by Lucy Quinn
Cookie frowned, working out the details in her head. “So they stole the art, brought it to Petra, and she painted over it for them? But why hang it in her gallery?”
Brooklyn laughed. “Petra’s ego. She said if she was painting them, she was going to show them off. Besides, the whole thing added an air of credibility to her work. Seeing them there, having them turnover in the shop all the time, it made people covet her work.”
“And she was building up a real clientele at the same time without anyone getting suspicous, right?” Cookie asked. “Especially when Petra’s work was so stunning. Who’d waste a beautiful painting like that, just as a cover?”
“Right.” The girl’s face twisted, and she looked slightly sick. Cookie couldn’t blame her. She felt a pang at the thought of all that artwork destroyed, and she wasn’t really an artist herself. For Brooklyn it had to be a lot worse, especially since she’d been so close to Petra.
Which led to Cookie’s next question. “How do you know all this?”
Brooklyn took a deep breath. “I helped,” she admitted after a few seconds. “Petra hired me to help her with the gallery at first, but then we got to be friends, and she took an interest in my art and started mentoring me.” Now that Brooklyn had started talking, the words began pouring out at a rapid pace. “And then Karl came to visit and brought a bunch of canvases for her to paint. One day I showed up at her house early and found her upstairs, varnishing over these old oils. She tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything, but I keep up with the Fine Art world, and I recognized one of the pieces that had been reported stolen. That’s when she explained what was really going on.”
Cookie made a note in her small notebook and nodded, encouraging Brooklyn to continue. The girl’s complexion turned an unpleasant shade of green, and Cookie wondered if she needed to find a vomit bag.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Brooklyn finally said, her voice thick with emotion. “I mean, I know it was wrong, but we weren’t really hurting anyone. And Petra, she was my friend and said she’d cut me in on the money if I helped her.” There were tears in her eyes now. “So I went along with it!” She broke into sobs, head down on her arms, and Cookie snatched the coffee cup away before it could spill everywhere.
“Hey.” She patted the girl’s hair awkwardly. “Okay, now.” After a few seconds, Brooklyn glanced up. Her makeup had smeared, leaving her resembling an iridescent raccoon. “I get it,” Cookie promised. “I do. But I still need you to walk me through the rest. It sounds like it was all going smoothly. So what went wrong?”
Brooklyn sniffed and sat up, scrubbing at her eyes with her hands and then wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Petra decided we weren’t getting enough of the money. She said we were doing all the work, not only repainting the originals but setting up the sales and handling the shipping. But we were only getting a little bit off each one.” She sighed and fidgeted with her nails. “She figured we deserved a bigger cut.”
“Ah.” Cookie saw it now. “So she started holding back some of the money, huh? Lying about the final prices, faking invoices, that sort of thing?”
“Yeah. It was all going fine. They didn’t know a thing and we were making bank.” She shrugged. “But somehow they figured it out.”
“So they went after Petra, trying to get the rest of their money,” Cookie guessed. “She said no, and they killed her.”
Brooklyn scowled. “I think Karl killed her,” she corrected. “I’ve never even see the other two with a gun. I don’t think they own them, but Karl does. He’s the one who shot her.” She said it with such conviction, Cookie leaned forward.
“Did you see it happen?” Cookie asked. As soon as the words left her mouth she knew the answer, even before Brooklyn shook her head. The girl had been genuinely shocked to learn Petra was dead, she remembered. Still, her suspicion was useful. “We’ll test his gun,” she promised. “If he did kill her—and I’m guessing you’re right—we’ll nail him for it.”
Brooklyn tried to smile a little, but it was a weak attempt. She didn’t really have a lot to smile about right now, after all. “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked instead.
It was Cookie’s turn to sigh and then muster a fake smile. “That depends,” she answered slowly. “On how much you’re willing to cooperate and how much you can tell us about their operation.”
She wasn’t surprised when Brooklyn sat up ramrod straight. ‘Everything,” the girl declared. “I know everything. Including where Petra kept all the records.”
