by April Hill
“But can’t these fakes be checked out? Aren’t there techniques? “
“Sure, but the fakes I did for Gabe didn’t sell for that much. No one’s going to take the time or money to verify the canvas, and all the buyers want is to impress their friends. The thing is, there’s no way to get away with the really old stuff—too many technological tools to check their authenticity. But for these guys I copied, all Gabe had to do was ferret out a lot of old American canvases from the same period and clean them off. You’d be surprised how many attics have really bad 19th century landscapes hanging around.”
Matt was looking at me like I was a criminal. Maybe because I was.
“At first, I didn’t know what was going on,” I said, “if that’ll make you happier. I didn’t know what he was doing until he’d already done it. Then I picked up and left. Look, I know that Gabe was a sleaze, but let’s face it, what he was doing is as close to victimless crime as you can get. It never really hurts anybody who can’t afford it.”
Matt sighed. “Interesting attitude.”
Now, I began to get mad. “What other attitude is there?” I cried. “Thousands and thousands of really good artists never make enough to pay their rent, and at the same time, a bunch of so-called investors are bidding up the price of some old, maybe mediocre painting the poor sucker probably couldn’t unload when he was alive. On top of which, it may even be a fake. Look at it this way. If I paint an exact copy of the Mona Lisa, good enough to fool someone, and go out and sell it, somewhere, that’s not illegal. I could paint them all day and sell them on street corners, or even on e-Bay, and nobody would bat an eye. But if I sign even one of them ‘Leonardo,’ that is a crime, even though the guy has been dead for hundreds of years, and couldn’t care less about his copyright, which he never had to begin with.
“The law is there to protect a lot of dumb investors,” I complained, “who shouldn’t be buying art it in the first place. A painting should only be worth what a buyer is willing to spend, right? There’s this billionaire somewhere in Texas, who got had by a really famous art forger? He spent millions of dollars on a whole house full of forgeries. But when it turned out they were all fake, he laughed it off, and said he didn’t care. Left them right on the walls of his mansion. He told everyone that if he hadn’t liked them, and thought they were worth the price, he wouldn’t have bought them in the first place. Now, that is a mensch!”
Matt chuckled. “So it comes down to ‘I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like?’“
“Exactly. We always make fun of that line, as though people who say it are Philistines, but the truth is, they’ve got the right idea.”
“Very clever argument babe, but it’s still dishonest.”
“I got paid a lousy thirty bucks, Matt.”
“If you knew about it, it’s still dishonest.”
I scowled. “God! I’ll bet you were an uptight little prick when you were a kid. Didn’t you ever just once in your life shoplift something? Candy, a pack of condoms? Anything?”
Matt smiled. “As a matter of fact, I did. I stole this little metal car—a Tootsie Toy police cruiser. My Mom explained that God would forgive me for stealing if I told our parish priest. I was still going to get a hell of a spanking from her, but at least I’d be straight with God. But then, I got to thinking, and decided that one penance should be enough for my one sin, so I lied at confession. When she found out, Mom got herself a couple of good-sized switches—one for stealing, she explained, and the second for lying. She made me bend over my Dad’s workbench, and almost took the hide off my butt. The first switch wore out, and she was about halfway through the second one before she got tired and stopped. Afterward, she dragged me back down to the store to give the car back and apologize to the owner. My first and last major crime. She still reminds me every now and then that I’ve still got half a whipping coming. A very tough lady, my Mom. I’d like you to meet her, someday.”
I grimaced. “I’ll bet.”
“Just so you ‘ll know,” Matt said grimly. “This conversation isn’t over, but we’ll deal with your penance for art forgery later. My problem now is that, dishonest or not, I still can’t see why anyone would want to murder Tannhauser, Carlotta, or you, just for faking a few junk paintings.”
“Neither can I,” I agreed. “So let’s forget it. Maybe it’s just coincidence.” I wasn’t eager to find out what Matt considered adequate penance for my crimes, and right now, my only hope was to distract him. “So, tell me about what you found at Gabe’s dungeon.”
