“Where is she now?” Michael said. “Still married to that anchor guy she dumped you for?”
“No,” Davy said. “She killed him. Then she married somebody else and killed him, too.”
“I’m not surprised,” Michael said. “So where is she now?”
“Here,” Davy said. “Stalking her third.”
“I knew it.” Michael sat back. “You’re still chasing her.”
“No,” Davy said. “I’m chasing my money. She has it.”
“That was careless of you,” Michael said. “Leave her alone. Make some more.”
“I’d rather get my old stake back, thanks,” Davy said. “It’s—”
“You know, this place is not bad.” Michael looked around the room. “That gallery, it’s a sweet setup. You could do some damage here.”
“No,” Davy said, trying to forget that he’d thought the same thing. “This is legit. And the Goodnights are another family you will not be ruining.”
“So what are you doing here?” Michael said.
“They’re my way to Clea,” Davy said. “She needs them, and I can use them to get to her.”
“That’s my boy,” Michael said. “So which one are you spending nights with? The kid’s too young, and Gwennie’s keeping company with a steady guy. That leaves the brunette with the glasses.” He nodded. “Not bad. My guess is, she’s not stupid and she won’t fold in a pinch. Nice ass, too.”
“I’ve never liked you,” Davy said.
Michael’s shoulders shook, which for him was roaring laughter. “I missed you, boy.”
“I didn’t miss you.” Davy walked over to the door and opened it. “And now you’re leaving.”
“I don’t think so,” Michael said, looking around. “This is a nice room.”
“It’s Simon’s,” Davy said. “And he makes full use of it.”
“So where are you sleeping?” Michael got up, and then nodded. “Right. With the glasses. And Gwennie has a stable guy.”
“Which means there’s no room in the inn.” Davy pointed to the hall. “Out.”
Michael ambled toward the door. “I think we should go next weekend,” he said as he passed Davy. “I think—”
Across the hall, Dorcas opened her door. “I’m painting over here,” she said, fixing Davy with her glare.
“An artist,” Michael said, shaking his head at her in admiration. “And we broke your concentration. A thousand apologies.”
“One’s enough,” Dorcas said. “That and shutting up.”
“The artistic temperament,” Michael said. “Fascinating. Could I see your work?”
Dorcas blinked at him.
“Dorcas, this is my father,” Davy said. “He’s a liar, a cheat, and a seducer of women, and he’s looking for a place to stay. Avoid him at all costs.”
“Michael Dempsey,” Michael said, taking her hand. “Dorcas. Lovely name. It means ‘lily’ in Gaelic.”
“It means ‘gazelle’ in Greek,” Dorcas said, but she didn’t take her hand back, and Davy thought there might actually be color in her cheeks. She nodded toward Davy. “Is he telling the truth about you?”
“Sadly, yes,” Michael said, smiling at her. “I am completely without redeeming value.”
Dorcas smiled back at him.
“But I really would like to see your work,” Michael went on. “I rarely meet artists and never artists at work. May I?”
And while Davy watched with a sinking heart, Dorcas said, “Yes.”
“Don’t do it, Dorcas,” he said.
“Oh, please,” Dorcas said. “Like you’re a prize.” Then she stepped back and let Michael in.
“Jesus,” Davy said and went downstairs to warn the Goodnights about his father.
DAVY SPENT the rest of the week painting and hauling furniture and watching Michael with an eagle eye while Nadine and Ethan followed his every order. Gwen planned the details of the opening with skill if not pleasure, and made sure that the advertising was in place and that there would be a reporter to cover the preview. Simon worked on the security, still missing Louise, and on Tuesday, part of his wardrobe. “Your dad borrowed a shirt from me,” he said. “Evidently neither one of you knows how to pack.”
And Tilda came in after work on her mural and painted with Davy, saying, “You know, I never get enough of painting walls.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Davy said. “You worked all day.”
“It’s the least I can do for you,” Tilda said. “You’re working your butt off for us.”
“Actually, the least you could do for me,” Davy began, and then stopped when Tilda looked at him over her glasses. He did not want to hear about her damn vibrator again. “Never mind.”
