No Hope In New Hope

A Samantha Jamison Mystery

Book 7

by

Peggy A. Edelheit

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No Hope In New Hope, A Samantha Jamison Mystery, Book 7

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Copyright © 2013 Peggy A. Edelheit. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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Cover Designed by Telemachus Press, LLC

Cover Art:

Copyright © iStock/5357640/AdamRadosavljevic

Edited by Winslow Eliot

http://www.winsloweliot.com

Published by Telemachus Press, LLC

http://www.telemachuspress.com

Visit the author website:

http://www.samanthajamison.com

ISBN: 978-1-940745-99-2 (eBook)

Version 2015.05.28

Other Books by Peggy A. Edelheit

The Samantha Jamison Mystery Series

The Puzzle Book 1

Without Any Warning Book 2

86 Avenue du Goulet Book 3

A Lethal Time Book 4

Mouth Of The Rat Book 5

Death Knell In The Alps Book 6

The Lush Life Book 8

Too Close For Comfort Book 9

Memoir: The Riviera is Burning

Visit my website: http://samanthajamison.com

Chase your Dreams

& Remember,

Every Day is a Blessing

With Love to my husband

My biggest supporter and confidant

& My three sons

Acknowledgment

& Special Thanks To

My Editor

Winslow Eliot

My Publisher

Telemachus Press

Steven & Claudia Jackson

Steven & Terri Himes

No Hope In New Hope

Book 7

Chapter 1

I Sure Didn’t Expect (This) Unexpected

“Aren’t you that author who writes all those fast-paced, can’t-put-down mysteries?” tall, dark and handsome asked.

Pleased at being recognized, I stopped and smiled.

He was impeccably dressed: pricey suit, polished shoes. His Louis Vuitton tie sported a fresh red stain: Italian food? About to thank him for his nice compliment, I backed up a step when a gun suddenly appeared aimed directly at me.

…Maybe that stain wasn’t sauce after all.

“What is this about?” I asked. “I think you’re confused.”

Flinching like I’d hit him, he then leaned in menacingly.

I cleared my throat. “…Okay, let me rephrase that. You might have me confused,” stressing, “with someone else.”

“…But you solve mysteries, right?”

“You do realize that fiction isn’t true, don’t you?”

His face flushed. “Do I look that stupid?”

“Not with that gun in your hand, you don’t.”

“You are Samantha Jamison, correct?”

Should I answer truthfully? “…Why are you asking?”

“And you’re Clay’s broad, right?” he continued.

That stopped me… Exactly who was this guy?

“Well?” he asked, impatiently, tapping his foot.

“Give me a minute,” I said, holding up my index finger.

“You’ve both solved several capers, right?” he asked.

How did he know so much about us? Stay vague…

“Look, I’m no detective or sleuth, I’m just an author.”

I knew some readers out there may not like my personal writing style, but this was taking it too far: almost surreal. I pinched myself hard just to make sure this was happening.

“Ouch!” I yelled, reaching my tolerance limit.

…I guess I’ll never write a book that pleases everyone.

“Hey, read the parts you like,” I said, rubbing my arm.

“Are you crazy?” he asked, like I was the nut. “I heard some authors are flaky, but you? I had no idea.”

…Everybody’s a critic.

The guy’s intensity and impatience were mystifying and there was still that lethal issue of his gun between us.

He whipped out his cell phone, scrolled and held it up in front of me. Damn. It was a shot of me hotly kissing Clay. I took the clueless route, stalling for some time until I could think how to make my exit…you know, run.

“Why all the questions? Why are you asking about this guy, Clay, and pointing that gun at me?”

“Tell me that’s not the two of you!” he demanded.

“I admit, it looks provocative,” I finally conceded.

“So you are Samantha Jamison, correct?”

“And if you’re right, what exactly do you want?”

“I want what’s mine, that’s what! And right now!”

He surely wasn’t thinking of me personally, was he?

I heard a click: his gun’s hammer. I winced. “Wait!”

Hold on. Before I go further with this story, it might help if I take you back to when the whole thing first started…

Chapter 2

Backing Up For The Backdrop

I was standing on the bridge connecting New Hope, Pennsylvania and Lambertville, New Jersey, taking in the wide river views north and south of me. Due to a recent rain, the Delaware River was rippling at a fast clip, so the boaters hadn’t returned. The tourists shopping both sides of the bridge were sidestepping around my slow pace as I headed back toward New Hope, enjoying my walk.

My full leg cast was off from my trip to Switzerland: the setting of Death Knell In The Alps, my last mystery. Still edgy when it came to the sound of bells, I turned to look when a church bell chimed nearby. It would be some time before I forget that vacation and my near brush with death.

I sipped my coffee from Starbucks: a trendy pick-me-up in a trendy historic village Clay suggested for our romantic getaway. I was surprised by the heavy traffic of families, motorcyclists, antique, local art and craft admirers, and all those interested in immersing themselves in a little bit of history. I heard both towns had great restaurants too.

Some romantic rendezvous.

My first surprise came when I found out we’d be guests of Clay’s friends, Chris and Alicia Worth, at their old stone French house. No B&B? I was already settled in the apartment over their garages minus Clay, who was delayed once again. Chris and Alicia lived north of New Hope and owned Worth Gallery in the busy downtown tourist area. Since I flew in first, and the two were usually at their gallery, they dropped me off to wander the town and get acclimated to the area until Clay arrived, while they met with some clients. I’d see their art gallery later with Clay.

Clay and I go way back to Highlands, North Carolina. You see, after my husband was killed under suspicious circumstances, I needed to find out who was responsible. That’s where I met Clay, who lived close enough down the mountain to be considered my neighbor. He also owned a bookstore in town. Later on I learned of his sideline: being a footloose private investigator with an iffy network of contacts. So, did I trust him after all this time? Not as far as I could spit. But I’d never let that stop me from having great undercover moments with him … He was hot!

Being well versed in how Clay’s mind worked since I’ve known him, doubt always hovered. This trip was too convenient. So in spite of Clay’s relationship with these friends of his, I would remain skeptical until proven wrong.

Of course, I’m suspicious of just about everything to begin with: hence the mystery novelist in me constantly stumbling into situations that didn’t necessarily serve my best interests. I just had to know the why behind everything. Otherwise it drove me crazy until I did. Would this be one of those occasions? This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Where was that romantic escape I was promised?

Chapter 3

Absentia

Later on at the house, after stepping from my shower, I thought I heard one of the four garage doors beneath me. Had Clay arrived? I hastily wrapped a towel around myself and ran to the window, only to catch Chris and Alicia driving off in their Land Rover with luggage stacked inside.

Where were they going? I looked over to the apartment door wondering why they hadn’t knocked to let me know. That was when I spotted a small envelope that apparently was slipped under the door. I grabbed it and tore it open.

Samantha, Sorry to spring this, but we are headed to the airport for London. We have a chance at purchasing a few private oil paintings from Willow Gallery. Of course, Chris always has to see the pieces in person. He’s a stickler for that. So here we are rushing off to catch the next flight out of JFK. I do hope you understand our sudden departure. Enclosed please find our keys to our other SUV. Feel free to use it while we are gone. Best, Alicia

I reread it then pulled keys out of the envelope: Jeep.

So I was on my own. What else was new?

I was sure they would let Clay know as well, but I still reached for my cell to verify. Maybe if he knew I was alone in this big house he might arrive a lot sooner.

When his voicemail came on, I left a message, I texted too. He was either out of range or too busy to talk. That had happened so much in the past I should be getting used to it. I didn’t necessarily like it, but still half-expected it.

I dressed, headed down the apartment steps, exited the side door, walked through an open porte cochere, and then entered the garage to have a peek at my wheels. I stopped in my tracks. It was a red and tan Jeep. I hadn’t expected a ragtop. Nice and sporty. I continued to check the rest of the garages. In the third bay was an older red Ford pickup in mint condition: another surprise.

I entered the fourth and smaller last bay through an open doorway. It was a small workshop with an all-terrain Gator, like they used on the fields of football games. And tucked beside that, right next to its large garage door, sat two partially covered Harleys, attached to trickle chargers. With these two additional toys sitting around, I guessed that dealing in the world of art had its fringe benefits.

My curiosity satisfied, I worked my way back to the house, locking the garage door behind me. The sun was starting to set and since I was the only one in the house now, I locked that door too and returned to the apartment. In order to scrape something together for dinner later, I had to check my food supplies first then go check my emails.

Alicia mentioned she’d lightly stocked our refrigerator with food to tide me over until Clay arrived. I opened it for the first time and gaped. It was completely filled. Was there anything these people hadn’t thought of? I chuckled…

Yeah, where’s my missing blue-plate special: Clay?

Chapter 4

Bump In The Night

I checked my emails and was paying some bills when my fingers stilled: it was a loud thud from the main house.

…And I was alone. Or at least was supposed to be.

It was now dark outside and not my favorite time of day for being alone, especially in a large house in which I was unfamiliar. Since I was the only one there, as their houseguest, I should do a walkthrough, right? Not hearing anyone talk me out of it, I reluctantly stood up to go check.

I grabbed my heavy guest flashlight, just in case, and made my way down the backstairs. Light was coming from beneath the door to their family room. I listened before entering. Silence. I peeked inside. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath and let it out. Several haphazardly-stacked heavy books had fallen from the top of a bookcase.

I had a hunch on why the light was on and walked over to a wall outlet: a timer. I decided I’d check the house, so I walked toward the hallway. Alicia and Chris had explained they mixed originals with reproduction art on purpose.

The effect was not only impressive, but also clever. It was a museum of incredible artwork. No wonder they said they had an elaborate security system and hidden driveway annunciator. I found two more lights on in different rooms on other floors. Timers were attached to them too. Motion sensors and cameras were in key locations. All doors had deadbolts and key entries. Excellent. I felt better already and relaxed. I was retracing my steps back to the family room when I noticed a door ajar: a stairway going down.

I was afraid of that. The basement. Ugh…

With determination and my trusty flashlight, I opened the door wide, flicked on lights and stared downward. The steps were fully carpeted: a good sign. Maybe this wouldn’t be so creepy after all. I descended slowly and then hit another light switch and gasped. It was a lushly-carpeted second family room with a large TV.

I then turned and headed down a hardwood hallway to another darkened area. I felt for and found three more light switches. I pressed to turn them on, but then everything went black. My breath caught then I remembered that flashlight in my pocket. I whipped it out and flicked it on.

First thing I spotted was the closed circuit breaker panel directly across the room and went right for it. If these lights were out, they could be out in my apartment too. I’d check that panel first. Why waste my time going back upstairs? I crossed the dark room but then stopped dead in my tracks.

I sucked in air. …What was that? I waited in silence.

Nothing…I kept going, but then froze again.

There it was: a rustling noise…

It came from a shut door I’d just passed in the hallway. First things first: the panel. I focused on moving forward.

Breathe in. Breathe out…

Chapter 5

Nothing But Something

I’d investigate after I checked out that panel. Flashing a light around in the dark had its disadvantages. I needed more light. I stared down at my flashlight: my only weapon.

I opened the panel and sure enough, some breakers had tripped. Relieved, I hit the switches, turned and gaped at a full-sized pool table with a massive tiffany light above it. Stools and tables were clustered for guests. A hand-painted, multi-paneled screen of the Italian countryside covered one whole wall. Then I swung my gaze to that hallway door.

As usual, my curiosity was killing me. I had to check it.

I pre-dialed 911 on my cell, but then sighed, frustrated.

Scratch that. There was no signal in their basement.

I grabbed a pool stick then stopped. The room’s door handle had a lock. I tried it. Unlocked! I hit the lights and glanced around taking inventory: boxes lining the walls and a long counter loaded with supplies for packing. It was nothing but a combination packing/storage room.

Then I asked myself, so why the lock on the door?

A flash caught my eye up above then disappeared in the rafters of the unfinished storage room. I jumped back when debris unexpectedly fell onto my head. I swiped at it and inspected my hand. It was seeds and nuts and whatever that I couldn’t identify. After living in North Carolina in a log cabin for well over a year, I recognized those telltale signs: squirrels were inside the house wreaking havoc, having some fun. That might explain the breakers shorting out.

I laughed in relief. I’d rather deal with a squirrel or two, who were nothing but rats with good PR, than deal with an intruder: the human kind, who from past experiences rated much lower on that scale.

I brushed more debris from my hair, replaced the pool cue and made my way back to the room with the TV where I’d seen a sizable cabinet and wanted to take a closer look, curious as to what it held. It was padlocked with a darkened glass center covered over in iron grillwork. I got closer and peered inside: rifles and lots of them.

Was Chris a hunter? Were they collectable or were they for protection? I noticed a drawer at the bottom. I reached down, expecting it to be locked, too, but it wasn’t. The heavy drawer slid open when I pulled. My jaw dropped.

It was filled with ammunition.

Of course it would help to know exactly what I was looking at, so I knelt down and started reading the boxes, the most deadly of which was hollow nosed points.

We’re talking serious damage here. I glanced back up to the locked glass cabinet door housing those rifles. Again I asked, was this hunter, or something else? The something else was looking like the clear winner.

This cache and the over-the-top security left questions…

Chapter 6

Going To The Mattress

Not willing to linger longer than necessary, I exited the basement and the front foyer then made my way down the hallway to the family room and back stairway that led to my apartment over the garages. I now had answers to that evening’s noisy mysteries, but was uneasy by what I had inadvertently discovered.

No sooner had I taken a few steps into the art hallway, an ear-piercing sound blasted me from the speaker in the wall: the driveway annunciator. Who was driving up at this late hour? I raced to the family room French doors, but was too late, barely catching sight of taillights through the opaque drapes, passing by toward the garages.

