Statue of Limitations

by Kate Collins

  Statue of Limitations

  Kate Collins

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.KensingtonBooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Teaser chapter

  FLORAL TIPS FOR LONGER-LASTING ARRANGEMENTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Linda L. Tsoutsouris

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2433-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2434-2 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2434-8 (ebook)

  This book is dedicated to all those crazy Greeks I’ve come to know and love and try my best to understand. It’s also dedicated to all of us Athenas who are true warrior goddesses, standing up for what is right and just and never, ever forgetting that a bully is just a coward in disguise. If you carry nothing else away from this book it should be this: Speak your truth. Your body, mind, and spirit will thank you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank my agent, Jessica Faust, for her wisdom and encouragement; Martin Biro and Kensington for believing in me; and my editor, Tara Gavin, for carrying on bravely under tremendous mountains of work.

  I’d like to thank my assistant (and son), Jason Eberhardt, who has incredible vision and editorial skills, not to mention is a great storyteller in his own right.

  I’d like to thank my daughter Julia, for her inner guiding light and creativity in her own endeavors. It takes a lot of talent to turn a hobby into a career, and she did it in spades.

  I would also like to thank those ancient Greeks for coming up with such a wonderful cast of gods and goddesses, if only I could find one.

  What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.

  —Pericles

  PREFACE

  IT’S ALL GREEK TO ME

  blog by Goddess Anon

  Chaos Reigns

  I’ve read your comments and I’m truly flattered. I know many of you want me to reveal my true identity, but trust me, it’s better this way. My life has been nothing but chaos lately, and I can’t give you any more details than that. But I can give you a little backstory.

  First of all, I come from a big, noisy, and nosy Greek family consisting of several annoying siblings, a meddling mother firmly committed to the idea that I should marry a nice Greek boy, a father who, although not fully Greek, has totally embraced the culture, and my grandparents, Pappoús (or Pappu, as we pronounce it) and Yiayiá (actually it’s spelled Oiaoiá, but I’ll keep it simple).

  Secondly, when I was young, I prayed for a handsome white knight to come along to rescue me, and guess what? Nothing. Ever. Happened. I finally figured out I’d have to do it myself. So, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, I packed a suitcase, moved to the closest big city, got a studio apartment and a low-paying job at a big company, and worked my way up until I reached a level of success that made me happier than I’d ever dreamed possible.

  I also met and married a very successful, non-Greek businessman, which caused all kinds of uproar back home. So along with a wedding gift, my mother gave me her prediction of my future with this man: he’ll break your heart; after your divorce you’ll never be able to support yourself in the city; then you’ll come back home where you belong.

  Oh, how I prayed that she would be wrong, but once again my prayers went unanswered, because, much to my consternation, it turned out that she was right.

  Ten years later, my corporate job was eliminated and my husband divorced me, leaving me in debt up to my ears but unchaining me from a bitter marriage that made me feel invisible and wary of ever getting close to a man again. So, with a young child to support, I packed up our belongings, along with my pride, and returned home into the welcoming—or should I say gloating—arms of my family.

  Now my child and I not only live in the big family house, but I also work for the family business, which at least enables me to earn my own money so I can move into my own place one day. In the meantime, my child, who’d been left so distraught by the divorce, does seem to be blossoming here in the midst of our eccentric but strong fam—

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday, 8:10 p.m.

  My computer monitor flickered briefly, and the screen went black. The lights in the ceiling high above my desk made a buzzing sound and then they, too, went dark. The window beside my desk offered little help. The bright May sun had set fifteen minutes ago.

  Muttering under my breath, I reached for my cell phone only to remember that I’d set it on the oak console table on the opposite side of the office. A bolt of lightning momentarily illuminated the room, enabling me to make my way around the old oak desk and across the wood floor to the table. At a sudden heavy thud from somewhere outside the room, I paused. Standing in the dark beside the table, I waited, listening.

  Hearing nothing more, I did a quick mental inventory. My father, John Spencer, who owned Spencer’s Garden Center, and my youngest sister, Delphi, had left when the shop closed at eight. I’d turned on the CLOSED sign and bolted the door myself. Then, with no one around, I’d retreated to the office to write my blog—my way of releasing my pent-up frustrations. The store was completely empty, so what had caused the noise?

  I located my phone, switched on the flashlight, and shined it at the open doorway. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I quietly peered out into the huge garden center.

