said, thinking, And because of that, she’s a soft touch, which you know all too well.

“And little Amy, she loved it, but she didn’t have the skill. Too scatterbrained. But you, you were born for this. You have the skill and the heart, you have it all, you could be greater than I am-”

“Oh, spare me,” Davy said, fed up. “Look at you, the Great One. On the lam at sixty, scamming for quarters, playing monte for motel money, that’s your idea of greatness?”

“It’s action, isn’t it?” Michael said. “That’s what Nick the Greek said.”

“Yeah, that’s what Nick the Greek said when he was washed up, playing two-bit poker instead of high-roller,” Davy snapped. “That’s what he said before he died broke. Is that how you want to live?”

“It’s living.” Michael leaned forward. “It’s not sitting around wishing you were living and denying what you were born for. It’s not shilling for the freaking FBI.” He shook his head at Davy. “You miss it. Don’t tell me you don’t. What are you doing for the kick these days, Davy my lad? Picking daisies?”

“Okay,” Davy said. “Back off on the Goodnights. And in Gwen’s case that means literally. She’s got a steady guy with money who’s getting serious. Stay away.”

“Ah, that’s not for her,” Michael said. “Women like Gwen Goodnight do not go for steady men.”

“She deserves somebody she can count on,” Davy said. “That is not you.”

“She deserves a damn good time,” Michael said. “That’s most definitely me. Besides, she can’t count on anybody. Nobody can. You’re born alone and you die alone, Davy. So you better know yourself, because you’re the only one who ever will.”

“I know myself,” Davy said grimly, “and I’m happy.”

“After all I’ve taught you,” Michael said sadly. “How many times did I tell you, the guy to beat at the table is the one who doesn’t know what makes him weak and what makes him strong. And now look at you, pretending you’re someone else, shirking your gift.” He shook his head. “Good thing for you I showed up.”

“Oh, yeah,” Davy said. “We’re all thrilled when you show up. I have news for you. I’m not playing the game anymore, and neither are Sophie and Amy.”

“Then you’re not living,” Michael said. “I’d worry, but I know you too well. You’ll be back. You need the edge.”

“Did you come here for a specific reason?” Davy said. “Or just to piss me off?”

“I’m on my way to see my grandson,” Michael said, settling back.

Davy thought of the hell Michael could make for Sophie, her peace shattered, her reputation ruined in a small town that never forgot anything, not to mention the monetary damage he could do when he sang his song to her. “No you are not.”

“A man is entitled to see his grandson,” Michael said, expanding a little. “Sophie would want me there. I hear she named him after me.”

“She named him Dempsey, which is not specifically you. And you are staying out of her way, the same way I do. She has a good, law-abiding life and she doesn’t need us screwing it up for her.” He stood up. “The fun’s over. You’re leaving now.”

“I thought we’d both go,” Michael said, not getting up. “This weekend. Family reunion. You could keep me in line.” He smiled at Davy cheerfully. Too cheerfully.

“You don’t know where she is,” Davy said, relaxing.

“Of course I do,” Michael said. “She’s here in Ohio.”

“It’s a big state,” Davy said. “You wouldn’t think so, but it is. Have a nice time searching it.”

“I’ll find out,” Michael said. “Good God, boy, it’s not like I mean her harm. I love her. She’s her mother all over again. And she has my first grandchild. I want to see the boy, see the men my girls married.”

He said it with such sincerity that Davy was impressed. “You lie through your teeth and you make it sound like ‘Danny Boy.’ I’m amazed they ever got enough on you to arrest you.”

“Technically they didn’t,” Michael said. “It was a bum rap. And I’m telling the truth. I want to see this boy.”

“This boy was born a year ago.” Davy folded his arms and stared down at his father grimly. “Your girls were married three years ago. You’re looking for cold cash, a warm bed, and a hot meal in a place the law won’t find you, and once you get there you’ll scam somebody, and it’s a little town and everybody will know, and Sophie will be humiliated. And here’s some news that may not have trickled down: Amy married a cop. I know this guy. He is not sentimental. He will not think you’re a colorful old grandpa. If there’s a warrant out for you, he will can your ass without blinking.”