Okay, it was decision time. Do I stay put or sprint up the back stairs to the apartment? I chose the apartment, racing like hell, two steps at a time and shut the door behind me.

I heard the side door below me open and close. I could have sworn I’d locked it. Maybe I’d mistakenly turned the key the wrong way and the door was never locked. Was it Clay? …And if it wasn’t…then who was it?

I visually scanned for something to protect myself with. I looked down. I was still clutching that flashlight. It would have to do. I stood behind the door and waited to see if the intruder headed my way with my cell phone still on speed dial for 911. I wasn’t about to make that call quite yet though. I wanted to be sure about this. What if Alicia and Chris missed their flight and returned home? I’d look like some kind of lunatic. So I waited, ready to handle whatever would play out.

Then I heard footsteps on the backstairs.

I knew if it was Clay, he’d have called or texted by now.

I was about to dial 911, but then my cell flipped from my grasp, bounced off one of the upholstered chairs and landed silently across the carpeted room. My eyes flashed back to the door handle that was now slowly turning.

…Alicia and Chris would have at least knocked, right?

Damn. I’d forgotten to lock it. I quickly raised my arm back, gripping the flashlight tightly. The door eased open then paused, as though someone was waiting, listening. I took a breath and brought my arm up higher getting ready to bring it down hard. I saw a hand appear and decided it was now or never and swung hard. But that hand shot out, blocked my swing and knocked me off balance.

Next thing I knew, I was flat out on the carpet with Clay on top, staring down at me and wearing that sly grin of his.

“I wasn’t falling for your behind-the-door move again.”

“You know I hate surprises,” I scolded halfheartedly.

“…Oh, baby,” he said, laying his killer kiss on me.

Our lips parted. I grinned. “About time you got here.”

“How about we take this hello to the mattress?” he said.

I was still smiling. “It’s an orthopedic one too.”

Chapter 7

Snacking & Surmising

“You’re becoming a dicey liability when I arrive late.”

I smiled sweetly. “Then I suggest you don’t.”

“Hey, I couldn’t help it,” said Clay, eating cold chicken.

Our going to the mattress had worked up our appetites.

I dug into pasta primavera on a bed of arugula. “So?”

“So what?” Clay asked, taking another bite.

“What was the big delay all about?”

I could tell he was giving that some thought by the way he didn’t answer right away. Was he making something up?

Now, you see what I have to deal with: a world of doubt.

He wiped his mouth. I would have licked it for him, but stayed in my seat, trying to save my energy for later.

Something wasn’t right. “I should tell you…” he began.

I knew that look and set my fork down. “Okay, what?”

He leaned back, sighing, probably trying to figure out how to phrase his next words so I wouldn’t freak out.

“It’s not what you think,” he finally replied lamely.

“Oh, yeah? I’ve heard that line before.”

He eyed me “This trip also involves a new venture.”

I stopped eating. “Why do I have a feeling you’re about to lay one on me that might interfere with my digestion?”

“You have to trust me on this.”

“How can I when you haven’t told me yet?”

“Well, I was coming to that.”

I waited a beat. “And?”

“Oh, hell! I sold my bookstore: lock, stock and barrel.”

I waited for the punch line. Nothing. “Seriously?”

“No joke.”

“Who did you sell it to?”

“Remember that manager I hired a while ago?”

“The one Martha, Hazel and Betty rubbed egos with?”

He shifted uneasily in his chair. “The one and only.”

I thought how upset the ladies would be. “But why?”

“Sales were slow. Everything’s digital. I wanted out.”

“You mean you were too busy tramping the globe.”

“True, but I’ve been thinking of diversifying anyway.”

So this was the crux of it. “Into what field?”

He watched me warily. “I might try my hand at art.”

I played along. “By painting, buying or selling it?”

“Selling it. I figured New Hope might be the ticket.”

I slapped the table. “I knew this was too convenient!”

“Convenient?” Clay asked innocently.

“Don’t give me that doe-eyed look, you con artist.”

“Okay, so maybe I may have been negotiating.”

“What do you mean, negotiating?”

“To babysit the Worths’ gallery to see if I liked it.”

“And what about Martha, Hazel and Betty?”

“That’s what is so great about this,” Clay said.

Those poor ladies. “Hey, speak English.”

“I hired them for this gallery to help us out.”

“Whoa, just a minute! What do you mean, us?”

Chapter 8

Ruminating

As the sun streaked across my laptop, I glanced at Clay. He was still sleeping. His revelation last night was a whopper. I was grateful Alicia stocked us with plenty of coffee for the coffeemaker sitting on our kitchen counter. I’d personally thank her for that. It was helping clear the cobwebs, while I considered what had and was happening. Clay’s latest news caught me off guard.

I was letting him sleep in, mainly because I didn’t want Clay to distract me with his clever remarks that might confuse and disguise further what was now the real reason why we were in New Hope in the first place: the Worths’ art gallery and the possibility of him buying it.

So what about the gallery in question?

Was Clay serious when he said he wanted to see if it was a good fit? As far as selling his bookstore, that had come out of left field. But then again, he’d been traveling so much lately, along with my semi-retired crew and me. It didn’t make sense to keep it, especially after I’d sold my antique store there and was writing full-time on the fly. When I sold my store, Clay hired Martha for his bookstore.

So this arrangement worked well for everyone.

He was right when it came to books. Digital books were replacing physical books in sales just about everywhere. All I saw when I traveled were e-readers. It was much easier to travel with one device rather than several books, which were cumbersome and bulky. I loved my e-reader. As a lover of the written word, I was a quick convert once I got my hands on one as a gift from Clay.

As an author, forgive this pun: I saw the writing on the wall. After my fourth mystery, I went digital format only. So far I was pleased by my decision. Clay’s decision made sense too. But his one about this gallery had me stumped.

Why art? Or was something else going on here?

I swear I’ve become so distrustful, on the lookout for sneaky ulterior motives where people claimed there were none. Was I wrong feeling that niggling doubt? I felt it now sitting in the back of my mind just waiting for me to stumble upon something that confirmed it.

I thought back to what I’d discovered in this house: the extensive artwork, which should be expected here, and the security system, which was also expected. But that loaded gun cabinet in the basement, I did not expect. I couldn’t nail down this instinctive feeling nagging me about this whole trip so far, but it was there nevertheless.

Was Clay treading into an area he shouldn’t?

I leaned back, thinking, taking another sip of my coffee. Maybe Clay really was genuinely interested in diversifying like he’d said. But the more I thought about it, the more I understood where he was coming from. He always traveled, so he could pick up art anywhere and network at the same time. And the ladies would have a place to work that was stimulating but still safe…well, safe for the ladies maybe, but certainly not for this town or anybody in it.

Once we got together, there’d be No Hope In New Hope.

Chapter 9

A Not So Picture-Perfect Gallery

After breakfast, Clay took the red Jeep and drove us to the art gallery. He left his car rental outside by the Worths’ basketball court: another fringe benefit on their property. The more I thought about this whole art gallery venture and its advantages: Clay might be onto something.

Downtown streets were metered, but Alicia and Chris said they had a free parking area for employees. I scanned the tiny lot while we parked. Five spots exactly: meaning not many employees. Was the gallery small too?

Clay thought it best if we used the front door rather than disturb the employees by entering through the back one. Introductions should be made first. Clay said to not let on his interest in buying the gallery, only that we’d be helping out Alicia and Chris. We’d mention our crew later on.

My first surprise: the gallery was in an old house. I heard a jingle and glanced up. The door hit a tiny bell each time someone entered, just like Clay’s old bookshop in Highlands.

…Was that a good omen or bad one?

I had a feeling that the ladies would probably like that reminiscent touch. Clay was several steps ahead of me; I hung behind to gaze around the airy gallery. It had a twelve-foot ceiling that opened up to the polished rafters. A metal curved staircase led to a loft area. Swathes of beige silk hung from the elongated multi-paned windows. I’d expected a store, but this was an historic house located on a side street, trimmed in intricate wood detailing everywhere.

Several well-used brown leather wingchairs half-ringed an old marble fireplace. An antique mahogany coffee table anchored them. The effect gave the older gallery an air of intimacy, yet came off as sophisticated at the same time. I liked it. And judging by Clay’s smile, he did too.

I heard the clatter of high heels on the hardwood floor and turned. A blonde in her thirties approached Clay, but not before I caught a flicker of annoyance at me before her smile masked it. Had I imagined it? I inched possessively in Clay’s direction, while stiffly surveying her.

Her hair was pulled back in a French twist. She was slim with a toned body: her snug black dress barely covered her shapely legs. Ignoring me completely, her blue eyes latched onto Clay’s.

I disliked her already.

I glanced over at tall, dark and hunky Clay, who was smiling down at her from his over six-foot perch. I frowned with a tinge of jealousy and felt like kicking him.

Clay liked blondes: they were his favorite.

“And what can I do for you today, Mr.…?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Please, call me Clay,” he responded smoothly.

I closed the distance on the two of them. After seeing her, I already regretted how I looked: my long blonde hair in a casual ponytail, my choice of wearing well-worn jeans and a loose-fitting sweater. She checked me from head to toe, remarking glibly and dismissing me with, “There are other galleries in your price range…Miss.”

I feigned shock. “What, you don’t have any Pissarro or Cortes paintings here?”

That was when Clay discreetly pinched me.

I smiled sweetly at him. “What can I say, I’m a high-end kind of girl.”

Chapter 10

Ah, The Subtleties Of Nuance

Her face went scarlet. “Excuse me? You’re together?”

“I’m Mr. Masters,” Clay said, smiling warmly at the blonde. “I’m here to help run this gallery, while Alicia and Chris are over in London. I’m sure they called to let you know about me.”

The woman quickly regained her composure. “I’m an art restorer and not usually on the gallery floor. I rent my own space here in an office near the young lady, who does the framing in the back area. That’s where I spend most of my time.” She added disdainfully: “I am not a salesperson.”

I cleared my throat loudly and Clay remembered me. “Oh, this is Samantha Jamison, a friend of mine who will be helping me. Alicia mentioned she had a workspace in the loft that Samantha might use for writing.”

Blondie waved a hand. “No need. The brochures are just fine. Their printer takes care of that. He does a terrific job.”

Fuming, I eyed Clay, who swiftly said, “No, she writes.”

She glanced my way. “What? Jingles, commercials…?”

“No, murder mysteries…slow painful ones.”

“Oh, well, isn’t that nice,” she said condescendingly.

I began moving forward, but Clay blocked me.

“How about you show us around, Mrs.…?”

“Miss, Anne Wythe, both ending with an e,” she purred.

I gave her a syrupy smile. “How quaint.”

She threw me an annoyed look. “Historical lineage.”

Just then a scream emerged from the back area.

“Oh no! What has Abby gotten into now?” Anne Wythe, along with her two e’s, rushed off.

Clay looked at me. “I think we should go see too.”

“Oh, brother,” I hissed, annoyed. “Next thing you know, she’ll tell us her ancestors came over on the Mayflower.”

He grabbed my hand and began pulling me toward the commotion in the back. “Come on. It could be worse.”

“How? We’ll be stuck listening to her for over a week.”

Clay looked at me, laughing. “Or maybe longer.”

“I’m afraid I might have to kill her first.”

“Don’t say anything you might regret.”

“No, actually I think it would give me great pleasure.”

“You see?” Clay said, “That’s another example.”

I looked at him, mystified. “An example of what?”

“Why we’re so great together.”

“Oh, yeah?” I asked flirtatiously. “And why is that?”

“I never quite know what to expect from you. I like it.”

I nudged him. “I like to keep you on your toes.”

But then Clay abruptly turned serious, leaning into me.

“Do you feel what I’m feeling about this, Sam?”

I stopped and looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

He frowned. “I think we’ve walked into a hornet’s nest.”

I agreed, nodding. “Let’s just hope we don’t get stung.”

Chapter 11

Addressing Abby

We entered the packing area, where a frail-looking brunette, wearing glasses, was now the recipient of that witch’s forked tongue. I decided at that moment Blondie didn’t deserve that genteel name of Anne. It didn’t suit her.

Abby had a rag around her bleeding finger.

“But there’s a guard on the paper cutter!” yelled Anne.

“I rushed an order for UPS and it malfunctioned again.”

“I hope you didn’t screw up this packing slip too.”

“I read that old slip correctly,” said the teary-eyed girl.

“How stupid can you get? That old lady had a stroke.”

Then Anne began shouting something about a packing label that had the wrong address on it. The nude painting went to a little old lady who had bought a still life of fruit.

I sighed to Clay. “Tell me there are better days than this in an art gallery.”

He chuckled. “This might be an off-day around here.”

“For the gallery or her royal highness, Anne-with-an-e?”

Abby had handed Anne a slip. “Read that slip yourself.”

Anne snatched the invoice from Abby’s unsteady hand.

We watched in silence while Anne looked at the slip.

“Well, I may have switched the addresses by accident.”

Biting her lip, Abby said nothing.

Then Anne threw the paper invoice down and walked out, hissing over her shoulder, “If you were bright enough to double-check it then none of this would have happened. I’m an art restorer helping out, not an order-taker.”

I snickered. “She could’ve fooled me,” I whispered.

“Why do you think she’s so excitable?” Clay teased.

“Don’t even bring up the blonde thing,” I said.

He winked. “I wouldn’t dare. It would be detrimental.”

“We should introduce ourselves to Abby,” I murmured.

But then Anne stuck her head back into the room.

“If you will excuse me, I need to make a few calls.”

“Of course, we’ll touch base with you later,” said Clay.

“Much, much later,” I mumbled.

