“The gallery.” He shoved off his jeans and crawled into bed beside her, making Steve shift again. “You’ll never con people into paying a hundred bucks for a footstool with the place looking the way it does now. Perception is reality, babe. We have to bring this place back from the dead.” He settled into his new pillows, looking very pleased with himself.

“No.” Tilda’s breath went at the thought.

“Yes,” Davy said. “I don’t know why you want the gallery to fail, but you’ve got to get over it. We need a successful opening to keep Mason busy, and you need the money.”

“I don’t want the gallery to fail.” Tilda felt the familiar scraping wheeze begin in her lungs.

“Right,” Davy said. “You’re the only one with the brains and the push to make this place work, and you spend all your time on the road, leaving Gwennie to sell Finsters. You’ve done everything but put a stake through its heart.”

“I have not-” She tried to take a deep breath.

“Which I wouldn’t care about but it’s a pretty sweet setup, Tilda. It’s a crime to let it go to waste.”

Tilda heard “crime” and reached for her inhaler again. “I’m not much of a salesman. Woman. Person.”

“I am,” Davy said. “We’re selling the furniture in the basement.”

“Is that why you want to do this?” Tilda said. “Because it’s a sweet setup and you’re a salesman?”

“No,” he said, looking unsure for the first time since he’d ruined her sleep. “Matilda, I want to sell that furniture. You’re not doing anything with it. How long has it been down there?”

“Seventeen years,” Tilda said.

“Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t do this.”

Because anybody with any kind of an eye at all could tell that furniture was painted by the same person who painted the Scarlets.

Tilda’s stomach heaved at the thought.

“I’m waiting,” Davy said.

On the other hand, there were damn few people who had seen the Scarlets. Davy had, and he hadn’t figured it out. Clea had, but she didn’t appear to have much of an eye. Mason had, but he was so caught up in the fine-art thing, he wouldn’t want to believe Scarlet had painted them.

“Okay,” Tilda said. “Okay. But you’re going to be the one who tells Gwennie.” She fell back against the pillows. “I’m sure this is a mistake.”

“You have no faith.” He leaned over and picked up his jeans from the floor and pulled something from the pocket, and then he slid his hand under her chin, warm on her skin, and before she could say, “Hey,” he’d stuck something papery down the neck of her T-shirt.

“Off.” She batted his hand away and pulled the neck of her T-shirt open to see two twenties and a ten on her chest. “I don’t take cash.”

“That’s your cut from the twenty I borrowed,” Davy said. “Half my winnings.”

“Maybe I should just send you out to play pool,” Tilda said, fishing the bills out of her T-shirt.

“We’ll use that as a backup,” Davy said. “First, we’re going to sell furniture.”


WHEN TILDA woke up the next morning, Davy was gone, but he’d left a note that said, “Don’t forget to tell Gwennie.” Great, she thought, and went downstairs with Steve to get orange juice and ruin Gwennie’s day.

“Hi,” Gwen said when Tilda came into the office. “Davy still alive?”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “And that’s not funny.”

Eve waved at her from the table, her mouth full of muffin. “How’s Monet?” she said when she’d swallowed.

“Boring as ever,” Tilda said, as Steve went to sit at Eve’s feet in hopes of muffin. “He deserves to be on a bathroom wall. Oh, and speaking of Davy, he wants to do a gallery show of my old furniture and I said yes. Well, gotta go to work.” She headed for the door.

“Hold it” Gwen said, sounding panicked, and Tilda sighed and turned back to get orange juice and fill them in on the night before.

“He’s convinced this is the way to get everything back,” Tilda said as she finished. “I argued, but-”

“Don’t argue.” Eve hauled Steve onto her lap to pet him better. “They’re FBI. Which I actually find sexy.”

“That’s Louise,” Tilda said. “Pull yourself together. Or in your case, separate yourself better.”

“I’m against this,” Gwen said gloomily.

