Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  Behind us, my father shrugged. “I’m not into folk duos.”

  Emy and I slowly swiveled our eyes to him, then each other.

  “What?” he asked.

  At a sudden rat-a-tat-tat, I jerked my head around in alarm. How could we explain this to Birdie? Without using the word unsavory, that is. Or unseemly. Or—

  “It’s coming from next door,” Emy said, shaking my shoulder and pointing to the laptop.

  We watched as Nigel opened the door. A voluptuous woman with platinum hair, blood-red nails, and an enormous handbag stepped through.

  Emy and I exchanged shocked glances. “It’s Dragon Lady from the open house,” she whispered.

  On the screen, Nigel said, “You’re early,” shutting the door behind her.

  “I made surprisingly good time on the highway.” Her voice was low and sultry. “That commuter lane is fantastic.”

  “Don’t you need two people for that?”

  She gave him an odd look. “I’m driving a Ferrari.”

  Behind me, my dad whispered, “Nice.” I didn’t know if he meant the woman or the sports car. I suspected the latter.

  On the screen in front of us, Nigel was holding out a hand. “Before we get down to business—may I take your wrap?”

  Dragon Lady slipped out of her silk shawl, letting it drop luxuriously to the floor. Nigel grabbed it before it could hit the carpet. Good idea, I thought, eying the mysterious stains on the carpeting in my father’s unit.

  After setting her handbag on the bed, she lowered herself gracefully. Casually, she slipped off her four-inch heels. “Shall we get on with it?”

  Emy leaned in to peer at the handbag. “Wow. That’s something.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “That’s enough,” my father said briskly, reaching for the laptop. “Turn that thing off.”

  “It’s just getting good,” I countered, hunching over the keyboard.

  He tried to grab it. “No daughter of mine…” He puffed. “Is going to watch…that.”

  “Yes, I am.” I wrested the keyboard back. “I’m a grown woman, Dad. Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you want to know who planted that camera and left this laptop in your closet?”

  “Stop arguing,” Emy said. “Lorne may need our help.”

  We resumed our scrutiny of the screen. “Where is Lorne?” I asked. “Did he get out of there before—”

  Emy’s eyes widened, then she pointed to a section of the screen. I followed her finger.

  Two large running shoes stuck out from between the twin beds. If Dragon Lady stood up and turned around, she couldn’t help but see Lorne lying on the floor.

  Slowly, the shoes drew back.

  “We need a distraction,” I muttered.

  On the screen, Nigel returned from hanging Dragon Lady’s shawl in the closet. “Now then,” he said. “What were we doing?”

  “You were getting me a drink,” she purred.

  As we huddled over the laptop, Frank whispered urgently, “Lorne can’t stay there.”

  “Verity, what are we going to do?” Emy asked.

  “Technically,” my father continued, “it’s breaking and entering. He could be charged.”

  “Not helping,” I said tersely.

  In the adjoining room, “G and T?” Nigel asked.

  Dragon Lady leaned forward, smiling seductively. “How did you know?”

  He grinned. “I’ll get the gin.”

  At the sound of the mini-fridge opening, Lorne’s tousled hair slowly appeared above the bed.

  “Don’t do that,” Emy and I blurted in unison, like horror-moviegoers when a young woman descends the steps of an ancient cellar even though dozens of characters have already gone down there and none have come back.

  I realized my teeth were chattering and clamped my jaw.

  The door of the mini-fridge closed.

  Lorne ducked down.

  “We’ve got to get him out of there,” Emy said.

  “I know.”

  Next door, Nigel was apologetic. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “All out of ice, I’m afraid.”

  Dragon Lady raised an impeccable eyebrow.

  “I’ll get some from the front desk,” Nigel said, jerking his thumb at the door.

  “Good idea,” she said.

  “That’s our cue,” I said, jumping up and heading for the door. On the way, I grabbed a baseball cap from the nearest clothing stack and jammed it on my head. After plucking an ice bucket off the bureau, I halted with my fingers on the doorknob. “Tell me when Nigel’s gone.”

