A Fool and His Monet

by Sandra Orchard

  “I didn’t draw it until I was outside,” she said calmly, as if that mattered, which it didn’t.

  “And she has a permit to carry concealed,” Nate interjected, as if that made a difference too. “She got it while you were at Quantico.”

  Seriously? Why was I the only one left in the dark here?

  Aunt Martha beamed up at him. “He drove me to the firearms safety class they made me take.”

  “Oh, and how are your secret agent classes going?” I asked Nate. What had he been thinking, encouraging Aunt Martha to start carrying a gun at her age? “Aunt Martha, you know that pulling out a gun only makes the other guy more likely to shoot. You’re not invincible, you know.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said cheerily, tossing Nate a wink.

  Mom whirled out of the kitchen carrying a platter of meat and set it on the dining room table. “Supper’s ready.”

  “I can’t believe you encouraged her,” I whispered to Nate as we walked to the dining room.

  “Oh, Nate’s always encouraging people,” Mom said. “He’s the one that got that retired professor started on sharing a word of the day. What was his name?”

  “Mr. Sutton.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sutton. Cheered him right up after he got so depressed after retiring. Isn’t that what you said, Aunt Martha?”

  “Yes, cheered him right up.”

  “A regular Little Miss Sunshine, aren’t you?” I said to Nate.

  Nate laughed.

  We joined hands around the table to say grace. Nate’s grip was warm and firm, and after Dad’s “amen,” Nate gave my hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “You don’t have to worry about your aunt. She knows how to handle herself. Just look at what she pulled off yesterday.”

  “So it’s true?” Mom spooned a two-man pile of potatoes on her plate in her excitement. “Aunt Martha really did thwart a kidnapping?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. Never mind that she’d scared me half to death. “Of all the people they passed leaving the hospital, Aunt Martha was the only one who noticed the gun. Without her keen eye and quick action, the kidnapper might’ve gotten away.”

  And I wouldn’t be potentially one clue closer to finding Granddad’s murderer.

  “Oh, pfft.” Aunt Martha waved off the praise. “You young people have better things to think about than an old lady’s shenanigans.”

  “I don’t see any old ladies here,” Nate said, making a show of looking around.

  “Don’t encourage her,” I whispered.

  He grinned, unrepentant.

  “Oh, that reminds me, speaking of old,” Aunt Martha went on. “Since you both like old movies, I brought you something to watch tonight after you get home.”

  Aunt Martha said “home” like we lived together. Not just in the same apartment building. Separately.

  “Cool,” Nate said, clearly unfazed by Martha’s not-so-subtle matchmaking efforts. “Which one?”

  Aunt Martha smiled serenely. “How to Marry a Millionaire.”

  Nate choked on his water.

  Frowning at Aunt Martha, I reached out and patted Nate’s back. I’m sure she hadn’t meant for it to sound so insensitive, even though she had to know Nate wouldn’t make a ton of money as an apartment superintendent. Who cared? He was a nice guy. That’s what really mattered.

  Not that I was looking. In the relationship sense.

  Nate recovered and smiled at Aunt Martha. “Great choice. That was . . . thoughtful of you. And don’t think we aren’t onto you, trying to deflect from your accomplishment.” He raised his water glass in salute. “I propose a toast. Degas once said, ‘Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.’ Here’s to Martha for spotting the evil artist.”

  “Here, here,” Mom and Dad joined in, raising their glasses.

  My hand halted with my glass at half-mast. Petra had been good at making people see what she wanted. Which meant Tanner had probably been right about her saying all that about Granddad just to push my buttons.

  I muffled a sigh, trying not to lose hope that Burke might know something or that a connection between Petra and my grandfather might still turn up. But whether one did or not, I wouldn’t have been any closer to finding Granddad’s murderer if I’d quit after last week’s undercover scare. If nothing else, I’d proved to myself that I could rise to what needed to be done. And that I could count on the support of my family and friends. Mom even seemed to have scaled back her one-woman campaign to convince me to quit.

