Faking It d-2 Read online

  Andrew came in holding a glass, Spot on his heels.

  Twelve years before the dog died.

  “There you are,” Andrew said, putting the glass on the counter.

  It had about half an inch of clear liquid in it, and Gwen said, “Is that vodka?”

  Andrew smiled at her and said, “Yep,” missing the hint. He looked like one of those blond movie hunks from the sixties, although that may have been due to the eye makeup. “Nadine says Tilda’s back and she brought this.” He gestured to Spot, who gave a shuddery little whine and collapsed on the carpet. “Did she leave again?” He opened up the below-counter refrigerator and took out a carton of orange-pineapple juice. “Oh, and the bank called.”

  Twenty-six years before the mortgages were paid off. That meant she’d be seventy-nine, probably not in the mood to leave anymore. It also meant she was going to need about three hundred Double-Crostic books to pass the time before death. There probably weren’t that many. Well, she was not going to descend to word searches no matter how bad it got. She had standards, damn it.

  “Gwennie?” Andrew said, pouring juice into his glass.

  “You still have mascara on.”

  Andrew nodded. “Work was hell. Eve decided to leave the Double Take while she was still Louise, and I had to pry her off a guy on the way out. Louise has no taste in men.”

  “No, she just doesn’t have your taste in men,” Gwen said.

  Andrew sat down beside Gwen on the couch. “God, it’s good to be home. Hey, Nadine told me she sold a painting for a thousand dollars. Some kid we raised, huh? She sells about six hundred more, Eve can stop being Louise four nights a week and you’ll be safe here forever.”

  “Eve likes being Louise,” Gwen said. “And it was a Scarlet. Tilda’s at Mason Phipps’s house, stealing it back now.”

  “Oh, crap, Gwennie.” Andrew looked exasperated. “I thought Louise was our major problem.”

  “Louise is not a problem,” Gwen said. “And if you’re not going to drink that screwdriver, give it to me. I’ve had a terrible night and it’s getting worse. Tilda’s still in that house, and for all I know, they’ve caught her. And it’s going to be hard to explain why she’s there without pulling this whole life down around us.” She looked around the ancient office. “I’d be okay with that if it didn’t mean I’d go to jail.”

  Andrew handed over the screwdriver.

  “You’re a good boy, Andrew,” Gwen said. “Now go get the bottle.”

  TILDA SAT in the diner, drumming her fingers on the table next to her coffee cup until the guy in the booth next to her asked her to stop. She turned her head to look at the clock on the back wall. It had been over an hour. Maybe Clea Lewis had caught him. Maybe he was telling her that a woman had tried to steal the painting. Maybe he had given the police her baseball cap. Maybe-

  “Hello, Vilma,” he said, sliding into the booth across from her. “Miss me?”

  Chapter 3

  T ILDA PULLED HER FOOT from under the duffel bag he dropped under the table. “Do I know you?”

  “Yep.” He settled into the booth. “You stuck your tongue down my throat about an hour ago. Did I thank you for that?”

  She squinted at him through her glasses. At first glance, he was average looking, a mild-mannered, dark-haired, Clark Kent kind of guy with horn-rimmed glasses in a beat-up nothing-colored jacket; the only notable thing about him was Andrew’s “Bitch” baseball cap that he’d swiped from her back at Clea’s.

  On second glance, the glint in his eye and the set of his jaw made her twitch.

  “Did you want this?” he said and she felt something bump her leg under the table.

  When she reached down, she felt paper wrapping and under that, the edge of a painting, and the relief that rolled over her was so intense that she closed her eyes. “Thank you. I forgive you for everything.”

  “Everything what?” he said. “Saving your butt?”

  “For mugging me in a closet.” One corner of the paper was torn back, and Tilda could see the stars in the checkerboard sky beneath it. Definitely her stars. Thank you, thank you.

  “You jumped me,” he was saying. “I was there first. Technically, it was my closet, Vilma.”

  “Who’s Vilma?” Tilda said, her interest in his glint diminishing.

  “Nobody watches the late movies anymore. I blame cable.”