“I know,” Tilda said.

“Mason’s going to be thrilled,” Gwen said, even gloomier. “He’ll be all over the place. There’ll be dozens of people all over the place. I’ll never finish another Double-Crostic again.”

“I know,” Tilda said.

“At least Mason isn’t a hit man,” Gwen said.

“Plus there’s all those free lunches he shells out for,” Eve said helpfully. “A man who pays for food is good.”

Gwen frowned at Tilda. “Is there any chance that the four of them are toying with us? Like this is a plot they’re doing together?”

Tilda looked at her over her glasses. “Any chance that Davy, Simon, Ford, and Mason decided to drive us crazy at random? Sure, why not? I have to go. Give Steve to Nadine for the day, be nice to Davy when he comes back, and don’t let Ford kill him. The last thing we need here is a murder investigation.”

“I won’t be here,” Gwen said. “I’m having lunch with Mason. Someone else will have to draw the chalk outline.” She got up. “This is going to be a disaster.”

She went out to the gallery, and Tilda frowned after her. “We should do something about her.”

“Like what?” Eve said, still cuddling Steve. “The only thing that would make her happy is a nice trip somewhere on a boat-”

“A boat?” Tilda said.

“-and you know she wouldn’t go. She won’t leave us.”

“Why a boat?”

Eve shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s doodling boats on everything now. And her pencil cup has five little paper umbrellas in it. She says she’s saving them for a rainy day.”

“Boats and umbrellas.” Tilda sighed. “Well, at least it isn’t teeth. I have to go to work. Davy has plans for after lunch.”

“Naked plans?” Eve said.

“No,” Tilda said. “We’re not doing that anymore.”

“Me, neither,” Eve said, and didn’t sound happy about it.

“Simon misses you,” Tilda said helpfully.

“Simon misses Louise.” Eve put Steve on the floor. “He doesn’t know me.”

“His loss,” Tilda said.

“I don’t know.” Eve pushed her orange juice glass away and sat back. “I’m not that interesting. Not like Louise.”

“Eve, you are Louise,” Tilda said. “You know, maybe you should pull yourself together after all. Tell Simon the truth.”

Eve closed her eyes. “There’s a part of me that wants to. I think, ‘He’s great in bed and he likes Nadine and he’d be the perfect lover and husband and father to my kid,’ I mean, he’s the guy who really could pull me together.”

“So tell him.”

Eve tilted her head back so she could meet Tilda’s eyes. “Are you going to tell Davy you’re Scarlet?”

“Never,” Tilda said.

“Yeah, that’s what the other part of me says.” Eve stood up. “Especially with Simon’s damn mother rule. Maybe I should do what you do, bury Louise in the basement and never let her see the light of day.”

“Hey,” Tilda said. “There’s only one me. Nobody’s buried in the basement.”

“Tell that to Scarlet,” Eve said.


AT NOON Clea met Ronald for lunch. “This better be good, Ronald,” she said as she sat down at the patio table, already annoyed because Mason had left for another business meeting without telling her where he was going. He’d been having a whole hell of a lot of business meetings, and she was pretty sure he was having them with Gwen Goodnight. And now Ronald was taking her to lunch in the sun, but her picture hat kept most of it from her face, and she looked wonderful in picture hats, so that was better. She relaxed into her chair and looked around at the other women, chatting away while the rays destroyed their skin. What were they thinking?

“It’ll be good,” Ronald said. “It’s the best restaurant in German Village. Well, one of the best. It-”

“Not the food,” Clea said. “What have you got on Gwen Goodnight?”

“Oh.” Ronald sat back. “So that’s why you wanted to meet.”

“Ronald,” Clea said, “I’m having a very, very bad week. Tell me Gwen Goodnight had a sex change and is really a retired shoe salesman from Des Moines.”

“No, she’s Gwen Goodnight,” Ronald said, looking puzzled. “Her maiden name was Frasier. She was an actress and a dancer.”