Matt ignored me, and returned to the subject of me. “Two close neighbors murdered on one short stretch of beach in ten days is more than coincidence. Besides, there’s also the note on the refrigerator to consider.”
“If someone wanted to kill me, why didn’t they?”
“Maybe because there’re already too many bodies. The residents at Encantada pay a pretty penny in taxes, and they expect their money’s worth in protection. Since Carlotta was killed, we’ve been keeping a pretty high police presence over there. If some beautiful young woman with no criminal history—well, no major felonies, anyway—got herself murdered, the heat would get turned up even higher. Maybe you’re right, but there’s a good chance that the killer is just keeping a low profile, and waiting for the right moment. Who knows?”
“And who might this beautiful young woman be?” I simpered, trying very hard to bat my eyelashes. “The one in deadly peril?” I slipped my arms around Matt’s neck and nuzzled his ear. He kissed me, but I could tell that his heart wasn’t in it, and I could feel that nothing else about him was rising to the bait, either. At the moment, Matt was more interested in dead women than live ones, so I changed the subject. “Okay, now that my criminal career has been exposed and eliminated as a motive, what’s next? Maybe Gabe was dealing drugs, along with all his other sleazy sidelines. He did his share of drugs, that’s for sure. Maybe he cheated some nasty customer, who decided to get even.”
Matt shook his head. “That doesn’t explain Carlotta. Unless she was a customer. Was she a drug user?”
“Does pot count?”
Matt groaned. “Yes, Gwen. Pot counts. It’s still an illegal substance.”
I shrugged. “In Encantada Cove, it’s more popular than Diet Pepsi. Anyway, Carlotta didn’t need a dealer. She grew her own, some on the kitchen windowsill, and three shelves in the hall closet—with a plant light. I dumped everything when the cops showed up that first day.”
Matt shook his head wearily, and closed his eyes. “Are there any other felonies you’d like confess to, or is that about it?”
“It was pot, Matt, not opium! Even Regina Vanderplum grows it.”
“The Regina Vanderplum? That old crow next door? The one I interviewed, who bragged about belonging to the DAR? That’s hard to…”
“Against her fence,” I said smugly. “A gift from Carlotta when they were still speaking. Carlotta told Regina it was an endangered California wildflower—a non-flowering oleander. Last time I looked, the crop was thriving. Old Regina could make a nice living, if she knew what she had.”
“Great joke.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I yelled.” Do you always have to be such an uptight, law-abiding asshole?”
Maybe he was tired and stressed after the long, very weird day we’d had, or maybe he was just being a nit-picky cop, reacting to my admittedly casual attitudes toward what I regard as victimless crime. In any case, he reacted by hauling me across his lap, yanking down my underwear, and taking the law into his own hand, as it were. And he didn’t seem in the least tired while he was doing it, either.
It didn’t take long—probably well under a full minute, but like many police officers, Matt keeps himself in excellent physical condition. Unlike me, he is not plump, nor is he a couch potato. He exercises regularly, drinks in moderation, and rarely partakes of rich desserts and empty fast food calories, with the result that his muscle strength, energy level, and stamina remain e
xceptionally high.
Tonight, he seemed to be out for a record, and if they should ever have an Olympic competition for ass-blistering, Matt would be a shoe-in for a medal. I reasoned and argued, but Matt kept spanking. I wailed and howled, and Matt kept spanking. I kicked and bucked and squirmed, and Matt kept spanking. I threatened and called him that obscene name he dislikes so much, and Matt spread my legs and spanked harder, and in whole new, agonizing places.
But then, just when I thought I might become the very first spanking victim to literally catch on fire, something even worse happened!
Chapter Eight
Matt was using only his hand, and using it with unusual vigor, which was normally more than enough to keep me focused on the issue “at hand.” But suddenly, I glanced up and noticed that what was happening to my rear end was happening directly under the full glare of a three-way lamp! And then, right smack in the middle of a howl, I had this shocking out-of-body experience, like I was standing there watching what was happening to me. I began to see myself as Matt was seeing me, upended over his knee at this really embarrassing angle, with every nook and cranny (and every flaw and jiggle) on open display. Naturally enough, I freaked.