  Oh, good, he was colorful. Tilda smiled at him brightly. “Well, gee, this has been great. Thanks for all your help.” She started to slide out of the booth and he put his foot on the bench, trapping her.

  “Hold it,” he said. “You owe me. Who are you and why were you hitting Clea’s closet?”

  “No,” Tilda said and pushed at his foot.

  “Yes,” he said, keeping his foot where it was.

  “If I create a scene,” she began and then stopped as she saw the problem. She was sitting in a booth with a hot painting. She couldn’t afford a scene. Somebody would come up and say, “What is that?” and then she’d have to explain, and anything was better than talking about the Scarlets, anything, even this yahoo and his glint.

  “There you go,” he said. “The good news is, I don’t care what you’re up to, I just want information. Who are you and-”

  The waitress came by with the coffeepot, and he shrank into his jacket a little more. “Hamburger?” he said to her, and she took out her pad without even looking at him. If anybody asked tomorrow, she wouldn’t remember a thing about him, which was amazing because he really was a piece of work. “Coffee,” he said. The waitress nodded, put her pad back in her apron pocket, topped up Tilda’s cup and left, still not looking at him.

  “Now,” he said to Tilda. “Your name.”

  Tilda sat back and thought fast. “Call me Vilma. The painting is mine. Mrs. Lewis took it and wouldn’t give it back, so I had to go in and get it.”

  “She stole it?” he said. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

  “She bought it,” Tilda said, “but she didn’t pay for it.”

  “That sounds like her,” he said and Tilda thought, You know her well. Her thoughts of Clea, never warm to begin with, grew colder.

  “So who are you?” she said. “And what were you doing there?”

  “I’m a consultant for an elite law enforcement agency,” he said, looking at her over the top of his horn-rims. “Call me Bond. James -”

  “Funny,” Tilda said.

  The waitress brought his coffee, and when she was gone, he said, “So why didn’t you call the police?”

  “That would be so unpleasant.” Tilda lifted her chin. “And she could say she had the painting on approval.”

  “So you turned to B and E to avoid the unpleasantness.” He nodded. “We’ll come back to that. Who taped the door for you?”

  “What?” Tilda said, widening her eyes the way Gwen and Eve always did when they wanted to look innocent.

  He snapped his fingers. “Betty Boop.”

  “What?” Tilda said again, this time for real.

  “That’s who you remind me of. Curly hair, bug eyes, Kewpie-doll mouth. My sister dressed up like her for Halloween once.”

  “Fascinating,” Tilda said, her eyebrows snapping together over the “bug eyes” part. “Can I go now?”

  “No, Betty, you can’t. When I got to Clea’s, I tried the doors and they were all locked except one at the side. The latch was taped down so it wouldn’t lock. Who did that for you?”

  “I have no idea what-”

  “Betty, you can stop lying. I just want to know who you know on the inside so I can know him, too.”

  The waitress brought his hamburger and slapped the check on the table and then wandered off again.

  “I don’t know anybody inside,” Tilda said as he began to work his way through the sandwich at the speed of light. “I went in during the day and taped it.”

  He looked at her over the top of his glasses and she stopped. “Here’s some advice,” he said, threat palpable in his to
ne. “Don’t lie to me. It’s a waste of your time and my patience.”

  “Oh, please,” Tilda said, unimpressed.

  He nodded and bit into the hamburger again. “That tough stuff never works for me,” he said when he’d swallowed, his voice light again. “Which is odd because I really can be a bastard.”

  He smiled at her, and Tilda saw menace in his eyes and felt her throat close up.

  “Want to push your luck?” he said.

  “No,” Tilda said. “Okay, here’s the truth. Somebody taped it for me but that person does not work inside. I don’t think anybody works there. I think it’s just Mason Phipps and Clea Lewis, and I don’t think there’s any time when the house is empty for sure.”

  He sat back and regarded her with something that might have passed for approval. “So you set up a dinner party. Not stupid.”

  “Thank you.” Tilda tapped his shoe. “May I go now?”

  “No,” he said, not moving his foot. “Clea bought the painting from you. Why?”

