Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

“I think it’s someplace with a boat.”

“The boat’s like Homer,” Gwen said, turning away. “Not real. This is real.” She smiled at a woman who was approaching with a painting, and Tilda widened her eyes, when she saw what it was.

“We’re selling Finsters ?” she said to Gwen.

“Michael’s selling Finsters,” Gwen said. “I’m just taking the money. Those Dempseys can sell anything.”

“Right,” Tilda said. Davy had her Scarlet somewhere. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Oh, let’s not,” Gwen said, and rang up the Finster.

DAVY CROSSED the wide, white echoing space of the half empty storeroom, feeling pretty damn good about the world in general. He flipped back the quilt on the Temptation Bed. Five paintings, the sixth one in his hand, finally together again. He took the one he had out of the box and leaned it against the wall, and propped the other five up beside it, one long row of Scarlet Hodges. Then he stepped back.

Cows, flowers, butterflies, mermaids, dancers, and the new one, the apartment building in the city. He looked again and realized that the paintings fit together in sequence, the cows flowing into the flowers that blew into the butterflies. The only one out of place was the city, that belonged at the beginning, and when he picked it up to move it, he looked at it closer.

It was the Goodnight building. All the furniture that he’d been hauling for the past week came back to him, and all the joy and light in them now before him in the Scarlet paintings.

“You are kidding me,” he said and put it down at the beginning of the sequence, watching the progression from city to country to sea to night sky, and wondering how in hell he had missed it before that Tilda had painted them.

He sat down on the bed and thought, She’s a crook and a liar and she’s played me for two solid weeks. Jesus .

He’d never wanted her more.

He heard her step on the stair and sat back on the bed waiting for her, and when she came through the doorway, wearing that beat-up Chinese jacket, her eyes pale behind her bug glasses, her curls standing up like little horns, she took his breath away.

Then she caught sight of the paintings, all lined up in a row.

“Hello, Scarlet,” he said.

UPSTAIRS, CLEA was having a miserable time.

First, Mason was not paying any attention to her. He was wearing that ridiculous blue brocade vest that she’d hunted all over Columbus to find for him, and he was acting like a circus ringmaster. He’d even bought her an ugly chair painted with sunflowers and birds, and what the hell was she supposed to do with that ? She was ready to put up with a lot from the men who married her, but she did expect some dignity. Cyril had had dignity, she thought now with regret. If only he’d had money, too, he would have been the perfect husband.

Plus Thomas the Caterer was acting strangely. He kept glaring at her across the canapé‘s. He’d never been friendly, but that was okay, he was the help. Maybe he had indigestion; the buffet was a little greasy. Maybe he had a headache; those bruises didn’t look good. Maybe she didn’t care, she just really wished he’d stop giving her the evil eye. It was distracting.

And then Ronald had shown up and tried to take her arm. Honest to God, men. She’d whispered, “Not here,” to him and shot a glance at Mason, but fortunately he’d been all caught up in his own circus and wasn’t paying any attention to her.

“I found out something about the gallery,” Ronald whispered to her, and she let him steer her toward the canapés.

“There’s something funny about the Scarlet Hodge paintings,” Ronald told her when he had a plate full of finger food. “It isn’t just that somebody’s buying them, it’s that there’s no information on them at all. One newspaper article and then nothing. Tony Goodnight sold them off and never mentioned her again.”

“She died,” Clea said, exasperated with him.

“No death certificate,” Ronald said, and bit into a shrimp.

“So?” Clea caught Thomas glaring at her again and said, “ Stop that ,” to him. When he’d smoothed his face out again, she turned back to Ronald. “That’s it?”

“If there’s no death certificate,” Ronald said, “she didn’t die.”

“Maybe she died someplace else,” Clea said. “Maybe-”

“I don’t think she exists,” Ronald said. “These shrimp things are really-”

“What do you mean,” Clea said, “she doesn’t exist?”

“No birth certificate, either. Not for Homer or Scarlet.”

“Who’s Homer?” Clea said, losing patience.

“Scarlet’s father,” Ronald said. “The Goodnight Gallery made a killing with Homer, but then they stopped and switched to Scarlet and then they stopped that. And the gallery pretty much went downhill from there. You were right, there’s something going on here.”

“There is?” Clea looked at him with complete approval for the first time since he’d stolen her money back. “Ronald, you are wonderful.” Ronald flushed and forgot the shrimp. “Clea, I-”

She pressed his arm. “Find out what you can and come see me tomorrow morning at ten.” She looked up at him under her lashes. “In my bedroom.”

“Right,” Ronald said, almost dropping his plate. “I’ll get right on it. I-”

He kept talking but Clea looked past him and saw Mason with Gwen again.

“I have to go talk to people, Ronald,” she said, patting him on the arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“ Clea ,” he said, sounding angry, but that was his problem. She drifted toward Mason, a smile plastered on her face. He was going to propose by the weekend, or she was going to take steps. And if this damn gallery got in her way, well, she’d take it down with whatever Ronald was digging up.

And she’d take Gwen Goodnight down with it.

DAVY WATCHED as Tilda stayed frozen in the doorway, staring at him.

“Figured it out, did you?” she said finally, sounding grim.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier,” Davy said, hoping to make her smile. “I was really thick. It was obvious.”

“It is now,” Tilda said. “It’s like Louise. Once you know the truth, it’s always obvious.” She sounded miserable, which was a lousy aphrodisiac.

He patted the bed beside him. “Stop looking like death and come here.”

Tilda sighed and crossed the room to sit beside him. She held up her wrists. “Okay. Put me in jail.”

Davy stared at her wrists, distracted. “If that’s for handcuffs, thank you, I’ll run right out and get some, but jail is not where I’ll be taking you.”

Tilda shook her head. “I know you have some. Your cover’s blown, too. Simon told Louise you work for the FBI.”

Davy closed his eyes and thought about strangling Simon.

She let her hands drop. “And I brought you here. That’s how good I am. I brought the Feds to my own crime scene.”

Davy took a deep breath. “Could that possibly have been the reason you’ve been saying no to me for the past two weeks?”

“Well, it didn’t help,” Tilda said. “I kept thinking I’d say something and you’d-”

“Do what? Arrest you on the spot? Coitus apprehendus? I’m going to kill Simon.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve been carrying this secret,” Tilda said, looking at the Scarlets.

“Sure I do. Seventeen years.” Davy shook his head. “Look, you can relax. Louise got it wrong. We are not Feds. They wouldn’t have us as a gift. Every now and then they call and ask for some input, but we are not agents. We don’t arrest people. Your secret is safe.”

She swallowed. “Oh. So, to review here, just to make this perfectly clear, you’re not going to bust me?”