Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

“What?” Gwen said.

“So I’ve talked him out of having you arrested-”

“You miserable little rat ,” Gwen said, glaring at him. “You did not talk to Homer. The only one who talks to Homer is me. And he thinks you’re a jerk. And a liar. And boring in bed .”

Mason took a step back.

“And a murderer, I bet,” Tilda said. “Although if you hit Thomas, you’re not a very good one.”

“You’re all bluffing,” Mason said, recouping. “Well, I’m calling. You have nothing. Game’s over.”

“I don’t think they’re bluffing,” Davy said. “And even if they are, we have an ace in the hole. Or in the hall.”

“Damn, boy, you’re usually a better poker player than this,” Ford said from the doorway.

“Nope,” Davy said without turning around. “I’m just putting my cards on the table. Arrest him. Or if I’ve got it wrong and Clea really did hire you to kill me, shoot him.”

“I did not hire him to kill you,” Clea said.

“She pretty much left that part up in the air,” Ford said. “I tried my damnedest, but she never would come right out and say it. It was Rabbit who hired me. Through his Bureau connections.” He shook his head at Rabbit. “What were you thinking?”

Davy turned to Ronald. “You put out a hit on me?”

“Not exactly,” Ronald said, shifting away from him.

Davy looked at Clea. “You know that second condition, about not killing him? Forget it. Have at him.”

“I don’t know who you are,” Mason said to Ford, “but get out of my house.” He nodded at Clea. “And take her with you.”

“No, thanks,” Ford said. “The Columbus police are on the way to arrest you. Thomas finally came to, and you’re the last thing he remembers.”

“Whoops,” Tilda said to Mason.

“So I’m just watching things until the cops get here,” Ford said. “I was kind of hoping you’d all keep talking so I wouldn’t have to mention that.” He looked at Gwen. “Especially you. Aruba?”

“The Columbus police?” Gwen said to Ford. “ You called the police? Who are you?”

“I think he’s the FBI,” Davy said to Gwen. “The only real one in the bunch. You finally picked a winner.”

“Mason killed Cyril?” Clea said, more perplexed than upset. Then she perked up. “To get me?”

“Pay attention,” Davy said to Clea. “Mason burned an empty warehouse so he could steal Cyril’s art collection and sell it. I’m guessing Thomas figured it out and confronted him, and Mason bashed him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mason said, but he sounded too confused to be convincing.

“I told you he was broke,” Ronald muttered to Clea. “People don’t realize how hard it is to sell art.”

“The hell we don’t,” Tilda said with feeling.

“You’re FBI ?” Gwen said to Ford, focusing on the essentials.

“Well, there’s Thomas the Caterer, too,” Tilda said to Gwen.

“Thomas the Caterer is not FBI,” Ford said to Tilda. “We have some pride. He’s Cyril Lewis’s grandson.”

“Cyril had a grandson?” Clea said to Ford.

“I slept with the FBI ?” Gwen said to the room in general.

“Not all of it,” Davy said to Gwen. “Just him.”

“Mason killed Cyril, Thomas was stalking me because he thought I did it, and Ford’s the FBI?” Clea said to Davy.

“That’s about it,” Davy said.

“Oh, well, that’s just fine .” Clea looked around the room, so mad she was spitting. “All of you people are just-” Her voice broke off as she searched for the word.

“Liars and cheats?” Tilda said.

“ Yes ,” Clea said, and turned to Ronald, putting her hand on his arm. “Ronald, darling, these people are horrible .”

“Just what you deserve,” Ronald said.

“ Ronald ,” Clea said, her beautiful eyes filling with beautiful tears as she moved closer. “ How could you ?”

Ronald cleared his throat. “Well…”

“After all we’ve been to each other,” she said, pressing against him. “After all our plans for the future.”

Ronald whimpered.

“Go for it, Rabbit,” Davy said. “Only the good die young. You’re covered.”

Clea smiled up at Ronald, and Ronald sighed.

“I just want to make it clear,” Tilda said, casting a cautious look Ford’s way, “that if we get out of this unjailed, we’re all going straight.” She smiled at Ford as honestly as she could fake. “Really.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ford said as official-sounding feet started up the stairs. “I’m taking your mother to Aruba.”

“WELL, THAT was interesting,” Davy said, following Tilda up the stairs to the attic an hour later.

Tilda nodded. “The only thing I regret is that I lost the Scarlets. I went back for them after the police left, but they were gone. Do you think they took them for evidence?”

“No,” Davy said, looking past her to the case of paintings balanced on the top stair of the last flight.

Tilda turned. “What?” She ran up the last flight and opened the case.

“They’re all here,” she said, delighted. “And there’s a note from Simon.”

Davy took it from her to read it.

“Here’s your wedding present, Dempsey. I’d stay to explain but those Goodnight women are too damn dangerous. Best wishes, Simon.”

Tilda picked the case up and hugged it to her. “Davy, he stole my paintings back for me.”

“Believe me,” Davy said. “The pleasure was all his. Open the door.”

“About that.” Tilda widened her eyes.

Betty , he thought, and moved closer, only one step below her now.

“I want you to know…” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “That I understand that you’re on your way to Australia…”

Davy grinned at her. “Frankly, Scarlet, I-”

“Oh, don’t,” Tilda said, frowning. “You’re a better person than that.”

“You’re right, that one’s too easy.” Davy put his arms around her and the Scarlets. “Vilma, I am no longer on my way to Australia. Open the door.”

She put her head down, and he held her closer, and she bit his shoulder softly, and he lost his breath.

“Could we just go in there?” he said. “Because I’m willing to do this on the steps, but it’s harder that-”

“Tell me you’re on your way to Australia,” she said in his ear.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m on my way to Australia.” He reached around her and opened the door, pushing her and her paintings through as he spoke. “Now can we-”

He stopped in the doorway.

The walls weren’t white anymore.

Huge green leaves grew around the bed, wild lush leaves, tapering off into charcoal sketches as they rounded the corners of the room, clearly a jungle-in-progress. Outlines of sly little animals peeped out of the bushes, laughing snakes and seductive flamingos and Steve, looking fairly calm, drawn near the floor in front of a large banana leaf. On the wall behind the bed, van Gogh-like sunflowers grew up in wild bursts of color like mutant suns, looming over Tilda’s headboard, which was now covered in more green leaves that wreathed one word in the center, written in huge Gothic letters, burnished in gold leaf:

Australia .

“So, sunflowers,” Davy said, looking down into the crazy blue eyes of his one true love.

Tilda stepped into the room and put the paintings down. He followed her, kicking the door closed behind him, and she slid her hand up his chest. “Zey are by van Gogh,” she said in a terrible Italian accent. “Would you like to buy zem, Il Duce?” She went up on her toes to kiss him, her hot little mouth just millimeters away from his, the scent of cinnamon making his head light.