  “No idea,” Tilda said. “I guess she liked it.”

  “Why do you have to have it back?”

  “No,” Tilda said. “That will not help you.”

  “And yet I feel sure it would.” He pushed his empty plate away, and Tilda blinked her surprise. He must have been starving to inhale a hamburger like that. “Let’s take this from the top.”

  “Let’s not.” Tilda sat up straighten “Look, I know you’ve got me, but I have no connection with Clea Lewis, I’ve never even met her, and I’m done telling you things.” She stuck out her chin. “So if that’s not enough, go ahead and turn me in.”

  He looked at her sadly. “Betty, I am not the kind of guy who turns people in.” Then he stopped, as if he’d remembered something. “Well, I’m not the kind of guy who turns people like you in.” He picked up his coffee cup and smiled at her.

  “Thank you,” Tilda said, ignoring the little leap her pulse gave. “You’re a real prince. Move your foot.”

  He sipped his coffee, never taking his eyes off her. “You’re not a thief. You’d starve to death trying to steal for a living, and you clearly haven’t been starving.”

  “Hey,” Tilda said.

  “That wasn’t an insult. That was an observation made while bouncing you on the carpet.” He moved his foot off the seat and slid out of the booth, taking off Andrew’s baseball cap and dropping it crookedly on her head as he went. “Okay, this conversation is not over.” He reached under the table for the duffel bag. “Stay here, Betty. When I get back, we’re going to start all over again.”

  Oh, no we’re not, Tilda thought and watched him go toward the back, his shoulders hunched, unremarkable. She straightened her cap as he turned into the hall where the restrooms were, gave him an extra minute to be sure, and then slid out of the booth and headed for the door, the painting clutched firmly under her arm.

  The waitress caught her on the way out. “Wait a minute. Who’s paying for the hamburger?”

  “He is,” Tilda said.

  “He’s gone,” the waitress said, blocking her way. “Went out the back door.”

  “The son of a bitch,” Tilda said, outraged. “He stuck me with the check?”

  “That’s a guy for you,” the waitress said. “With the coffee, that’s nine eighty-seven.”

  “Jerk.” Tilda dug in her purse for the money, kicking herself. She’d actually had semi-warm thoughts about the bastard, which just went to show how pathetic she was. Well, the good news was, he was out of her life.

  And her Scarlet was back. She felt slightly sick at the thought but it was all good, having it back. It really was.

  “Thank you,” she told the waitress and headed out the door, grateful for her narrow escape.

  ACROSS THE STREET, Davy lounged against the side of a building, hidden in the shadows. Sorry about that, Betty, he thought as he saw the waitress catch her by the door. She looked up and down the street, undoubtedly gunning for him, and he stayed motionless in the shadows, watching her sling her bag over her shoulder and anchor the painting under her arm before starting off, taking long strides and making people turn to watch as she walked by. Clearly not cut out for crime, he thought as he began to follow her.

  Four blocks later she cut down a side street and he picked up speed to catch her, only to find himself alone in an alley. Kicking himself for not watching her closer, he went back out into the street and looked around.

  There was nothing of interest on the street except for a dingy brick storefront that had dim light filtering through its windows. Davy walked over and looked through the glass. The shop was dark, but at the back was a door with a window in it and people moving around inside. And through the shadows in the front of the store he could see two well-executed but depressed-looking seascapes.

  Paintings.

  That is not a coincidence, he thought, and stepped back to scan the peeling sign over the storefront. It was hard to read because the gold letters had faded, but after a minute he’d spelled it out: the goodnight gallery.

  So Betty the art thief had connections to an art gallery. He caught sight of a smaller sign in the lower corner of the show window and moved closer to read it.

  “Furnished Apartment for Rent,” it said. “Inquire within.”

  He looked over his shoulder, suddenly cautious, remembering his dad: if things seem too good to be true, get out. Michael Dempsey wasn’t much of a father, but as a survivor, he had no peer.

