Melinda Di Lorenzo - Undercover Passion

She’d asked once where they came from—both the paintings and the buyers—and Garibaldi had explained that an anonymous local artist did the work. The pieces were nice, but not high-end, so Liz just assumed they were a side job for someone who didn’t want his name associated with the work. They sold exclusively through Garibaldi, with 50 percent of their profits going to one of his own local charities. Liz could hardly say no to the sudden influx of new pieces and the guaranteed profit.

She took a step back and studied the most prominently displayed one. It wasn’t anything terribly exciting. Well done but not outstanding. A landscape piece. A mountain in the background, a stream in the forefront and trees dotting the horizon. Except for the water, it could easily have been the view from a dozen different spots on the outskirts of Whispering Woods. The blue trickle told Liz that it was somewhere farther up the mountain.

Though she’d never ventured up the slope herself, she knew from one of her customers—a retired engineer—that a glacier-fed lake existed on a plateau, and that the river sloped down the other side. According to the engineer, the river was somehow the main source of water for all of the town. Liz couldn’t remember the details. Her eyes had glazed over and her ears had shut down when the engineer attempted to explain how it all worked. Liz could talk about art history for hours. She had museum layouts memorized. But pipes and water pressure were a whole other story. The engineer had laughed and waved his hand in front of her face to check for signs of life, then called her a hopeless artist. And Liz had agreed. Engineering wasn’t her forte or her passion. But for some reason now, staring at the painting made her wish she’d paid just a little more attention.

Whoever the painter is, he or she is a heck of a lot more adventurous than I am.

For a second, the thought gave Liz a twinge of longing. Unconsciously, she reached up her hand toward the swirl of blues and greens and grays. As soon as her fingers met the canvas, she realized what she was doing and started to jerk back. Then stopped, frowning. Even though the pad of her index finger had just barely brushed the surface, the texture struck her as odd.

With a guilty look toward the door—pushed on by a ridiculous feeling that someone might actually be peering in and watching what she did—Liz pressed her fingers to the painting again. When no one burst through the door, she pushed a little harder. It felt...off. She dropped her hand and stepped back to study the painting again, this time for non-aesthetic reasons.

It was watercolor, she was sure. But also not.

Definitely strange , she thought.

Liz had never gone to school for art—life had had other plans for her—but if things had turned out differently, it was what she would’ve studied for sure. Not the means of creating it. She didn’t consider herself to be talented in that way. But the mediums and movement, the artists and their expressions...those fascinated her. She’d read hundreds of books. Spent countless sleepless nights combing through them. So, while she might not be a formal expert, she was at the very least an extremely well-read amateur.

Frowning, she moved from the first painting to a second and gave it a quick once-over. The scenery was similar to that of the first, though more of a close-up. Like someone had zoomed in to a small section of the first to showcase the details. The mountain peak wasn’t visible, but a bird could be seen on a tree branch, and rock sharply parted the river. Likely done by the same artist. Was the paint the same? Liz felt compelled to find out.

When she reached out this time, it was with far less hesitation and only a cursory glance around. Sure enough, it had the same texture. Not quite right. Not quite smooth enough.

“So weird,” she muttered, then blew out a breath, wondering why it was stressing her out so much.

The artist probably had some kind of special mixing technique. Or added some secret ingredient to the paint to make it feel a certain way. She’d read about all kinds of unconventional things, and God knew plenty of the stuff she carried in her shop was unique. That was just art.

Which is what you love about it.

“Maybe I’ve finally cracked,” she said aloud to the empty store. “I mean, really? The paint feels funny?”

She definitely had more important things to worry about. With a headshake, she stepped away from both pieces and turned back to the cash register. Cashing it out and storing the money from the day’s sales was one of the last things on her to-do list. Then she could get back to the part of her day that she loved infinitely more than she loved her job. And that was saying something. Because she really did love running Liz’s Lovely Things.

Her eyes sought and found the one non-artsy picture she kept in her little store. It was a framed shot of her eight-year-old daughter with eyes closed, tongue out and a ladybug headband askew on her head. It was Liz’s favorite. It perfectly captured the zany essence of her kid. Teegan would be in the apartment upstairs now, bouncing on her heels as she counted down the seconds until Liz came up, too. Driving the sitter crazy, probably.

With an affectionate smile, Liz turned away from the picture to jab her finger against the computerized register to punch in the closing code. The machine came to life with a tick-tick-ding , then began to automatically reconcile the internal receipt totals. Liz snorted as the little shop filled with the noise of it.

Even though it was the same every night, she always wondered why the people who created such an efficient piece of equipment hadn’t found a way to get rid of the old-fashioned sounds. As she grabbed the broom and started her quick sweep of the hardwood floors, she considered—not for the first time—whether or not the designers had left the noisiness that way on purpose. Some kind of nostalgic throwback. Then, as if to emphasize—or maybe mock—her thoughts, the cash register let out a weird groan. A crack followed the groan, and Liz sensed imminent disaster.

“Oh, you are so not going to break down right now,” she called out from across the room.

But as she set down the broom and moved toward the register, she saw that the strange sounds weren’t coming from the register at all. The machine had finished its cycle already and sat slightly ajar, waiting for her to pull out the tray and lock the money in the safe.

Liz frowned. She stepped nearer again. Then realized her mistake. The door to the storage room—which had its own exterior entry on the other side—hung open, its lock dangling uselessly to the side. Panic hit Liz hard, and she tried to turn and run. But it was too late. A sharp point pressed to her throat, and a gravelly male voice filled her ear.

“Move more than an inch,” he said, “and I’ll put a nice little hole in your jugular.”

Liz let out the smallest, shakiest breath. “Just take whatever you want.”

“Good choice,” replied her assailant. “Where is it?”

“Right there. The register’s open. Take it all. Please.”

There was a pause. “The money? I don’t want the money.”

The statement intensified Liz’s fear. “You don’t?”

“Where’re the damn Heigles?”

“What?”

The knife pushed in a little hard. “The Heigles? Which ones are they?”

“I don’t know!” Liz gasped.

“I know he brings them to you.”

Him.

Did the knife-wielder mean Garibaldi? Did he mean those paintings? After a heartbeat of consideration, she decided she didn’t care.

“There,” she said, lifting her finger just fractionally.

The blade eased. “Where?”