  The office where I worked was on the right side of the shop behind the L-shaped checkout counter. I could see that the cash register hadn’t been touched, the bolt on the big red doors was still thrown, nothing on any of the shelves had been disturbed, none of the outdoor wall decor was askew, and no windows had been broken. That was a relief. But I still had to track down the source of the noise.

  Over a century ago the garden center had been a barn on the very north
ern edge of Sequoia, Michigan, the last building on Greene Street. Now, with a brand-new arched roof, big picture windows, a high-beamed ceiling, cream-colored shiplap walls, and a shiny oak floor, Spencer’s was one of the most attractive buildings along the mile stretch of tourist shops. I’d always loved being there—I had a natural green thumb—but I’d never expected to make it my life’s work.

  Another thud turned me in the direction of the outdoor garden area, located on an acre lot behind the barn, and then I had my answer. It was Oscar, our friendly neighborhood raccoon, who liked to steal shiny objects. He’d pilfered any number of items from the area where we kept garden décor. I wasn’t about to let him take another one.

  Using my cell phone’s flashlight as my guide, I headed toward the back exit, walking down the left side past rows of indoor plants, garden supplies, tools, and small decorative pots. Circling the long, oak plank conference table at the rear of the barn, I pushed the glass door open and stepped outside just as the electricity came back on. Hanging lanterns around the perimeter of a ballroom-sized area right outside the building illuminated a cement floor and a wide aisle down the middle that divided the area into two sections. The left side was filled with shelves overflowing with flowering annuals, perennials, and vegetables, while the right side contained stone, clay, glass, and cement garden sculptures, water fountains, large decorative planters, wrought-iron benches, and patio furniture.

  I caught movement from the corner of my eye and backed against the door with a sharp gasp.

  A man was crouched at the base of a life-sized marble statue of the Goddess Athena, now lying on her back in the grass. He had an open pocketknife in his hand and his cell phone was propped nearby, its flashlight aimed at the statue’s base. He jumped to his feet, obviously as shocked to see me as I was to see him.

  “Drop that knife and don’t move a muscle.” I thrust my phone forward, the beam pointed at his face and my trembling finger on the home button. “I’ve got the police on the line.”

  If only that were true.

  The hanging lights flickered, threatening to go out again.

  “Okay,” he said in a calm voice. “No problem.” Moving slowly, he placed the knife on the ground and raised his hands above his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “You broke into our shop. What did you think that would do to me?”

  “Hold on a minute,” he said in a rising voice. “I did not break into the shop. I was told to stay here until someone could help me, and that was”—he tipped his wrist to see his watch—“over twenty minutes ago.”

  I gave him a skeptical glance. “You’ve been out here for twenty minutes?”

  “Over twenty minutes. Again, I’m sorry for alarming you, but I was just doing what I was told.”

  Undeniably good-looking, the man had dark hair that was parted on the side and combed away from his face, big golden-brown eyes, a firm mouth, and a strong jawline. My gaze was drawn down to his expensive tan suede bomber jacket that showed off his muscular shoulders, dark blue jeans that revealed an athletic build, and noticeably pricey navy leather loafers.

  His expression seemed sincere, but the truth was that I was alone with a stranger behind a big barn on Greene Street, the main thoroughfare of our small lakeside town, with only my phone and my wits to protect me. The other shops had already closed and any tourists who’d stuck around would no doubt be comfortably seated inside a restaurant or one of the local sports bars. With the storm quickly approaching, who would hear my cry for help?

  I jumped at a sudden clap of thunder. With all the bravery I could muster, still holding my phone, I pointed toward the lane that ran behind the shops on Greene. “You need to leave right now.”

  “Will you at least give me a chance to prove I’m telling the truth? If you don’t believe me, I’ll go.”

  A strong eastern wind blew through the garden area, shifting the hanging lanterns, and causing my long blue sweater to billow out around my white jeans. I could smell the rain coming.

  Brushing long strands of light brown hair away from my face, I said, “Make it fast.”

  “The young woman who waited on me—I didn’t get her name—is probably in her late twenties, with lots of curly black hair tied with some kind of fuzzy purple thing. She had on a purple sweater, jeans, and bright green flip-flops. She was shorter than you but had more . . .” He gave me a sweeping glance, his eyes moving from my long brown hair all the way down to my white flats. He saw the narrowing of my gaze, and finished with “color in her cheeks.”

