Faking It (d-2) (32 page)

“For how long?” Ford said.

“What?” Clea said, trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

“For how long do I watch him?”

“Until I get the money back,” Clea said, swallowing. No need to panic. She still had time. She could still bring this off. She deserved to bring this off, damn it. Zane had left her with nothing, Cyril had left her with nothing, it was
her turn
. “Watch him until I get the money back and then you can finish the job.” She straightened and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and tried to smooth out her face. Terror made her look old. She couldn’t be old. Oh,
God-

“All right,” Ford said. “Exactly what does ‘finish the job’ mean?”

“What?” Clea said, still trying to cope with the mirror. “I have to go. Just
watch
him, damn it, and do a better job than you did last night. I can’t believe-”

“He never left the gallery last night,” Ford said. “I watched him the entire time. When the gallery closed, he went downstairs with Tilda.”

“Maybe it wasn’t last night then,” Clea said. “But it was him.” She thought about Davy, impossibly young with her all those years ago, just impossible with Tilda now, and she wished she’d never met him, in spite of all the good times and good sex. It hadn’t been that good, not good enough for the price she was paying now. “I wish he was dead.”

“Is that an order?” Ford said.

“
No
,” Clea said. “For Christ’s sake, pay attention. He’s got my
money
. He has to stay alive until I get it back. If you kill him, his sisters will inherit everything, and I’ll never get it back.” She thought about Sophie, implacably efficient and not a little obsessive about her baby brother. “Do no? kill him.”

“Just checking,” Ford said and hung up.

Clea hung up the phone and sat, thinking fast. She didn’t have the know-how to embezzle the money out of Davy’s accounts, Ronald had done that, so maybe-

She straightened. How had
Davy
had the know-how? How had Davy gotten the numbers, the password? How-

She picked up the phone and dialed again, and when the phone clicked, she said, “Ronald, we had an appointment. Get your ass over here. You have some explaining to do.”

WHEN TILDA and Eve got back, Nadine was bagging trash in the gallery.

“Have you seen Davy?” Tilda asked.

“He left,” Nadine said. “He went to Temptation to see his sister.”

Tilda took a deep breath. “Did he say anything? About me?”

Nadine shook her head. “Michael and Dorcas left, and Davy took off after them.”

“Did he leave a note?” Tilda said.

“No,” Nadine said. “He was in a hurry. What time are we opening the gallery?”

“I don’t know,” Tilda said and turned to see Eve, standing behind her, radiating sympathy and suppressing “I told you so.”

“He’s coming back,” she told Eve.

“Of course he is,” Eve said.

“I have to go work,” Tilda said and headed for the attic.

He was coming back. She was not going to be an idiot and panic because he went to see his sister and didn’t leave a note, for heaven’s sake. He’d come back to sell the fakes. They still hadn’t played Grandma and Mussolini. He’d promised her that. He always kept his promises.

He was a con man.

He’s coming back, you dummy
, Tilda told herself.

He had to. He had her van.

RONALD DID NOT look guilty when he showed up, and that made Clea even madder. She dragged him into the bedroom and shut the door, even though it was pointless since Mason wanted Gwen Goodnight, the bastard.

“You gave Davy Dempsey my account numbers,” she said, practically spitting her rage. “You
betrayed
me.”

“He beat me up,” Ronald said, looking untouched. “And who are you to talk about betrayal? You’re living with another man. You-”

“Davy took my money, Ronald,” Clea said, stepping closer. “He took
all of it
. Every man I’ve ever trusted has left me penniless and now I’m penniless again, and you helped the man who did it.”

“You’re not penniless,” Ronald said. “You can sell your art collection.”

“He took that, too,” Clea said, remembering the Scarlet with increased rage. “He wiped me out.”

“Well, there’s that,” Ronald said, pointing to the starry-night chair Mason had insisted on lugging home from the gallery for her.

“Ronald, pay attention,
that’s junk
,” Clea said. “I lost a fortune here, and you want me to be
a junk dealer
?”

“That’s not junk,” Ronald said. “That’s a Scarlet Hodge.”

“No it isn’t,” Clea said. “That’s…” She looked at the chair again. It did look a little like the Scarlet. “It’s not the same artist,” she finished, not snapping anymore.

“Yes it is,” Ronald said. “It was obvious when I looked at the show at the gallery last night after you ditched me by the catering table.” He sounded put out. “But I couldn’t tell you because you had to talk to the important people. Like
Mason
.”

Clea tuned him out to look at the chair again. It could be a Scarlet.

