But time had passed. When you hit a certain age, you began to melt out of the public’s eye. Even with her hennaed hair and flamboyant manner—oh, she knew how she came off—she wasn’t worth a second look. First, it was the men. But after a while, even the younger women, some of them, began to turn on her. Well, she wasn’t entirely helpless.
“Go ask the gal in the bob.” Good lord. They all had bobs. “Betsy. Betsy Dobber, I think her name was.”
When the woman left and people around her dispersed, Gilda put her hand on the arm of a brunette, empty glass in hand, on her way to a refill. “Excuse me.”
The brunette turned, clearly curious. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Eleanor Whiteby Millhouse. She’s about yea tall, wears pearls, kind of—”
“I know who you’re talking about.” The brunette’s face was as soft and powdered as a loaf of risen dough. Not a wrinkle to be seen. Gilda’s gaze dropped to the woman’s liver-spotted hands. They always told.
“You haven’t seen her, have you?”
A bare smile spread over the brunette’s lips. “No. Doubt I will.”
Gilda let her go. It was time to leave, anyway. Ellie clearly wasn’t here, and these women, who probably had a hotline to the town’s gossip, sounded convinced she was still locked away.
The older woman hotfooted her way back with Betsy Dobber in tow. “Her,” she said, nodding at Gilda. “Is she a member?”
“I went through almost five decades of membership records—”
“Is she a member or not?” The older woman’s face, despite its frozen state thanks to the plastic surgeon’s knife, was at maximum smug.
“Some of those records are so dusty I could barely read them. How come we don’t have them put on the computer?”
“Get to the point, Betsy. Yes or no?”
Beyond the two women, the waiter had returned, an amber cocktail with a lemon twist floating among the ice cubes. Too bad she wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.
“Well,” Betsy said. “Let go of my arm, please.” After the older woman released the arm, Betsy said, “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, she’s a member.”
For goodness sake, Gilda thought. She thought she’d been made a member, even though she’d only come in that one night because she had to use the restroom. When the doorman had refused to let her in, she’d dropped a hint of what she knew to the mayor’s wife, and, presto, she had a lifetime membership. Not that she’d ever been back. Until tonight.
“Your Old Fashioned, ma’am,” the waiter said. “I hope you like it.”
“Thank you.” She took a quick sip and nodded. Dry with a hint of clove and citrus. Mort would have added a cherry, but this was a fine cocktail. “Very nice.”
“It’s my first event here,” the waiter said. “I don’t have a lot of experience with cocktails. I used to work in the mental health field until, well…. I’m glad you like your drink.”
“Then I guess it’s no use asking if you know Ellie Whiteby Millhouse.”
The boy’s smile froze, and shock registered in his eyes. “Eleanor?” he whispered.
“Yes” —Gilda’s eyes lowered to his name badge— “John.”
29
Ellie gripped the child’s telescope. She felt like the man in the crow’s nest at the top of a ship’s mast. All she did was stare into the horizon. Tonight, the old redhead had left for a few hours, driven by the priest. She’d looked better than usual, Ellie had to admit. More stylish. Odd. Ellie’s experience owning the Shangri-La spa had taught her that getting a woman to change her look usually took nothing short of a divorce.
She set down the telescope. Why? She almost heard Josiah’s little voice asking her, Why? Why did the Villa have a replica of the Marie Antoinette dog bed? If they stole it, was it to copy it and sell the copies? Or was it another reason? And what about the art forger? That paint Ellie had smelled, the girl she’d spotted, and the prison-issue underwear the homeless guy had seen in the laundry. She was sure the art forger was hiding there. Why? If she could answer these questions, she might find the key to bringing down the Villa.
She sipped from the tumbler she’d filched from the principal’s desk drawer. A little too much honey in this daiquiri, and it really needed lime. The triple sec was a lame stand-in.
She couldn’t live in the school’s attic the rest of her life. Something had to give. She had to drop the idea of revenge against the Booster Club, or she needed information. Ha. As if she’d give up on the Villa now. Ellie downed the cloying daiquiri in a gulp and marched toward the attic’s door. Time for answers.