  That wasn’t what he’d meant to say and we both knew it. He had just described Delphi, my airhead of a sister who, like my other two sisters, Maia and Selene, had the curvaceous bodies, shorter stature, and olive complexions of my Greek-American mother, Hera Karras Spencer. I, on the other hand, was the only one who had inherited the pale skin, slender form and straight light brown hair of my English-blooded father.

  It was quite likely that Delphi had gotten busy with something and had forgotten to tell me. Her absentmindedness was common enough to convince me the man could be telling the truth; but still, what did he intend to do with that knife?

  I gestured toward the statue. “What were you doing?”

  “Can I put my hands down? My arms are tired.”

  At my curt nod he said, “Thank you. I’m Case Donnelly by the way.”

  As he walked closer, holding out his hand to shake mine, I realized I was still clutching my cell phone.

  “You might want to put that away.” His mouth quirked as though trying to hide a grin. “I’m guessing the police hung up a long time ago or they’d have been here by now.”

  I stood my ground, my gaze locked with his.

  “And your flashlight app is on, by the way.”

  He wasn’t missing a trick. Feeling a blush starting, I turned off the app, slid the phone in my back pocket, and took his hand. “Athena Spencer,” I said in a crisp, businesslike voice. I’d gone back to my maiden name when my divorce had become final.

  “Athena.” He looked impressed. “Like your Treasure of Athena.”

  That he knew the statue’s name surprised me since it wasn’t written on any tag.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Athena. Are you the owner here?”

  His charming smile and warm, firm grip left me a little breathless. I dropped his hand and stepped back, feeling awkward and at the same time angry with him for causing it. “I’m the business manager. My father owns the garden center. Now would you answer my question, please?”

  “I’d be glad to.” He gestured toward the overturned figure. “I was trying to find out if the statue is authentic .”

  “She’s authentic.”

  “Do you have the legal paperwork to prove it?”

  Feeling my temper on the rise I said, “Yes. It’s called a sales receipt.”

  “And does it say on this sales receipt that the statue is by the Greek sculptor Antonius?”

  I paused to think. Had I seen the name Antonius anywhere on the receipt in the file marked Statue? I’d only noticed that it was a receipt because it had been sticking up out of the file when I was putting something else away. Who was Antonius anyway?

  As though reading my thoughts Case said, “Antonius is a Roman artist from the early twelfth century who became famous posthumously for his sculptures of Greek gods and goddesses.”

  I lifted my chin. “As a matter of fact, I do know that.” Not. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter. The statue isn’t for sale.”

  “That’s okay. I wasn’t interested in buying it. But just out of curiosity, may I see the receipt?”

  His impertinence irritated me. “No, you may not. It’s late, I’m hungry, and I was supposed to meet someone for dinner ten minutes ago.”

  Case studied me with a shrewdness that made me uneasy. “It’s just after eight o’clock. Why isn’t the garden center open?”

  “All of the shops in town close at eight. You’re not from aroun
d here, are you?”

  Completely ignoring my question, he glanced back at the statue. “I’m betting you paid a lot of money for her.”

  His sudden switch of topics threw me off guard. Plus, I was growing hungrier—and angrier—by the second. I hadn’t wanted to dine so late anyway, especially not with Kevin Coreopsis, the “good Greek boy” my mother was encouraging me to see, but of course, when did my wishes ever count? I would’ve much rather had dinner with my son at The Parthenon with the rest of the family.

  “First of all, I didn’t buy the statue. My grandfather did. He was going to use it at his diner, but it was too large. Secondly, how much he paid isn’t your concern. Now, would you please keep your promise and leave?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, she did cost a lot of money. I hope your grandfather at least bought her from a reputable art dealer.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but he bought her at an estate sale.” Why had I told Case that?

  My stomach rumbled, reminding me why.

  “So, an auctioneer sold it to him? Is the auction house reliable?”

  I balled my hands into fists, not about to admit that neither the auctioneer nor the auction house was one I knew anything about. I hadn’t even been aware that Pappoús had purchased it until it was delivered.

  “Okay,” Case said, “I’ll mark that down as a you don’t know. Whose estate was up for auction?”

  I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “Get out now or I really will call the police.”

  “One more question. Did the auctioneer inform your grandfather that someone had applied a thin layer of cement over the bottom of the statue where the sculptor’s name should be?”