  Emy held up a hand, still staring at the laptop screen. “Wait.”

  My father was watching the screen over Emy’s shoulder. “The cops might throw in a burglary charge, too.”

  “Dad,” I said, my lips set in a grim line. “Stop it.”

  “Now,” Emy blurted. “He’s out.”

  I counted to five, to give Nigel time to reach the office, then opened our motel room door. Within seconds, I was knocking on the unit beside ours.

  “Room service,” I called cheerily.

  Of course, there had never been room service at the Sleepy Time. At least, not the kind that delivered nachos and beer. I was counting on Dragon Lady not to know that. While I waited, I swiveled my head to see if Nigel was coming back. I caught sight of a low-slung cherry-red sports car parked in front of the office. An honest-to-goodness Ferrari. That was an unusual sight in Leafy Hollow. Up to now, the most exotic vehicle had been Wilf Mullins’ refurbished Hummer.

  The motel unit’s door opened.

  “Ice?” I asked, holding up the bucket while lowering my head so the cap’s visor would cover my eyes.

  With a slight frown, she reached out to take it.

  I held it away from her. “Sorry, I have to bring it in myself.”

  “That’s not necessary.” She grabbed the bucket’s rim.

  I held on to it, resisting her grasp.

  We struggled over it.

  “I have to place it in the room myself,” I said, finally wresting it away. “Motel regulations.”

  She stepped back with a look of surprise. “Motel what?”

  “Regulations,” I said briskly, brushing past her and into the unit.

  “Wait. Where are you—”

  “Uh-huh. Just as I thought.” After placing the ice bucket on the bureau, I picked up an unused glass, then tore off its paper wrapping. “This wrapping is not regulation. I’ll have to replace all your glasses.”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  “Ma’am,” I intoned. “It’s a matter of hygiene.”

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Lorne creep into the bathroom behind her.

  Dragon Lady fixed me with a penetrating gaze. “Why are you here?”

  “I told you, ma’am. I’m here to—”

  “Deliver an empty ice bucket?”

  Silence. I felt my eyes widen under her steady gaze.

  Then, “Is it empty?” I squeaked. “I must have—”

  “I know who you are, Verity. We’ve met, remember?” She waved red-lacquered fingers. “You have to get out of here before my associate returns. You could ruin everything.”

  Associate? Intrigued, I took a leap, leveling a penetrating gaze of my own. “You mean your client, don’t you? Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. Because I do. Know. What.”

  Her smile broadened. “I doubt that. Now—leave. And preferably not out the bathroom window like your friend.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Uh-oh. Cover blown.

  Peeling off the baseball cap, I twisted it in my hands. “Were we that obvious?”

  “Amateur-ville,” Dragon Lady replied. “Why do you think I sent Nigel out for ice? To give your friend time to get out of here. Also—you might want to take that price tag off your baseball cap.”

  She strode to the door. “Now move.”

  “No.”

  Looking surprised, she pivoted neatly on her bare
feet. “What do you mean, no?”

  “Not until you tell me what you’re really doing here. And where you’ve hidden the camera.”

  Her lips twitched in amusement. It clashed with the cold look in her eyes. “I spent months setting this up. If you ruin it—”

  I raised a hand in protest. “I’m not leaving until you explain it to me. Nigel Hemsworth is a friend of mine.”

  “I doubt that.” This time, her smile was genuine. “Not only because I’ve never seen you with him, but because that man doesn’t have any friends. Not real ones, anyway.”

  I bristled. “How would you know—”

  “I’ll level with you, I promise. Later—after you get out of here.” She opened the door then gestured to the parking lot. “Now.”

  I hesitated, still twisting the cap.

  “Otherwise,” she said calmly, “I’ll show Nigel the hidden camera and tell him I discovered you’ve been spying on him. It will be my word against yours—and I’m betting you’ve already made a pest of yourself, whereas I am a valued acquaintance.” She tapped a lacquered fingernail on the door and raised an eyebrow. “Your choice.”

