“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 wit
h 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.
Chapter 9
UPSTAIRS, DAVY HAD GONE through the scarlet notes and was now contemplating his future. “I’m starting to like this room, Steve,” he said to the dog as they stretched out on the white quilt. “Like its owner, it has infinite possibilities.” Steve sighed and put his head between his paws and Davy scratched his ears. “You’ve really got a thing for her, don’t you? Good thinking on your part. She’ll never let you down. Dog biscuits and sleeping on the bed for life.” Steve rolled his head to one side a little to listen, and Davy thought about Tilda, taking care of everybody, desperate to get those paintings back so people wouldn’t find out her father sold forgeries.
That had to be it. There had to be something wrong with those paintings, something dangerous enough to make Tilda turn to crime. Because she wasn’t a natural at it, that was for sure. He spared a moment to wonder what Tilda would have been like if his dad had raised her instead of hers. Not much difference, he decided. Some people were straight clean through. They never got that insane buzz that sliding into forbidden territory set up in the blood, when every nerve ending sharpened and hummed, and every sound and scent was magnified. God, I miss it, he thought. Thanks for raising me to be an adrenaline junkie, Pop. At least he hadn’t turned out like his dad. There would be a horror story for you.
There had to be another way to get that buzz. Some way that was legal. Bungee jumping. No, that was stupid. Drugs. No, that was illegal. Sex. That was Tilda. Okay, she wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but he could get a second shot and make sure she paid attention this time. She could even bite if she wanted to since, given Gwennie’s needlework, it appeared to be a genetic predisposition. He began to think about her instead of crime, and he was feeling fairly cheerful by the time he and Steve heard her step on the stairs.
“We were wondering where you were,” Davy said as she came through the door and Steve sat up and wagged his tail.
“Working,” Tilda said. “Remember me, Matilda Veronica, Mural Painter? That’s what pays the bills here, boy.” She made kissing noises at Steve. “Hi, puppy.”
“That would be Veronica the control-freak bitch you mentioned last night?” Davy said, trying to imagine her making kissing noises in leather. It was surprisingly easy. He patted the bed beside him. “Come and talk to me about these paintings.”
“It’s all in the notes.” She sat down beside him and Steve climbed into her lap and sighed with happiness. “The first one was the city scene,” she said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “That’s the one Nadine sold to Clea.”
“The one I keep missing,” Davy said, watching Steve stretch his head to meet her fingers.
“The second one was the cows and the third one was the flowers,” Tilda said. “You got those.” She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and smiled at him crookedly, her Kewpie-doll mouth askew, the first real smile she’d ever given him, and he leaned toward her a little because she looked so warm.
“Then there were butterflies,” she said. “Somebody named Susan Frost bought that. She’s in Gahanna.”
“Butterflies,” he said, and wondered what she’d do if he went for that warm place under the curve of
her jaw.
“Then mermaids,” she said. “A guy named Robert Olafson got that one. He lives in Westerville.”
Maybe he wouldn’t wait until he had all the paintings. Maybe—
“And the last one, which I can’t believe he sold, is dancers,” Tilda said. “That one went to Mr. and Mrs. John Brenner.”
“Why can’t you believe he sold it?” Davy said, enjoying the energy in her voice. “This is your dad we’re talking about, right?”
“Because it was smeared,” Tilda said. “It was damaged. But my dad sold it anyway.”
She looked unhappy, so Davy changed the subject. “Okay, today we get the butterflies.”
“Can’t we do them all today?” Tilda said. “Can’t we just go buy them back?”
“Sure,” Davy said. “Unless they don’t want to sell. Or they want more than we have to spend. Let’s take our time and do it right.”
“Oh.” Tilda swallowed. “I thought... well, that you could do anything.”
“ ‘You rush a miracle man,’” Davy said,“ ‘you get rotten miracles.’”
She pushed her glasses back up again. “So what do we do if they don’t want to sell?”
“We convince them,” Davy said cheerfully.
Tilda’s face changed.
“What?” Davy said.
“You sound like... somebody I used to know,” Tilda said.
“Your dad,” Davy said.
“No,” Tilda said, but she was lying. She really was a terrible liar.
“Who forged the Scarlets, Tilda?”
“The Scarlets aren’t forgeries,” Tilda said, rising. “But we need to get them back anyway.”
“Okay,” Davy said, rolling off the bed. “Try not to kick anybody this time.”
“Oh, God, I’m trying to forget that,” Tilda said, wincing. “That guy’s probably okay, right?”
“I didn’t see anything in the paper,” Davy said. “And he’s not exactly in a position to whine. He was breaking in, too. He probably came to and got out of there.”
“Right.” Tilda opened the bedroom door, leaving Steve disconsolate on the bed. “You sure you know how to do this?”
“Oh, yeah,” Davy said. “I know exactly how to do this.”