“Look at the motifs,” Ronald was saying. “The color choices. Look at the brushwork. It’s the same painter. Now about Mason.”

Clea waved him off and sat down, thinking fast. Maybe Ronald was right. Suppose Tilda Goodnight was Scarlet Hodge. Was that illegal?

“Clea, you’re not listening to me.”

“Ronald, if somebody painted under somebody else’s name, would that be illegal?”

“Yes,” Ronald said. “It’s forgery. And I don’t care. Clea, Mason isn’t what you think he is. He’s-”

“Going after Gwen Goodnight, I know,” Clea said. “Give me a minute here.”

Why would Matilda Goodnight forge Scarlet Hodges? There had to be money in it somewhere, but for right now, the important thing was that she had something on Tilda Goodnight, and Davy was sleeping with Tilda Goodnight. And nobody knew better than Clea how Davy was about the women he slept with.

“Clea-”

“Quiet. I’m thinking.”

So all she had to do was threaten to expose Tilda, and Davy would have to give the money back. Clea frowned. No he wouldn’t, not if she couldn’t prove it, and she couldn’t prove it without the painting. So first she had to get the painting back.

And Davy would have given Tilda Goodnight the painting, she was sure of it.

“How do you prove something’s a forgery?” she asked Ronald.

He frowned at her. “Lots of ways. Clea, we have to talk about us.”

“Give me one of the ways,” Clea said.

“Show it to the artist who is supposed to have painted it,” Ronald said, exasperated. “I’ve been very patient, Clea, but it’s time-”

“What else?” Clea said.

“Show it to somebody who worked with her, who saw her paint it,” Ronald said. “Now, about
us
…”

Homer Hodge
, Clea thought. Mason hadn’t found Homer yet, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t. She was excellent at finding men. And if she couldn’t find him, well, Tilda wouldn’t know that, would she?

“Clea, are you listening to me?” Ronald said.

Clea focused on him. “Ronald, you betrayed me.”

Ronald flushed. “He forced me.”

“But I will forgive you,” Clea said, “if you can keep Davy Dempsey away from me for the next couple of days.”

“He’s gone,” Ronald said. “I called him this morning and he was gone.”

Got my money and took off
, Clea thought.
Poor Tilda Goodnight
. “All right, then,” she said. “Ronald, I have to get my money back.”

“I don’t know what his account numbers are,” Ronald said, backing up. “He changed them all. He doesn’t trust me anymore.”

“
I
will get it back,” Clea said. “But I need time to work. So go away.”

“Clea, you can’t keep shoving me away like this,” Ronald said, taking a stand. “I know things you need to know.”

“Ronald, because of you I just lost three million dollars,” Clea said. “Be grateful I’m not having Ford drop you off a building.”

Ronald swallowed.

“Now be a good boy and go away,” Clea said. “I have to think.”

He tried to protest and she ignored him. First, she’d get the painting back, as many paintings as Tilda had. There’d been six, Mason said. If Davy was on the job, Tilda would have all six. So she’d get six Scarlet Hodges to give Mason; let Gwen Goodnight try to top that.

Then she’d call Davy and tell him Tilda was going to jail unless he gave her the money back. Even if he’d left Tilda, he wouldn’t let her go to jail. Not Davy. Davy took care of his women. The thought gave her a pang, a brief moment when she wondered if maybe she’d made a mistake cutting him loose all those years ago, and then she remembered that he’d been broke and that Zane had had money, that the only reason Davy had money later was that he’d stolen hers, and that the only person she could really count on to take care of her was herself.

So first she’d get the paintings from Tilda.

Then she’d get the money from Davy.

Then she’d take the paintings to Mason and seduce him until he forgot about Gwen entirely.

And if he didn’t, she had Ford to take care of Gwen.

“All right,” she said out loud and looked around.

Ronald was gone.

“All right,” she said again, and dressed to go see Tilda.

“HE’S INSIDE,” Phin said when Davy met him on the front porch of the farmhouse. “He likes Temptation. He’s thinking of retiring here. And he brought this albino woman with him.”

“She’s not albino,” Davy said. “She just doesn’t get much sun. Has he asked for money?”

“Not unless he’s doing it now,” Phin said. “I’ve been there the whole time. God, he’s exhausting. I’d be willing to pay him off just to make him go away.”

Davy stopped with his hand on the door. “You know, that might be his plan.”

“It’s reasonable,” Phin said. “It’s working.”

“No it’s not,” Davy said, opening the screen door. “Hey, Dad,” he called as he walked in. “Funny meeting you here.”