“Good.” This time Cookie’s smile was genuine. “That will help a lot. And if you’re willing to turn witness for us, and we put these guys away—” She shrugged. “They can probably set you up with a new life somewhere.”
Brooklyn sniffled. “Would I still be able to paint?”
“I don’t know,” Cookie answered truthfully. “For yourself, sure. But exhibiting your work? That’d be up to your handlers.” It was possible, though, she thought. Brooklyn was an unknown in the art world, so nobody would be able to use her paintings to figure out her real identity. But she knew better than to make any promises about that.
As she stood to go, Cookie had one last question. “Why did they grab you?” she asked.
The girl slumped in her chair. “After they killed Petra, they came to me,” she admitted. “Said I had to continue it for them. I said no.” She shook her head and gripped the table edge with both hands, trying to hide her trembling. “I think they were gonna take me somewhere and force me to work for them.”
Cookie nodded, feeling sympathy for the girl. They both knew what Brooklyn had left unsaid—once the art thieves had decided she’d outlived her usefulness, they’d have killed her. She knew too much about their operation for them to let her live.
“Well, you’re safe now,” she promised. “And those guys are going away for a long, long time.” Giving the girl a final pat on the shoulder, Cookie turned and exited the room.
Hunter was already waiting for her out in the hall. “Nice work,” he congratulated her. “This is one hell of a bust.”
“Yeah.” Cookie sighed, wishing she felt happier about it. “I just wish it hadn’t cost Petra her life and Brooklyn her identity.”
“Nothing we could do about the first one,” Hunter reminded her. “And Brooklyn losing her name is a lot better than losing her life. Plus, we’ll get justice for Petra. That’s got to count for something.”
It certainly did, but it didn’t stop Cookie from grieving for all the life and beauty that had gone out of the world when Petra had died. Especially since all those paintings from the boat, which they’d brought to the station and catalogued as stolen goods, would have to be restored to their original image. Soon the only evidence of Petra’s work would be the oils she’d done for herself, the ones hanging in her house where no one else ever had a chance to see them.
It was a sad thought, and Cookie wondered if it was some sort of metaphor for an unfulfilled life. Which made her wonder if that could be applied to her own situation. She sighed at the heavy thoughts she was having when she should’ve been celebrating a major bust that would bring a murderer to justice.
22
Glancing up, Cookie was shaken out of her dark thoughts by the sight of the clock on the station wall. “Oh, crap,” she blurted out, straightening. “Is that the time?” It was almost four in the afternoon. How had it gotten to be so late already?
Hunter peeked back over his shoulder then pulled out his phone to confirm it. “Yep,” he said. “Why? Got a hot date?” He waggled his eyebrows and smirked down at her.
“I do,” Cookie said, sidestepping him to collect her coat from the desk where she’d tossed it when they came in. “And so do you. The revue, remember?”
That got a wince and a grimace out of him. “To hell with that,” he replied. “I’ll stay here and take care of the paperwork, get Brooklyn processed for joining WITSEC.”
Cookie stopped, halfway into her coat, and stared at him. �
��Are you serious?” she asked. “You’d rather fill out forms and file reports than be supportive by going to a live show?”
“A live show?” he snorted. “It’s not like we’re talking Broadway here, Charlie. It’s gonna be a bunch of guys taking their clothes off. Why the hell would I care to see that?” He frowned. “For that matter, why would you?”
“Because my mom is the one producing it,” she shot back, pulling her coat the rest of the way on. “You know what? Never mind. You stay here and have fun with the forms. I’m out of here.” She stomped off, not giving him time to reply.
The whole way to the ferry, she fumed. What the hell was his problem? Okay, sure, Hunter had zero interest in guys, so an all-male revue was completely wasted on him. Then again, considering most of the men in question, Cookie wasn’t exactly getting all hot and bothered, either. But that wasn’t the point. Rain had worked hard on this, and it meant a lot to her. Which meant Cookie was going to be there, cheering and clapping to support her mom and Winter and everybody else who’d put so much work into this thing.