Tilda nodded and went back to painting. “I can’t believe your dad moved in with Dorcas an hour after he got here.”
“Yes. I know. He is without morals.”
“But he’s efficient,” Tilda said. “It took you a good twenty-four hours to get into my bed.”
“Hey,” Davy said. “If I’d wanted in earlier—”
Tilda looked at him over the tops of her glasses again.
“Right,” he said and kept painting.
Eve and Jeff and Andrew ran errands and did odd jobs and generally oiled the wheels, while Ford pitched in whenever they needed a repair that required actual skill, especially if it meant sharing space with Gwen. Even Mason showed up to monitor the action, so happy about the opening that he cheered everybody else up, with the possible exception of Ford. They were a team, albeit a strange one.
Michael was another matter. When Davy caught him playing monte outside a local high school, he dragged him off, threatened him with death, and gave him a job of his own to do.
“Where’s Michael?” Tilda said when she got home from mural painting on Wednesday.
“Don’t go looking for trouble,” Davy said.
“I like him,” Tilda said. “I wouldn’t give him money, but I like him. What did you do with him?”
“Two birds with one stone,” Davy said. “I told him about Colby.”
“And?”
“And he took him for a quick five thousand this morning,” Davy said. “He’s dropping off half of it at Mrs. Brenner’s as we speak.”
“Five thousand dollars?” Tilda said.
“The old man is good,” Davy said, trying not to feel proud.
“What is it he does again?” Tilda said.
“Sales,” Davy said.
“Right. You really think he’s going to give the money to Mrs. Brenner?”
“Half of it,” Davy said. “He’ll do it. He has a strong sense of justice. Just no morals.”
“How you managed to turn out so honest...” Tilda’s voice trailed off as she shook her head.
“It’s a miracle,” Davy said and went to work on the outside of the gallery before God struck him dead.
After that, since he had a stake, Michael stayed home with Dorcas and kept finding his way down to the gallery, and Davy kept an exasperated eye on him, as did Ford, every time Michael went near Gwen.
“That Ford is no fool,” Davy told Gwen on the day of the preview showing. “I like him, even if he is going to kill me.”
“Don’t joke,” Gwen said. “It’s too upsetting.”
“I was kidding. He’s not going to kill me,” Davy said, patting her shoulder.
“You don’t know that,” Gwen said.
“Sure I do,” Davy said. “If he was going to do it, he’d have done it by now.”
“Then why is he still here?” Gwen said, and Davy grinned at her. “Me? But he’s a hit man.”
“I’ve heard they’re a hot date,” Davy said. “You know, guys who are bent go the extra mile.”
“Speaking of which,” Gwen said, “your father borrowed a twenty from me.”
“Oh, hell,” Davy said, and reached for his wallet.
“And then he brought me back fifty,” Gwen said. “He said he’d been playing pool and it was m
y cut.”
“Oh,” Davy said. “He didn’t stick it in your T-shirt, did he?”
“Of course not,” Gwen said. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Right,” Davy said, and went back to the office to plan the next night’s heist.
Later that day, when Gwen had gone out to lunch with Mason, Davy saw Nadine out at the gallery counter, with three cards spread in front of her, laughing at Ethan.
“What the hell?” he said and went out. “What are you doing, young lady?”
“Your dad taught me this cool game,” Nadine said, flipping three cards down in front of him on the counter. “Here’s the queen—”
“Nadine,” Davy said, “I told you to stay away from my father. The only way to win at three-card monte is to cheat. That’s bad.”
“I wouldn’t play for money,” Nadine said, trying to sound shocked and half-succeeding.
No wonder Dad taught her to play, Davy thought. She’s a natural. “Forget it.”
“I love it,” Nadine said. “It’s a sure thing.”
“There are no sure things.”
“Oh, yeah?” Nadine said. “You can’t beat me.”
Davy took a five out of his pocket and slapped it on the table. “Where’s yours?”
Nadine held out her hand to Ethan, and he sighed and dug a five out of his pocket and handed it to her. “You’ll get it back, Ethan,” she said.