“You have such a cynical view of human nature,” Michael said thoughtfully.

“Gee, wonder why,” Davy said, feeling like a thirteen-year-old even as he said it.

“It was that woman,” Michael said. “I warned you about her.”

“What woman?” Davy said, legitimately confused.

“That Cleopatra blonde,” Michael said. “That one you had in L.A. She had you so roped you couldn’t have scammed a Sunday school. She was the worst thing for you. She made you bitter.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Davy said, surveying him. “There’ve been darker influences.”

“Where is she now?” Michael said. “Still married to that anchor guy she dumped you for?”

“No,” Davy said. “She killed him. Then she married somebody else and killed him, too.”

“I’m not surprised,” Michael said. “So where is she now?”

“Here,” Davy said. “Stalking her third.”

“I knew it.” Michael sat back. “You’re still chasing her.”

“No,” Davy said. “I’m chasing my money. She has it.”

“That was careless of you,” Michael said. “Leave her alone. Make some more.”

“I’d rather get my old stake back, thanks,” Davy said. “It’s-”

“You know, this place is not bad.” Michael looked around the room. “That gallery, it’s a sweet setup. You could do some damage here.”

“No,” Davy said, trying to forget that he’d thought the same thing. “This is legit. And the Goodnights are another family you will not be ruining.”

“So what are you doing here?” Michael said.

“They’re my way to Clea,” Davy said. “She needs them, and I can use them to get to her.”

“That’s my boy,” Michael said. “So which one are you spending nights with? The kid’s too young, and Gwennie’s keeping company with a steady guy. That leaves the brunette with the glasses.” He nodded. “Not bad. My guess is, she’s not stupid and she won’t fold in a pinch. Nice ass, too.”

“I’ve never liked you,” Davy said.

Michael’s shoulders shook, which for him was roaring laughter. “I missed you, boy.”

“I didn’t miss you.” Davy walked over to the door and opened it. “And now you’re leaving.”

“I don’t think so,” Michael said, looking around. “This is a nice room.”

“It’s Simon’s,” Davy said. “And he makes full use of it.”

“So where are you sleeping?” Michael got up, and then nodded. “Right. With the glasses. And Gwennie has a stable guy.”

“Which means there’s no room in the inn.” Davy pointed to the hall. “Out.”

Michael ambled toward the door. “I think we should go next weekend,” he said as he passed Davy. “I think-”

Across the hall, Dorcas opened her door. “I’m painting over here,” she said, fixing Davy with her glare.

“An artist,” Michael said, shaking his head at her in admiration. “And we broke your concentration. A thousand apologies.”

“One’s enough,” Dorcas said. “That and shutting up.”

“The artistic temperament,” Michael said. “Fascinating. Could I see your work?”

Dorcas blinked at him.

“Dorcas, this is my father,” Davy said. “He’s a liar, a cheat, and a seducer of women, and he’s looking for a place to stay. Avoid him at all costs.”

“Michael Dempsey,” Michael said, taking her hand. “Dorcas. Lovely name. It means ‘lily’ in Gaelic.”

“It means ‘gazelle’ in Greek,” Dorcas said, but she didn’t take her hand back, and Davy thought there might actually be color in her cheeks. She nodded toward Davy. “Is he telling the truth about you?”

“Sadly, yes,” Michael said, smiling at her. “I am completely without redeeming value.”

Dorcas smiled back at him.

“But I really would like to see your work,” Michael went on. “I rarely meet artists and never artists at work. May I?”

And while Davy watched with a sinking heart, Dorcas said, “Yes.”

“Don’t do it, Dorcas,” he said.

“Oh, please,” Dorcas said. “Like you’re a prize.” Then she stepped back and let Michael in.

“Jesus,” Davy said and went downstairs to warn the Goodnights about his father.