She caught the ferry just as it was getting ready to pull away. “Good timing,” Captain Bob told her as he hitched the gate shut behind her. “This is the last ferry of the night.” He winked at her. “Got to give myself enough time to get all gussied up for my performance.”
Now that he mentioned it, Cookie could see that the crusty, middle-aged ferry captain had gotten a makeover. His salt-and-pepper hair, which usually danced in the breeze, had been trimmed and tamed, and it seemed more silvery now. His scraggly beard had become a stylish Van Dyke. His skin, usually chapped and weathered from constant exposure to sun and wind, looked smoother, cleaner. Even his eyebrows had been shaped.
“Looking good,” Cookie told him, and it was actually true. He reminded her of an older Gregory Peck, still salty but now bordering on ruggedly handsome as well.
“Ah, thanks.” He blushed as he walked away.
Chuckling, Cookie followed him toward the cabin. It was too cold to stand around out on the deck, even though it was glorious out, the sky clear and blue and the water smooth. Her interaction with Captain Bob had stripped away her dark mood, and she found herself humming as she relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the ride.
“Hello?” Cookie called as she pushed open the inn’s front door and stepped inside. She wasn’t surprised, however, when no one answered. Rain had most likely been down at the hall for an hour or two already, fussing over last-minute details, and it was entirely possible that she’d dragged Scarlett along with her.
Just in case, Cookie tried texting her best friend, but when she didn’t get an immediate reply she figured that Scarlett either had her phone on mute or had her hands full and couldn’t answer. That, of course, immediately conjured up images of what her hands might be full of, and Cookie tried her best to push the thought away. She’d see all of that soon enough.
Instead she raced up to her room and grabbed the clothes she’d laid out last night. Even though she was only an audience member, she’d decided it wouldn’t be right to show up to Rain’s big moment in a flannel shirt and jeans.
By the time she’d pulled on her caramel-colored fleece-lined leggings—no reason she couldn’t look good and stay warm at the same time—and her green cowl-neck sweater that accentuated her eyes, Cookie knew she was in danger of running late. Especially since Hunter’s car was presumably still at the dock.
But, she realized, there was someone else she could call for a lift, and he answered right away. “Hey, thought you’d already be down at the VFW hall.”
“That’s actually why I’m calling,” she admitted. “I’m running a little behind. Any chance you could give me a ride?”
His rich, throaty chuckle sent a delicious shiver down her spine. “It’d be my pleasure,” Dylan assured her. Five minutes later, his pickup rumbled up right in front of the inn. Cookie had been watching for him through the door and was already shutting it behind her as he braked to a stop. “Thanks,” she said, hauling the passenger-side door open and hopping inside.
“Happy to oblige,” he replied, setting the truck in gear again once she’d belted in. “You look great.”
“Thanks.” Cookie took a second to give him the once-over. “You, too.” He was wearing a silvery gray cable-knit sweater that somehow made his eyes seem even more blue and his hair an even glossier black. Add in his black jeans, and Dylan was the perfect image of understated elegance. And male hotness.
Down, girl, Cookie admonished herself. This isn’t actually a date. He just picked you up. So you could both go to the revue. Together.
“How’s it looking?” she asked to distract herself. “The show, I mean.”
He shrugged as he maneuvered the truck through town. “Good, I guess. I mean, I’m no expert”—he grinned at her—“but everybody’s pumped. And the hall looks great.”
“Nice.” At that moment, the hall came into view. Its front was strung with holiday lights, and a big banner proclaiming Holiday Revue! hung just above the double doors. Several cars were already in the parking lot, and a steady stream of people were filing inside. “Wow, I think the whole town is here,” Cookie said as Dylan parked and they climbed out.