“Good,” Clea said, feeling cheered. “There must be something shady in her past, then.”

“Not really,” Ronald said. “Her first daughter was born six months after she was married, but that’s not really scandalous anymore.”

Clea stared at him coldly. “Ronald. You’re not helping me.”

“There was a lot on the Goodnights,” Ronald offered. “They changed the family name in 1948 from Giordano. They moved here in the sixties.”

“I need dirt, Ronald,” Clea said.

“One of them went to prison for art forgery,” Ronald said helpfully. “That’s when they changed their name.”

“In 1948,” Clea said. “Do you have anything from this century?”

“Not really,” Ronald said. “They haven’t done anything since Gwen’s husband Anthony died. I told you, the gallery’s on its last legs. There’s nothing there.”

Clea resisted the urge to slap him. It wasn’t his fault there was nothing there. Also, she was beginning to suspect that Ronald liked being abused. “Well, thank you for trying, Ronald.”

Ronald leaned forward. “I’ll do anything for you, Clea, but really, can’t we forget this whole thing, go back to Miami -”

“No,” Clea said. “My art collection is here, Ronald.” My future husband and his money are here, Ronald.

“Did you find the rest of the Scarlet Hodge paintings?”

“No,” Clea said, feeling bitter just thinking about it. “But I found two people who had sold them. Somebody else is collecting them.”

“Why?” Ronald said.

Clea blinked at him. It was a damn good question. The only person who wanted them was Mason, but he didn’t fit the descriptions of the buyers, tall men with dark hair and very different wives… Clea sat up slowly. “Davy Dempsey.”

“Why would he want paintings?” Ronald said. “He has no interest in art.”

“He’s living at that gallery,” Clea said. “You said Gwen Goodnight had been an actress, right? It was the two of them. He’s running some con at that gallery.”

“He’s gone straight,” Ronald said.

“Oh, sure, like you did.” Clea bit her lip, and Ronald breathed faster. “No. He’s up to something with Gwen Goodnight. I bet they’re scamming Mason. They’re going to use those paintings to get him to propose to her. Then Gwen will pay off Davy.”

“That’s not Davy’s kind of con,” Ronald said.

“Davy is capable of anything,” Clea said.

“No,” Ronald said, and Clea looked at him, surprised. “I’m sorry, but that’s not his con.”

“Well then, why does he want the paintings?” Clea said.

“I don’t know,” Ronald said.

“Find out,” Clea said and picked up her menu, feeling much better now that they were making progress.

“No,” Ronald said.

Clea frowned. “It was interesting the first time you said it, Ronald. Now it’s just annoying.”

“I’m not hired help, Clea,” Ronald said. “I’m your lover. I deserve some respect.”

Clea thought about it. On the one hand, life would be simpler if she let him storm off into the sunset. On the other, he was useful. And he was going to pay for lunch.

“You’re right, Ronald,” she said, smiling at him ruefully. “You’re absolutely right.” She leaned toward him, bathing him in her smile and her cleavage. “But you will find out what Davy’s up to, won’t you? For me?” She breathed in deeply.

Ronald breathed deeply, too. “Of course.”

“Oh, good,” Clea said and went back to the menu.


THAT AFTERNOON, Davy borrowed one of Simon’s shirts for the flea market, trying to look prosperous but not rich, somebody Colby would buy as honest.

“It has to be my shirt?” Simon said.

“Tilda doesn’t have anything that fits me,” Davy said. “Boy, one night without Louise, and you’re a mess.”

“Four nights,” Simon said. “Does that strike you as odd?”

“That a woman would avoid you for four nights? No.”

“I checked her out through the Bureau,” Simon said.

“You what?”

“I was curious. I did it informally.”

“Oh, good,” Davy said. “You know damn well Tilda’s up to something, and you alert the FBI.”

“They were already alerted,” Simon said. “Someone’s up here looking into them.”