Devious: Book Five in the On The Run series

by Sara Rosett

  The woman let out a little half-laugh that didn’t involve her mouth, but did make her shoulders twitch. “Here? You met her here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s impossible. I’m Poppy Foley, and since I was in London most of yesterday, I certainly didn’t meet you here.”

  A bit of Zoe’s confidence seeped away, and doubt nibbled at the edge of her thoughts. I only have this woman’s word that she’s Poppy, Zoe thought. But, then again, the woman I met yesterday had only given me her word as well.

  The woman was about to close the door, so Zoe stepped forward and put her hand on the doorframe. “Well someone met me here yesterday. She unlocked the door, invited me in, and said she was Poppy Foley.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at Zoe. “Why would someone do that?”

  Zoe tried to take a deep breath without being obvious about it. “I can’t tell you that until you show me some proof that you are Poppy Foley. If you are—”

  Zoe broke off as the woman rolled her eyes and muttered, “Really, the nerve—”

  “If you are Poppy,” Zoe continued, “you will want to know what it was about.”

  For a second, Zoe thought the woman would slam the door on her fingers, but she threw open the door instead, and motioned Zoe up the stairs in front of her. “Fine.”

  She closed the front door and followed Zoe up the curving staircase. Zoe scanned the room. It looked the same as yesterday, except the little table near the door where they’d left their purses and the bag of food was bare except for a set of keys. The woman went to a Chesterfield sofa positioned across from the gigantic fireplace. She leaned over and snatched up a supple leather handbag. She extracted a wallet with a designer logo on the catch, flipped it open, and held it out toward Zoe like a police officer showing a badge.

  The words “Poppy Anna Foley” were printed beside a picture that made her clear skin look sallow. Zoe closed her eyes briefly. What was going on?

  The woman—Poppy, Zoe thought distractedly. This was Poppy Foley—snapped the wallet closed, tossed it along with the purse onto the sofa, and crossed her arms. “Now. What is going on?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Zoe said.

  “Why don’t you start with why you came here in the first place? You’re American, I can tell by your accent. Why are you in Edinburgh?”

  Now that she’d mentioned accents, it registered that Poppy’s accent was quite a bit more posh than the accent the woman had spoken with yesterday—the fake Poppy, no, that sounded too weird—the impostor, Zoe decided as she rubbed her forehead. Besides her slightly more upper-class speech, Zoe saw that everything about this woman spoke subtly of wealth. There were certain obvious signs: her sweater, which although it was casual, was made of a soft cashmere, and her leopard loafers were Louboutin—her friend Helen had snapped up a pair just like them on an eBay auction. Her short brown hair was styled away from her perfectly made-up face in short silky waves that ended at her strong jawline and emphasized the dimple in her chin. There was something else, too. She had an unmistakable air of confidence and self-assurance that rolled off her in waves.

  “It’s about a painting,” Zoe said, knowing she had to tread carefully. “A painting that was stolen from your family.”

  Poppy’s gaze zipped over Zoe’s head and up to the gallery. “The landscape?”

  “Yes.”

  “A woman hired my firm to find it. We did.” Zoe took the brown paper bundle out of her messenger bag and handed it to Poppy.

  She didn’t bother to unfold the wrapping carefully. She ripped it away, revealing a corner of blue sky and part of the city below. “I’m calling the police.”

  Robert Foley picked up the post from the mat and tossed it face down onto an already tilting stack of mail so that he couldn’t see the red notices stamped on the envelopes. He paced to the plate glass window that enclosed the living room and looked at the city. How much was this view worth? If he sold the flat, would it be enough to stop the arrival of more envelopes with red letters stamped on the outside? Probably not. His phone rang, and he turned his back on the view, pacing quickly across the room to his makeshift desk, a folding chair positioned in front of two cardboard boxes.

  He snatched up the phone, ready to launch into his pitch, but when he saw the name Ivan on the display, his shoulders sagged. What was Ivan doing calling him? It had been—what?—months? Maybe a year since they’d spoken. Ivan was probably in town. Last time he was in London, Robert had invited Ivan to meet him here at his flat. He’d just purchased the place and had wanted to show it off, but now…well, he wouldn’t be inviting anyone up to tour his flat, not now.