  Davy considered the situation. If some human being wasn’t setting him up for a fall, fate was. He thought about Betty, her pale blue eyes clueless behind those bug glasses, failing miserably at seducing him at Clea’s, stonewalling him with no finesse at all in the diner. The chances that she’d led him here on purpose seemed slim to none.

  Fate, on the other hand, could very well be trolling for him. He’d been a pool player long enough to know that if you had to choose between skill and luck, you chose luck; a con man long enough to know that if you had to choose between a great plan and fate on your side, you picked fate. And here he was, up to his ass in skill and plans.

  The situation required some thought and he needed some capital, so he went to find a bar with a pool table. Betty could wait.

  After all, he knew where to find her.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  FIVE MINUTES earlier, Tilda had let herself in the back door of the gallery and then into the office. Gwen was stretched out on the beat-up leather couch, her blonde hair picking up some flame from the bubbler jukebox, which was playing the Cookies’ “Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My Baby,” but Spot leaped to his feet from the threadbare carpet and launched himself at Tilda. She caught him as Gwen sat up so fast she almost slid off the leather couch.

  “Where have you been? My God, I thought you’d-”

  “I know.” Tilda tried to control Spot’s flailing rear end without dropping the painting. “It’s solved. Look!” She held up the paper-wrapped square, and Gwen sank back down onto the cushions.

  “Thank God.” Gwen lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

  Tilda dropped the painting on the couch and hauled the frantic dog up to her shoulder to comfort him as he began to hyperventilate again. “I know,” she said, patting him like a baby, enjoying his blatant need for her. “I can’t believe it’s all over.”

  “It’s not,” Gwen said.

  The office door opened again before Tilda could say anything, and Andrew came in, Eve padding behind him in purple pajamas and fuzzy slippers. “We heard you come in,” he said, pulling Tilda into a bear hug and crushing Spot in the process. “We’ve missed you, delinquent.” Tilda leaned against him for a moment, loving his arms around her, and then Spot gave a strangled moan and Andrew let go.

  “Now me.” Eve shoved aside her ex-husband to hug her, too, her curls brushing Tilda’s chin. “We missed you so much,” she said, her voice muffled in Tilda’s neck.

  “I missed you, too,” Tilda said, patting her back. “You have no idea h
ow much I want to talk to you.”

  Eve pulled away. “What’s wrong? If it’s money, we’re okay. Nadine sold an old painting for a thousand dollars!”

  “Yeah,” Tilda said. “Not good. It was a Scarlet.”

  “So?” Eve’s eyes went to the painting on the couch, the paper torn even more now so that most of the sky was visible. “Is that it? Why is it back?”

  “Because it’s a fake,” Tilda said flatly.

  “Why?” Eve picked up the painting and began to pick at the tape that bound it. “Because you signed it ‘Scarlet’? So?” She shrugged. “It’s a stage name. Like my ‘Louise.’ Writers do it, don’t they?” She looked at Tilda. “Write under fake names for their privacy? You were just painting in private.”

  “We told people Scarlet was Homer’s daughter. They bought her paintings because of Homer.”

  “I think her paintings were wonderful.” Eve tugged at the tape. “I think that’s why they bought them, not because of that old poop Homer.”

  “Oh, Homer wasn’t that bad,” Gwen said.

  Tilda lifted her chin. “It doesn’t matter now. We’re safe.”

  “No we aren’t,” Gwen said.

  Eve gave up on the tape and began to tear the paper off.

  “Mason is looking for the rest of the Scarlets,” Gwen said, and Tilda held the dog tighter as her stomach went south again. “He wants to write about Scarlet. All he can find about her is that one interview your father did, so he wants me to tell him all about her. He wants to talk to her.”

  “You don’t remember anything,” Tilda said, as Spot squirmed in her arms. “We’ve got the painting back, so-”

  “I don’t think so,” Eve said, looking at the canvas as she dropped the paper on the floor.

  “What?” Tilda said, and Eve turned it around so they could see.

  “The one Nadine told me about had our building in it.” She pointed to the fat little cows that dotted the landscape. “She didn’t mention cows.”

  Tilda looked at the painting and felt her lungs go.