“No you won’t, Ethan,” Davy said. “Deal ‘em.” He watched her shuffle the cards, show him the queen, and then palm it while she moved the rest around. For only having practiced a couple of hours, she was damn good.
“Okay,” Nadine said, still moving cards. “Now, where’s the queen?”
“Right here,” Davy said, putting his finger on the middle card.
“Well, let’s look and see,” Nadine said, smug with her queen up her sleeve.
“Let’s,” Davy said, keeping his finger on the middle card. He turned over the eight of clubs to the right and the four of spades to the left. “Will you look at that? Neither one is the queen, so it must be the middle one.” He took the two fives on the table.
“That’s not fair,” Nadine said, looking outraged.
Davy took his hand off the card and grabbed her wrist. “Neither is this,” he said, sliding the queen out of her sleeve and flipping it at her. “Don’t let me catch you pulling this on anybody ever again.”
“Can I practice it on Ethan?” Nadine said.
“You’re screwing Ethan over enough,” Davy said. “You don’t need to take him at cards, too. Put the last coat of paint on the door instead.”
“I’m really tired of painting,” Nadine said dangerously.
“ ‘We keep you alive to serve this ship,’” Davy said to her. “ ‘Row well and live.’”
“Ben Hur” Ethan said, evidently not too perturbed about being screwed over.
“Honestly,” Nadine said, and stuffed the cards in her pocket.
Davy went back into the office and found Tilda watching through the door. “Your niece has a real knack for crime.”
“And yet I feel certain that you also can play that game,” Tilda said.
“Can,” Davy said. “I don’t.”
“So law-abiding,” Tilda said. “Such an example to us all.”
“Now about this burglary tomorrow night,” Davy said. “Definitely wear that Chinese thing. I like it.”
Michael was nowhere to be found that evening, but the next night, on his way to meet Tilda for one last theft, Davy knocked on Dorcas’s door. When Michael answered, Davy said, “Do not teach Nadine con games.”
“You’ve got to teach them when they’re young,” Michael said. “That’s another reason I have to go see Sophie. Dempsey’s a little underage yet, but doesn’t Sophie have a stepdaughter?”
“Dillie,” Davy said. “You will not be teaching her to con.”
“Why not?”
“Because ...” Davy stopped, remembering Dillie’s practice swing. “You just won’t.”
“Already taught her, huh?” Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my boy.”
“I really wish you weren’t here,” Davy said. “I’m going straight, damn it.”
“Nice black shirt,” Michael said. “Robbing somebody?”
Davy closed his eyes and went down the stairs.
THE GALLERY looked beautiful and Gwen hated it.
She looked at her watch to check the time. Ten minutes to the preview. Maybe if she threw up on the cash register, they’d let her go upstairs and do a Double-Crostic.
Then she kicked herself. The entire family had worked their fingers to the bone for this place and it gleamed now, filled with the color and fun in Tilda’s furniture and a beautiful buffet that Thomas the Caterer had laid out, and they were going to make money, and she was whining because she wanted to be scuba diving. No, that wasn’t right. She wanted to go upstairs and pull the covers over her head.
“Mrs. Goodnight?” Thomas said, and Gwen looked up startled.
“Oh, Thomas, I’m sorry,” she said, trying not to stare at the two yellowing bruises on his forehead. “The buffet looks wonderful. You—”
“Could I talk to you for a moment?” he said, putting his hand on her arm, and Gwen was so startled, she let him draw her into the office. He took out a leather case and showed her a badge. “Thomas Lewis, FBI.”
Gwen squinted at it. “You’re FBI?”
“Shhh.” Thomas looked around. “I’m here undercover, Mrs. Goodnight, no one can know. Can you keep a secret?”
Oh, honey, Gwen thought.
“I’m investigating Clea Lewis,” he told her, keeping one eye on the door. “We think she murdered her husband.”
“Oh.” That actually sounded plausible.
“And stole his art collection,” Thomas went on. “Cyril Lewis was a very wealthy man, but when he died, the estate was bankrupt.”