  The rooms were empty except for the boxes and the chair in the living room. Beyond the kitchen with its gleaming appliances with digital read-outs was a luxurious bath with one towel and an empty bedroom with a sleeping bag on the floor. Robert hit the button to send the call to voicemail, but less than a minute later Ivan’s name was back on the display of the ringing phone.

  Robert sighed and answered the call. Ivan was persistent. Robert would have to make some excuse to keep Ivan from coming to the flat. He was becoming quite an expert in deflection and evasion lately. Robert pulled out his heartiest tones. “Ivan, how are you?”

  “Excellent. You’re not going to believe this, but I think I’ve figured it out, the riddle about the Foley Cache.”

  It took Robert a few seconds to rearrange his thoughts. The Foley Cache. It had been years since he’d heard those words. They brought back memories of him and Ivan scouring every inch of Frampton, crawling in and out of dusty cupboards and tapping paneling as well as roaming over the grounds, looking for a conspicuous pile of dirt that might hold a treasure. Idiotic stuff, but entertaining when you’re eight.

  Ivan hurried into the silence. “I know you’re quite the busy investor these days, and you probably think the Foley Cache is as obtainable as the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but I think I know where to begin. Something came to my attention lately. It made me realize that we—and everyone who has ever searched for it—has been looking at the riddle the wrong way.”

  “Ivan—” Robert broke off. He didn’t even know where to start. “It’s a complete fantasy,” he said finally. “If some Victorian Foley did bring back something valuable from a Grand Tour it would have been found by now.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Everyone has been looking in the wrong place.”

  Robert paced to the huge window, stifling another sigh. A few months ago, he would have made some excuse and ended the call—he had important things to do. But now his most pressing engagement was with his unopened post. Might as well hear him out. He knew Ivan. Ivan would keep pestering him until he had the whole story out and felt convinced that he’d talked Robert around to his point of view. It had been the same with Ivan’s love of Arsenal. He plagued Robert with facts, figures, and reports of the team’s exceptional talents, until Robert finally agreed that, yes they were the best team just to get Ivan to shut up.

  Robert strolled back to his “office” and dropped into the folding chair. He propped his feet up on a box. “So why has everyone been looking in the wrong place?” Lounging back in the chair, Robert picked up a mass of rubber bands layered to create a ball and idly tossed it up and down with his left hand.

  “I’ll tell you on one condition. I get twenty percent of the find.”

  “The find.” Robert couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice. “Come on, Ivan. We’re adults here.”

  “Yes. That’s why I want this spelled out. I’ll help you find the Foley Cache, but I get twenty percent. I’ve got a solid lead. I want everything in writing beforehand, so there aren’t any arguments later. I have a contract with me now. Where would you like to meet to sign it? Should I come by your flat? Are you home?”

  Robert caught the ball and didn’t toss it again. “No, I’m not home,” Robert said automatically, his mind racing. Ivan was a trained academic now. If he’d found
…something…that could lead them to the Foley Cache…Robert’s glance ranged around the echoing room then strayed to the stack of bills. “Ten. Ten percent.” What did he have to lose? If Ivan was right, it could be the answer to all his problems. If he was wrong, well, it wasn’t like he was doing anything else right now.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Ivan, let’s say by some crazy miracle we actually do find it. It’s my family treasure. I’ll have to split it with Poppy.”

  “Poppy is your problem, not mine, thank God. Fifteen or I hang up and pursue this on my own.”

  “Fine. Fifteen. Now what have you found out?”

  “Not quite yet. First, we meet and you sign this contract I have, then I need a look at something in Staircase House.”

  “What?”

  “A painting.”

  When Poppy said she was calling the police, Zoe had pressed down her first instinct, which was to push past Poppy and get out of the house. But while physically her body was poised for flight, intellectually she knew that would be the worst thing she could do. It would make her look guilty.

  Poppy made a call on her cell phone then retreated to the far side of the room by the doorway near the circular staircase. Zoe wasn’t sure if it was because she wanted to be able to get out of the house if Zoe made a move toward her, or if Poppy wanted to be near the door to let the police in the instant they knocked.