DAVY SPENT the rest of the week painting and hauling furniture and watching Michael with an eagle eye while Nadine and Ethan followed his every order. Gwen planned the details of the opening with skill if not pleasure, and made sure that the advertising was in place and that there would be a reporter to cover the preview. Simon worked on the security, still missing Louise, and on Tuesday, part of his wardrobe. “Your dad borrowed a shirt from me,” he said. “Evidently neither one of you knows how to pack.”

And Tilda came in after work on her mural and painted with Davy, saying, “You know, I never get enough of painting walls.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Davy said. “You worked all day.”

“It’s the least I can do for you,” Tilda said. “You’re working your butt off for us.”

“Actually, the least you could do for me,” Davy began, and then stopped when Tilda looked at him over her glasses. He did not want to hear about her damn vibrator again. “Never mind.”

Tilda nodded and went back to painting. “I can’t believe your dad moved in with Dorcas an hour after he got here.”

“Yes. I know. He is without morals.”

“But he’s efficient,” Tilda said. “It took you a good twenty-four hours to get into my bed.”

“Hey,” Davy said. “If I’d wanted in earlier-”

Tilda looked at him over the tops of her glasses again.

“Right,” he said and kept painting.

Eve and Jeff and Andrew ran errands and did odd jobs and generally oiled the wheels, while Ford pitched in whenever they needed a repair that required actual skill, especially if it meant sharing space with Gwen. Even Mason showed up to monitor the action, so happy about the opening that he cheered everybody else up, with the possible exception of Ford. They were a team, albeit a strange one.

Michael was another matter. When Davy caught him playing monte outside a local high school, he dragged him off, threatened him with death, and gave him a job of his own to do.

“Where’s Michael?” Tilda said when she got home from mural painting on Wednesday.

“Don’t go looking for trouble,” Davy said.

“I like him,” Tilda said. “I wouldn’t give him money, but I like him. What did you do with him?”

“Two birds with one stone,” Davy said. “I told him about Colby.”

“And?”

“And he took him for a quick five thousand this morning,” Davy said. “He’s dropping off half of it at Mrs. Brenner’s as we speak.”

“Five thousand dollars?” Tilda said.

“The old man is good,” Davy said, trying not to feel proud.

“What is it he does again?” Tilda said.

“Sales,” Davy said.

“Right. You really think he’s going to give the money to Mrs. Brenner?”

“Half of it,” Davy said. “He’ll do it. He has a strong sense of justice. Just no morals.”

“How you managed to turn out so honest…” Tilda’s voice trailed off as she shook her head.

“It’s a miracle,” Davy said and went to work on the outside of the gallery before God struck him dead.

After that, since he had a stake, Michael stayed home with Dorcas and kept finding his way down to the gallery, and Davy kept an exasperated eye on him, as did Ford, every time Michael went near Gwen.

“That Ford is no fool,” Davy told Gwen on the day of the preview showing. “I like him, even if he is going to kill me.”

“Don’t joke,” Gwen said. “It’s too upsetting.”

“I was kidding. He’s not going to kill me,” Davy said, patting her shoulder.

“You don’t know that,” Gwen said.

“Sure I do,” Davy said. “If he was going to do it, he’d have done it by now.”

“Then why is he still here?” Gwen said, and Davy grinned at her. “Me? But he’s a hit man.”

“I’ve heard they’re a hot date,” Davy said. “You know, guys who are bent go the extra mile.”

“Speaking of which,” Gwen said, “your father borrowed a twenty from me.”

“Oh, hell,” Davy said, and reached for his wallet.

“And then he brought me back fifty,” Gwen said. “He said he’d been playing pool and it was my cut.”

“Oh,” Davy said. “He didn’t stick it in your T-shirt, did he?”

“Of course not,” Gwen said. “He’s a gentleman.”

“Right,” Davy said, and went back to the office to plan the next night’s heist.

Later that day, when Gwen had gone out to lunch with Mason, Davy saw Nadine out at the gallery counter, with three cards spread in front of her, laughing at Ethan.

“What the hell?” he said and went out. “What are you doing, young lady?”