Hearing my snarky remark, Abby tried not to laugh.

I stuck out my hand, “Hi, my name is Samantha.”

She briefly released her injured finger to shake my hand.

“Hi, I’m Abigail. Call me Abby with a y,” she chuckled.

Clay stuck his hand out, “Hi Abby. I’m Clay.”

We explained why we were there and she brightened.

“With Anne holding court, I almost quit,” she said.

Clay gave Abby a warm smile, saying, “Please don’t.”

I whispered, “We need help in dealing with the enemy.”

Abby broke up laughing. “And I need a bandage.”

I watched her walk away. “We have our work cut out.”

Clay pointed to the paper cutter. “Don’t go near that!”

“You’re preaching to the choir. I only write, it’s safer.”

I received an eye roll in response. “If only it was true.”

“I swear, writing only this time around.”

Of course my fingers were crossed behind me.

Chapter 12

A Not So Lucid Lunch At Logan’s Inn

I’d chosen a burger with lettuce, tomato and mayo, no roll. Clay ordered his on a roll with everything on it. We both added a side salad then, after grinning at each other, we ordered Italian garlic dressing.

Two garlics cancel out each other.

We were having lunch at the Logan Inn, located near the center of New Hope. The weather was nice so we opted to eat outside on the patio overlooking River Road. Across the street behind all the stores ran the Delaware.

“So what do you think of Worth Gallery?” Clay asked.

I took a sip of my ice tea and nodded. “It’s okay…”

He laughed. “I hear a but in that statement.”

“Does Blondie, I mean Anne, come with the package?”

“Would that be a problem for you?” he asked.

You know, sometimes I questioned his sanity. “Yes.”

“Do I hear some kind of jealousy lurking?”

I sat there thinking then smirked: …jealousy?

“Not unless she has an Amazon bestseller.”

Clay burst out laughing. “How’d I exist before you?”

“I’m sure the word mundane played a key role.”

“You’ve certainly spiced things up for me.”

“Ditto. And as long as I don’t get heartburn, I’m good.”

Just then a woman approached, saying, “Excuse me.”

We both looked up from our burgers.

“Yes?” Clay asked, politely.

Scowling, she said, “You’re running Worth Gallery?”

Clay and I exchanged a curious look. What the…

“He’s helping some friends out for a week,” I offered.

Clay smiled smoothly. “Why, is there a problem?”

“I guess it’s now yours.”

“Exactly what do you mean?” I said protectively.

Her eyes bored into me. “How do you play in this?”

I glanced at Clay. “I’m not sure, how do I, big guy?”

Then I glanced back at her. She was a little over five feet tall, short black hair, I’d guess late thirties, dressed in jeans, sweater and Tori Birch flats: sort of trendy, but her purse was on the shabby side. Lean and mean came to my mind, with an emphasis on angry. What gives?

As usual, Clay was handling this with aplomb, while I was emotionally torn between being protective of him, jealous of her and wary of her possible threatening attitude.

“Can we help you?” I asked her guardedly.

She set her purse down on our table and unzipped it then reached inside. Being gun shy, I flinched.

Clay reacted instantly. “Now, wait just a minute…”

The woman paused, her hand still in her purse. “What?”

She began pulling her hand out. We both edged our chairs backward, getting ready to jump up. She looked puzzled by our actions then laughed.

“You two didn’t think I’d do anything rash, did you?”

My eyes shot to Clay’s then back to her. Who was this?

Chapter 13

It Had Crossed Our Minds

“It had crossed our minds,” said Clay, breathing a little easier after Helen pulled out some papers instead of a gun.

I leaned back and relaxed. “You had us worried there for a moment. Who are you?”

“I’m Helen Costner and am at the end of my rope.”

She looked at each of us. “What kind of people are you used to dealing with?”

“Some unsavory ones, to say the least,” offered Clay.

“Good! Then I guess you might be able to help me.”

Clay pushed his plate to the side, curious. “With what?”

I did the same then leaned in to try and read her papers. She caught my move and flipped them over. Ah, trust…

She grabbed a chair and sat down. “Mind if I join you?”

My intimate lunch, poof! “I believe you already have.”

Clay kicked me under the table then smiled. “Sure.”

Helen eyed Clay. “I heard you investigate. True?”

Clay glanced at me then back to her. “Your reason?”

Now, she hesitated. “Well I…”

I smiled. “He’s a bottom-line kind of guy and touchy.”

That got me another subtle kick. I switched positions so he couldn’t reach me next time I opened my mouth.

“Well, before I show you anything, I need to know how much you actually know about art,” she asked Clay.

Clay glanced at me warily then to her.

I was about to say something, but he grabbed my hand.

Hard.

Not fast enough to evade his reach, I bit my lip.

Clay replied, “…Enough. I am running the gallery.”

“I need to know that I can trust you implicitly too.”

“Would seeing my PI license make you feel better?”

Her eyes brightened. “Yes, it would.”

Clay grabbed his wallet and flipped it open.

After carefully eyeing his ID, she smiled then batted her eyelashes at him. “You’re much better-looking in person.”

I kicked Clay a no-flirting warning shot under the table.

Wincing, he then leaned toward Helen. “Thanks.”

I’d seen enough. “Helen, what can we do for you?”

She looked back and forth at us. “You’re a team?”

Clay beat me to it. “She has helped me on a few cases.”

Ha! The man was lost without me. “Yes, and my crew!”

Confused, Helen said, “Crew? There are more of you?”

I leaned back. “I’m afraid so.”

Helen became nervous: half getting up. “Well I…”

Clay tossed me a look. “Helen, please sit. Whatever you have to say can be said in front of Samantha, my—my…”

We had commitment issues. “Trusted co-worker,” I said.

Clay gave me a grateful smile. I smiled back giving him another kick under the table just for good measure.

“We’re so good we read each other’s minds,” I added.

Clay grimaced. “Can you read mine right now, Sam?”

I could, but I can’t repeat it on this page.

Chapter 14

Getting Down To Business

Helen’s gaze swung from me then settled on Clay. “As I was saying, I need someone I can trust implicitly.”

“Why is that, Helen?” Clay asked.

“If I don’t get results, I’m liable to kill someone.”

Both Clay and I sat up straighter. She was dead serious.

“Isn’t that a little extreme?” I asked.

She sighed. “This involves big bucks…mine.”

“How big?” Clay asked.

“Try ten thousand dollar’s worth of bucks.”

Clay whistled. “And what was this for?”

She gave a frustrated sigh. “I believe we’re talking art!”

This was worse than talking to Martha.

“Oil or watercolor?” I asked.

She snapped an annoyed look at me.

I leaned away from her. “Details would help.”

Her shoulders slumped. “It was oil on canvas.”

“And how does this involve us?” Clay asked.

Those switched packing labels! “Are you the nude?”

“Nude? You’re not making any sense,” Helen said.

Welcome to the club, lady.

“Where is my painting?” Helen continued.

I tried again. “…Your painting?”

“Yes!”

Helen then turned to Clay. “Is she always this slow?”

Enjoying this, Clay was about to retort, but I gave him another swift kick and an, ‘I don’t think so’ eye warning.

Then Helen turned back to me. “What about it?”

I shouldn’t, but asked anyway. “How would we know?”

She threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said.

I smiled sweetly. “Ditto, Helen.”

Clay gently touched her arm. “How about starting over.”

“Yes, from the beginning if you don’t mind,” I said.

Helen deflated and sighed, “I’ve been screwed.”

I gently patted her hand. “Here or somewhere else.”

Clay started to object to my poor choice of words, but Helen held up her hand. “It’s okay. No offense taken. I’m beginning to understand how she thinks. It was here.”

I smiled brightly. “I knew we’d hit it off, Helen.”

“Please call me Lenny, all my friends do.”

We shook hands. “And you can call me, Sam.”

Helen turned to Clay. “And what can I call you?”

He was about to tell her he didn’t have a nickname, but I jumped in with, “Oh, he has several that come to mind.”

Clay reached across the table for my hand, but I smartly pulled it back. He then turned away from me. “Lenny, why don’t you tell us what we have here?”

“First, can I get a refund?” she asked.

Bewildered, Clay said, “Because you never got it?”

“Oh, I have it alright!” she said.

Back to square one. I smiled. “Lenny, are you hungry?”

Chapter 15

The Bare Essentials

Back at the gallery, Clay and I sipped coffee, sitting on the leather wingchairs in front of the fireplace, while Abby and Anne took separate late lunches. We were trying to fill in the gaps from Helen’s, I mean Lenny’s bizarre story.

The essence of what transpired at lunch with Lenny was that she had purchased a painting that was on gallery consignment. But when it was delivered to her, it wasn’t what she had bought. It was identical with one exception.

Clay had asked Lenny how could she tell the difference, and she explained the woman’s shoes in the painting were different than the original: their shade of black was off. She bragged she has a photographic memory and knew her art.

Clay was mystified. “…The color black was off?”

“Trust me Clay, when it comes to shoe colors a woman notices, especially at ten thousand a pop,” I said.

“Lenny claimed the Worths’ confirmed they personally shipped it out themselves that day before they left.”

I leaned forward. “If true, it’s troubling.”

Clay fisted his hands under his chin. “…Yes, to me too.”

I pondered the possibilities in play. None of them were positive. “These are your friends. Are forgeries possible?”

“Shoes or not, it can’t be a forgery. She’s mistaken.”

“And if she’s not? You can’t call Alicia and Chris. After their delay, they’re just now flying to London. Think this through first. You’d not only be notifying them…”

Staring off, Clay’s head snapped in my direction.

I added, “…You’d be alerting them you suspect them.”

Disturbed, he still insisted, “Lenny must be mistaken.”

I repeated. “And if she isn’t?” I then explained about the elaborate security that their house had inside and outside, the gun cabinet in their basement and all that ammunition. I described their packing station room with the lock. “Maybe we should snoop around. It might tell us something more.”

“Your mystery-writer’s mind is overthinking this, Sam.”

“Why not find out where this goes, before they get back in a week or so? If it’s an inside job, we’re in place to help. If we’re off-base, no one’s hurt, including your friendship.”

“I feel like we’re jumping the gun though,” said Clay.

“Better safe than sorry. Do you want to tip your hand to them that you’re onto their possible illegal activity?”

“That would be a real friendship killer, wouldn’t it?”

“Before you invest cold hard cash, let’s make sure.”

“And if this Lenny is wrong?” he asked.

“She showed us the before and after photos.”

“I’m not taking her word alone. We need to follow up.”

“Who else is involved in the running of the gallery?”

“So far we have Abby in shipping and Anne,” he said.

I nodded. “…Who happens to be an art restorer, right?”

“And your meaning is…?”

“If she’s a restorer, she must be one hell of an artist.”

But that was way too obvious, wasn’t it? …Can’t be.

Chapter 16

Note-taking & Taking Note

After familiarizing ourselves with the gallery and how it ran with the help of Abby, Clay left me to go up to the loft to input some notes in my laptop. I was the designated note-taker. He was the leg-man, meeting late with another art dealer over in Lambertville across the Delaware in New Jersey to art-network and maybe snag some local gossip.

That was fine with me. I needed to concentrate without any distractions. A nightlight was on in the gallery below that was closed. Caught up in typing, I found myself now working under the glow of my laptop to keep me focused.

I loved working on such a luxurious antique desk. It was solid cherry and oval shaped all the way around from top to bottom, with intricate wood veneers, marble strips and gold ornamentation. The top of the desk was inlayed with dark green leather: ringed with an edge of gold stenciling.

I loved the artwork up in the loft, too, as well as the camel-backed striped fabric sofa done in coral and pale green. A black-lacquer painted wooden chair with cane backing and matching seat cushion complimented it. A leather suitcase coffee table tied the grouping together.

Next to the desk was a much deeper green and navy fabric-covered wing chair, the same shade as the leather on the desk. Right behind me was an old four-shelf cherry weathered bookcase filled with antique books. If I had a wish-list space to work at, this was definitely it. I sighed.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

Staring through the railing, I noticed drizzle falling outside and fog drifting by the streetlights visible through the tall windows below. I jerked when a loud clap of thunder cracked overhead: a perfect murder scene. I shook off that eerie visual and kept on typing until something caught my attention from down below the loft where I sat.

What…was…that?

My fingers stopped typing. A rapid heartbeat kicked in: mine. Without thinking, I was about to grab the chain on the banker’s lamp and ever so gently pull down to turn it on, but then decided to sit there and listen instead. I wasn’t a big fan of being in the dark, especially alone like this in a location that was still unfamiliar to me. So I nearly jumped from my seat when I heard that noise again. There was no mistaking what I heard this time.

Someone was moving around downstairs.

A dim plug-in nightlight aided my slow decent down the closed-bottom wooden staircase. I could only see through the iron railing, but not very much in the darkened gallery. On the fifth step down, I heard the noise again and paused. It sounded like it was coming from the packing and shipping room in the back area. Clay said he would lock the back door. He did. I had checked it myself.

Having pretty much pin-pointed the source of the noise, I quickly, but silently, traveled the rest of the staircase. At the bottom I quietly edged along one wall working my way toward the back of the gallery. I wasn’t about to walk directly across the floor and leave myself bare if someone entered the open gallery. Having no desire to be a target, being cloaked in the shadows worked just fine for me. I flinched when I heard more rustling…

Chapter 17

Weighing My Options

…My cell. I could text Clay. I felt in my pocket, but came up empty and cursed. It was back on the desk up in the loft. I eyed the back room. Several minutes passed.

…Silence.

Whoever was in there, had they left out the back door? Or had they come into the darkened gallery while I was still on the staircase? What if they were standing right behind me? I turned quickly, stubbed my toe on the fixed-to-the-floor doorstop and barely stifled a moan.