“Well, Clea’s not cheap,” Gwen said. “Maybe they just spent it.”
“They did,” Thomas said. “On paintings. Cyril Lewis bought over two million dollars’ worth of paintings in the last year of his life.”
“Wow,” Gwen said, calculating the commissions.
“They were stored in a warehouse,” Thomas said. “But it burned to the ground the day before Cyril Lewis died.”
He was beginning to sound like a bad radio play. “And you think Clea killed him?”
“He wouldn’t be the first husband she killed,” Thomas said. “We could never get any evidence on her, but her first husband died under very suspicious circumstances. She’s a vicious woman. We have every reason to believe she’s put a contract killer in this very building.”
“Really,” Gwen said, trying to sound surprised.
“We think she’s trying to kill an ex-lover,” Thomas said.
“Really,” Gwen said, not faking anymore. “Huh.” She wondered if Tilda knew. Probably. Tilda didn’t miss much.
“The reason I’m talking to you,” Thomas said, “is that she’s showing a lot of interest in your gallery.”
“Not really,” Gwen said. “She’s—”
“If she tries to sell you the paintings,” Thomas said, “we’d like to know about it.”
“I don’t buy paintings,” Gwen said. “Galleries take artwork on commission. We don’t buy anything.”
“If she talks to you about paintings at all,” Thomas said, “we want to know.”
“We.”
“The Bureau.”
“Right.” The Bureau. “Well, I’ll certainly keep you informed,” Gwen said, thinking, If you’re FBI and Ford’s the bad guy, this country is in trouble. Hell, if he was the law and Clea was the bad guy, they were in trouble. “Have you been working for the Bureau long?”
“No,” Thomas said, straightening. “But I’m fully qualified.”
“Good,” Gwen said, getting to her real concern. “Can you cater, too?”
“I buy the food from restaurants,” Thomas said, a l
ittle shamefaced. “It gives me time to investigate the case.”
“Oh, excellent,” Gwen said, brightening. “Restaurants.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Not a soul,” Gwen said.
“And keep your eyes open for those paintings,” Thomas said as he opened the door to the gallery.
“Story of my life,” Gwen said, and went back to the gallery as the first customer opened the door.
HALF AN HOUR later, Tilda watched the gallery from the office, feeling odd, as if she were watching an old movie. She’d stared at a hundred previews like this, some so long ago she’d had to stand on a footstool to see through the window in the door. There was something wrong this time, and it took her a minute to realize that there was nobody out there being a ringleader, nobody standing in the middle of the room laughing and directing the show.
Then Mason made his entrance wearing a brocade vest, Clea on his arm looking magnificent in a black halter dress cut to her waist and huge gold hoop earrings. Mason moved to the center of the room, laughing and gesturing like a parody of Tilda’s father, and she thought, Poor guy. He just doesn‘t get it.
Davy came in from the hall. “And Vilma’s wearing her Chinese jacket. Must be time to steal something and neck in a closet.”
“Mason and Clea are here,” she told him.
“Then we’re gone.” Davy picked up Jeff’s keys, glanced through the office door, and said, “Whoa.”
“What?” Tilda followed his eyes back into the gallery.
Clea had turned around. Her dress had no back. As they watched, she turned to smile up at Mason, her perfect profile overshadowed only by her equally perfect bustline.
“Oh,” Tilda said, trying to keep the snarl out of her voice.
“Back off, Veronica.” Davy grinned down at her. “I’m just enjoying the scenery. I know she’s a hag from hell.”
“Yes, but she was good in bed, wasn’t she?” Tilda said, watching Clea walk across the floor, every movement liquid with grace. I don’t like you. “Better than me.”
“Yes,” Davy said. “Can we go?”
“Lots better than me?” Tilda said.
Davy closed his eyes. “Why do you ask this stuff? You know it’s going to be bad.”
“Tell me,” Tilda said.
Davy sighed and looked out at the gallery. “You see the stuff you painted? How every move you made painting it was just right because you worked really hard at it and because you have a genius for it?”
Faking It Page 26