“Your dad taught me this cool game,” Nadine said, flipping three cards down in front of him on the counter. “Here’s the queen-”

“Nadine,” Davy said, “I told you to stay away from my father. The only way to win at three-card monte is to cheat. That’s bad.”

“I wouldn’t play for money,” Nadine said, trying to sound shocked and half-succeeding.

No wonder Dad taught her to play, Davy thought. She’s a natural. “Forget it.”

“I love it,” Nadine said. “It’s a sure thing.”

“There are no sure things.”

“Oh, yeah?” Nadine said. “You can’t beat me.”

Davy took a five out of his pocket and slapped it on the table. “Where’s yours?”

Nadine held out her hand to Ethan, and he sighed and dug a five out of his pocket and handed it to her. “You’ll get it back, Ethan,” she said.

“No you won’t, Ethan,” Davy said. “Deal ‘em.” He watched her shuffle the cards, show him the queen, and then palm it while she moved the rest around. For only having practiced a couple of hours, she was damn good.

“Okay,” Nadine said, still moving cards. “Now, where’s the queen?”

“Right here,” Davy said, putting his finger on the middle card.

“Well, let’s look and see,” Nadine said, smug with her queen up her sleeve.

“Let’s,” Davy said, keeping his finger on the middle card. He turned over the eight of clubs to the right and the four of spades to the left. “Will you look at that? Neither one is the queen, so it must be the middle one.” He took the two fives on the table.

“That’s not fair,” Nadine said, looking outraged.

Davy took his hand off the card and grabbed her wrist. “Neither is this,” he said, sliding the queen out of her sleeve and flipping it at her. “Don’t let me catch you pulling this on anybody ever again.”

“Can I practice it on Ethan?” Nadine said.

“You’re screwing Ethan over enough,” Davy said. “You don’t need to take him at cards, too. Put the last coat of paint on the door instead.”

“I’m really tired of painting,” Nadine said dangerously.

“ ‘We keep you alive to serve this ship,’” Davy said to her. “ ‘Row well and live.’”

“Ben Hur” Ethan said, evidently not too perturbed about being screwed over.

“Honestly,” Nadine said, and stuffed the cards in her pocket.

Davy went back into the office and found Tilda watching through the door. “Your niece has a real knack for crime.”

“And yet I feel certain that you also can play that game,” Tilda said.

“Can,” Davy said. “I don’t.”

“So law-abiding,” Tilda said. “Such an example to us all.”

“Now about this burglary tomorrow night,” Davy said. “Definitely wear that Chinese thing. I like it.”

Michael was nowhere to be found that evening, but the next night, on his way to meet Tilda for one last theft, Davy knocked on Dorcas’s door. When Michael answered, Davy said, “Do not teach Nadine con games.”

“You’ve got to teach them when they’re young,” Michael said. “That’s another reason I have to go see Sophie. Dempsey’s a little underage yet, but doesn’t Sophie have a stepdaughter?”

“Dillie,” Davy said. “You will not be teaching her to con.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Davy stopped, remembering Dillie’s practice swing. “You just won’t.”

“Already taught her, huh?” Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

“I really wish you weren’t here,” Davy said. “I’m going straight, damn it.”

“Nice black shirt,” Michael said. “Robbing somebody?”

Davy closed his eyes and went down the stairs.

THE GALLERY looked beautiful and Gwen hated it.

She looked at her watch to check the time. Ten minutes to the preview. Maybe if she threw up on the cash register, they’d let her go upstairs and do a Double-Crostic.

Then she kicked herself. The entire family had worked their fingers to the bone for this place and it gleamed now, filled with the color and fun in Tilda’s furniture and a beautiful buffet that Thomas the Caterer had laid out, and they were going to make money, and she was whining because she wanted to be scuba diving. No, that wasn’t right. She wanted to go upstairs and pull the covers over her head.

“Mrs. Goodnight?” Thomas said, and Gwen looked up startled.

