Cheryl Bradshaw - Sinnerman

“Where are you off to today then?”

The sound of Giovanni’s voice entering the room thrust me back into the world again. I pulled my towel until it was tight and twisted the corner into a thick point and shoved it into my cleavage and sat up.

“I need to get Boo,” I said. “He’s my—”

“Westie, yes I know.”

“I’m sure he’s confused about why he was left all alone last night.”

“That might not be entirely true,” he said.

Giovanni pressed a button on the wall box in my room. A few seconds later Lord Berkeley bounded into my room and hopped up on the bed with me. His tail wagged like a jogger on a treadmill at full speed. I grabbed his snowy ball of fur and held him tight to me. Behind him a woman entered the room that I hadn’t seen in some time, and I wished more than ever that I had taken the time to get dressed when I had the chance.

“It’s good to see you,” she said.

“And you, Daniela. I didn’t know you lived here.”

She shook her head.

“I’m just in town to pester my dear brother,” she said with a wink in his direction, “but I can see he’s found plenty of other things to occupy his time.” She looked at Giovanni. “Sloane will be staying for dinner, right?”

“That’s up to her.”

She looked at me with a gleam of hope.

“You must,” she said. “We need to catch up.”

I’d never known her to be so friendly, but then again, the last time we met had been under different circumstances, and now there was no threat to her life. That threat was now six feet under.

“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”

“Well, see you both later then. I’ve got some shopping to do.”

Daniela turned and darted out the door.

“What now?” Giovanni said.

I had no idea. I looked at Giovanni and then to Lord Berkeley who was asleep in my lap. Everything that seemed important to me in that moment was right there with me in that room.

It didn’t take much for Giovanni to convince me to make my stay an extended one. I thought I’d want to cry out in protest, but when he made the offer I accepted without much consideration.

My cell phone rang again, and this time I was dressed and ready. The name on the screen said The Pretty Pen.

“Hi Robert,” I said. “How are you?”

“Sorry it took so long to get back to you,” he said. “I have some news, but I’m afraid it will be of little use to you.”

“I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

“That paper you gave me isn’t manufactured anymore, and it hasn’t been for some time.”

“How long has it been discontinued—do you know?” I said.

“Twenty years, maybe more.”

I couldn’t believe it.

“Do you have any idea what it was used for?” I said.

“It wasn’t very popular, and since it was such a long time ago, none of my distributors have any records that will tell you who they sold it to.”

“So how did you know it hasn’t been made for so long?” I said.

“I scanned the paper and sent it to several different companies that I do business with. One of them is a specialty store that deals with art schools for the most part. The manager there had worked for the company for over thirty years and had a vague memory that they stocked that type of paper back in the day.”

“Thanks for the call; you’ve helped me a lot more than you realize,” I said.

I pressed the end button on my phone and went through the house until I found Giovanni. He was the center of attention in a huddle with a handful of men, all dressed in varied shades of black. When I approached I felt like I’d interrupted what appeared to be a serious conversation. I tried to backtrack out of the room, but Giovanni saw me—it was too late.

“Sloane,” he said, “come in.”

He flicked his right hand twice and the men around him dispersed, and in a few seconds it was like they were never there. A thick cloud of smoke permeated the air in the room, and it reeked of cigars.

“What is it?” Giovanni said.

“It’s nothing. Sorry to barge in on you.”

“We’re finished, and you’re never a bother.”

“Are you available for a little excursion?” I said.

“With you—always.”

CHAPTER 41

Park City offered much more than some of the world’s most exclusive ski resorts. Summer brought on the arts festival, and that’s when all the galleries in town sparked to life. In addition to various shows and exhibits, the town was also home to a variety of art schools, which included the one Giovanni and I had just pulled up in front of.

The Park City Institute of the Arts was a school dedicated to producing the next mini-Michelangelos. It was housed in a brick building that looked like it was erected around the same time the rest of the town was, and it stood two stories high. When I exited the car, I looked up to the center window at the top, and could have sworn I saw someone peek out of it. It was then I realized I’d seen far too many episodes of Ghost Hunters.

The school had vacated for the summer, and the parking lot was empty except for a single car settled in next to ours. The front door had been propped open about the length of my foot and was secured in place with a brown cinder block. Giovanni pulled the door all the way back and we walked in.

I cupped my hands around the outside of my mouth and shouted, “Hello?”

“Back here,” a female voice said.

I followed the sound into an office where an older woman was hunched over a pile of supplies. When she saw me she rubbed both of her hands together and brushed them off on her tweed pants and stood.

“Forgive the mess,” she said, “summer is just about the only time I get to organize this place.”

“I understand.”

“What can I do for you two? Do you have children you’d like to enroll?”

Giovanni’s eyes darted to me and softened, and a huge grin covered his face.

“Oh no,” I said. “We aren’t, well, what I mean to say is, we don’t have any—”

“Children together,” Giovanni said.

I looked at him and mouthed the words thank you. My face burned like it was on fire.

“No children?” the woman said.

Giovanni glanced at me and smiled and winked and then looked back at the woman.

“Not yet,” he said.

His comment startled me, and I wondered if it was his idea of a joke, but there was something about the way he said it that didn’t sound like one at all. He just continued to smile, and I realized he’d said it to get a rise out of me. And he’d succeeded.

“Have you worked here long?” I said to the woman.

“Oh, about thirty years or so; why do you ask?”

“I wondered if you could take a look at a piece of paper and tell me if you recognize it.”

She held her hand out.

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Before I show it to you though, I need you to understand that it’s personal in nature, and you can’t talk about what you see with anyone,” I said.

She giggled like a child in grade school.

“These days there aren’t too many people for me to talk to hun, but if it makes you feel any better, I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

Her beady, curious eyes reminded me of my grandmother, and I believed what she said was true. I unzipped my bag and took out the pink parchment and showed it to her. She turned it around in her hand without much heed to the words written on the front.

The woman looked at Giovanni and then aimed her finger at a box in the corner.

“Would you mind getting my glasses?”

He grabbed them and opened them up and she put them on.

“Much better,” she said. She rubbed the parchment in between her fingers and then said, “I haven’t seen paper like this for ages.”