Faking It

Chapter 8

DOWN IN THE BASEMENT, Tilda flipped on the light in her father’s studio and noticed for the first time how the white walls and cabinets gleamed back at her, glossy and sterile. “This place looks like a meat locker,” Davy had said when he’d walked into her white bedroom, and now, looking around the spotless studio, she could see his point. Monochromatic white was a great look for a studio full of paintings, not so good for empty rooms. Maybe she’d take a week off and paint a jungle in the attic, thick green leaves that covered her walls and headboard, only this time, no Adam and Eve, they were too hokey, she’d paint a jungle for Steve to hide in.

Then she shook herself out of it. She wasn’t going to have a week off for years, and when she did, she wasn’t going to paint a jungle, that was for kids, Nadine would paint a jungle. No, she’d paint the walls a nice light blue, maybe some stars on the ceiling, maybe some clouds on the walls, too, so she could sleep in the sky…

That was ridiculous, too. Time to get practical. She put her breakfast on the drawing table, went to the drawers along the side of the room, and pulled open the one marked “19th Century.” Flipping through the prints stacked there, she found one of Monet’s water lilies, coming soon to a bathroom wall in New Albany. At least the Impressionists didn’t take nearly as long to forge as the Renaissance painters, so maybe she would have time to paint her room week after next. Maybe yellow. With her kind of sunflowers lining the walls, only with real suns for heads…

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said out loud. She was not going to paint sunflowers in her room. She laid the print on the table, put Melissa Etheridge on the stereo, and turned on the lamp clamped to the edge. It cast a clean white light, nothing to taint the colors in the print, and Tilda began to eat with one hand and make color notations with the other, concentrating on the job at hand, the one that made the money, while Melissa sang “I’m the Only One.” It was a good job. She was her own boss, and she got to paint, she liked to paint, she’d spent fifteen years building a rep as a great painter. Of mural-sized forgeries.

Life could be a lot worse. She could be dependent on somebody else, she could be answerable to a boss, she could have to pretend she liked somebody in order to eat, that would be hell. She was lucky.

She looked at the print in front of her and thought, I hate Monet. And then she went back to work.

THREE BLOCKS AWAY, Clea sat at the breakfast table, tapping her fingernail against her coffee cup. It was the closest she could come to throwing the damn thing at Mason and still project loving warmth, the kind of woman he’d want to face over the breakfast table for the rest of his life.

“Could you stop doing that?” Mason said over his paper.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Clea said, pulling her fingers back. “I was thinking.”

“Don’t,” Mason said and went back to his paper.

Not good. Not good at all. First she’d had to spend the entire evening sitting in that ratty little art gallery watching Mason get all excited about old papers with Gwen Goodnight. Then Davy Dempsey had shown up, and worst of all, when they got home, Mason had said he was too tired for sex. Something had to be done.

“You’re tapping again,” Mason said, closing his paper.

“I’m sorry.” Clea pushed the cup away and smiled brightly. “So what are we going to do today?”

“Well, I’m going to work on my Scarlet Hodge research,” Mason said. “I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

“Oh.” Clea tried to sound bright and independent. “I think I’ll go to the museum and look at their primitives. I want to see how they compare to Cyril’s collection.”

“Very well,” Mason said dryly. “Cyril’s collection wasn’t exactly museum quality.”

“He thought it was,” Clea said, maintaining her smile at great cost. At least, Ronald had told Cyril it was before his death. Ronald had probably gotten that wrong, too, not that they’d ever know with the insurance company dragging its feet.

“Yes, and after he died, nobody else thought much of what was left, did they?” Mason pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’m sorry, Clea, I don’t mean to be disrespectful of your late husband, but he really wasn’t a good collector.”

“He was a good man,” Clea said, surprising herself and Mason at the same time.

“Yes, he was,” Mason said, smiling at her for the first time that morning.

“Let me know if I can help you.” Clea leaned forward a little, projecting wifeliness and giving Mason a nice view down the front of her blouse.

“You know what would be a help?” Mason said.

Clea leaned forward a little more.

“If you could make breakfast,” Mason said. “We’ve been making do with toast and coffee for a week now. Can you make omelets?”

Clea felt her smile freeze on her face. “Omelets?”

“Never mind.” Mason turned away. “Maybe we should get that caterer in full time. What was his name?”