  And Petra’s seeming motive for her crimes had given me something else to consider. If everyone had a price, then, given strong enough motivation, even the most unlikely suspect in Granddad’s murder might’ve been capable of pulling the trigger. I’d always assumed the thief’s motive was that he didn’t want to be caught, but what if the theft was a cover-up for the murder instead of the other way around?

  My ringing phone jolted me from my thoughts. I glanced at the screen—Matt Speers. “Sorry. I need to take this.”

  “We just got a call about an art theft in Westmoreland. The victim’s claiming the stolen piece is worth over six figures.”

  That was the magic number for the feds to get involved in a residential art burglary. I took down the address. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” Hanging up, I turned to my family. “Sorry, gotta go. Duty calls.”

  Mom’s lips tightened as she rose abruptly and went into the kitchen.

  Dad beamed proudly. “Go get ’em, Sweetheart.”

  Nate walked me to the door. “Be careful out there, huh?” He smiled, and ridiculously, my heart skipped a beat.

  Mom bustled toward us holding a care package. “Your cake.” She kissed my cheek. “I am proud of you. Grab one of our umbrellas. The weatherman said it’s supposed to rain tonight.”

  “Thanks, Mom, I’ll be fine.”

  Twelve minutes later, I parked behind Matt’s cruiser, a fine rain misting the windshield. I pushed open my car door and the sky let loose a torrent of gumball-sized raindrops. Hiking the back of my coat up over my head, I raced through the downpour to the victim’s front porch.

  I should’ve listened to my mother.

  Who would you like to see Serena end up with—NATE OR TANNER?

  Register your vote here:

  http://sandraorchard.com/vote-for-your-favorite

  1

  I tore my eyes from the porch that wrapped around the drug dealer’s house and glanced at my cell phone’s call display. I cringed.

  Mom said there’d be days like this.

  Tanner, still decked out in his SWAT gear, grinned as he peered over my shoulder at the phone vibrating insistently in my hand. “Good thing you’re a kick-butt FBI agent, so you can let little old ladies scare the pants off you.”

  I sent him a silencing glare, then turned away from the rest of the team traipsing in and out of the building and clicked Connect. “Hi, Nana,” I said, injecting fake cheerfulness into my voice. “What’s up?”

  “I need you to come see me right away.”

  “You nee—are you okay?” My heart stuttered. If anything happened to Nana . . .

  “Of course I’m okay. Stop stammering, girl.”

  Tanner, still hovering close enough to hear her strident tones, snickered.

  I placed a muffling hand over the phone.

  “Excuse me. Sir,” I said sweetly. “Don’t you have a forgery to bubble wrap?”

  “Forgery?” His stunned look was so comical, I forgave myself for rushing to a verdict before my usual careful perusal. Not that I was in any serious doubt about this particular painting.

  “Really?” he said, broad shoulders slumping. When I arrived on scene, he’d boasted that they’d turned up art so hot it was still smoking.

  “Yup. Fake.” I too felt a pang of genuine regret that the “Renoir” hanging in the drug dealer’s den wasn’t the one on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List.

  But I’d left Nana hanging.

  Straightening my shoulder
s, I put the phone back to my ear. “Sorry, Nana. Um, I have to be at the drop-in center by 7:00 to teach the art class, so . . .” I cast about in my mind for a workable solution, but honestly, there just wasn’t enough time. “I’m afraid—”

  “Never mind,” she interrupted. “Obviously, you’re at work.” Where you shouldn’t be taking personal calls, her tone implied. “Call me when you get home.”

  “Okay,” I said to dead air.

  Annoyed at myself for the guilty feeling I couldn’t stop from churning my stomach, I turned to study the front of the house once more. Something was niggling at my brain.

  “Um . . . Tanner,” I said, hesitating.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something . . .” I squinted against the dropping September sun, mentally reviewing the interior.

  He grinned. “Stop stammering, girl. Spit it out.”

  “Ha ha.” Wait . . . “Oh, that’s got to be it!” I stuffed my phone in my pocket and headed back inside.