Since I have never regarded my rear end as one of my more attractive assets, I generally just try to ignore it. I’m on the shy side, so it doesn’t get out much, and usually, it just sort of follows me around, always modestly covered, providing a comfortable cushion on cement walls or hard wooden chairs. It has rarely, if ever, been the center of attention, even in moments of intimacy.
There is another problem, as well. Whereas it was once quite small, (I think I was three or four, at the time) it is now not—small, that is. Over the years, I have apparently rewarded its loyal service with far too many cheese nachos and excessive quantities of rum raisin ice cream, so that now, it occasionally pops out from beneath the bottom of my demurely-cut bathing garment at unexpected moments, and entirely of its own accord. When this happens, I simply tuck it back where it belongs and go about my business, hoping it hasn’t been noticed.
Thus, when the good detective continued to concentrate his attentions on this specific part of me, not only was I in pain, but I was suddenly agonizingly self-conscious about … Well, frankly, about its shape, and its size. The shape it was in, specifically. Yeah, I know. You would think I had better things to worry about—that a person in such immediate discomfort wouldn’t be able to focus on shallow details like what she looked like, naked. You’re wondering what kind of vapid airhead could be concerned about something as insignificant as the size of her rear end when:
A. That same rear end already looked like two ripe tomatoes, and…
B. The whole world was falling apart, with war, global warming, and the destruction of the Amazon rainforests? But then, it wasn’t your ass in the 250 watt spotlight, was it?
There are many types of men. (Like Neanderthal, and Cro-Magnon, etc?) No, what I mean is that there are “breast men,” and “leg men,” and, of course, “ass men.” Most men would no doubt prefer to have all of these features—on a combo plate, sort of. But many of those same men, in my own experience, have distinct preferences—that section of the female anatomy with which they obsess, and over which they often drool to excess. And, the thing of it is, I look best from the front. Head on. During moments of intimacy, I always try to arrange the unveiling of that specific part of me at a time when the room is bathed in soft, flattering candlelight. Or better yet, in Stygian darkness.
The female behind, when draped immodestly across a man’s knee, is not only totally defenseless, but also totally visible. All of its shortcomings and blemishes are on open display, and although my own bottom is without blemish, (except for a very tiny mole in the 5:30 position, which could be easily missed under most circumstances) it is still on the plumpish side, bordering on …Well, on Rubenesque. I truly believe that the world was a better, kinder place years ago, when small imperfections in this area were thought of as dimples, and not cellulite. Don’t you agree?
Afterward, Matt went into the bathroom to shower, and when I had hopped about for a few moments, fanning my scorched buttocks with the TV guide, I got up on the bed, looked over my shoulder into the dresser mirror, and immediately wished I hadn’t. The first thing that came to mind was that it looked like two mounds of raspberry Jell-O. I vowed two things, then. I would move out first thing in the morning and live under a freeway bridge if I had to, but I would never speak to Matthew O’Connor again as long as I lived. My second vow was to exercise more often, and start another of those ninety-six hour fasts—sometime in the very near future.
By the time Matt was out of the shower, I was already in bed, lying on my stomach and pretending to be asleep, but crack detective that he is, he wasn’t fooled. He got into bed beside me, and then leaned down to kiss the back of my neck. His usual opening.
“It’s been a rough day, Gwen,” he said softly, “ and I know it was hard on you, too. I’m sorry if I overreacted a little, in there.”
I forced a large, fake sob. “A little?”
Matt chuckled. “Yes, a little. I’m doing my best to make up here, so don’t start pushing your luck. You had every smack of that coming, and you know it.” He kissed a spot between my shoulder blades, and traced one finger very slowly down my back.