“Thomas,” Clea said, her smile still locked in place.

“Maybe Thomas does breakfasts,” Mason said and went upstairs.

Clea sat back in her chair. Breakfast. He wanted her to cook. She had flawless skin, she wore a size four, she knew every sexual position that a man over fifty could want, she was unfailingly cheerful, supportive, complimentary, and passionate on demand, and now he wanted breakfast!

Honest to God, if she had enough money, she’d give up men forever.

The doorbell rang, and Clea got up to answer it. Maybe it was Thomas, looking for work again. If they kept him full time, he could answer the door, too.

She opened the heavy oak door and blinked at the man on the step. Tall, weather-beaten, black hair graying at the temples, wintry gray eyes, angular jaw, shoulders a woman could lean on… not Thomas. It would be so nice if you had money, Clea thought, and then took the rest of her inventory: beat-up tweed jacket, worn jeans, boots that had seen better days… not rich. She let her eyes go back to his face. “We’re not buying anything.”

She started to close the door, but he put his foot in the way. “Clea Lewis?”

“Yes,” Clea said, feeling a chill. She was positive she hadn’t seen this man before, but-

“Ronald Abbott sent me,” he said. “About your problem.”

“Problem?”

“It would be better if I came in,” the man said slowly. “The longer your neighbors watch me on your porch, the better witnesses they’ll make.”

“Witnesses?” Clea said faintly. Oh, God, I told Ronald to get rid of Davy.

The man smiled at her. It wasn’t pleasant. “If anything goes wrong,” he said.

I do not deserve this, Clea thought. This is not the way my life is supposed to be.

“Mrs. Lewis?” the man said.

Clea opened the door.

DAVY WOKE UP feeling cheerful. It was a feeling he hadn’t had in months, and it persisted even when he rolled over and remembered where he was: broke and alone and about to go looking for four paintings he didn’t care about. He found Tilda’s bathroom, showered, shaved, and dressed at full speed, stopping only once, on his way out the door, when he caught sight of a sampler hung over Tilda’s white desk. He looked closer and saw a naked Adam and a naked Eve standing under a spreading cross-stitch tree surrounded by tiny animals with tiny teeth, and under them a verse:

Remember to be nice to Gwennie, he thought, and then he took the stairs two at a time to find Tilda and breakfast, not necessarily in that order.

Instead he found Nadine drinking juice in the office, dressed in a vintage housedress printed with little red teapots. She had a red ribbon threaded through her blonde curls and red lipstick on her Kewpie-doll mouth, and she was wearing bobby socks with red heels. Steve sat at her feet, fascinated by the bows on her shoes, nudging them with his nose, clearly thinking about chomping one.

“You’re looking very Donna Reed today,” he said. “Where’s your aunt Tilda?”

“Working in the basement,” Nadine said. “Steve, stop it. She said the notes you wanted about some paintings are in the top desk drawer. And I was going for Lucy Ricardo. Donna wasn’t much for prints. Want some juice? It’s orange-pineapple. Grandma’s very big on Vitamin C.”

“Wise woman,” Davy said. “Pour, please.” Nadine got a glass out of the cupboard, and Davy had to grin, she looked so fifties housewife. “So you’re dressed for…?”

“The dentist,” Nadine said, pouring. “Dr. Mark likes all things retro. He has the coolest neon and all these old dental ads. Lucy is for him.”

“A retro dentist.” Davy detoured around the table to get to the desk drawer. “Of course.”

“He’s also a painless dentist,” Nadine said. “First things first. Goodnights are very practical.”

Davy looked around at the stills from the Rayons and the Double Take. “Yeah, I can see that.” He pulled open the desk drawer and found six cards, banded together, the top one headed “Scarlet Hodge.”

Nadine slid his juice to him across the table. “As Grandma says, don’t confuse flair with impracticality.” She looked at him severely over the juice glass. “Very different things.”

Davy picked up the cards and shut the desk drawer. “So basically, you’re a forty-year-old masquerading as a sixteen-year-old.”

Nadine shook her head. “I am a free spirit. Don’t judge me by conventional standards.”

“That would be a mistake.” He stuck the cards in his shirt pocket and tasted his juice. It was sweet but with a kick. Sort of like Tilda.