“Davy,” Sophie said, springing up from the couch where Michael was dandling a rosy baby on his knee. She threw her arms around Davy and hugged him hard, and then slapped him on the shoulder. “Where have you been?”

Davy kissed her on the cheek. “Great to see you. Your anniversary present’s in the van. Take your husband and go look at it.”

“Our anniversary isn’t until September,” Sophie said, as he pushed past her.

“Well, let’s go look anyway,” Phin said, taking her hand.

“But-” Sophie said, and then she was gone, towed out the door by her husband.

“We need to talk,” Davy said to Michael. He picked Dempsey up and transferred him to a startled Dorcas, who’d been sitting bemused through the whole process.

“I’m going home,” Dorcas said, looking at Dempsey as if he were an alien.

“His mother will be back in a minute,” Davy said and took Michael’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “You’ll like the back porch here,” he said to him. “It’s private.
Move
.”

“N
OW, LISTEN
,” Michael said, but Davy frog-marched him out through the kitchen.

“Hi, Uncle Davy,” Dillie said when they went past her at the refrigerator. “Want a DoveBar?”

“Hi, sweetie,” Davy said. “No.” He opened the back screen door and shoved Michael out on the porch.

“Now, look,” Michael said, straightening. “I-”

“Have you looked around here?” Davy said.

Michael looked taken aback. “I don’t-”

“This place is every little town you ever dragged us to,” Davy said. “It’s every place you ever screwed up for us. Only this time, Sophie belongs. She’s got a husband and two kids and a great reputation, she’s
mayor
, for Christ’s sake, but you can screw that up in a minute, just like you always did.”

“I would never hurt my daughter,” Michael said, and there was no con in his voice.

“You never mean to,” Davy said. “But you always do. You can’t help it. You mean to go straight, but it’s in your blood.”

“I never mean to go straight,” Michael said, confused.

“Well, I did,” Davy said. “The point is, it doesn’t work. You’d have to take somebody just to keep your blood moving. You’ll ruin Sophie. With the best intentions in the world, you’ll ruin her.”

“You’re overreacting,” Michael said. “Now I’m going back in there-”

“How much are you going to hit her up for?” Davy said.

And for the first time in his life, Davy saw his father flush.

“Just a small loan, right?” Davy said.

“Seed money,” Michael said. “A stake. Not much.”

Davy took an envelope out of his back pocket and held it up. “There’s a hundred thousand in here,” he said, and Michael grew very still. “I was going to give it to you today to bribe you to leave. Now it’s yours if you promise to never come back here without me.”

“My family’s here,” Michael said, outraged. “That’s my grandchild in there.”

“Listen to me,” Davy said. “I’ve learned a lot in the last couple of days, among other things, that everything you said to me last week was right. If I don’t accept who I really am, I’m the mark. And what I am is your son.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Michael said. “I gave you an education no one else on earth could give you.”

“I know,” Davy said. “I’m grateful. But Sophie comes first. She saved us after Mom died, she saved
me
, and I will do anything to keep her safe, even if it means drop-kicking you into the river with a brick around your neck.” He held up the envelope again. “This is for you if you go away and leave her in peace. You can count it if you want.”

“No,” Michael said. “I trust you.”

“There’s irony for you,” Davy said.

“Honor among thieves,” Michael said.

“Take the money,” Davy said. “But from now on, when you come to Ohio, you come directly to me. You do not try to come down here without me.”

“You’re going to be
here
?” Michael said, his appalled expression saying everything anybody needed to know about Temptation.

“I will be in Columbus.” Davy held the envelope toward Michael. “Take it. Maybe you can make a killing with it. If nothing else, it’ll give you a couple of good months.”

Michael took the envelope. “I wasn’t going to stay,” he said, sounding tired. “I just wanted to see Sophie and Amy. And the kid. Dempsey.” He grinned ruefully at Davy. “I didn’t want to see the name die out.”

“It’s not going to,” Davy said. “I’ve got that covered for you.”

“Tilda.” Michael nodded. “Good for you.” He cocked his head at Davy. “Maybe I can come back for Christmas. Just to see how things turn out.”

“Call first,” Davy said. “We may be busy.”

“You’re a ruthless son of a bitch.” Michael put the envelope in his jacket pocket. “You get that from your mother’s side of the family. Ministers. They’ll save you even if it kills you.”

“You and Dorcas can go back tonight,” Davy said.