She’d grown used to moving around the school in the dark, and her housemaid’s dress—her black dress was drying over a stall in the faculty washroom—was surprisingly comfortable. She flipped her black dress over and plopped onto the couch in the teachers’ lounge, setting her feet on the coffee table. She glanced toward the small refrigerator that held the teachers’ lunches, but she wasn’t hungry. The fourth grade teacher was apparently on a low-carb diet, and Ellie had cleared out her jerky and almonds a few hours earlier.
She picked up the school phone and dialed information. After getting the number she wanted, she pressed *31 to block her number from showing up on caller ID, and she dialed again. She let the phone ring.
“Hello,” a woman’s groggy voice answered.
“Mitzi? This is Eleanor Whiteby.”
The phone clattered, as if it had been dropped. A second later, the woman said, “Eleanor? I thought your last name was Millhouse.” She sounded a lot more alert now.
“I’m getting a divorce.”
“And—” Whatever it was she was going to say, she must have changed her mind. “It’s so late.”
“Oh.” Ellie had got so used to prowling at night that she’d forgotten that the rest of the world wouldn’t necessarily be up, too. “Sorry. It’s the time difference. I’m in—Aruba.”
“For three months? But I thought—”
“Yep. Thought I’d get some sun, some relaxation. Work has been so stressful. This vacation has done me a world of good.” She barely suppressed a hiccup.
“Oh,” Mitzi said. “It does sound like you’ve had a few drinks on the beach.”
“Of course I have. I’m on vacation, aren’t I?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, is it a nice resort?”
Ellie looked around the teachers’ lounge at the ratty microwave and the months-old magazines. “It’s okay. To tell the truth, I feel bad living in luxury. So many hungry kids out there. Did you know some school districts are cutting free lunches?”
She heard a swallow. “You really have relaxed.”
Ellie snapped to. “Well, that’s not why I called. I heard about your husband’s dog bed, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” She didn’t worry that the husband would be in Mitzi’s bed. She’d seen the separate bedrooms herself during her failed attempt to steal the dog bed. Not that she was judging. She and Roger had had separate bedrooms, too. He’d stay up all hours doing acrostics, and when he slept, he snored.
“Oh, Eleanor, it’s awful. He can’t focus, he can’t sleep—he even let a tub of hydroponic tomatoes dry up. His temper is out of control. I’ve never seen him like this. It’s really getting to him.” Her voice dropped. “I’m thinking about divorce.”
So, the dog bed hadn’t come back. It had to be at the Villa. “I suppose there’s some antique dog bed collector out there who would pay a lot for it. Unless, of course….”
“Unless what?”
“Unless….”
Mitzi took the pause as a sign to resume her complaining. “I don’t know what to do about him.” Her voice picked up urgency. “Eleanor, I’m so glad you’re not in an institution. I need a friend. We had the spring elections tonight at the Women’s League, and I’m just about through with them. Joan passed out in the broom closet again.” She droned on about a strange member from fifty years ago returning, stayi
ng for a drink, then leaving.
Ellie only half-listened. She mumbled something about passing along the number of a good attorney, but her mind was still on the problem of the dog bed. If the Villa’s residents wanted to turn a quick buck, they’d hardly steal an antique dog bed. But what other reason would they have? She sat up and gripped the phone. Ransom. They were holding the dog bed as ransom. They planned to demand money to return it—or to collect the reward Lancaster offered. Why hadn’t that thought occurred to her before?
“How are things financially?” Ellie relaxed into the chair and sweetened her attitude. “I mean, if you split up, will money be all right for you? Any recent large cash outlays?”
“We’re doing all right, and B. E. hasn’t said anything about having to cash out our securities. In fact, he’s offering a huge reward to anyone who finds his dog bed. No one’s claimed it yet. I should do well enough to buy a cute condo downtown.”