Andrew came in and nodded at Davy, clearly not happy to see him. He dropped a bakery bag in front of Nadine. “When’s your appointment?”

“Half an hour,” Nadine said. “I’m walking. Fresh air. Very healthy.”

Andrew nodded and gestured toward her dress. “Nice Lucy.”

“Thank you,” Nadine said, beaming at him.

Good dad, Davy thought,

“Want to rehearse that Peggy Lee medley with me tonight?” Andrew went on.

“No,” Nadine said, developing a sudden interest in the ceiling.

“Date with the doughnut, huh?” Andrew shook his head at Davy. “Wait until you have a daughter and she starts bringing home boys. All you can think of is ‘Where did I go wrong?’”

Maybe when you dressed up like Marilyn, Davy thought and then felt ashamed even as Andrew threw him a patient look.

“You didn’t go wrong at all,” Davy said to make up for it. “She’s a great kid.”

“Wait'll you meet the doughnut,” Andrew said.

“This is Burton?” Davy said and Andrew nodded. “Met him. You have my sympathies.”

“Make yourself some whole wheat toast,” Andrew said to Nadine as he headed out the door again. “You need fiber.”

“I had a piece with Aunt Tilda. And he’s not a doughnut,” Nadine said to her father’s back, sounding like a teenager for the first time since Davy had met her.

“Doughnut?” Davy said.

Nadine sighed and opened a cupboard, taking down a loaf of whole wheat. “According to Grandma, there are two kinds of men in the world, doughnuts and muffins.”

“Is there anybody in your family who’s sane?”

“Define ‘sane’.” Nadine dropped two pieces of bread in Gwen’s yellow Fiesta toaster.

“Never mind,” Davy said. “Doughnuts and muffins.”

“Doughnuts are the guys that make you drool,” Nadine said, taking a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. “They’re gorgeous and crispy and covered with chocolate icing and you see one and you have to have it, and if you don’t get it, you think about it all day and then you go back for it anyway because it’s a doughnut.”

“Put some toast in for me when yours is done,” Davy said, suddenly ravenous.

Nadine pushed the bakery bag toward him. “There are pineapple-orange muffins in there.”

Davy fished one out. “You have a thing for pineapple-orange?”

“We have a thing for tangy,” Nadine said. “We like the twist.”

“I picked that up,” Davy said. “So doughnuts make you drool.”

“Right. Whereas muffins just sort of sit there all lumpy, looking alike, no chocolate icing at all.”

Davy looked at his muffin. It had a high golden crown, not lumpy at all. He shrugged and peeled the top off and took a bite. Tangy.

“And while muffins may be excellent,” Nadine went on, “especially the pineapple-orange ones, they’re no doughnuts.”

“So doughnuts are good,” Davy said, trying to keep up his end of the conversation.

“Well, yeah, for one night,” Nadine said, as her toast popped. She dropped in two more pieces for Davy and then dug into the peanut butter, slathering it on her bread like spackle. “But then the next morning, they’re not crisp anymore, and the icing is all stuck to the bag, and they have watery stuff all over them, and they’re icky and awful. You can’t keep a doughnut overnight.”

“Ah,” Davy said. “But a muffin-”

“Is actually better the next day,” Nadine finished. “Muffins are for the long haul and they always taste good. They don’t have that oh-my-God-I-have-to-have-that thing that the doughnuts have going for them, but you still want them the next morning.” She bit into her toast with strong white teeth that were a testament to Dr. Mark.

“And Burton is a doughnut,” Davy said.

“The jury is still out,” Nadine said through her peanut butter. “I find him quite muffiny, but I may be kidding myself.”

“You’re kidding yourself.”

“Maybe not,” Nadine said as Davy’s toast popped. “I think he gets me.”

“In that case, hold on to him.” Davy leaned across the table and took his toast. “He’s one in a million.”

“That’s my plan.” Nadine put her glass in the sink. “I have to go brush my teeth. It was lovely talking to you. Oh, and I met your friend Simon on the stairs this morning. He’s lovely, too.”

“Thanks, I’ll tell him,” Davy said. Then, unable to resist the impulse, he said, “So what am I? Doughnut or muffin?”

“Jury’s still out on you, too,” Nadine said as she came around the table. “Grandma thinks you’re a muffin pretending to be a doughnut. Dad thinks you’re a doughnut pretending to be a muffin.”

