“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:
When Eve ate the apple
Her knowledge increased
But God liked dumb women
So Paradise ceased.
Gwen Goodnight. Her Work.
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 mad
e 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—”