Nothing: empty shadows. I had no choice but to go in.

I was about to pull open the door when it swung in my direction. I eased back behind it. Someone carrying a small pocket light emerged. They hesitated then moved forward. I peered out as they first passed an antique armoire then began focusing their light on each painting on one gallery wall, only then to move on to the next painting, and then the next.

What were they searching for?

They weren’t moving the paintings, just shining their light, not directly on them, but behind them. Were they searching for a wall safe? I nixed confrontation. They could be carrying a weapon. Plus, I couldn’t tell gender nor gage their strength in the darkened gallery.

The intruder was covered from head to toe in black loose-fitting clothing, including a knit hat that hid any hair. At that moment, I was more interested in what they might be after. But I guess that wasn’t meant to be, because after working their way to the front door, they simply unlocked it and silently slipped out into the foggy mist.

I stood there in the dark. Would they come back? After a few minutes it didn’t appear as if they would. The chance to see what they were up to wasn’t happening either.

I peeked outside then turned a light on and headed for the packing room in the back of the gallery. I hit that light switch and took visual inventory. Nothing seemed out of order, just the usual half-constructed crates still out on the large counter in the center of the room. I walked to the back door: locked. I inspected for possible break-in, both inside then outside, but everything appeared undamaged.

Someone had a key and knew their way around. The big question was how many people had a key to this gallery? Tomorrow I would begin finding out. Knowing I was there, Clay had left the gallery alarm turned off: made sense.

My laptop in the loft didn’t give off much light, so it may have appeared from the street that no one was in the gallery, just the normal indirect nightlights that were usually on. They must have known the alarm code and were nonplussed when the alarm appeared off when they entered figuring Clay, being new, forgot to set it earlier. Were they taking advantage of the Worths’ absence?

It sure looked like it, didn’t it? But for what purpose?

Chapter 18

No Sooner Had I…

No sooner had I locked the back door behind me than my eyes latched onto that alarm keypad. My finger hovered over the numbers as I considered setting it. Would they be back? I wasn’t so sure. If they had a key and knew the code, and it appeared they did, the only purpose it would serve was to notify them to reconsider entering. Now, if they didn’t know I was present, I’d have the advantage to watch and observe. I let it go and reentered the gallery.

I looked around, surveying all the art. What were they looking for? Was something supposed to be hidden behind one of the paintings? Then I tried to think not like the thief, but like a person who might want to hide something from a thief. Where would I hide it? I laughed. First I needed to find out what was hidden in the first place, didn’t I? The strange behavior I’d witnessed didn’t make sense.

Why did the intruder abruptly leave? Why hadn’t they looked behind the other paintings in the gallery? Why only the ones on that particular wall? This was truly bizarre.

By edging along the walls, I dodged several pedestals of varying heights supporting expensive vases and statues. Alicia and Chris mentioned on my first day they dealt in antiques as well. But mostly it was the paintings that were their mainstay, while the antiques and the leather furniture merely added to the overall ambience of the gallery, which was as tastefully decorated as their personal residence.

I pivoted in place, staring at the art. Clay mentioned that Alicia and Chris promoted local artists. Did this include some of the art on the pedestals? I considered the contents of the whole gallery. The Worths’ insurance premiums wouldn’t be cheap. And judging by their massive home, that didn’t appear to be a problem.

Or was it? Who was in the gallery?

I worked my way back to the packing room and stopped when I came to Anne’s office, the restorer. As expected, her door was closed. I tried the handle anyway: locked. I figured that was the case, but had to at least try it. I stood there considering Anne’s significance in this.

She had access, a key, knew the alarm, and had plenty of opportunity to take advantage of an empty gallery, but that angle was just too simplistic. I had to find a way to slip in there when it wasn’t locked, maybe on a day when she simply she forgot to secure it. Was I overlooking the obvious? It could possibly be that simple and obvious might be playing a larger hand in what was going on.

Why lock her door? Was she hiding something?

I shook my head. She was a restorer. She probably had someone else’s art in there that she was working on. Maybe she didn’t trust the so-called clumsy Abby to walk in and cause an accident. This was her livelihood and she had to protect it from theft and damage. So much for that clever scenario…

Chapter 19

Honey, I’m Back

Again I double-checked that back door: locked. Then I slowly made my way back up to the loft, grabbed my cell to call Clay, but then remembered I hadn’t bolted that front door. I was about to turn back when I heard the back door open and close.

A familiar voice jokingly called out, “Honey, I’m back.”

I peered down at a smiling Clay. I was not.

“What’s the matter, see any intruders?” he teased.

I pointed. “How about bolting that front door for me.”

He glanced at it then back at me. “Why?”

“They forgot to lock it on their way out.”

His brow furrowed. “…Who?”

“The intruder who just left.”

Clay eyed me doubtfully. “You’re kidding, right?”

I gave him a level gaze. “Do I look like I am?”

He walked to the door, bolted it then turned to me.

I nodded. “Good, I hope that’s the last of them.”

He glanced back at the door. “Who?”

“I wish I knew.” I retorted.

“This is scary. I feel like I’m conversing with Martha.”

I took offense at his verbal swipe at Martha, my fellow sleuth and sidekick who wasn’t here yet to defend herself.

“Let’s keep this relative, okay?” I said.

“Relative to what?” he asked, now totally confused.

“To the subject matter.”

“Dare I ask…what it is?”

“We’ve had company. Some person dressed all in black.”

I was about to say more, but then Clay held up his hand.

“What?” I asked.

“This is starting to sound Samantha-complicated. Let’s finish this discussion at Triumph Brewing Company.”

“Sounds good to me. Let me pack up my laptop first.”

“What for?” he asked. “We can pick it up later.”

“My notes. They might return and decide to take it.”

“Now who would want your laptop?”

“Whoever was searching the gallery,” I said.

Clay glanced around. “I don’t see anything missing.”

“I know.”

“How are you so sure no one took anything?”

“Because I watched them closely.”

Clay paused. “…The whole time?”

“Yup.”

“And you still couldn’t identify them?”

I sighed loudly. “It was too dark to see or tell gender.”

“You watched them in the gallery and saw them leave.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

I held up my cell walking down. “Left this in the loft.”

“So exactly where were you all that time while all this was going on?” he asked.

“I played it safe and remained behind them.”

“You’re joking!”

“I didn’t think they’d appreciate me tapping them on the shoulder to ask who they were or what they were doing.”

He pulled me toward the back door. “I need a drink.”

Chapter 20

So Now What?

After a lengthy Q & A session over two beers above the noisy throng of people in Triumph’s and the live music in the background, I explained what took place in the gallery while he was in Lambertville. We then eagerly dug into our short rib sliders and sweet potato fries, still trying to figure out what it all meant.

Clay’s first fry hardly saw daylight. He scarfed it down and popped another. “What were they looking for?”

“At first I thought they were looking for something hidden on the back of one of the paintings, but they never bothered moving or lifting any of them: not one. They seemed to be concentrating on the wall. Then I thought: maybe a hidden safe?”

“Yes, but why stop after looking at one wall?” he asked.

“Exactly my thought. It didn’t make sense.”

“A real mystery,” mused Clay after seeing me smile.

He knew I’d love this challenge, which made me think of Clay himself, who was mysterious too. I was up for both.

“You’re chafing at the bit. I know that look,” he said.

I chuckled. “Ah, the man speaks from experience.”

“Yes, but this one might be more difficult for me.”

I knew what he meant. “I know. We’ll have to be careful and tread lightly around your friendship concerns.”

“This whole issue with Lenny and her painting could blow up in my face or be much ado about nothing. If it gets out of hand it would not only jeopardize my friendship, but sever any chances of my acquiring this art gallery to boot.”

Clay was in a precarious position. And after these last two episodes, we now both agreed we had no choice but to pursue the matter further. There was no doubt about it.

“If Alicia and Chris are involved, that complicates the issue. Either way something’s definitely going on, Clay.”

We both looked up as a man approached. Being a detail-oriented author, my eyes began taking inventory: scuffed boots, well-worn jeans, black leather jacket, two-day beard, brown windswept hair, a faded scar on his chin, and at least six-foot-five or six. Clay and I set our forks down.

Clay’s eyes briefly glanced my way saying, Now what?

Mine answered back, Be my guest, detective. You first.

So Clay asked, all friendly-like, “Can I help you?”

“I hear you’re the one helping out Chris Worth.”

“You heard right,” said Clay not adding anything more.

The guy, all muscle, shifted his weight back and forth.

“Then you’re the man to talk to. I’ve got a problem. I’m out some money after buying this painting…”

Clay threw me a brief second look.

I gave an I-don’t-know shrug. They were crawling out of the woodwork: malcontents, customers, intruders, you name it. Clay didn’t even own the cursed gallery and was already in someone’s crosshairs. Was this why Chris and Alicia split? Now that was food for thought.

Chapter 21

UPS?

“UPS? He works for UPS?” I said to Clay after the guy departed a few minutes later. “What kind of money are they paying those guys anyway?”

“Apparently enough spare change to splurge on a five thousand dollar painting,” replied Clay in amazement.

“…You’d look quite fetching in brown shorts,” I chided.

Clay chuckled. “I’m sticking to my day job.”

“Which is?” I asked, curious how he’d describe it.

“Delivering the goods on the bad guys, not to them.”

I arched a brow. “I hear your fringe benefits are nice.”

He reached over and kissed me. “They sure are.”

After catching my breath and the waiter’s attention for our check, I said, “His story is unlike Lenny’s. He had an entirely different painting delivered to him.”

“It could be as simple as Anne mislabeling again.”

“I don’t know, Clay. Why now? Why these people?”

“If not packing, maybe it’s the shipper?” he suggested.

“This is all over the map.”

“Which might include delivery vendors.”

“We have to find out.” I said.

I shoved away my plate and grabbed my laptop.

Clay asked, “What are you doing now?”

“Making some lists and checking them twice.”

“Good idea, while details are still fresh.”

I looked from my laptop to him. “Ah, we agree.”

“Besides, we wouldn’t want our bed to distract us.”

I glanced up at him, grinning, then quickly focused on my notes. My face flushed. I had just typed a bunch of gibberish. I hit delete and rewrote my last two lines.

“Let’s try and focus, please,” I said, composing myself.

Clay reached out for my hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I looked back up at him, searching for the joke. There was none that I could detect from his demeanor. “Me too.”

He pulled his chair in closer, whispering, “I’m horny.”

I laughed. “Can’t you just focus for once?”

“Not with you sitting there so demure like that.”

I squinted at him. “There’s nothing demure about me.”

“Okay, sitting there so sexy-looking. How’s that?”

“Better,” I admitted, trying to suppress a grin.

He slowly stroked my hand with his thumb.

I was approaching overload. “…Oh, much better.”

He then slowly worked his thumb up my arm. My pulse quickened. “…Oh, you’re on a winning streak now.”

Our eyes locked.

Suddenly, a voice interrupted.

“Why don’t the two of you go get a room?”

We both turned at the same time then jumped up.

“Martha!” Clay exclaimed, hugging her.

“How did you find us?” I asked, hugging her too.

She pointed. “I noticed the steam on those windows.”

Clay cracked up. “Good timing.”

“I’ll say!” She quickly took out her cell phone and began punching in numbers. “Let me call Betty and Hazel to say I found you. They’re with the cops over at the Worth Gallery. The alarm went off.”

Chapter 22

Why didn’t You Call Us?

“Why didn’t you just call us?” I asked Martha.

“I called you both. Check your voicemails,” she said.

Clay paid the waiter then checked his cell. “Damn.”

“What?” I asked as I quickly checked mine.

“Forgot to charge it. Battery’s dead. And you?”

I sighed. “I had it on vibrate when I went back up to the loft in case the intruder came back for another visit.”

Our eyes shared a realization. They did! I scrambled with my jacket and laptop, while Clay slung his jacket on.

Martha blocked us. “Lucky guess on my part in finding you. You both have some explaining to do when this is all said and done, don’t you think?” She then stepped aside, letting Clay and I lead the way. “Come on, let’s get going!”

We arrived to flashing squad car lights in front of Worth Gallery. Betty and Hazel stood by the entrance talking to an officer; another one waited out on the sidewalk. We went over to Betty and Hazel.

“Lucky she found you so fast,” said the officer.

I hugged the two ladies, while Clay showed his ID and key then explained he was temporarily running the Worth Gallery for Alicia and Chris. The officer followed all of us inside to have a look around.

“Check to see if anything might be missing,” he said.

Clay and I stood there, reading each other’s thoughts. It looked exactly like we had left it an hour and a half ago. The previous intruder had shone his flashlight on one wall of paintings: had not tried to steal anything.

Something else was going on besides robbery.

“What the…” Clay said, scratching his head, confused.

We then separated: me to the loft, he to the packing room. After several minutes we met back in the center of the gallery where everyone was waiting for us.

Clay shook his head. “Nothing seems to be missing or out of place. We’ll take precise inventory tomorrow by checking with Anne and Abby to be sure.”

The officer then turned to me. “What about you?”

“Everything is as I left it. The loft looks undisturbed.”

His pen was still poised over his pad. “…You sure?”

“I know it’s odd, but it sure looks that way,” said Clay.

Martha asked the officer, “What alerted you?”

“The alarm went off,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“When the three of us first got here,” said Martha, “we didn’t hear a thing. Before we knew it, you arrived. What kind of alarm was it?”

“Silent one. That’s why we questioned you ladies first.”

I looked at Clay, my eyes doing the asking.

He stared back with the same question to me.

Martha verbalized it. “Clay, you set the alarm, right?”