“And your Aunt Tilda?”

“Aunt Tilda says you’re a doughnut and she’s on a diet. But she lies about the diet part.” Nadine eyed him carefully. “So if you’re a doughnut, you should probably leave although we might miss you,”

“You might?” Davy said, surprised.

“Yes,” Nadine said. “You may blend nicely. It’s too soon to tell. So be a muffin.” She patted him on the shoulder and headed for the door.

“I’ll try,” Davy said, slightly confused. “Hey, Nadine.”

Nadine stuck her head back through the door.

“What’s Simon?”

“Doughnut,” Nadine said. “With sprinkles.”

“You’re too young to know about sprinkles,” Davy said severely.

Nadine rolled her eyes. “You have no idea what I’m too young for, Grandpa,” she said and turned, only to run into Simon.

“Hello, Nadine,” Simon said, faintly British and perfectly groomed.

Nadine blushed and nodded and then ran up the stairs, coming back again to say, “Davy, can you watch Steve while I’m at the dentist?”

Davy looked down at Steve, who looked back at him with patent distrust. “Sure. We shared a bed last night. We’re buddies.”

Steve drew in air through his nose and honked.

When Nadine was gone, Simon said, “Did I say something rude to make her blush?”

“No.” Davy handed him the bakery bag. “Have a muffin.”

“It’s too early for sweets,” Simon said. “Is there a decent restaurant nearby that serves breakfast?”

“I keep forgetting what a pain in the ass you are,” Davy said. “You’ve lived in America for twenty years. Eat badly, damn it.”

“Bad night?” Simon said, pushing the bag away.

“It would have been better if you hadn’t co-opted my bed,” Davy lied.

“Louise,” Simon said, his voice heavy with respect. “I love American women.”

“Louise may not be representative,” Davy said.

“Louise may be anything she wants,” Simon said. “Extraordinarily gifted.”

“Oh, good for you.” Davy finished off his juice and went around the table to put his glass in the sink.

“What are you so grumpy about? Didn’t you spend the night with your Betty Boop?”

“Tilda,” Davy said. “And yes, I did.”

“Oh,” Simon said. “I gather my sympathies are in order.”

“I’m working on it,” Davy said. “Why are you here?”

“I got a phone call from Rabbit.” Simon settled in at the table. “He seemed a trifle upset.”

“I never touched him.” Davy put the juice away.

“He seems to think someone has put out a contract on you, old boy.”

Davy closed the refrigerator door and considered it. “A hit? On me? Nah.”

“He implied it was an angry woman, which made it more plausible. He also seemed especially concerned that we knew that he had nothing to do with it.”

“That’s Rabbit for you,” Davy said. “He hears about it and wants his ass covered. But I’m not buying it. Tilda isn’t that mad.” Then he remembered the night before. “Oh. Clea.”

“Exactly.”

Davy leaned against the table. “Well, she does like men doing things for her. But I don’t think so. It’s not her MO.”

“He seemed fairly serious, so I flew up,” Simon said virtuously.

“You were bored so you flew up,” Davy said. “And what are you planning on doing, now that you’re here? Because I don’t have time to entertain you, even if you did pay my rent.”

“I thought I’d visit some old haunts-”

“Like the jail?”

“-and then see if you needed any help later with-”

“No,” Davy said.

“Solely in an advisory capacity,” Simon said.

“You get caught again, they’ll throw away the key. And as much as you annoy me, having this conversation on a phone looking at you in an orange jumpsuit would be worse.”

“Are you going to break in again?” Simon said, his voice serious.

“Yes,” Davy said. “I don’t want to, but there are still things in there I need. But not right away. I shot off my mouth to Clea and got her all worked up. I’m going to have to wait a couple of days until she’s distracted with something else.”

“You’re going to need me,” Simon said.

“Maybe for the burglary,” Davy said. “But not on site. You can advise from Miami.”

“And leave Louise?” Simon said.

Davy heard a sound from the doorway and turned to see Eve, blonde, blue-eyed, and fresh-scrubbed in a pink T-shirt that made her look younger than her daughter.

“Morning, Eve,” he said, smiling at her. “This is my friend Simon.”

“Oh.” Eve looked up at Simon and blushed and turned away. “Welcome to Columbus.”