  Tanner followed me. “What’s it?”

  I stopped at the door to the den and glanced at the window three feet from the side wall.

  “Serena? What’s going on?” Tanner pressed, trailing me to the next doorway, this one into a bedroom.

  “The window is only three feet from the wall, just like the other room.”

  “So?”

  “Where’s the attic hatch?”

  “Mason checked the attic.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Humor is my middle name,” Tanner said. “I’m a funny guy.”

  “Uh-huh.” He actually had the best sense of humor of any guy I knew, even if he did run to cheesy puns sometimes.

  Not that I’d admit that to him.

  “Over here.” He steered me toward a stepladder set up near the back door. “There’s nothing up there but insulation and mice.”

  “Mice, huh? Are you trying to scare me out of looking?” I started climbing, and Tanner moved in to hold the ladder steady.

  I pushed open the hatch and stuck my head into the attic.

  “See?” Tanner said.

  “Yes, I do.” I stepped down a couple of ladder rungs and flashed him a grin. “A false wall six to eight feet in from the back of the house.”

  Tanner squeezed past me and beamed his flashlight around the vacant space. “Unbelievable. Mason should’ve caught that.”

  “The wall’s old. From the amount of cobwebs and dust, it wouldn’t have registered unless you were looking for it.”

  Tanner muttered something I couldn’t make out, but having been on the receiving end of Tanner’s displeasure during my FBI training—granted, always fairly earned—I didn’t envy poor Mason his position.

  Tanner hoisted himself into the attic, then balance-beamed his way across a joist to the wall and examined every inch of it. “I don’t see any way to access what’s behind it.” He shone the light over the attic’s insulation-covered floor and then the shoe impressions he’d left in the dust on the joist. “It doesn’t look like anyone else has been up here recently. There must be another ceiling access panel.” He climbed back down, eyeing me with interest. “How’d you know to look for a secret room?”

  I shrugged evasively.

  Tanner followed me back to the room where the “Renoir” had been found and swept his flashlight beam over every inch of the ceiling. “There’s no other way up there that I can see.”

  I maneuvered around the agent photographing evidence. The wall between this room and the next was decorated in wood panels and elaborate moldings that looked uncomfortably familiar. I ran my fingers along the moldings.

  Tanner studied me. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for a secret panel.”

  “Uh-huh. And you seem to know exactly what you’re doing here, Nancy Drew, because . . . ?”

  I expelled a breath. “There was one at my grandfather’s house, okay?”

  “Your grandfather? The one who was murdered?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Maybe you could be helpful, instead of giving me the third degree?”

  “Sorry.” Tanner beamed his flashlight over the section of paneling I was running my hands over.

  My breath caught as my fingertips made contact with the pressure sensor I’d been seeking. “Tanner, I’ve found—”

  “Wait!”

  Primed to open it, I tossed a frown over my shoulder. “Are you really going to pull the SWAT-clears-every-room-first rule on this one?”

  “No,” he said drily. “I thought I’d rock-paper-scissors you for the privilege.” He waved his arm in a get-out-of-my-way gesture.

  My finger still on the sensor, I sidestepped two feet so he’d have a clear view as I pulled back the panel. “You ready? I’ll slide it open and you can call the all clear.” I slid it three-quarters of an inch and froze. “Uh-oh.”

  Tanner cursed. “Please tell me you’re messing with me.”

  I gulped. “You don’t hear that ticking?”

  He crouched down and shone his flashlight through the gap I’d opened. “Blast, Serena, don’t move a muscle.”

  Yeah, got that.

  “Blast!”

  “Tanner, could you stop using that word?”

  “Everybody out!” He shooed out the agents conducting the search. “We’ve got a bomb, people. Move it. Send Douglas in here. And call in the rest of the bomb squad. Now!”

  Tanner returned to my side. “You okay?”

  Sweat slid down my temple into my eye. My arm was trembling from the strain of trying to hold the panel still. “Do I look like I’m okay?” I said through gritted teeth.