So, if it wasn’t money, the Booster Club wanted something else from him. “You said he’s been edgy. Could he be hiding something about the theft?”
“Could be.” From the tone of her voice, Ellie concluded it wouldn’t be the first time her husband had hid something from her. The phone rustled. “I think he’s even up right now,” she whispered. “He’s worried about something tomorrow.”
“Maybe he has a tough surgery.”
“No. He never frets about those.” She sniffed. “Do you think he’s having an affair?”
“Why? What else has he been doing out of the ordinary?”
“The morning after the dog bed was stolen, he kept pacing the house and checking his phone for messages. Then” —Mitzi sobbed, then reined in her voice— “the next day I heard him mutter a woman’s name.”
Ellie nearly held her breath. “What name?”
“It sounded like…. It sounded like….”
“Spit it out, Mitzi.”
“Adele.”
Eleanor gasped. “Are you sure?”
Mitzi sniffed again and blew her nose. “Yes.”
So, that was it! The art forger needed surgery, and the Villa stole the dog bed to make sure she got it. Good grief. Something was happening right under Mitzi’s nose, and the woman was absolutely clueless.
Ellie’s pause must have lasted too long, because Mitzi said, “Hey, are you really in Aruba?”
“Of course I am,” she snapped. “I was just concerned about you. That’s why I called. I have a facial and mani-pedi in a minute, so I’d better go. Good luck with your husband.” She slammed down the phone.
From the sound of things, there would be action tomorrow. She headed for the attic. She needed to be rested and ready.
30
Head throbbing, Adele lay in bed. The bedside lamp cast a dim circle on the ceiling. Among the cracks, she made out the shape of Iowa and thought she even saw the letter A.
After dinner, Warren had wanted her to stick around for a game of cards and was openly disappointed when she excused herself to go to her room. But she needed time to herself. To think.
The Holgate museum had kept a few of her forgeries. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t know what she could do. Maybe, if tomorrow’s operation went well, she’d eventually be able to paint forgeries of her forgeries and replace them. These forgeries would be clean. How and when she could pull it off, she didn’t know.
But the Stubbs. Oliver’s painting. He couldn’t keep it. He couldn’t discover her secret. The vise-like grip on her skull tightened, and she closed her eyes.
Her dilemma was clear. She could sneak out the side door and find Oliver and get her painting back to destroy it. If she were caught, the Booster Club would never forgive her. She risked putting the Villa and all its residents in peril.
And Warren? He’d be infuriated. He’d take her outing personally. His words during dinner drifted back to her. “There’s no one like you,” he’d said. “You bring out the good things in me.” And the way he looked at her portrait of Gilda, as if Adele were a magician and could spin paint into soul.
She rolled toward the wall and pulled her pillow closer. It was those romance novels. If she weren’t dying, he’d never have looked at her twice. She shouldn’t fool herself.
The alternative was that she stay put. They’d drag her in for an operation tomorrow, an operation that put the Villa at risk anyway. At some point, the Booster Club would be done with her. If she survived the operation, she’d be a fugitive the rest of her life. And Oliver might discover her secret.
Adele rose and wrapped herself in a bathrobe. Maybe Cook wouldn’t mind if she made some tea. The surgeon had said she couldn’t eat after eight p.m., but he hadn’t said anything about liquids. The Villa’s halls were quiet and cool now that the furnace was ratcheted down for the night. She padded down the steps, turned into the cafeteria, and stopped. Seated at a corner table was Father Vincent, blindfolded. He held something in his hands the size of a shot put. The overhead lights were off, and the glow of his table lamp gave the scene the feeling of a Holbein tableau.
“Father?”
The priest ripped off his blindfold and relaxed when he saw it was her. “Adele. Why are you up? You need to rest before your surgery.”
“I thought I’d make some tea. What are you doing?” Closer, she saw that the object he held was some sort of mechanical device. A screwdriver and pliers lay next to it.