“Thank you.” Simon smiled back at her, avuncular. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“ German Village is nice,” Eve said, a little inanely. She took a muffin from the bag and retreated to the door. “Have a nice stay,” she said over her shoulder.

“And who was that?” Simon said.

“Eve,” Davy said, watching her go. “Nadine’s mama. And quite the cupcake.”

“Don’t go there, my boy,” Simon said. “Never sleep with a mother. It can only lead to grief and guilt.”

“Odd rule,” Davy said. “Mine’s simpler: Never sleep with sisters.” He shook his head. “But you have to admit, Eve is beautiful.”

“Very,” Simon said. “But she’s no Louise.”

WHEN CLEA had seated Ronald’s hit man in the living room, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m not sure what Ronald told you, Mr…”

“Brown. Ford Brown. He said you had a problem that needed taken care of.” He leaned back in the Chippendale chair. It creaked.

“Well, there is this man,” Clea said, lacing her fingers together in her lap to keep them from shaking. “From my past. But I was hoping that Ronald would take care of him.”

“He did,” Ford Brown said. “He sent me.” He stretched out his legs and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want me to do?”

Well, there it was. All she had to do was say, “Kill Davy Dempsey,” and her problems would be over. This man could do it, she had no doubt. He’d probably killed dozens of people. And now here he was, Ronald’s present to her. She was going to have to have a long talk with Ronald.

“Mrs. Lewis?”

“Can you keep him away from me?” she said. “This man. Can you stop him from coming near me?”

“Permanently?”

Clea shifted in her chair. “Well, I don’t want to see him again. Ever.”

The man shook his head at her. “You have to tell me what you want.”

“I want you to stop him from coming after me,” Clea said, trying to sound like a poor, threatened woman. “I don’t know what that would cost-”

“Mr. Abbott already paid my retainer,” the man said. “The final bill pretty much depends on what you need.”

Clea thought about it. What she needed was Gwen Goodnight pushed off a bridge and Davy Dempsey shoved under a bus, and here was the guy who could do both. She bit her lip and looked at him again. He looked very efficient. She’d finally met a man she could count on, and he was a killer. One damn thing after another.

“Mrs. Lewis-”

“I’m thinking,” Clea said. Okay, maybe they could take this one step at a time. “I need you to watch him for me. His name is Davy Dempsey. If he tries to come after me, if he tries to come into this house, I need you to stop him. To protect me. He’s associating with this woman, Gwen Goodnight. I think they’re trying to swindle my fiancé, so I need you to watch her, too.”

“A woman?”

“I said watch,” Clea said. “Just watch her. If she gets close to Mason, if he goes to see her, I need to know so I can protect him.”

“Uh-huh,” the guy said. “You want me to watch.”

“Both of them,” Clea said. “Let me know if they do anything that looks suspicious. And keep them away from me and Mason.” She sat back. That sounded good. Nobody dying, and her alone with Mason. “That’s it. Oh, unless you can find out anything illegal or immoral about Gwen Goodnight. That would be good. Anything you can get on Gwen.” He didn’t look impressed so she added, “So I can protect Mason from her. And from Davy. It’s part of your job.”

“Where are they?”

“She runs the Goodnight Gallery,” Clea said and gave him directions. “That’s the last place I saw Davy, too.”

“And if I have expenses?” Brown said.

“Ronald will take care of it,” Clea said, standing. “Do you have a number where I can reach you?”

“I’ll call you with one when I find a place to stay,” he said. “First I’ll need descriptions of these people.”

Clea sat down again, not sure of how to get rid of him.

“Well, Davy is about six feet, dark eyes, dark hair, good build” -she faltered there a little, remembering- “cocky as all hell, thinks he’s God. Gwen is about five four, blonde hair going gray, watery blue eyes, not much body, not much of anything, really. She runs the gallery.” She smiled at him, trying to look innocent. “I don’t know what Davy’s doing in town besides stalking me.”

“Okay.” He hadn’t taken any notes, which was probably good. No evidence. Then he stood up to go, which was even better.

“So you’ll call me if anything happens,” Clea said, following him to the door.

“No,” he said. “If anything happens, I’ll stop it.”

“Right,” Clea said. “Good man. Best of luck.”

She closed the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief, both that he was gone and that he was going after Davy. God knew where Ronald had found him -Ronald must have depths she wasn’t aware of- but now that he had, her troubles were over.