“Oh, Thomas, I’m sorry,” she said, trying not to stare at the two yellowing bruises on his forehead. “The buffet looks wonderful. You-”

“Could I talk to you for a moment?” he said, putting his hand on her arm, and Gwen was so startled, she let him draw her into the office. He took out a leather case and showed her a badge. “Thomas Lewis, FBI.”

Gwen squinted at it. “You’re FBI?”

“Shhh.” Thomas looked around. “I’m here undercover, Mrs. Goodnight, no one can know. Can you keep a secret?”

Oh, honey, Gwen thought.

“I’m investigating Clea Lewis,” he told her, keeping one eye on the door. “We think she murdered her husband.”

“Oh.” That actually sounded plausible.

“And stole his art collection,” Thomas went on. “Cyril Lewis was a very wealthy man, but when he died, the estate was bankrupt.”

“Well, Clea’s not cheap,” Gwen said. “Maybe they just spent it.”

“They did,” Thomas said. “On paintings. Cyril Lewis bought over two million dollars’ worth of paintings in the last year of his life.”

“Wow,” Gwen said, calculating the commissions.

“They were stored in a warehouse,” Thomas said. “But it burned to the ground the day before Cyril Lewis died.”

He was beginning to sound like a bad radio play. “And you think Clea killed him?”

“He wouldn’t be the first husband she killed,” Thomas said. “We could never get any evidence on her, but her first husband died under very suspicious circumstances. She’s a vicious woman. We have every reason to believe she’s put a contract killer in this very building.”

“Really,” Gwen said, trying to sound surprised.

“We think she’s trying to kill an ex-lover,” Thomas said.

“Really,” Gwen said, not faking anymore. “Huh.” She wondered if Tilda knew. Probably. Tilda didn’t miss much.

“The reason I’m talking to you,” Thomas said, “is that she’s showing a lot of interest in your gallery.”

“Not really,” Gwen said. “She’s-”

“If she tries to sell you the paintings,” Thomas said, “we’d like to know about it.”

“I don’t buy paintings,” Gwen said. “Galleries take artwork on commission. We don’t buy anything.”

“If she talks to you about paintings at all,” Thomas said, “we want to know.”

“We.”

“The Bureau.”

“Right.” The Bureau. “Well, I’ll certainly keep you informed,” Gwen said, thinking, If you’re FBI and Ford’s the bad guy, this country is in trouble. Hell, if he was the law and Clea was the bad guy, they were in trouble. “Have you been working for the Bureau long?”

“No,” Thomas said, straightening. “But I’m fully qualified.”

“Good,” Gwen said, getting to her real concern. “Can you cater, too?”

“I buy the food from restaurants,” Thomas said, a little shamefaced. “It gives me time to investigate the case.”

“Oh, excellent,” Gwen said, brightening. “Restaurants.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Not a soul,” Gwen said.

“And keep your eyes open for those paintings,” Thomas said as he opened the door to the gallery.

“Story of my life,” Gwen said, and went back to the gallery as the first customer opened the door.

HALF AN HOUR later, Tilda watched the gallery from the office, feeling odd, as if she were watching an old movie. She’d stared at a hundred previews like this, some so long ago she’d had to stand on a footstool to see through the window in the door. There was something wrong this time, and it took her a minute to realize that there was nobody out there being a ringleader, nobody standing in the middle of the room laughing and directing the show.

Then Mason made his entrance wearing a brocade vest, Clea on his arm looking magnificent in a black halter dress cut to her waist and huge gold hoop earrings. Mason moved to the center of the room, laughing and gesturing like a parody of Tilda’s father, and she thought, Poor guy. He just doesn‘t get it.

Davy came in from the hall. “And Vilma’s wearing her Chinese jacket. Must be time to steal something and neck in a closet.”

“Mason and Clea are here,” she told him.

“Then we’re gone.” Davy picked up Jeff’s keys, glanced through the office door, and said, “Whoa.”

“What?” Tilda followed his eyes back into the gallery.

Clea had turned around. Her dress had no back. As they watched, she turned to smile up at Mason, her perfect profile overshadowed only by her equally perfect bustline.

“Oh,” Tilda said, trying to keep the snarl out of her voice.