“I was rebuilding a carburetor. I like to test myself by doing it blindfolded. Most cars are fuel injection these days, but it keeps my mind sharp to stay on top of the old skills.”
“You couldn’t sleep, either? You took Gilda out tonight.”
“It wasn’t that. I’ll be fine soon.”
She suspected she was what worried him. Until she was home from the operation, the Villa’s residents weren’t safe. “I’m sorry for the risk I’m putting all of you through. All to relicense the home.”
“Maybe it started that way, but we’re attached to you, child. We all want to see you safe and healthy.”
She lowered her eyes. If only he’d known what she was considering. “When you were a priest. I mean, not that you aren’t a priest now, but—”
“I know what you mean.” He pushed the carburetor aside and swiveled to face her, hands in his lap. Likely the position he’d taken in the confessional for all those years.
“Did people ever talk to you about revenge?”
If Adele had surprised him, he didn’t show it. “Frequently. Why do you ask?”
“I took revenge on someone once. Actually, eight times.”
“Yes?” He would surely remember she had forged eight paintings.
“It felt good. It felt really good.” Adele leaned forward. “My anger had been burning away inside me for years.”
Father Vincent’s hands, still settled on his plaid bathrobe, didn’t move. “And then?”
She remembered lying on her prison bed thinking about what she’d done and feeling none of the satisfaction. “I was ashamed. The revenge—it was against someone I really care about, and I don’t want to hurt him.” But he would know sometime. Unless she got those paintings back.
The priest tilted his head. “The situation is complicated. You were angry about someone who means a lot to you.”
She nodded. “Heartbroken.”
“Sadness is not the same as anger.”
She sat back. Did she feel sad that Oliver had ended their affair? With surprise, she realized she didn’t. Not really. He’d dropped her for another student, but after the initial shock it didn’t bother her much that he was with someone else. But, thinking of him, she had been angry. Really angry, and it had grown over time. It had deepened as she’d honed her forgeries and festered as she passed days in prison. The anger had to be heartbreak. What else could it be?
“All that anger, then my revenge—I was the only one hurt,” she said.
The priest nodded. “Forgiveness is a bitter pill, but it’s also a medicine.”
“I know tha
t now. I want to make amends.”
“There are many ways to make amends, my child. One of them is to live with a pure heart and let go of the past.”
“But if you have the chance to do something about the revenge, maybe even before it takes effect, shouldn’t you do it?”
Father Vincent tilted his head. “I suppose, in theory, yes. However, it’s not always that simple.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being wronged stirs up strong feelings. Sometimes forgiving and letting go of the past is the best way to heal.”
Adele drew her brows together. “I still don’t understand. The only reason I wanted out of prison so badly was to make things right.”
“You took your revenge through your paintings. Am I right?”
She nodded.
“Whatever wrong was done—and I’m not asking you to tell me—stirred up tremendous passion in you. You still feel that passion after all these years. Perhaps you haven’t truly forgiven this person.”
Adele shifted in her seat. “You don’t understand, I—” She bit her lip and started again, this time more slowly. “I need to do the right thing. I have the opportunity now.”
“I’m sorry to upset you, Adele. Let me caution you, though. Before you act, be sure you are certain what the right thing is.”
* * *
Near midnight, Adele stuck her head out the bedroom door. The hum of a television came from down the hall, but all the doors were shut and the elevator silent. Grateful for the cache of clothing from Uncle Larry’s, she pulled an asymmetrical dark sweater over her T-shirt and swapped her jeans for loose black cargo pants. A black stocking cap made it less likely she’d be recognized. A glance in the mirror showed what might have been an avant-garde dockworker.
Tomorrow was her surgery. It was now or never. She crept to the end of the hall and out the side door.
Her breath steamed the brisk air. She stayed close to the building to evade Red’s night vision goggles and darted to the cover of street trees up the block. Carsonville wasn’t a huge city, but large enough that walking to Oliver’s place was out. She didn’t have a cent to her name, so a bus or taxi weren’t options, either. Besides, she didn’t want to be recognized.
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