“Probably so,” he agreed, stepping up beside her and offering his arm. She took it and tried not to make too much of the gesture. She’d already known he was a gentleman. “Plenty of people came over from Hancock too, I think.” He shook his head. “Your mom has a definite knack for coming up with something new and exciting.”
Cookie laughed. “Yeah, she definitely has that.”
They joined the line, but had only taken a few steps forward when a small, carrot-topped bundle of energy launched itself in their direction. “Dylan!” Rain shouted, practically throwing her arms around Cookie’s companion. “There you are! Thank goodness! I need you!”
Cookie raised her eyebrow, and Dylan shot her a half-smile. “What’s going on?” he asked, exuding calm.
For once, though, his aura had no effect on Rain. “It’s Hale,” she explained in a whisper, wringing her hands together. “He can’t go on.”
“What?” Cookie felt herself getting sucked into her mother’s drama yet again. “What happened?”
“Oh, he had some clams for lunch, and apparently they didn’t agree with him,” Rain answered, flapping her hands. “I told him he needed to do the show anyway, but he was too busy puking his guts out to answer.” She grabbed Dylan with both hands and gazed up at him with big, panic-stricken eyes. “Dylan, you’re my only hope!”
“What’s he supposed to do about it?” Cookie asked, but she already suspected the answer and her mother’s raised eyebrows confirmed it. “Oh, no! Come on, are you kidding me?”
Dylan winked at her. “What, you don’t think I’ve got what it takes to be a star?” he asked, trying to pout but failing miserably.
Cookie refused to get distracted by how adorable he looked. “You’d do this?”
He shrugged. “Your mom does seem kind of desperate.”
“You don’t even know the music,” she said, “much less the moves.”
“Sure I do,” he tossed back with confidence that confused Cookie. He grinned. “I was the understudy.”
“So you’ll do it?” Rain begged. “Please, Dylan? Without you, this whole thing’s a bust!”
It wasn’t Rain he was looking at, however, when he answered. “If you need me, I’m there.”
Cookie smiled, emotions surging in her chest. And then the reality of Dylan taking his clothes off on stage hit her when she watched with a mix of horror, amusement, curiosity, and concern as her mother dragged her sort-of date away.
23
When Cookie finally made it through the crowd at the front door, she handed her ticket to Winter, who beamed at her and nearly upset the entire table, cash register and all, trying to reach across to give her a hug. Cookie laughed and waved her off as she entered the hall. It took a second for her eyes to adjust, and then she looked
around properly.
She’d never been inside here before, though she’d walked past the big stone building many times, and she was impressed. The walls were paneled below and white plaster above, the floor worn but polished plank, and the ceiling was high, with crisscrossed beams made of unstained wood. All in all, the room felt light and airy, despite all the large windows being covered with heavy velvet curtains and the big stage dwarfing the chairs filling the floor.
Cookie headed toward the stage, scanning the crowd for Scarlett. She heard the telltale click of a camera first, then she spotted a familiar chic blond hairdo through the throng. Sure enough, once she’d slipped and nudged and squeezed her way through to the front, she saw Scarlett standing there, wearing a typically classy black blouse and fitted black slacks with a cropped white jacket. She was snapping photos of the crowd and the setting, and Cookie pushed her way clear to join her best friend.
“Took you long enough,” Scarlett joked when they were finally together. “What happened, get caught up in a shootout?”
“Something like that,” Cookie admitted, and was pleased to see that she’d at least momentarily stunned her friend. “Only one shot fired,” she clarified after a second. “And it missed.”
“Are you serious?” Scarlett shook her head. “Well, glad you’re okay. And that you’re finally here.” She made a big show of peering past Cookie. “What, no escort?”
“Hunter refused to come,” Cookie explained, “and Dylan—well, he just got drafted.”
Scarlett’s eyes widened. “Really? Ooh, this show just got a lot more interesting!”
Cookie couldn’t stop the frown from claiming her face.
Her best friend laughed and nudged Cookie. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to steal him, not as long as you’re still interested. But there’s nothing that says I can’t look and appreciate what I see.”