“Back off, Veronica.” Davy grinned down at her. “I’m just enjoying the scenery. I know she’s a hag from hell.”

“Yes, but she was good in bed, wasn’t she?” Tilda said, watching Clea walk across the floor, every movement liquid with grace. I don’t like you. “Better than me.”

“Yes,” Davy said. “Can we go?”

“Lots better than me?” Tilda said.

Davy closed his eyes. “Why do you ask this stuff? You know it’s going to be bad.”

“Tell me,” Tilda said.

Davy sighed and looked out at the gallery. “You see the stuff you painted? How every move you made painting it was just right because you worked really hard at it and because you have a genius for it?”

“Thank you,” Tilda said, touched in spite of herself.

“Clea fucks like you paint.”

“Oh,” Tilda said.

“If it’s any consolation, she probably paints like you-”

“You’re never touching me again,” Tilda said.

“Oh, and there was a chance I was going to before I said that?” Davy said. “Can we go now?”

“Absolutely,” Tilda said, trying to remember what was important. She was getting the painting back. Davy would get his money back. Then the show would be over and he’d go to Australia and she’d go back to her nice, calm mural-painting life.

“Now what’s wrong?” Davy said.

“You know, I was happy before you came here,” Tilda said and headed for the door.

“No you weren’t,” Davy said, following her. “You-”

Ethan came in carrying Steve, who was wearing a brocade vest and a black bowtie and looking a little perturbed about the whole thing. “Nadine made the vest,” he said. “She said it was a gallery-opening tradition.”

“That should perk Mason right up,” Tilda said. “Don’t bite anybody, Steve.”

“You leaving now?” Ethan said.

“Yes,” Davy said. “We’re-”

“Well, ‘have fun stormin’ da castle,’” Ethan said and carried Steve out into the gallery.

Davy looked at Tilda. “Does everyone know we’re committing a crime tonight?”

“Jeff doesn’t,” Tilda said. “We try to keep him pure for the defense.”

“Good to know,” Davy said and went out to the parking lot. “You should have lights out here,” he told her when they were in the car.

“We should have the money to put in lights out here,” Tilda said. “Let me get Simon paid off for the gallery paint first. And, oh yeah, the mortgage.”

“Right,” Davy said. “This is the perfect life I screwed up?”

“I know.” Tilda let her head fall back on the seat. “Not your fault. Except it is.”

“I did not-”

“Before you came, I didn’t know I was unhappy,” Tilda said. “I just put my head down and kept moving. And then you grab me in a closet and, all of a sudden, I notice that I’m miserable painting murals and lousy in bed.”

“ ‘Lousy’ was your word, not mine,” Davy said. “And I’m willing to coach you on that.”

She rolled her head to look at him. “I was not happy about you fixing up the gallery.”

“I know,” Davy said.

“I am now. It’s beautiful, it’s actually more beautiful than I remember it. And seeing all that stuff I painted in there makes me want to paint again, for real. It makes me happy. And when you’re gone, that’ll be gone, too, because we can’t keep it going, we don’t have the time and we don’t have the…” She waved her hand. “The razzle-dazzle. That was my dad. And Gwennie’ll go back to the Double-Crostics, and Nadine’ll go back to dating careers, and I’ll go back to painting murals. So thank you for giving me back the gallery, but you’re ruining my life.”

“I know,” Davy said.

She frowned at him. “You do not know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Davy said. “I know you’re a great painter, I know you hate painting the murals, I know you love your family, I know you’re really mad at your dad for something, and I know that the gallery is where you belong. I know you.”

Tilda lost her breath. “Not as much as you think,” she said, looking out the window. “Shouldn’t we be moving or something?”

“Yes.” Davy started the car. “There will be closets, Vilma. Control yourself.”

“There is one thing,” Tilda said.

“What now?” Davy said, sounding wary.

“If something goes wrong tonight,” Tilda said, “I’m staying. No more me leaving you to carry the can, no more you shoving me out the door. Tonight, we’re in this together.”