“Dorcas is heading back now,” Michael said. “She says it’s been fun but she wants to paint. She should be missing me again by about Christmas. But I have to stay here tonight.” He held up his hand as Davy leaned down on him. “No, I do. Amy’s having us to dinner tomorrow, she’s all excited about it. Dillie has a Softball game tomorrow afternoon I promised I’d go to. I won’t do anything, Davy.” He patted his breast pocket. “I don’t have to now. Give me today and tomorrow.”

“If you so much as play Crazy Eights with Dillie-” Davy began.

“You have my word,” Michael said, and Davy stopped, surprised.

“Okay, then,” he said, just as Sophie came out on the back porch.

“That bed is
wonderful
,” she said, and then she caught sight of Michael’s face. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Davy said, turning to smile at her. “I hear we’re going to a softball game tomorrow and then getting ptomaine at Amy’s.” Over her head, he saw Phin standing inside the screen door. “And then on Sunday, we’ve got to go,” he said, a little louder.

“That’s not long enough,” Sophie said. But she was looking at him, not Michael. “So how’s your landlady?”

“Her name’s Matilda,” Davy said. “Let me tell you all about her.”

UP IN the attic, Tilda looked at her six Scarlet paintings, all lined up in a row. They were a motley lot. The first one had a horrible cheap frame on it, and while the second and third ones were in good shape, the other three needed to be cleaned.

And the sixth one needed to be finished.

She sat down on the floor in front of it and touched the smeared heads of the dancers. She remembered the hurt, but she didn’t feel the pain anymore. Andrew was a good man. She loved him. But he wasn’t Davy.

You may be overreacting
, she tried to tell herself. It wasn’t hard to convince yourself that you were in love with a guy who stole paintings for you, who resurrected your art gallery, who made you feel like a partner, who told you that you were magnificent and beautiful, who made love to you until you passed out, who told you he loved you with everything he had…

No, she really was in love with him.

She touched the painting again. Maybe it was time to do it right. Maybe it was time to be Scarlet again, only this time-

“Here you are,” somebody said from behind her, and she jerked around to see Clea Lewis, looking impossibly lovely in the middle of the attic.

“What are you doing here?” Tilda said, so shocked she forgot to be polite.

“And there they are,” Clea said, looking past her to the Scarlets. “Davy got all six of them for you, didn’t he?”

“Uh,” Tilda said, not sure how she was going to lie her way out of this one.

“I knew he would,” Clea said, coming closer. “He always gets what he wants.” She smiled down at Tilda, not unfriendly. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“Just for a day or so,” Tilda said, lifting her chin.

“No,” Clea said. “When he goes, he’s gone. But he left you the paintings, that’s like him. He’s a very generous man.” She looked regretful for a moment. “It’s such a shame he’s not rich.”

“He’s coming back,” Tilda said firmly. “Now what are you doing in my bedroom?”

“I’ve come for the paintings, of course,” Clea said.

“And I would give them to you because…?” Tilda said, amazed by her gall.

“Because if you give them to me, I won’t tell the world you’re Scarlet,” Clea said. “And those people you conned out of the paintings, they won’t find out who you are. And you won’t go to jail. And since you’re pretty much supporting your entire family, they won’t starve. I think it’s a good trade.”

She sounded perfectly friendly but there was ice in her eyes, and Tilda thought,
She knows about Gwennie and Mason
.

“You think these paintings are going to get Mason back?” she said, and Clea’s face twisted.

“I think it’s none of your damn business,” she snapped.

Tilda nodded, trying to buy time to think it through. “They need to be cleaned. And I have to get the cheap frame off the first one. Mason would spit on that frame. And…” She turned back to the last painting, the dancers she’d smeared with her brush and thrown at her father when he’d told her she was born to paint, not to love. “I have to finish this one. I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Clea said, clearly suspicious.

“The paint will be dry by tomorrow,” Tilda said. “I’ll bring them to the house.” She looked up at Clea. “You can trust me.”

“I can’t trust anybody,” Clea said. “But I guess I have to here. Tomorrow morning then.”

“Yes,” Tilda said, looking at the last Scarlet. “Tomorrow you can have them.”

DOWNSTAIRS, the afternoon passed with a respectable number of customers, and when the last one left the gallery at five, and Gwen had sent Mason home, she locked the front door and turned to Nadine. “Do we have a number for Thomas the Caterer? His stuff is still here. Oh, and can you take the garbage out?”

“Sure,” Nadine said, patting her on the back. “I don’t know about Thomas, but we have to take Steve out anyway so we can do the garbage then. Wasn’t he a good gallery dog today?”