She did spare a thought for what he meant by “I’ll stop it,” but then she decided that since she hadn’t told him she wanted Davy dead in a ditch, it wouldn’t be her responsibility if he ended up there.

All in all, a good morning. She started up the stairs to dress for the art museum and then slowed down. Breakfast. She had Thomas’s number someplace. All you had to do to make life run smoothly was hire the right people, she decided.

Really, it was so simple.

SINCE IT WAS Saturday, Gwen slept late, but at noon she opened the gallery, poured herself a cup of coffee, punched up an eighties medley on the jukebox, got the last pineapple-orange muffin from the bakery bag, and took everything out into the gallery to the marble counter and her latest Double-Crostic. To her right, the sun streamed through the cracked glass pane above the display window, and the loose metal ceiling tile bounced silently in the breeze from the central air. She thought, I have been doing this for too many years, but there wasn’t much push to the observation since she was undoubtedly going to be doing it for too many more. She looked at the Finster-laden gallery and shook her head, and then bent over her puzzle.

The clue for I was “liable or prone to sin.” What the hell was that? Eight letters, possibly starting with a P, definitely ending in an E. Nothing. She had nothing.

Maybe Davy would know; he’d gotten the Milland movie. And she’d bet he had more than a passing knowledge of sin, too.

Thunder boomed on the jukebox for the Weather Girls’ intro, the bell rang, and she looked up. The man coming in the door was taller and broader than Davy, his dark hair grizzled around his temples, his face seamed by hard living. “You have a room for rent?” he said, and his voice wasn’t as harsh as she’d expected, but it wasn’t gentle, either.

“Uh, yes,” she said, trying not to step back. It wasn’t that he looked threatening as much as it was that he was so much there, blocking all the light from the street. “I’ll need references-”

“Clea Lewis recommended you,” he said. “My name’s Ford Brown. You can call her.”

“Oh.” Gwen let her eyes slide toward the phone. “Uh-”

Then he took out his wallet and opened it and Gwen saw money. Lots of it.

“Eight hundred a month,” she said. “Two months’ rent up front.”

He counted out the bills, several of them hundreds, while she watched. Ben Franklin, she thought. Just lovely. Where the hell had Clea met this guy?

“Are you from around here, Mr…”

“Brown,” he said again. “No.”

Gwen smiled at him, waiting.

“I’m from Miami,” he said, handing her the bills.

“That must be where you met Clea,” she said brightly.

He waited patiently, not smiling, and she thought, Well, at least he’s not charming. Not like Davy. Who was also from Miami.

“Do you know Davy Dempsey?” she asked.

“No,” he said, still patient.

“Because he’s from Miami, too,” Gwen said, feeling like an idiot. “Like you. And Clea.”

“You winter in Florida, we summer in Ohio,” he said, completely deadpan.

“Oh.” That had to be a joke. Didn’t it? “Why would you summer in Ohio?” she said, waiting for him to say, “It was a joke.”

“It’s cooler here,” he said.

She waited for him to say more but he just stood there, huge and patient. It was perverse and Gwen had had enough perverse for one lifetime. She leaned on the counter. “So it’s not cool where you live?”

“It’s not bad.”

“Air-conditioning?” Gwen said.

“No.” She waited and the silence stretched out until he said, “I live on the water.”

Of course, you do, Gwen thought. That’s why you came to Ohio to stay in a dark little overpriced apartment. “Ocean-front condo?”

“My boat.”

“Your boat.” White sands, blue water, alcoholic drinks with little umbrellas. I want a boat, Gwen thought and then kicked herself. Where would she put it? The Olen-tangy?

“Is there something wrong?”

“No,” Gwen said. “I was thinking about your boat. I bet the water’s blue and the sand is white and all the drinks have little umbrellas.”

“Not my drinks.”

“Well, no, of course not.” Gwen looked at him, exasperated. “This boat has a bed and a kitchen and everything?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And you left it to come to Ohio because…”

“I have work here. I won’t be staying long.”

“Oh,” Gwen said. “Then why…”

“Because renting from you is cheaper than staying in a hotel,” he said. “Although not faster.”

“I’ll get the keys,” she said, but it wasn’t until she was in the office, rummaging in the desk drawer, that she realized where he was going to be staying.

Two B. Right across from her.