  Stymied, I headed for the exit.

  “Take that ice bucket with you,” she said, pointing to the bureau.

  Sullenly, I pivoted to pick it up before sweeping out of the room. On the sill, I paused to deliver what I hoped was a chilling coup de grâce.

  “You better not be lying,” I hissed. “Or else.”

  She merely rolled her eyes before slamming the door.

  Back in my dad’s motel room, Frank, Emy, and a disheveled Lorne were glued to the laptop screen. Lorne was absently rubbing his elbow.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Caught it on the window frame,” he replied. “Just a scrape.”

  I’d seen The Expendables, so I knew in guy-speak that could be anything from a scratch to an amputation. I decided to ignore his injury in favor of joining the viewing party.

  Emy glanced over her shoulder. “What was she talking about? The sound was muffled when you moved out of range. Did she say, You could ruin everything?”

  I nodded. “She promised to explain it later.”

  “Good work standing up to her,” Lorne said in an unusually sarcastic tone.

  “What was I supposed to do?” I huffed. “I was busy saving your rear. While these two”—I jerked a thumb at the rest of the team—“were squirreled away in here hoping to make X-rated videos.”

  “That’s not true,” my father countered sternly.

  Emy merely smirked.

  “Whatever. I’m only trying to say she had me dead to rights and it seemed wise to comply. We can always blow her cover later if she doesn’t come through with an explanation.”

  “Do you think that’s a disguise?”

  “Maybe. She’s definitely not used to wearing those heels.” I pointed to the screen. Dragon Lady was seated on the bed, massaging her insteps and grimacing.

  The motel room door opened, followed by a cheery, “I’m back.”

  The blonde slipped her feet back into her shoes and stood. “I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming back,” she purred, walking over to take the filled ice bucket from Nigel. “Oh, dear,” she said, catching sight of his bandage. “You’ve hurt your hand.” She extended her lower lip in a sympathetic pout. “Let me see that.”

  “It’s nothing.” He held out his hand.

  “It looks painful.” After clucking over it for a moment, she strolled to the bureau and reached for the gin bottle to pour the drinks. “Maybe this will help.”

  She handed him a glass, then raised her own in a mock salute. “Santé.”

  “Santé,” Nigel intoned, raising his glass. He downed his drink with a grimace before plonking it back on the bureau. Dragon Lady’s back had been toward him while she prepared it, but we saw her clearly. Thus, we knew his drink held a double portion of gin, while hers was mostly tonic water.

  “Shall we get down to business?” Nigel asked.

  “Certainly.” She downed her drink, set the empty glass on the bureau, then reclined languidly on the bed. “Let’s see it, then.”

  Behind us, my father groaned. “Turn that thing off.”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking, Dad.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “Look.” I pointed to the screen.

  Nigel drew a pen knife from his pocket to snip the string of the rectangular object on the sofa. With a swish of brown paper, he unwrapped it, then held it up with a flourish.

  Given the heavy wooden frame, it was obviously a painting. But Nigel’s back was to us, so we couldn’t see the picture.

  “Oh my gosh,” I whispered. “Could that be the Lawren Harris?”

  “Shh,” Emy whispered, poking me with her elbow.

  Dragon Lady cupped her chin in her hand, studying the painting.

  “Isn’t it magnificent?” Nigel asked.

  “Even better than I imagined.” She beckoned with one hand. “Bring it over here into the natural light so I can take a closer look.”

  He walked past her to place the painting on the bed. This time, it faced the camera.

  I’d seen it before. It was an abstract work, done in browns and blacks, somber and foreboding. It had been in Nigel’s storeroom when he tried to sell me the landscape print. It had been leaning against the far wall, alone. Already selected, I assumed, for its turn in the spotlight.

  “It’s a genuine deal?” she asked.