“You’re wasting your time,” I sniffled. “I hate you.” But I don’t think he believed this part either, because a moment later, he slipped one hand under me to fondle my breasts, then lifted the sheet and kissed the small of my back, just an inch or so above the raspberry Jell-O line. The next kiss was a little lower, and the one after that just a tad lower, and …Well, you get the picture.
By morning, I’d given up on starting the ninety-six hour diet, too—after Matt had assured me several times that he liked everything about that part of me—just the way it was. Of course, there was always the possibility that he was just being nice, but what the hell? I’ve learned to take my little victories where I can.
The next morning, Matt checked with the crime lab to find out if there was anything new on the murders. About the only thing they knew for certain at this point was that Gabe had definitely been killed in the bathroom of his own beautifully equipped “dungeon.”
I still didn’t get it. “But if he was killed there,” I asked, “why was his body on the beach right in front of his own house? What kind of person stuffs an oozing, dismembered body in his car and drives it around town to the beach?”
“Nice image,” Matt remarked. “There’s always the possibility the killer wanted Tannhauser found—seen, by someone.”
“Like a warning?”
“Could be. Frankly, we don’t know.”
By this time, I had begun to put together a few things I had seen and heard while I lived at Gabe’s place, but I still wasn’t sure how helpful most of it would be. As distasteful as Gabe’s hobby might have been, it wasn’t illegal, and so far, the police hadn’t nailed down a motive for his murder.
“It’s easy to start thinking of the kind of people who visited that place as capable of murder,” Matt pointed out, “but that would be my own bias speaking. For all we know, they were all soccer moms and scout masters—when they weren’t chaining one another to walls and dripping candle wax on–”
I jumped up from the table. “The damned vampire barbecue,” I shrieked. “Monica Howard came like that!”
Matt looked over at me like I was nuts. “Who’s Monica Howard, and what the blazes is a vampire barbeque?”
“God, Matt!” I exclaimed. “You need to get out more! Monica Howard is one of the most famous actresses in the world! She’s married to Luke Thatcher—also famous—and both of them used to hang around Gabe’s place. The first month I was there, Gabe had me decorate the house like a bat cave, for this stupid vampire barbecue he was having. Monica Howard showed up dressed like a dominatrix, leading Luke Thatcher around with a dog collar and a leash. Of course, I did set the living room on fire, but that wasn
’t until later.”
He looked blank. “Okay. Now, who’s Luke Thatcher, again?” That’s why Matt is such a good detective. He’s always focused. Most people would have at least blinked about the living room being set on fire. Of course, Matt knows me fairly well. I guess that could account for it.
I rolled my eyes. Matt obviously did not follow the celebrity news. “Luke Thatcher?” I suggested helpfully. “From A Samurai’s Vow?”
A light seemed to go on in Matt’s head. “You mean that piece of martial arts crap from last year, where the ancient sword kept getting stolen back and forth and all those guys got their heads cut off and stuck on pikes?”
“Very good!” I cried. “So you did see it?”
“I rented it, and fell asleep. How did it end?”
“They all died,” I said. “Everyone was disemboweled but that one white horse. Very symbolic, and touching.”
Matt groaned. “I’m sure.”
“Laugh if you want to, but that ‘martial arts crap’ pulled down close to a dozen Oscar nominations last year, including one for best film, best director, and best actor.”
“And the English guy who goes over there and becomes a samurai? This Luke Thatcher guy is that actor?”
“And the director, screenwriter, and probably the dishwasher.”
“All right, and what has Monica Whatshername famous for, besides being married to the samurai? The name sounds familiar.”
“It should. Have you ever watched The Wives of Cobb County?”
“TV?”
“Fifth season. She sings, too. Think top of the charts, country western. She sells her own line of cosmetics, and her second book just hit the best-seller list. Be Your Hubby’s Personal Fantasy. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that makes her own clothes, too.”
“What does she look like?”
“Like Barbie, with more golden hair, bigger boobs and a tinier waist. Did you know that there are women who get their lower ribs removed to look like that?”