  Zoe sat down on the Chesterfield and waited.

  It was probably only about twenty or thirty minutes between the time Poppy called and when the police arrived, but sitting silently in a room with someone who thinks you are a thief made it seem much longer—like an eon or two. Finally, the police arrived, a man and a woman, both in black hats with checkerboard trim and bright yellow jackets dripping with gear attached to pockets and belts. “I’m Officer Donnelly,” the man said, “with Officer Flint.”

  The minute the police cleared the threshold into the room, Poppy said, “There she is, the thief who stole the painting,”

  Officer Donnelly took out a notebook and began asking Poppy questions, which she answered in an impatient tone while Officer Flint watched Zoe with a laser-like focus. Finally, Donnelly came across the room and pointed to the painting Poppy had placed on an end table by the sofa before making her phone call to the police.

  “Yes. I’m sure her prints are all over it,” Poppy said. “I only touched the wrapping paper.” Poppy had moved closer as well, following the police officer.

  Donnelly turned to Zoe. “And you are?” He took down her name and hotel information, then carefully examined her passport, noting down information from it before passing it to his partner. She took it and retreated to the entry area by the staircase, out of earshot.

  “And what can you tell me about this painting?” Donnelly asked, drawing Zoe’s attention away from his partner. Zoe felt vulnerable and exposed, watching the woman walk away with her passport.

  “The firm I work for, Throckmorton Enquiries was hired to find it.”

  Poppy uncrossed her arms. “Uncle Harry is involved in this?” she said, her tone rising with disbelief. “No, that can’t be. He’d never do something like this.”

  “Who is he?” Donnelly asked.

  “Harrington Throckmorton,” Poppy said. “He’s a friend of the family. An upstanding man, who would never participate in a robbery.”

  “But he didn’t, and neither did I,” Zoe said quickly, thinking it was best to get her side of the story on the record as quickly as possible. She hadn’t bothered arguing with Poppy earlier. Even if she could have convinced Poppy that she wasn’t a thief, the police were already on their way.

  “A woman contacted Harrington earlier this week, said she was Poppy Foley and that a painting had been stolen. She asked if he could get it back.”

  Officer Donnelly tilted his head slightly. “Why would she ask him that?”

  “Because that’s what he does.” Zoe gave him Harrington’s background then said, “I work for him as a consultant. He couldn’t make it here himself. He’s currently working with the Guardia Civil on a case.” Throwing in that detail couldn’t hurt. “I was to meet Poppy Foley here, at this address yesterday,” Zoe said to Donnelly, watching his partner speak quietly into a radio or phone—Zoe couldn’t tell which—as she flicked through the passport. “I came early but no one answered the door, so I returned later. I met a woman walking across the close toward the door to this house. I introduced myself then she unlocked the door with a key. I followed her in. She showed me where the painting had been and had a folder of information ready for me with a close-up of the missing painting and other details.” Zoe removed the folder from her messenger bag and handed it to Donnelly.

  “So you never asked for identification?” he asked.

  “It didn’t cross my mind to ask for it. She had a key, and she knew her way around the house. She did seem a bit nervous at a few points,” Zoe admitted, “but I assumed it was because she’d been robbed.”

  Donnelly looked toward Poppy, who shook her head. “I know nothing about this fantasy she’s making up.”

  “Check the window in the gallery. Two panes have been replaced recently.” Poppy spun and trotted up the stairs to the minstrel’s gallery, nearly running over Officer Flint, who was returning Zoe’s passport to Donnelly. He tilted his head toward the stairs, and Flint followed Poppy. Zoe heard Flint stumble on the taller step, catch her balance, and then continue up the rest of the stairs with a muttered curse.

  Donnelly looked through the file then tucked it under his arm. He was taking a breath to ask another question, when Poppy appeared at the railing overhead, her face white and her dark eyes snapping. “Those panes are new, but I refuse to believe this nonsense. She broke in—that’s how she knows about the window and the stolen painting.”

  “Then why would I repair the window?”

  Momentarily stumped, Poppy didn’t say anything.

  “And why would I return with the painting?” Zoe added.