  Tanner squatted at my side once more and squinted at the gap. “The panel’s been spring-loaded.” He angled his penlight another direction. “And we’re looking at enough C-4 to level the house if you make a wrong move.” An expletive slipped out. “Tell me more about the setup at your grandfather’s house.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed, then opened them again and looked Tanner in the eye without moving my head. “There was a secret staircase behind a panel exactly like this one. He figured it was built as part of the Underground Railroad.”

  “You mean like the caves under the cobblestone streets at Laclede’s Landing?”

  “Kind of, but his led to the attic, not a tunnel.” I closed off the memories before they could . . .

  “Hey,” Tanner said softly, and he gave me the little half smile that crinkled the laugh lines around his eyes. “It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “I know.” He’d never let me down.

  I concentrated on his six feet four inches of solid muscle reassuringly standing between me and the opening, and an idea made its way to my brain. “If you can find something the same width as my two fingers, I think there’s enough back pressure on the panel to hold it in place.”

  Tanner shook his head. “If you’re wrong, we’d have less than two seconds to clear that window.”

  I squinted at the small slider.

  “It’s eight feet away. And painted shut. Not an option, Jones.”

  “What about tacky putty? That’ll stay put.”

  Tanner looked at the gap and nodded. “That could work.” He shoved a couple of squares of chewing gum in his mouth.

  “No, it can’t,” Special Agent Spencer Douglas of the St. Louis division’s bomb squad said as he entered the room. “The spring pressure could make the panel squish it like a raisin. Give me a chance to see what we’ve got before you try any heroics.”

  I gulped. Okay, this was worse than I thought. Much worse.

  “How are you going to access the bomb if she can’t move?” Tanner demanded.

  “Check the next room for another access panel,” I said. I cleared my throat, embarrassed by the quaver in my voice.

  “Did your grandfather’s place have a second one?” Tanner asked.

  “Yes.”

  Tanner shot Douglas a look. “Be careful. It could be booby-trapped too.”

&nb
sp; Douglas motioned Tanner out of the way, then fished a tiny camera through the crack and slanted the viewer so we could see it with him. “There’s stairs.”

  “Our access to the secret attic room,” Tanner said, sounding pleased. “Just like Serena called it.”

  “Hello? Bomb, people!” I reminded them.

  Doug turned the camera toward the stack of C-4. “Looks like we might have a way in from the other side that’s not booby trapped. You two,” he motioned to Mason and a bomb squad member. “Check the next room for another panel.”

  As the sound of heavy furniture being moved vibrated across the floor, Doug moved the camera around the bomb. “The detonator appears simple enough to disarm.”

  He glanced up at Tanner and me. “I don’t get it. The drugs were left in plain view. The money was stuffed in the wall safe. So what’s the bomb safeguarding?”

  “Got to be something valuable.” Anticipation welled up my chest, despite the scant quarter inch of wood between me and an armload of plastic explosives. My hunch had to be right.

  Doug pulled back the camera. “They’re in. Time to get out, Tanner.”

  “Not leaving my wingman,” Tanner ground out. His eyes radiated sincerity, holding mine with fierce intensity.

  My heart gave a ridiculous flip. “Don’t be an idiot,” I said as Douglas shook his head and left the room to supervise the bomb’s defusing. “There’s no point both of us risking our lives.”

  Tanner’s serious look morphed into mirth, making me miss whatever Douglas had barked on the other side of the wall.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t catch that reference, Miss Movie Buff,” Tanner said, grinning.

  “Huh?”

  “Top Gun.” He leaned in close to me, taking distract-Serena-from-the-bomb to dangerously stupid levels, and smiled. “Tom Cruise, right?”

  I blinked.

  Oh, for crying out loud. Really? “You think now is an appropriate time for this?” My voice squeaked a little, to my mortification.

  Okay, I had a habit of connecting people to their Hollywood lookalikes. And I’d never told Tanner who I thought his doppelganger was. But was this really the time?

  Tanner’s calm was unnatural. “I can’t go to my grave not knowing what movie star you think I look like.”