Clay shook his head. “No! What a stupid mistake!”

“Well, if you didn’t,” said the Officer, “who set it?”

“That’s precisely what I’d like to know,” said Clay, now deeply disturbed.

“Why set it, making it look like a break in?” I asked.

“Good question,” said Clay.

“Looks like you two stepped in it again,” said Martha.

Chapter 23

A Quick Recap

Not wanting to bore you with too much background let me clarify the ladies’ past. If you haven’t had the pleasure (and I use that term lightly, but lovingly) of being exposed to Martha, Hazel and Betty, let me briefly introduce them.

I first met Martha in Highlands, NC when I investigated the mysterious death of my husband, Stephen. I hired her as my employee in my ruse of an antique shop to help learn who killed him. In the interim, I met Hazel and Betty who worked for Clay in his bookshop in Highlands: another ruse I’d learned about later. We all eventually became close then sleuthed ourselves through several cases. Even though the ladies are seventyish and I’m thirtyish, in the end, we found true friendship. Our age difference was and is irrelevant.

Martha is fashionably challenged, has spiky white hair, slim frame and an outrageous personality. Her sharp wit, mental aptitude and shrewdness, made her an extremely capable asset in taking some shots at the bad guys: literally.

Trust me, some would make your hair stand on end too.

Tall and lean Betty sports her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. Hazel is the polar opposite: height-challenged with short, curly-gray hair and is plump. Although genteel and old fashioned, both are extremely savvy, perceptive and have proven time and again how clever they are.

All three have been invaluable to me in solving crimes with their agile minds and wily ways through the toughest of times. I wouldn’t trade any of them. They are priceless and so is their humor, which always keeps me grounded.

After the police left, we sat in the old wingchairs in the gallery in front of a small fire Clay had started, snacking on crackers, cheese and sipping Sauvignon Blanc from the back room kitchen. After Clay brought my senior sleuths up to date on what had happened, we talked it through.

“A gallery that was, but wasn’t hit,” quipped Martha.

Hazel patted a napkin to her lips. “This is unbelievable!”

“An intruder who sets alarms,” said Betty. “Odd…”

“Maybe to distract us from what’s going on?” I asked.

“Of course!” said Hazel excitedly. “Confuse the facts.”

Martha jumped in, “If so, it’s a clever maneuver.”

“Why not?” I said nodding. “The art of deflection.”

Clay wasn’t convinced. “Deflection…meaning?”

“Maybe they were putting back something,” said Hazel.

“They were doing damage control: returning what you didn’t know was missing to begin with,” posed Betty.

“Because…?” asked Clay, now wanting to hear more.

“Maybe, they’re getting nervous,” posed Hazel.

My eyes scanned the gallery and the artwork as Clay spoke again then they spied the luggage: lots of it. That’s when I asked, “Hey, exactly where are you ladies staying?”

My senior trio turned to Clay, who suddenly went still.

Martha winked. “Right down the hall from you two.”

I smiled tightly and turned to Clay. “How convenient.”

Chapter 24

Sandra, Sandra

“…Sandra, Sandra,” I repeated. “Trust me, this will turn out to be a great mystery with a terrific twist.”

“The publisher’s not convinced it’ll sell,” my agent said.

I leaned back, closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. We had been going back and forth for several minutes on the phone. I was trying to gently coax and drive home the fact that this art angle was just the ticket to make my next mystery marketable. They weren’t buying it. The publisher was getting antsy for an exciting mystery: something that would pop. The market was tightening and book sales were lackluster. The exception: a select few.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t among that elite group yet.

“…This is all you’ve got? Unbelievable!”

I ignored her expected jab. “Funny you should say that,” I said, “but someone made that exact comment yesterday. Only like, unbelievable, as in very excited.”

I had neglected to tell her it happened to be Hazel, but that was a minor detail that she didn’t need to be privy to. It was the sizzle I was pitching here: a visual impression for my publisher. Only the way Sandra reacted it was looking more like it was falling on doubtful publishing ears.

I was running out of reasons. I dug deeper: a last-ditch effort. “Have you ever been disappointed with me?”

I realized my snafu the minute it escaped my lips.

“I meant, have you ever been disappointed with the end result, you know, the final version of any of my books?”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

We went way back as friends. She’d seen me through the death of my husband and my world filled with doubt. Although tough when she needed to be, Sandra would go to bat for me with the publisher in my best interests.

“You got lucky,” was all she finally admitted.

But I heard the smile in her words and kept pushing.

“Listen, Sandra. I have this gut feeling that this will be an intriguing mystery once I solve it. Trust me.”

“Hmm…” was all she said.

Ah, I sensed her weakening: leaning in my direction.

“Besides, guess who is here to help?” I said excitedly.

“Who?” Sandra asked somewhat skeptical.

“Martha, Hazel and Betty!”

The minute those names were out of my mouth I heard her intake of breath on the other end of the line.

Uh-oh! I may have overplayed my hand. She knew there would be trouble ahead with “The Senior Special” helping me out on any mystery. I had pushed the envelope too far.

“Now, Sam, you have to understand…”

When Stephen died Sandra fought with the publisher to give me some time then she guided me back to writing.

“Sandra, I know I’m pushing our friendship, but…”

“Okay, I’ve got your back. Just don’t disappoint me.”

“You won’t regret…” I was talking to a dead line.

Chapter 25

Lofty Matters

Alone up in the gallery loft, I paged through the art magazines of some auction houses, taking note of numerous paintings coming up for sale. Easily viewed online, private bids could then be made there, or you participated via phone during their live auction. A person was designated to handle your call, while you made live competing bids until you either dropped out or won the bid to own the painting.

It was both fascinating and informative. The quality and quantity of the artists and their paintings were surprising. I sat back in my chair looking from one of the catalogs then over to my laptop. One catalog was Du Mouchelles. They were in the art business since 1927. There were others too.

They all sold assorted items such as vases, statues, clocks, silver, but what interested me the most were the paintings. Several I was familiar with and personally liked: Pissaro, Moreau, Blanchard, Cortes, Popoff, Loiseau and Delacroix. All were available just a fingertip away online. But after giving it some thought. It didn’t surprise me. Everything was now online. So why not art? These glossy catalogs proved all you needed was money.

…It’s always about the money, isn’t it?

I glanced through the loft’s railing. The only heavy-hitter paintings I’d noticed weren’t in this gallery, but in the Worths’ home. Their gallery paintings were lower in price, encompassing artists who might or might not be immediately recognizable and affordable to the average walk-in buyer: local artists, both new and established ones.

Display what moves inventory and makes money: smart.

Many art lovers invested in new artists, hoping their pieces became more valuable. I guess it was a much wiser investment than stuffing money under a mattress. I paged through the catalogues, bypassing the antiques, furniture and collectibles, mainly interested in the paintings.

Then I sat back thinking, which was hazardous. It was both my friend and my enemy. I tended to overthink a situation. But that’s the way my mind worked as I followed it through down to each and every detail that kept bothering me until I made peace with it and shoved it off to the side as useless or took written note of it for future reference.

My senior squad was out checking galleries: collecting information and gossip from New Hope and Lambertville. Misjudging their shrewd minds, many were fooled by these savvy ladies, who repeatedly amazed me.

Clay said he was checking several shippers of the Worths’. A wily hands-on kind-of-guy, I personally figured he was more likely contacting his so-called PI connections in high and low places, if you know what I mean.

I stared at the catalogs. Would I buy online? Probably not. I’d go see those paintings in person for those prices.

I had a lot to think about as the plot thickened…

Chapter 26

Which Brings Us Back To…

Clay and I drove separately to the gallery the next day. I got there ahead of time to pick up a snack for us in town. Having parked at the gallery, that was when I cut through the side streets and found myself confronted and staring down the barrel of that gun, trying to talk my way out of an undeserved blood-red sauce stain of my own, minus the tie.

“…Wait? Wait for what?” he asked, getting antsy again.

Being threatened and strong-armed by circumstances beyond my control was wearing thin. I’d had enough and with my index finger, firmly pushed his gun barrel in the other direction. It was time to get down to business.

“I think we need to talk, Mr. uh…?”

Still gripping the gun, he put the hammer back in place and sighed. “Tony G.” He sighed again. “I didn’t think this approach would work, especially with you.”

Now this Tony G. intrigued me. “And why not?”

“You’ve changed.”

I’ve changed? Thrown, all I could say was, “How so?”

“You’re not like you were when you first started out.”

Clearly I’d missed something in translation. “…What?”

“I’ve read your books. You’re not a pushover anymore. You’ve toughened up: play it cagey. I identify with that.”

This was not what I expected to hear. “Is that so?”

“I like the way you take control of situations.”

“Since I pose no threat, why not put that gun away?”

He looked down at it. “I had to get your attention.”

“Well, you did, now let’s get to the bottom of this.”

He gestured toward a bench. I sat down and waited.

Sitting next to me, Tony said, “There’s this painting…”

I swear, I started laughing hysterically, right there on that side street in downtown New Hope. I held up my hand for him to wait a sec when he turned in my direction. He obviously didn’t see the humor in the situation, but then again, he wasn’t privy to what I had been through either.

“Is this a blonde thing?” he asked, becoming impatient.

I sobered, eyeing him. “Gun or no gun, watch it, Tony.”

He holstered his gun then blew out a breath. “I didn’t realize how touchy authors could be, especially you.”

“You realize I just aged ten years staring at your gun?”

“Hey, you should be used to it by now. What is this one you’re working on, your seventh mystery?”

I gave Tony a level look. Was he serious? What was I dealing with, a loose cannon, who just so happened to be carrying one around for show? Wary, I tried to explain.

“I told you I write fiction.”

“Look, I’m short-tempered and losing patience here.”

I sat up, now edgy, looking around us: not a soul in sight. Where were witnesses or a cop when you needed them? At least I wasn’t staring down the barrel of his gun any longer.

“How about you tell me what happened first?” I asked.

He reached into his pocket and smirked when I flinched.

“Easy does it, babe, I just wanted to show you this.”

I stared down at a receipt for $25,000 …Uh-oh!

Tony G. grinned knowingly, as he checked me out from head to toe. “I’d say you’re worth at least that much, don’t you think, Blondie?”

Chapter 27

I Was Lucky To Get Away Alive!

“Are you kidding, Clay? I was lucky to get away alive!”

So I gave Tony a phony gallery receipt. Big deal!

Clay could barely speak he was so upset. I wasn’t sure if it was over my actions or because I had been confronted with a gun in broad daylight. We were arguing in muffled tones up in the loft for privacy so the others in the packing area wouldn’t hear us. “But you guaranteed it!”

“Calm down,” I said. “All I gave him was a fake IOU.”

Pacing, Clay abruptly stopped. “Yeah, for $25,000!”

“What was I supposed to do?” I countered. “I was the one who had a nut-job threatening me. Where was your risk?”

“Just my full name on that phony receipt!” he choked.

“It bought you some time. Besides I was anxious.”

“How do you think I feel? He sounds connected.”

“Well that’s progress. At least we agree on that point.”

“Did you give him my car tag numbers too?” he asked.

I went toe-to-toe, leaning in close. “I was tempted.”

“He could’ve shot you! Can you at least identify him?”

And so I did, right down to his iffy-red-sauce stained tie.

Clay hugged me tightly. “That gun really upset me.”

“Guess what else?” I said. “He loves my mysteries.”

“What do your books have to do with any of this?”

“That’s how this whole thing came about.”

“As usual, you’ve lost me. Give me some details.”

“He recognized me from my books, which he’s read.”

Clay frowned. “There must be more to it than that.”

“Well, I guess he was sort of stalking me. I mean that must be how he got that photo of us kissing, really kissing.”

Clay held me at arm’s length. “Stalking you?”

“He learned you’re now managing the gallery. And after seeing us together, it was his chance to recoup his money.”

“And how…?” Then Clay sobered. “You mean…”

“He was thinking of kidnapping me for a ransom.”

“For $25,000: the cost of his painting,” Clay added.

I gave him a reassuring kiss. “But he didn’t, did he?”

“Something isn’t right. He walked away with a receipt?”

“He figured I was good for it. I gave him my word.”

“So, It was all about you giving your word…” mused Clay, thinking. “By the way, what was his painting called?”

“He bought Madonna and Child then heard a rumor.”

“Tony bought a religious painting: a fake one?”

“No to your statement and yes to your question.”

“But Madonna and Child is a religious painting.”

“No! Madonna: the singer with her kid. He loves her.”

“For $25,000? You think someone copied that?”

I started laughing. “Can you believe it? What a sucker!”

“And you personally guaranteed a refund for…that?”

My mouth went dry. “You’re right, you’re in trouble.”

Clay grinned. “What do you mean me? You signed it.”

“He wouldn’t expect me to cough up that kind of …”

Oh! Madonna Mio! …I was so screwed.

Chapter 28

Not Playing By The Rules

We heard the gallery door open and close downstairs. Martha, Betty and Hazel marched in, and as usual, timed their arrival perfectly. Clay and I had just finished taking inventory of the Worth gallery and absolutely nothing was missing. Although an exhausting task, it left us relieved but with more questions about what took place the night before with the intruder and the setting-off-the-alarm episode.

As usual, the three of them were having words.

“What he said could be jealousy talking,” said Hazel.

Martha waved her off. “You can’t dismiss this rumor.”

“Rumors can’t always be trusted,” Hazel shot back.

“Ha! We solved cases on less than that,” laughed Betty.

By this time they had joined us in the loft. I motioned for them to keep their voices down. I also knew I’d regret asking, but jumped in with, “Dismissed what?”

“Rumor has it the Worth Gallery was undercutting some local artist’s paintings to nab a lot of area sales,” said Betty.