Davy was quiet for a minute. “Okay.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Tilda said. “But I don’t want you doing it, either.”

“I know,” Davy said. “But tonight is the last time. It’s all over tonight.”

“I know.” Tilda looked out the window again. “Let’s go.”

BACK AT the gallery, Gwen was watching Mason and thinking, He’s such a sweet man. Maybe I can have Ford kill him. No, that wasn’t funny, but it would have been nice if somebody knocked him cold because he was single-handedly screwing up her gallery preview. And as much as she hadn’t wanted it, if she had to have it, she wanted it to be a success.

She watched him now, telling some bewildered woman that buying a chest of drawers painted with tangerine-colored zebras was a good investment. “Art appreciates,” he said, and Gwen went around the counter and took his arm.

“Mason, honey,” she said.

“I think I’ll wait on that,” the woman said, backing away. “Can I pet the dog?”

“Of course!” Gwen said cheerfully.

Mason shook his head. “That dog is going to ruin the whole thing,” he whispered to Gwen. “Can’t we get it out of here? Nobody will take us seriously with it around.”

We’re selling furniture with orange zebras on it, Gwen thought. “The thing is,” she told him, “this furniture is not an investment. You buy this kind of art because you love it, not because it appreciates.”

He looked at her fondly and patted her arm. “You leave this to me, Gwennie. I know what I’m doing.”

No you don’t, Gwen thought, but he wasn’t harassing that poor woman about the zebras anymore, so she went back to the counter.

At the back of the gallery, Michael was laughing with a woman who was holding a Finster but looking at Michael. Miraculously, the man had sold three Finsters since the doors had opened. Maybe we should keep him around to run the place, Gwen thought, and then thought,

No. Michael would sell everything they had including Steve and then leave with the money. Sweet man, but completely immoral.

Across the room, Nadine was smiling and laughing, too, and selling furniture, and for a moment, Gwen could see Tony in her, or at least his charm. Then the woman Nadine was laughing with came over and paid a hundred dollars for a footstool painted with dancing cats and Gwen thought, She got his gift for selling damn near anything, too.

She smiled at the woman and took her money and looked around for Mason. He was talking to a graying man in a suit about a table covered in red beagles. Gwen could have sworn she heard him say “investment” clear across the room.

It was going to be a long night. My gallery for a piña colada, she thought, and went to rescue another customer.

THE BASEMENT window was still broken so Tilda and Davy got in without a problem, and it was like old times, climbing the stair to Clea’s closet in the dark.

“Very nostalgic,” Davy said, echoing Tilda’s thoughts. “Go on upstairs to the room with the paintings and find your Scarlet. I’ll hit Clea’s bedroom for the laptop.”

“Okay.” Tilda looked up the next dark staircase with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

“Unless you want to search the closet with me,” Davy said. “That’s always interesting for us.”

“Upstairs it is,” Tilda said, and spent the next hour on the next floor with a penlight, flipping through dozens of wrapped paintings looking for eighteen-inch-square paintings or something that might be an eighteen-inch square framed. Some of the paintings had been clumsily unwrapped, and she gave in to curiosity and looked.

There were some nice pieces, but nothing startling. As a collector, Mason didn’t have much flair, which was pretty much in line with the rest of Mason, poor man. Maybe Gwennie could liven him up some.

She found the last square painting, carefully unwrapped a corner of it, and saw a checkered night sky, but not one of hers. What the hell? she thought and unwrapped it completely. It was eighteen inches square with a blue checked sky, but it was a forest scene, and she’d never painted a forest. She moved the penlight to the corner to make out the name, printed in block letters in the lower right corner: Hodge.

Huh, she thought. Homer. I never saw this one. She’d forgotten that she’d copied the checkerboard skies from Homer, maybe because she’d liked doing them. Well, that made sense. She was a forger. She moved the penlight over the painting to see what else she might have copied. The trees certainly weren’t anything she’d have done, but in between the trunks were little animals, and she’d always liked painting animals, although not like these, they were too small and they had…

Tiny sharp white teeth.