Gwen looked down at Steve, who lay down on the floor and sighed. “I know,” she told the dog. “Hell of a life.”

“He loves it,” Nadine insisted and held the office door open. “Come on, puppy, let’s go take the trash out and pee on the Dumpster. You like that.”

Steve trotted out after her and so did Ethan, and Gwen shook her head at her granddaughter’s mastery of her life. Nothing bothered Nadine.

Except a minute later, Nadine was back, shaking. “Call 911,” she said, and Gwen froze. “There’s a dead body behind the Dumpster.”

“
Davy
,” Gwen said, her heart clutching.

“No,” Nadine said. “Thomas the Caterer.”

AN HOUR EARLIER, upstairs in her new studio, Tilda had finished cleaning the paintings and taking the frame off the first one. Now she set the last unfinished one up on her drawing table, tilted the light to see it better, and studied it. She was going to have to match her style to her old way of painting. No careful sketches or underpainting, just free strokes. It was the worst kind of painting to forge because any hesitation would be caught in the paint, scream out “I’m a fake,” and ruin the painting.

She didn’t want to ruin the painting.

Practice
, she thought,
I need to practice who I used to be
. She tried a few sample strokes on newsprint, but it wasn’t the same, they looked stupid, clumsy. She wasn’t Scarlet anymore. She wasn’t sure who she was.

Davy knows who I am
, she thought. But he was in Temptation. She was on her own, faking again, out in the cold.

I can do this
, she thought and looked around the all-white room.
I just need to remember
. She picked up her largest chunk of charcoal and drew the outlines of leaves in big slashes on her walls, channeling Scarlet, keeping her arm free and fluid. When she had walls full of outlines, she started to paint in the colors, making them round and full and warm, leaves you wanted to touch. That was what Scarlet had done, she’d made paintings you wanted to move into. She’d been young and happy and in love and she’d painted it all into…

That was the key to the last painting, Tilda realized, in the middle of a leaf stroke. Scarlet had stopped because Andrew loved Eve and she couldn’t paint joy anymore. She’d stopped because she couldn’t love Andrew; maybe it was time to start because she loved Davy. Maybe it was time because she believed in the future again. Because Davy was coming back.

She looked at the jungle drawn on her walls.

And because she’d been born to paint like this.

She brought the last Scarlet into the light, and this time she saw exactly how to finish it, two dark-haired lovers with the moon behind them, reaching for each other, forever.

It was going to be the story of her life.

GWEN HAD dialed 911 and then run out to the parking lot. It really was Thomas the Caterer, stretched out behind the Dumpster, looking pale as death with blood on his head.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Gwen said to Nadine. “Never mind. We’ll wait and we won’t touch the body and…” She stopped. “I have to go upstairs. Turn your back on him or something and don’t touch anything.”

“We’re not idiots,” Nadine said, still shaking.

“Just don’t look at him,” Gwen said and ran back inside and up to the second floor.

“Funniest thing,” she said, her voice trembling, when Ford answered his door. “Nadine just went to take out the trash and there was a body behind the Dumpster.”

“Anybody we know?” Ford said.

“That’s it?” Gwen said, her heart sinking. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m surprised,” Ford said. “Anybody we know?”

“Thomas the Caterer,” Gwen said. “Except he wasn’t a caterer. He was with the FBI.”

That got him, she saw with satisfaction. It was only for a minute, a flicker in his eyes, but it was there.

“He catered for the FBI?” Ford said, deadpan.

“Oh, funny,” Gwen said. “The police are on their way. You might want to do better than mat.”

“You’re a little hostile today,” Ford said.

“Yeah. Finding a dead caterer behind my Dumpster will pretty much do that for me.” She folded her arms across her chest, took a deep breath, and said, “You don’t, by any chance, know how he got there, do you?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Ford said. “How’d he die?”

“There was a dent in his head,” Gwen said. “I’m guessing that was it.”

“Pretty much rules out natural causes and suicide, then.”

Gwen set her jaw. “Did you kill him?”

Ford looked at her, disappointment plain on his face. “You think that little of me?”

Gwen was taken aback. “Well-”

“Hell, Gwen, if I’d killed him, he wouldn’t be behind your Dumpster,” Ford said. “I’m not
stupid”

“Oh,” Gwen said, appalled and relieved at the same time. “No, you’re not.”

“You could give me a
little
credit,” Ford said.

“Right.” Gwen took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

“Anyway, the only guy I want to kill is Mason,” Ford said. “He still walking around?”