  Nigel looked hurt. “Genuine? Of course it’s genuine.”

  “I meant, how do I know the owner is willing to sell it at the price we agreed? Can I speak to him?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it. The owner wishes to remain anonymous.” He sniffed. “As you know. If the terms of our agreement are no longer satisfactory…” Nigel made a show of re-wrapping the painting with a great deal of rustling paper.

  The blonde straightened up on the bed, then swung her legs over the side. “Keep your shirt on. I’m fine with our terms.”

  Nigel tied the last of the string, then tossed her a lecherous grin. “I was actually hoping to take my shirt…off.”

  I thought that was a brave proposition for old Nigel, but it was probably the gin talking.

  “Some other time. I have an appointment I can’t miss.” Dragon Lady ambled over to caress the painting’s frame.

  “Very well,” said Nigel, looking disappointed. “Cash first, though.”

  “Of course.” She opened her enormous purse, pulled out a leather wallet, then counted out bills onto the quilted bedspread. “There,” she said. “Fifty grand. As agreed.”

  Nigel swept the currency into a single stack, straightened its edges, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “If you’re interested in anything else, give me a call.” He tilted his head at the door. “Can I walk you out?”

  She glanced around. “I had a late night, and I’m exhausted. It’s not like me to have a nap in the afternoon, but I think I’ll make an exception today.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll let the front desk know you’ll be here for a while.” He leaned in. The lecherous look was back. “Sure you wouldn’t like a little company?”

  “I’m sure.” She sauntered to the door, opened it, then ushered him out with an obviously fake smile. Once he was gone, she leaned back against the door with her hands behind her.

  Outside, a car started up. Dragon Lady waited until it drove away, the engine noise growing fainter. Then she pushed off from the door to flash a grim look in the direction of the camera. “Come on over. And bring the laptop.” She perched on the bed, slipping off her shoes.

  I turned to the team. “Let’s go.”

  The blonde stood aside as we piled into her room. Then she shut the door and walked over to the bureau. “Drink, anyone?”

  Frank raised his arm. I pulled it down—with a bit of a struggle.

  “No, thanks,�
� I said. “We only want to know what’s going on here.”

  “Would you believe a simple business transaction?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Sit down.” She dropped ice cubes into a glass, then followed it up with a splash of gin. No tonic this time.

  Lorne, Emy, and Frank perched on the beds. I remained standing, with my arms crossed. The blonde raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing.

  She plopped into an armchair with her drink, then reached up with her other hand to tug a platinum wig off her head and toss it onto the nearest bed. Underneath, her hair was a short brunette bob.

  “Blast. That thing is itchy.” Scratching her scalp with one finger, she fixed me with an expectant air. “What do you want to know?”

  Before I could answer, Frank blurted out, “Are you a cop?”

  She paused, lowered her fingernail, then burst into laughter. “Good heavens, no. Was I that incompetent?”

  “Hey,” I broke in. “Our cops are not incompetent.”

  “Really? As far as I can tell, Nigel Hemsworth’s scams have been going on for years. That sounds like incompetent to me.” She took a long swallow of her drink.

  “What scams?”

  She pointed to the wrapped painting on the sofa. “That was stolen three years ago from a collector in Montreal.”

  “You’re a private detective,” I guessed, unfurling my arms. “Did the painting’s owner hire you?”

  “I’m an insurance investigator. The company that insured that painting had to pay out a lot of money when it was stolen. They want their money back.”

  “Are you going to report Nigel to the police?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “What do you mean? If he stole—”

  She waved her glass. “I have no idea who stole that painting. Nor do I care. The company I work for wants it returned to the collector, and fifty thousand is a small price to pay.”

  While Lorne and Emy were tracking our conversation with rapt attention, my father had been nervously eying the door. I ignored his hint.

  “What’s it really worth?” I asked her.

  “Ten times that.”

  “And the insurer paid the full sum?”

  “Correct.”

  “What happens now?”