“But that lady didn’t agree,” said Hazel to Betty.

“Now how would a craft store know?” asked a frustrated Martha. “We were checking galleries only, remember?”

“There were those few pieces of art in her window…”

“You call dot-to-dot…paintings?” mocked Martha

“Well,” said Hazel, “I didn’t have my glasses on.”

“You know,” said Betty. “You might want to try laser.”

Hazel nodded. “My glasses do get so annoying.”

“You know, they run specials,” added Betty.

Martha grimaced. “Focus! The rumor, remember?”

I tried again. “What about this undercutting rumor?”

“Worth Gallery cut prices on a few artists,” Martha said, “and conveniently neglected to tell the artists involved.”

“When a painting sold, Alicia and Chris paid the full amount by personally covering the difference,” said Betty.

“But then word began to spread around,” Hazel added.

“If they sold below an agreed upon price,” I said, “it could be a disgruntled gallery owner, who’s spreading it.”

“Still, some artists pulled their art, ethics,” Martha said.

I turned to Clay. “They were lowballing for clientele?”

“How does that play a role in this?” he asked then got it.

I smiled. “Suspicion would fall on the Worth Gallery if this current con began to fall apart, like it is now.”

“This gallery was a perfect target,” suggested Martha.

“Excellent point and could be the case,” I said.

Hazel cut in, “We almost forgot! Betty, remember?”

“We snacked at The Landing restaurant on the river and were given a message for you, Sam,” said Betty, winking.

“A man stopped at our table,” said Hazel. “He sends his regards. Nattily dressed, but that sauce stain on his tie…”

Tony connected them to me! “Was his name Tony?”

Betty brightened. “Why, yes! A Mr. Tony Giuseppe!”

Tony wasn’t as stupid as I initially thought.

He was sending me a reminder: a ‘personal’ one.

Chapter 29

Loyalties & Responsibilities

Ever since we latched onto each other, I’ve felt a strong responsibility for the ladies. Though cunning, they were older. Sometimes, (okay, frequently) circumstances placed them in harm’s way. That’s where my guilt-trip entered the picture and sat right down next to me.

They always claimed their unflinching loyalty to me was what drove them. Besides, they truly loved getting into the thick of an investigation that challenged (here comes another pun) their gray matter. They said their alternative was sedentary senior citizen lifestyle living. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture any of them knitting, playing bridge or watching the soaps. Neither could they.

They’ve taught me that aging could be quite interesting so I took note of their advice on many occasions. But after all this time I still felt I had a lot to learn. They pushed (shoved is a better word) me to go out on a limb and not play it safe. ‘Life was too short,’ they said. They had no intention of playing by the rules anymore, which apparently now applied to yours truly. These seniors were armed and dangerous in more ways than one. And I loved it.

Clay excused himself, saying he was going for a walk.

Was he looking for Tony G, hoping he was still around?

I continued gathering facts from everyone up in the loft to keep our distance from the packing room and Anne’s office in the back. Martha sat in the wing chair. Betty and Hazel sat on the sofa. I leaned back at the desk, trying to read their expressions. They couldn’t sit still.

I kept my voice low. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“How did you know that?” said Betty innocently.

“It’s a gift, plus past experience dealing with you three.”

I heard a snort and turned to Martha. “So tell me.”

She eyed Hazel, who was searching her purse.

“I know it’s in here somewhere,” mumbled Hazel.

I watched her dig deep. “What are you looking for?”

Betty started to chuckle. “You’ll see.”

Martha was smirking.

“Bingo!” said Hazel, holding up a shiny gold lighter.

I stared at it, not getting it, then asked, “A lighter?”

Hazel was beaming. “It’s not what, but whose.”

“Well, it can’t be yours. You don’t smoke.” I said.

Martha nodded in approval. “She lifted it from Tony.”

Hazel stiffened. “I’m not a pickpocket. It fell out.”

Betty giggled. “He came back looking for it.”

“Yeah,” said Martha. “Said it was special to him.”

“I wonder why?” I asked, now curious.

Hazel handed it over to me and pointed. “That’s why.”

I took a closer look. There were initials on it. “…Oh!”

It read A.W.

“Now, isn’t that interesting?”

“That opens a whole new can of worms,” said Martha.

Two women immediately came to mind: one of which was Anne Wyeth. But the other one completely floored me: Alicia Worth. “It sure does,” I said.

Chapter 30

Salivating & Sumptuous

Having lost some privacy, I was making lemonade from lemons: making a simple supper for us (with the Worths’ earlier go-ahead) in their well-designed and not-so-simple kitchen. But before the ladies got there, I took a tour.

After breezing by that first night, this was my chance to investigate their cook’s kitchen. A Subzero refrigerator and freezer were at one end of the room and a deep stainless sink at the other with a full-sized Meile dishwasher next to it. The center island was about twelve feet long with a baking area topped in marble at one end and prep area at the other. Both ends had cabinets in a rich mahogany color, with feet making them look like furniture. The center of the island was cream-colored with two dishwasher draws on each side of a hand-painted Italian apron sink. Nice.

The island faced a wall of windows that overlooked the back property, which was lined with tall evergreens. Blue and white Toile fabric topped the windows. A long French farm table and high-backed chairs completed this tableau.

Behind me was the family room wall. The upper portion was cut out: a huge see-through arch. Just below it were glass cooktops: one electric, the other induction. On either side of the cooktops were built-in wall ovens. Over one was a Meile coffeemaker and the other, a Wolfe microwave.

Fascinated, I started opening the French cabinets, which were creamy white with a warm brown glaze. Below one wall oven was a warming drawer. Pots hung on both sides of the cabinets siding the glass cooktops. Pottery urns held a multitude of kitchen utensils that spilled out of them.

I turned, walking back to the end of the island below the baking area with marble top. It stored a large Kitchenaide mixer that swung out and up level to the counter height.

Being a foodie, this was eye candy for my soul. I was thrilled that Alicia texted Clay from the airport saying to use their kitchen: a cook’s heaven and temporarily mine.

Oh, I forgot the most important area of all! The Subzero wine cooler. I swung the door open and grabbed a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. (Clay filled two drawers for us.) I went to grab the opener from inside a decorative box on the counter when a familiar hand reached ahead of mine.

“I need this more than you after dealing with those two.”

I laughed as I turned to Martha. “Oh, it’s not that bad.”

“You weren’t in that craft store,” she said, chuckling.

“You displayed patience and control. I’m proud of you.”

Martha arched her brow. “Huh!” Then she took wine glasses from the overhead glass see-through cabinet, then glanced around the French kitchen, smiling.

“These are fancy digs here. People would kill for this.”

Her words triggered: Was someone taking this beyond hurting the Worths’ business? Was extortion a part of this gallery rip-off? Did Tony have something on Alicia?

That would explain the Worths’ unexpected departure.

Chapter 31

Recapping & Uncapping

Martha was about to pour us each a glass, but stopped.

“A killing? Where?” Betty asked, entering the kitchen.

“Already? We just got here,” said a disappointed Hazel.

Martha turned to me, sighing. “See how rumors start?”

I turned to the two. “We’re about to pour. Interested?”

Both nodded. Martha grabbed two more glasses, popped the cork and poured. Then we formed a tight circle with our glasses raised for some individual toasts.

“To Alicia for the use of her kitchen,” I saluted.

“To us solving another caper,” said Hazel.

“To me for putting up with those two” cracked Martha.

“To Clay for bringing us together again!” laughed Betty.

“Wait! We forgot one,” I said “The usual: To women!”

“May we stay one step ahead of the men,” said Martha.

We tapped glasses and tipped back, tasting the wine.

My cell dinged, a text: Clay’s.

‘Apologies. Running late. Will grab my own food.’

I frowned. “It’s just us ladies. Chicken Caesar salad.”

Martha tore up romaine lettuce in large chunks. Betty started mixing up some Caesar dressing, while Hazel sliced up some tomatoes. (I know, but we all loved tomatoes)

I grabbed the roasted chicken I’d brought down from my apartment over the garages and started tearing it up over the lettuce. Then I popped a baguette laced with garlic butter into the oven. Martha grated a hunk of Parmesan Reggiano cheese to sprinkle on top. Betty and Hazel quickly set the table with placemats then lit candles and we all grabbed our drinks and salad then sat down at the long French table.

I sniffed the air and jumped up. “Bread’s ready!”

We dimmed the kitchen lights, using the candles for atmosphere: our faces flickering in the shadowy light. After taking a few tasty mouthfuls, we got down to business.

“Now,” began Martha, “what’s with this Tony G?”

So I told them in vivid detail.

I never forget a thing when hardware’s aimed at me.

I finished up with Clay going ballistic afterward.

Martha chuckled. “That must have been some sight.”

Hazel’s hand went to her chest. “We spoke to …him!”

“So you think that red stain on his tie…” choked Betty.

“Probably wasn’t San Marzano tomatoes,” said Martha.

“I can’t believe you pushed that gun away,” said Hazel.

“He was getting on my nerves. I’d had enough,” I said.

Betty patted my hand. “I’m sure he wouldn’t kill you.”

Hazel leaned in, now concerned. “Or us, would he?”

Martha set her wine down. “When you owe, you owe!”

“We need some kind of plan,” I said. “Think.”

Martha smiled. “I have my laptop and banking skills.”

Betty offered, “I’ll get a list of shippers from Abby.”

Hazel smiled at me. “I could distract Anne while…”

I grinned. “Oh, Hazel, would you? Her office, yes!”

Like I’ve said before, some of the best laid plans…

Chapter 32

Run Amok & More

Hazel is a master at charming and flattering people. The next day, as planned, she hit Anne’s office, overwhelming her target with awestruck praise for her restorative artwork. Flustered and at first reluctant, Anne relented and took Hazel on a guided tour of the gallery to explain the process.

Abby left to hand-deliver a painting to a client. It wasn’t worth the delivery cost because it was right across town. This was my opportunity to hustle from the kitchen to Anne’s office and see what I could find. I was searching for evidence linking her to this alleged scam. I got busy…

Anne’s desk phone rang. I cursed. Had she heard it? On the fourth ring, I heard footsteps. It was too late for me to run: I was knee-deep rifling her desk drawer. I closed it and ducked to the floor, barely able to crawl under her desk to hide. Anne’s designer-clad feet appeared in front of me.

“Hello,” she said out of breath. She began pacing back and forth. “I warned you not to call me here.”

Who was she talking to?

“You can’t be serious! …Are you crazy?”

I was asking myself that for pulling this stupid stunt.

“I understand. Yes, they seem…but how would I know? This will delay my plans…”

What plans? Her foot tapped: Nerves? Impatience?

“Listen, I told you before… Well, certainly not now! You can’t expect me to…”

I heard shuffling in the hallway. Suddenly I was staring at another pair of shoes. They were orthopedic: Hazel’s.

What was she doing standing there? I wanted to hear the rest of Anne’s conversation! I felt a swift kick at my left hand and stared down. Damn. It was sticking out all this time and I had no clue. Hazel was trying to shove it inward, but had stepped on it instead. I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t scream, as I tried to pry up her foot up with my other hand.

Trust me, she’s no lightweight: sleuthing or otherwise.

“…That’s correct,” said Anne. “I’ll get back to you.”

The phone clicked. She’d hung up. Relieved, I sighed when Hazel’s foot shifted location and she spoke to Anne.

“Excuse me for the interruption, but a man was poking around the gallery and looked suspicious. Maybe you…”

Hazel leaned down to me when Anne flew out the door.

“That was close! Get out before she comes back.”

I took off for the kitchen with Hazel right behind. I was still rubbing my hand as she poured us each a coffee.

“That was way too close. How did it go?” she asked.

I handed her a delivery receipt: Madonna and Child.

“And its significance?” whispered Hazel confused.

I could barely get it out. “…Look at the amount!”

“Well, I’ll be,” said a surprised Hazel. “$100,000!”

“It’s a second receipt! Tony’s said $25,000! And look who signed off at the bottom of it,” I said pointing.

Why sell a novelty painting for that much money?

Chapter 33

Where Did You Disappear To?

There it was with a flourish: Anne’s signature.

But then Betty rushed in, flushed and breathless.

“Where did you disappear to?” Hazel asked, concerned.

Betty glanced to the door then said, “I followed her.”

I guided Betty over to a chair to sit down. “Who?”

“Abby, who else would I follow?” she said, all excited.

“What happened to that list from Abby?” asked Hazel.

“I thought it was more important to follow Abby first to see if what she said was true: her delivery across town.”

“Smart,” said Hazel, then waved Betty on to continue.

“Well, at first I thought I was wasting my time.”

“I hear a loud but in those words,” I said.

“Never underestimate my dogged perseverance.”

Hazel tsked. “We’re still waiting. Spill the beans.”

Betty gave her a sharp look. “Let me catch my breath.”

I poured her a fresh cup of coffee. She still appeared winded: from excitement or rushing back to us?

“You will not believe Abby’s destination…”

Betty was milking it, while we waited in anticipation.

“Abby stopped at the Price Gallery, then was escorted into their back room, and five minutes later, exited empty-handed. Do you know what this means?”

“Looks like she was meeting the owner or possibly an employee who works there.” I suggested.

“Well, I’ll be!” Hazel said.

“Which raises questions,” I said.

“Let’s hear them,” said Betty.

I smiled. “Either Abby acted on her own, or she was instructed to make that delivery: no questions asked.”

“Which leads to more questions,” Hazel added.

“Why are they buying this gallery’s art?” Betty asked.

“Maybe this is not Abby’s first delivery,” said Hazel.

“We need more follow up of what’s going on,” I said.