  Poppy snapped her fingers and rushed down the stairs as she said, “It’s a fake. You repaired the window and were returning the fake painting today to replace the stolen one.”

  “Then why did I ring the doorbell?”

  Now at the bottom of the stairs Poppy shrugged. “To make sure the house was empty, of course.”

  “That’s not true,” Zoe said, her gaze going back and forth between Poppy’s angry features and Donnelly’s impassive face. “Not true at all. I’ve told you what happened.”

  Officer Donnelly cleared his throat. Zoe wondered if he felt the interview was getting away from him. “How valuable is this painting, Ms. Foley?”

  She swiveled to look at the painting, which was still on the end table, in a speculative way.

  She has no idea, Zoe thought.

  “In the big scope of things, not a lot,” Zoe said quickly. “It’s a nice oil by Annabel Foley, one of Ms. Foley’s ancestors, but not worth thousands of dollars, —er pounds. I paid a Glasgow dealer two hundred and fifty pounds for it this morning. Nancy…”

  Donnelly raised his notebook, and Zoe cast about for Nancy’s last name, but it escaped her. Why hadn’t she saved herself a copy of that receipt? More mental notes for her next assignment…if there was a next assignment. This job was in shambles, Zoe thought, cringing inwardly, already dreading the conversation she’d need to have with Harrington after she extricated herself from the police. “Violet Buchanan, the owner of the Blue Door, can confirm everything I’ve told you. The woman I bought the painting from is named Nancy. She’s a friend of Violet’s. She can put you in touch with Nancy. Violet knows her stuff when it comes to Annabel Foley paintings, and she thinks this is the real deal. Not incredibly valuable, but she thinks it is authentic.”

  Donnelly made a note then said, “Let’s get back to the woman you met here. What did she look like?”

  “She was shorter than me, around five feet tall, I’d guess. She had brown eyes, a long nose, and chin-length br
own hair cut in a bob, sort of frizzy.”

  Poppy turned her head slowly toward Zoe, her eyes narrowed. “Did she have protruding, buggy eyes?”

  It wasn’t the kindest description, but it was rather accurate. “Yes, she did.”

  Poppy’s attitude changed. She went from indignation to exasperation. Her shoulders, which had been tensed up, dropped and she growled, “Justine, what have you done now?”

  7

  “YOU THINK YOU KNOW THE woman Mrs. Andrews described?” Officer Donnelly asked Poppy.

  “Yes,” she said with a reluctant sigh. “Justine Price.”

  Justine was a funny name for a thief, Zoe thought.

  “I’ve known Justine for years. She’s a friend from school,” Poppy continued, “You know, one of those connections that is based more on being in constant, forced company in a certain setting rather than on any real affinity. I hadn’t spoken to her for—oh I don’t know, probably seven or eight years until I ran into her a few months ago in London.”

  Poppy ran her finger around one of the buttons of the tufted sofa. “My father recently had a stroke. He was a difficult patient. She’d trained as a nurse, and Father was so finicky, I thought that having Justine around might be the solution. She had visited Frampton several times during school holidays when we were younger, so Father knew her. I thought it might be helpful to have someone he was familiar with. That was one of his complaints—too many strangers in the house.”

  She sat down on the sofa, rearranging her hands in her lap. “She was a good nurse. Father liked her, but during that time, some things went missing. Small items. An antique silver bell, a necklace, a jade elephant figurine. The Foleys have always been collectors, and the house is littered with items from all over the world. I wanted to confront her. Mother was afraid she’d take it the wrong way and leave us, which would upset Father. I didn’t agree, but I didn’t challenge her,” she said in a tight voice. “Then Father died.” She swallowed and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Zoe couldn’t help but compare her manner to the woman she’d met yesterday—Justine, who had also sprinkled references to parents into their conversation and had also choked up at the mention of her “father’s” death. But Justine had recovered quickly, Zoe remembered, moving the conversation briskly along to the painting. Zoe didn’t doubt for a second that Poppy’s grief was real, mostly because she looked like she wanted to snatch back the last few seconds. She looked extremely embarrassed that anyone had caught a glimpse of her misery.