She picked up the phone, finding the paper with Mason’s number that she’d pinned to the bulletin board. She dialed and listened to the Weather Girls sing “I feel stormy weather moving in” while she watched Mr. Brown through the glass door to the gallery. He was looking at Dorcas’s seascapes. They would help him not miss his boat. Finsters could put anybody off the water for good.

“Hello?” Clea said.

“Clea?” Gwen said. “This is Gwen Goodnight. There’s a man here named Ford Brown who wants to rent an apartment from me. He gave you as a ref-”

“I know him,” Clea said. “It’s okay.”

“Oh.” Gwen peered through the glass again. He hadn’t gotten any less disquieting. “Okay. Thanks.”

So Clea vouched for him and he had sixteen hundred in cash. Well, if he kills me, it’ll be what I deserve for selling out, she thought, and then she went out front, feeling that at least she’d done better than she had with Davy, although Davy had known the Milland movie.

“The outside door is to the left,” she said, handing him the keys. “I’ll take you up.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

He made her uneasy behind her on the way up the stairs, and she thought, If there was only a sign, something that would tell me this is all right, and then on an impulse, she turned back to him, her eyes level with his because he was two steps below her. “You don’t happen to know an eight-letter word that means ‘capable of sin,’ do you?”

He looked at her with no expression on his face at all, and then his lips twitched. “No, ma’am.”

“Oh.” Gwen shrugged, feeling like an idiot. When even the scary guys laughed at her, she had lost it. “Just a thought. I work Double-Crostics and that one’s stumping me.”

He nodded.

She sighed and went the rest of the way up the stairs, and he followed her to the room, looked around without comment, thanked her for her help, and shut the door, leaving her in the hall, a little rattled by the whole thing.

I rented a room to an ax murderer, she thought. Who owns a boat. She turned to see Tilda on the stairs below her.

“Who was that?” Tilda said.

“Mr. Brown,” Gwen said, coming down the stairs. “He just rented Two B.”

“Merciful heavens.” Tilda followed her into the office. “Right across from you. Gwennie, your luck has finally turned.”

“He’s a tenant,” Gwen said.

“No imagination. I vote you go for it.”

“Like you did?” Gwen said, and Tilda shut up.

The gallery door opened, and Nadine came in from the street, running her tongue across her teeth as they went out to meet her. “It always feels weird,” she said. “Dr. Mark says hi. Everyone there was thrilled I’d been flossing.” She looked at them. “What’s up now?”

“Gwennie just rented the last apartment,” Tilda said. “To a very hot guy.”

“Simon?” Nadine said.

“Who’s Simon?” Gwen asked.

“No, a different hot guy,” Tilda said, frowning. “Although now that you mention it, it is raining men here.”

“Simon?” Gwen said.

“Davy’s friend,” Nadine said. “He’s staying in Davy’s room. He paid the rent.”

“So where’s Davy staying?” Gwen said.

“So about Mr. Brown,” Tilda said.

“I think he moved in with Aunt Tilda,” Nadine said.

Gwen looked at Tilda, who looked at the ceiling.

“Right,” Gwen said. “Mr. Brown. I’m sure he’s a very nice man. He’s got that cowboy thing going. His first name is Ford. Maybe his mama was channeling John Ford when she named him.”

“Ford Brown?” Tilda said, her eyes back from the ceiling. “Did you get his middle name?”

“No,” Gwen said, going back to her stool behind the counter. “But I got his sixteen hundred dollars.”

“Because if it’s Madox, we’ve got ourselves a tenant with a fake identity,” Tilda said. “Or the descendent of a famous painter, but what are the chances of that?”

Nadine said, “Famous painter?”

Gwen shook her head. “Or his mama loved her Thunderbird. Let’s not get too paranoid here.” She picked up her Double-Crostic book.

“I have rehearsal,” Nadine said. “Keep me informed on the cowboy painter.”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Gwen turned to her puzzle.

“Davy and I are going to go get a painting.” Tilda kissed her cheek. “I’ll call if we need bail.”

“Oh, good.” Gwen ran her eyes down the list of clues as Tilda went out through the office. Thank God for Double-Crostics. There was never anything upsetting there.

I. Prone to sin. Eight letters.

Ford Brown, she thought.

No that was nine letters.

Doughnut.

She moved on to K.