“You mean tail Anne and Abby?” asked Hazel.

“Yes, until we’re sure what this is all about.”

“Sure of what?” Betty asked, still connecting the dots.

I explained to her what I’d been up to and what I found in Anne’s desk. “Question: are the two events linked?”

Betty got it. “…And who and how many are involved.”

I had to speak with Clay. Until we had a rock-solid lead, speculation was futile. We needed additional evidence.

I heard my phone ding. It was a text: Clay. ‘Found a possible lead.’ I couldn’t wait to compare notes with him.

It was right then I realized Martha hadn’t touched base.

My phone dinged again, another text: this one from Martha.

Hazel said, “Why are you frowning?”

“Who texted?” Betty asked.

I looked up at them both. “Martha spotted Tony G!”

“Where?” Hazel and Betty asked simultaneously.

“At Italian Cucina. She needs wheels now!”

Chapter 34

And They’re Off!

Clay took Chris’ Harley to the gallery. I drove the Jeep. So that’s what we took to the Italian restaurant.

I turned my head. “That’s Tony going the other way!”

Hazel pointed up ahead. “Look! There she is!”

Martha was furiously waving her arms. We pulled over so she could jump into the front seat. “Follow that…”

I was already making a U turn to head north on River Road to follow Tony’s SUV. “This should be interesting.”

“Took long enough. I hope we don’t lose him,” she said.

I grinned, pressing the pedal. “Not if I can help it.”

While I kept a safe distance back, Hazel and Betty filled Martha in on what we discovered while she was gone.

“You three were busy,” she said, nodding in approval.

Hazel patted Martha’s shoulder. “Not so bad yourself.”

“Where is he going?” Hazel asked, looking up ahead.

“Try not to lose him,” said Betty.

As Tony made a sharp left a bad feeling set in.

“This scenery feels somewhat familiar,” said Martha.

Another mile and silence descended on our car, as Tony slowed down at a wide driveway, pulled in several feet then parked. We watched from a safe distance, recognizing that closed front gate: we were back at the Worths’ house.

Martha’s mouth dropped open. “What the heck…?”

Tony walked up to the keypad and punched in numbers.

I turned to the others, shocked. “He knows the code.”

Hazel’s brows furrowed. “This doesn’t look good.”

Betty leaned forward. “Are you thinking what I am?”

We watched Tony in silence.

The gate opened and Tony drove through, like he owned the place. He left it open. Must not be staying long.

“At least he doesn’t have a remote,” said Martha.

We all turned to her, waiting for her reasoning.

“Real family gets remotes.”

I let it go. Questioning her rational made matters worse.

Martha stared up ahead then turned back to me. “It looks like we’ll have to hoof it up the long driveway, skirting the woods for cover. Those open front fields are easy pickings for us to get spotted. You do realize that it’s a quarter of a mile hike.”

I shrugged. “I don’t see how we have a choice.”

Betty reminded her about the driveway annunciator.

“A car would set it off, not us walking in,” I added. “If he’s already inside, he’d be notified someone was here.”

Hazel clapped her hands. “Another covert operation!”

Betty was getting hyped too. “Let’s case the place!”

Martha griped, “It’s damn inconvenient though.”

“It’s a part of sleuthing,” reminded Hazel.

Betty looked down at Martha’s feet. “You wore heels?”

Martha turned to her. “When you’ve got great legs you showcase them.” Then Martha grinned broadly, and just like a practiced magician, whipped out a pair of flats from her mammoth purse. “Okay, let’s do this baby!”

Chapter 35

Always Expect The Unexpected

I know I constantly repeat to the others to always expect the unexpected, but I had a bad feeling about this. What was Tony doing with the code to the Worths’ front gate? Did he have a key too? Had I been staying here while this guy had access? What good was a security system if the so-called bad guys were already on the inside? I involuntarily recoiled. He was one weird guy with an unpredictable attitude. And considering he may have some undesirable connections, this did not bode well for us. No, not one bit.

We left the car parked off to the side by another neighbor’s house and passed through the gate and headed for the dense tree line for cover. The evergreens were thick and over a hundred feet in height. We weaved back and forth behind their cover, steadily making our way closer, then stopped about fifty feet from the Worths’ stone house.

“How do you want to play this?” Martha asked me.

“We could go along the back, but that would waste too much time. Let’s skirt the front toward the garages, okay?”

The others agreed and we followed each other in a line.

Five minutes later I held up my hand. “Wait! I hear…”

“An engine is running by the garages,” Betty whispered. “What could Tony possibly be doing out there?”

“Could be sitting there and talking on his phone,” I said.

“Maybe to make a quick getaway,” ventured Betty.

Hazel whispered, “Well, he must be doing something.”

“Standing here won’t tell us what, will it?” Martha said.

We edged along the side of the garages then I held up my hand once more when we reached the large doors. I cautiously peered around the corner.

I drew in a breath. “He’s loading a crate into his SUV.”

“A crate of what? From where?” asked Hazel.

By this time Martha was leaning over my shoulder.

“It looks just like the crates at the gallery. …Paintings?”

We quickly crossed the driveway, peering through thick evergreens that surrounded a large windowless utility shed.

“I had no idea it was there!” I said, startled.

“The Worths’ know they have a shed fifty yards away. It’s their property,” said Martha. “And the implications…”

I countered with, “There’s always the off-chance they don’t use it. I mean, do they look like they’d even walk in that shed? Could someone else be handing off this stuff to Tony without their knowledge when they travel?”

“Remember the initials AW on that lighter?” she asked.

Were they Alicia’s? How was Clay going to react when he was told? They were his friends. At least he thought they were. And it wouldn’t be the first time and certainly not the last time someone lied to one of us. But a betrayal trumped buying into the gallery. I didn’t like what I was witnessing.

Tony jumped into his SUV. We dove for the bushes and watched as he passed by, heading down the drive to leave.

Was Tony robbing them or in cahoots with them?

Chapter 36

Taking A Look

Martha kept looking back at the shed. I knew that look.

“Uh-uh,” I said, shaking my head no. “Don’t suggest it.”

“What harm would it do?” she asked innocently.

Hazel and Betty exchanged glances and frowned.

“I don’t do sheds,” declared Betty, brushing herself off.

“You know I detest dark, closed in spaces,” said Hazel.

Martha waved off their protests. “It’s broad daylight.”

I considered it. Evidence? “Maybe there’s electricity.”

“You see?” said Martha. “Sam thinks it’s a good idea.”

I headed toward the shed. The others followed.

Then Hazel brightened. “I bet he locked it.”

“That would be prudent,” added Betty, hopefully.

I stared at the double-doors. A long bar slid up and down to latch it then a padlock. And that was left unlocked. I lifted the bar and entered. The center was filled with a large flatbed trailer (probably for Chris’ Harleys) and multiple rolls of wire fencing, guessing, (to protect the evergreens from the deer in winter?)

“The rest is typical tool shed items.”

I checked the perimeter: tools, blower, rakes, etc.…

“I don’t see any art in here or anything related to it.”

“That makes it the perfect hiding spot,” said Betty.

Out of nowhere, a gust of wind slammed the doors shut. We heard the bar drop in place and were now in the dark.

“Stay put,” I instructed. “I’ll go unlatch the doors.”

I felt my way over, stumbling into a few items, stepping around the fencing and tools. The shed was about fifteen feet by twenty feet, so it took me a few minutes. I got to the doors and cautiously felt for the thumb latch. The whole shed was made of rough sawn wood. I gently touched the surface to avoid getting splinters. I finally stopped when it dawned on me there was no latch on the inside. “Uh-oh!”

Now skittish, I jumped when a hand tapped me.

“What do you mean, uh-oh?” demanded Martha.

There was shuffling then four iPhone flashlights flicked on. It didn’t matter. There was no inside latch.

“If no one uses it from the inside, why have one? Those logs down there must prop the two doors open,” I said.

“Too late now. How are we to get out?” asked Betty.

“Let’s call Clay,” said Martha.

I looked down at my cellphone: nothing. “Martha, check yours. I have no signal. Betty and Hazel try yours too.”

“Zip, zilch, uh-uh,” they responded in succession.

…We were in a no-fly signal zone.

I heard labored breathing behind me and turned.

Betty put a hand on Hazel’s arm. “Easy does it now.”

“…Her panic attacks,” said Betty. “Any exit plans?”

“Well, we can’t rake our way out, can we?” said Martha.

“How about we try pushing on the doors?” I said.

The four of us heaved at the count of three. …Nothing.

“We could yell,” I suggested, “but it’s isolated here.”

There was a moment of silence then…

“Help! Help! Help! Help!”

Chapter 37

Time (Drags) Marches On…

With no windows, a low roof: hence no loft, no axes or hammers found to try and break our way out, we eventually gave up, lapsing into silence. Some tool shed! Both Betty and Hazel were sitting on the back of the Harley trailer, I was balancing on a roll of wire fencing and Martha was sitting in the wheelbarrow, her legs dangling over the edge.

We turned off our cellphone flashlights to conserve our batteries. Every fifteen minutes one of us kept trying to get a signal. It was a lost cause: No matter what corner of the shed we tried: nothing, nada, zip.

Out of the dark a voice said, “I’m hungry.” Hazel.

“Was a matter of time,” Martha said in a mocking tone.

“I have low blood sugar issues,” Hazel replied.

“Among others, namely food,” retorted Martha.

Betty intervened, “Somebody sounds grumpy.”

“Ease off, Martha,” I said. “You know she’s sensitive.”

“…And still hungry,” griped Hazel.

“Next thing you know she’ll have visions,” said Martha, who then began mumbling, “…It’s here somewhere.”

Now curious, I asked, “What is? Where?”

“My purse. …Here it is!” It sounded like she was ripping something open. Cellophane? “Ah, finally.”

“What are you doing over there?” asked Betty.

“I carry two big boxes of this stuff around just in case.”

“Boxes of what? In case of what?” I asked.

“Emergency foil-wrapped chocolates!”

Suddenly Martha was the most popular one in the shed.

“Alright, alright!” she said. “One person at a time!”

She gave us each a big handful. We wolfed them down.

“They’re odd-shaped, but quite succulent,” said Betty.

“Each has a tasty liquid center,” said Hazel, chewing.

They were delicious: dark sweet and …something else. I couldn’t pin it down precisely, but we were so hungry at that point no one was complaining. We kept eating them.

Hazel began laughing. “My blood sugar must have been really low,” she said. “I’m feeling kind of lightheaded.”

“Maybe you ate too fast,” I said, laughing.

“Oh!” said Betty, giggling. “I feel…” She giggled again.

I was feeling lightheaded myself. “Martha…”

“…Yes?” she said evenly, still munching on the candy.

The last thing I needed was for these elderly ladies to get sick, me included. I hit my light on the box cover. Too late… The candy was bottle-shaped. I could barely speak.

“…Contains alcohol. Imported/Denmark. Ingredients: Cointreau, Jim Bean whiskey, Tequila, Canadian Club whiskey, Vodka, Remy Martin, Galliano, Borghetti. Warning: Do not operate machinery or drive vehicles.”

Martha countered, “Jeep’s outside. We’re stuck inside.”

I burst out laughing. Make lemonade from lemons…

“Hand me another one…”

Chapter 38

Search & Rescue Or Visa Versa

I awoke with a start. My neck was killing me. The bed I was sleeping on was the roughest and most painful… Then I recalled what happened. I felt around me. I remembered balancing on that rolled fencing and eating those candies…

Where was I? I jerked upright and flicked on my phone flashlight. I was on the back portion of the Harley trailer with Betty and Hazel sprawled out at the other end, out cold. I glanced to where the wheelbarrow was: still there and so was Martha, who was snoring loudly, mouth wide open. So much for her bragging she could drink (or in this case) eat us under the table. We’d polished off both boxes.

My ears perked up. I heard a motorcycle engine: Clay’s! I jumped up and started nudging and shaking the others.

“Wake up. I think that’s Clay on the motorcycle!”

“I bet he’s looking for us!” said Betty, flashing her light.

“I must look a sight,” said Martha, fussing with her hair.

“Wipe the drool off your face first,” laughed Hazel.

“I noticed you were out too, Miss Know-it-all.”

“Ladies! Not now! Let’s get his attention first,” I said.

The minute we heard the engine shut off we pounded on both doors, yelling Clay’s name as loud as we could. It wasn’t long before we heard the latch bar lift and the two doors swung wide open. We stampeded through, excited to be breathing the fresh air outside and seeing daylight again.

Clay stared at us, open-mouthed. “What happened?”

“Thank goodness you’re here,” said Betty. “We were stuck in that god-awful place for a couple of hours.”

Hazel was still brushing herself off. “Thank you, Clay.”

Martha shot him a look, dramatically saying, “About time. We could have been pushing up daisies by now.”

“But the doors weren’t locked,” he said.

“No handle on the inside and the bar locked in place,” I said, hugging and kissing him.

He backed off, leery. “You all smell like a brewery.”

We glanced at each other. That’s when we realized how filthy we were, with our hair sticking out in angled patches and clothes rumpled. We looked like drunken bums. Come to think of it, that about sized up our situation.

“We can explain,” I said, trying to steady my footing.

Why was the ground moving? Oh, yeah…the candy.

“Go inside and shower while I make coffee,” he said.

“My knight in shining armor,” I sighed.

He wrapped his arm around me, “One word: Detox.”

Martha harrumphed. “I’d like to see him out-candy us.”

Clay turned back to her. “What?”

I urged him on. “Ignore her. She’s been on a bender.”

“The others too?” he asked me, trying not to laugh.

“They all put me to shame back there.”

“But they are seventy…”

“And I’m still playing catch up…”

Chapter 39

Going To Conference

Freshly showered and now wearing clean clothes, we sat at the Worths’ long French table. Hazel brought over some cookies, coffee and aspirin. We were visibly candied out.

Clay took a sip of coffee. “Okay, ladies. Let’s hear it.”

We took turns explaining what happened. It took a while, between the excited banter and over-talking by everyone. But not one detail was overlooked.

When we finished, Clay said, “An unexpected twist.”

“We saw him carry a crate out, not in,” added Martha.

I leaned toward him. “Tony was exploiting the use of that shed. For who, how long and why, we haven’t figured out yet. Could be that Alicia and Chris knew all about it.”

Then I remembered to ask, “Clay, what’s your news?”

“Obviously I never saw Tony. You were tailing him.”

Was that a hint of jealousy I noted in his voice? Ha!

Martha preened. “Our sleuth skills are finely tuned.”

Clay nodded at all of us. “Duly noted, ladies.”

“So, did you find out anything helpful?” I asked.

“While you were trapped in the shed, I was trapped into having lunch with Anne.”

Martha laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly say trapped. She’s a real looker, big guy.”

My Clay was with that, that…. “May I ask what for?”

“I came back to the gallery looking for you. None of you were there. Anne said you all left in a rush. I guess that’s when Martha called you. Well, Anne cornered me to talk about the gallery’s clientele and I figured…”

I cut him off. “Why not? Sam will never find out.”

“No, that’s not what I was thinking. I figured I’d try and get as much information out of her regarding the gallery and how it functions without the distraction of your spy ring interfering or causing unnecessary strife.”

I bristled again, but then dialed it down. Clay was right. Sometimes we were a three-ring circus. Plus, I seemed to rub Anne the wrong way, as she did me. I smiled at Clay to let him know he was off the hook…for now. Of course, I wasn’t making any guarantees for the future.

“Did you find out anything useful from her?” I asked.

“I was shocked to learn she wants to buy this gallery. I didn’t know the Worths’ mentioned it to anyone else.”

I was shocked too. “Where would Anne get that kind of money? Do you think she knows you’re interested?”

Clay gave it some thought. “I didn’t suspect that, no.”

“Could she be a front for someone else? …Tony?”

“I think until proven differently, everyone’s a suspect.”

Somehow I couldn’t picture Tony and Anne together.

“Oh, I got a text from Alicia.” said Clay. “It said to check their security systems: gallery and home. …Why?”

“Could someone be tampering and switching paintings, or is Alicia deflecting your attention elsewhere?” I asked.

“I was thinking the same thing,” said Clay frowning.

Chapter 40

Was This Nothing But A Decoy?

“What kind of system is it?” Martha asked.

“It’s a high alert system: highly sensitive, gives reliable detection and round the clock protection for galleries.”

“Being an art buff,” said Betty, “I’ve heard about that.”

“Their house must have the same one,” I said.

“What is the name of the system?” asked Hazel.

“Spider Alert System for galleries, homes…” said Clay.

“I saw a brochure for such a system in the Worths’ loft just recently,” I added, “mixed in with some magazines.”

Martha grabbed her iPad and did a search. “Got it.”

“Explain how it works. It might help us,” said Clay.

She skimmed through her screen. “It says it has several wireless detectors that are sensitive to movement or removal of artworks. No obtrusive wires and as reliable as hardwired units.”

I gave that some thought. “It must be installed in their house too. The art here is more expensive than the gallery.”

“What else?” Hazel asked Martha, taking notes.

Martha read on. “The components operate with an on-site monitoring center where events can be monitored and logged on all the art objects that are part of this monitoring system. The moment an art object is moved or a break-in occurs an audible or silent alarm is activated.”

I nodded. “So then the central monitor is notified.”

“Owner too,” said Martha, glancing back to her iPad.

“How does it attach to the painting?” asked Clay.

Martha scanned the site. “A magnetic detector can stick on or screw behind the picture frame.”

“It also has a repeater for further signals, a closed circuit TV camera, wireless motion detectors, a wireless receiver, controller and a computer monitor.”

“Where would the Worths’ monitor be located?” I said.

We all sat there thinking. Gallery? Home? Both?

“We should look for it to see if wires were tampered with, don’t you think?” asked Betty.

I turned to Clay. “Did Alicia say where it was?”

“Her last text was one word, brown, then nothing. I texted back. Nothing. Then I called her cell, but all I got was her voicemail, Chris’ too.”

A hush fell on the group.

Clay turned to Martha, “Did you find who Tony G is?”

“I looked up Tony’s last name and found a Giuseppe’s Pizza. Sounds like he borrowed that one, don’t you think?”

Clay stood. “I’ve got some calls to make on this Tony.”

My trio excused themselves to rest upstairs and I wanted to reread that info about the alarm system. Why would Alicia draw attention to their elaborate security system? Was she throwing us a red herring to chase after to keep us busy? What was her cryptic one word message about?

Was it a code? A warning? What?

The only thing I knew for sure was that Alicia and Chris were conveniently in London while we tried to solve this.

Hey, now that’s something I didn’t question before…

Chapter 41

Startled & Bewildered

Clay was waiting for another text from Alicia in reply to him asking where their monitor was located. I didn’t think Clay felt comfortable snooping around the Worths’ gallery, specifically in their home, searching inside cabinets and closets. That text: brown, troubled him too.

Being a friend, maybe Clay was leery of what he’d find.

Not being their friend, I had no qualms whatsoever. I wouldn’t touch, but I didn’t promise not to look. First thing I did was to walk through that long art hallway, craning my neck to see behind the paintings: the ones I thought weren’t reproductions. Who would I ask to verify, Anne? …Uh-uh.

Even though it was still daylight, I whipped out my iPhone and hit the flashlight. Some frames were bulky, old and a little warped. So I was having a difficult time spotting any attachment on the back of the frame. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but kept at it. Several times I swore I thought I saw something, but unless I lifted the painting off the wall I couldn’t be positive.

Frustrated at not seeing anything to write home about, I headed for the Jeep and Worth Gallery. Maybe I’d have better luck down in New Hope. Five minutes later, I swung into the gallery’s parking lot.

Empty… Where was everybody?

At least one car should be there during hours. I picked up my pace, turned the backdoor knob, but then paused.

Locked… Had something happened?

I fished in my purse for the key, entered, then thought to glance at the keypad. Good thing I did. It was armed.

Who set it? What was going on?

After disarming it, I ventured a few steps further. That’s when I heard it: someone inside.

An employee wouldn’t have set the alarm during regular working hours. It was only after hours they were told to lock the door or set the alarm. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

Something was wrong.

I waited a moment. Hearing nothing more, I took a few more cautious steps. The packing room looked in order: nothing out of place. I kept going, approaching the door to the open gallery. Hesitating, I listened intently.

My wrist was grabbed from behind. I let out a yelp of surprise, wrenched free and turned to see who it was.

Abby, looking frightened.

“Abby! What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she choked out.

I looked around then back at her. “Why’s the alarm on?”

“Someone called for…” she sobbed and couldn’t finish.

I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Called for who?”

“Anne, but she’s not here. Then they threatened me.”

“Who did?”

It was obvious she was upset, and now so was I.

She was sobbing too hard to respond.

“Where’s Anne?” I demanded. “Where’s your car?”

Who was making these threats?

Chapter 42

Mystified By The Some Truths

I felt a knot forming in my stomach. It seemed to show up when things weren’t going well and this felt like one of those times: when I questioned what I was doing, sleuthing around where I shouldn’t. My agent, Sandra, who always stressed safety, would agree.

But then it’d be a lot duller for my readers, wouldn’t it?

“Let’s go into the kitchen for some coffee,” I suggested.

Abby then mumbled she’d moved her car. Why?

I guided her to a chair while I poured us each a mug. She was hunched over, teary-eyed and jittery and couldn’t keep her hands in one place, brushing at non-existent lint from her slacks.

I sat down opposite her. “Okay, tell me what happened.”

Abby took a sip and set the mug down. “I was finishing up going through the packing slips, cross-matching them to the boxes going out to make sure there were no mistakes this time. One didn’t match up with its invoice number.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Not lately, especially after Anne flipped out that day.”

“Did you get a chance to check it against the files?”

“That’s what I was doing when Anne’s phone rang.”

“When was this?”

“About thirty minutes ago. I answered, using the gallery name. A man asked if Anne was there. I told him she’d stepped out in a hurry and that’s when he went ballistic.”

“What did he say?”

“That if Anne knew what was good for her, she’d better get her act together. Big bucks were involved.”

“Think he was referring to a painting he bought?”

Abby shook her head. “I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then he began yelling obscenities and threatened me.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“For everyone at the gallery to watch their backs.”

“Us too?”

Abby nodded.

“Why would he attach us to Anne and her actions?”

“Maybe she cheated a customer?”

“Do you think she did?” I asked.

“I heard she’s interested in buying this gallery. Maybe if its reputation isn’t so sterling and is somewhat tainted…”

I nodded. “A bad rep means a low-ball offer…”

“If she cheated someone on purpose…”

Just then the phone rang and we both jumped.

Abby reached for it. “…Hello?” she said guardedly.

I walked over to Abby, who stood there, pale-faced.

“Who is it? What?” I silently mouthed to her.

She hung up. “Another gallery. Our UPS guy is dead!”

I was dumbstruck.

Could it be that guy from Triumph’s?

“I can’t believe this. Now what do we do?” Abby asked.

I tried to keep my hands from shaking. This was now escalating beyond anything I was prepared for with bad implications branching out toward several people. I was now truly fearful for those I loved and felt I had to protect them if possible. I couldn’t let my fear get the better of me. I had to do something to turn this around.

“Abby, I need you to make up a list for me: everyone who regularly interacts with this gallery.”

Chapter 43

Laptop Time Out

I called everyone to explain what happened with Abby receiving the threatening call and the UPS driver’s death. This string of events was setting off internal alarms. Was the dead guy the same good-looking guy Clay and I met at Triumph’s that first evening? Was that the truth about a painting he purchased or was he fishing for info about what we knew? Had he delivered switched paintings?

Was it an accident or was he murdered?

This art set-up was more complex than I imagined. The Worth Gallery was a perfect place to move paintings in and out of, especially if high-priced forged paintings and cash were exchanged. Who’d pay attention to deliveries of large crates and boxes going into and out of an art gallery?

So who was getting their hands dirty?

Was it Alicia and Chris, Anne, the UPS guy, Tony? My thoughts went straight to the most obvious one on my list: the one whose motives were making her actions suspect.

Why was Anne interested in a buyout? It made sense if she were partnering with Tony. Had he offered her a cash payoff one she’d risk her reputation on or was something else going on? Organized crime wasn’t above extortion to get what they wanted. A legitimate individual would turn on a dime with a large enough incentive and/or if a specific threat was made: one they couldn’t possibly refuse.

I had to find Anne. She might be more talkative once she found out about this UPS driver’s death. But then on the other hand, maybe she’d remain silent for that very same reason. There were too many unknowns going on.

I looked up from my desk in the gallery loft where I had been typing info and opinions into my laptop when Abby approached, holding out a piece of paper.

“I did the best I could. I haven’t been here very long so I may not have everybody who interacts with the gallery.”

I glanced at the list. “Seven names…”

“If Anne ever shows up,” Abby said sarcastically, “she might give you more. Just do me one favor, okay? Please don’t tell her everything I confided earlier. If she knew I picked up her personal desk phone, she’d have a fit. Her office has a private land line: off limits to everyone.”

Abby didn’t want Anne to know she was in her office. Okay, so what was Abby doing in there in the first place? She was clearly fearful of Anne. That was obvious. Why? Had Abby recognized the voice on Anne’s phone and make the connection and was now anxious for her own safety?

I know I’m going on and on, but this was bugging me. While Abby stood there, I checked the list again, perplexed.

Some of those names…

Chapter 44

The List

The first four names on Abby’s list were expected: Anne, Alicia, Chris and, of course, Abby herself. The next name was their UPS delivery driver: the dead one.

I glanced up. “There’s no name next to the UPS driver.”

“I haven’t been here long and don’t know it. Ask Anne.” The next one threw me: Helen. She was the woman Clay and I met at lunch that day, telling us to call her Lenny.

“Anne told me Helen is an art appraiser,” offered Abby.

What? Helen had conveniently left that out of our conversation, hadn’t she?

I read on: A Lambertville gallery owner, named Jeffrey Price: the one Martha, Hazel and Betty met and relayed the rumor about the Worth Gallery’s discounted paintings.

Last was a Mrs. Walters. “Who’s she?”

“Part-timer who helps pack paintings. …Can I go now?”

Abby excused herself to finish packing some paintings for customers “before Attila The Hun returned,” she said. I watched her descend the stairway. I had much to mull over.

I was about to call my crew when Anne burst through the front door. I stood to call out to her, but she flew toward the packing area below. I scrambled down the stairs to catch up with her before she disappeared again. Entering the back room, I stopped.

Gone…

I turned when I heard someone cough. It was Abby. She was packing a painting into a box. Without saying a single word, she motioned with her eyes toward Anne’s door, which was closed. I nodded and silently walked over to it.

The sleuth in me listened, but really wanted to barge in, catching her at something illegal. The writer in me knocked gently and waited. Silence. Good. She wasn’t on the phone.

I expected her to yell, but Anne said softly, “Come in.”

I stopped cold when she looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed: crying. Had she heard about the UPS death? Had she known the driver personally?

“Anne, is everything alright?” I asked, shutting the door.

She noticed my maneuver with the door and stiffened.

“Yes, I’m fine. My allergies are killing me.”

I pushed her. “It’s just that you rushed in through the front door so suddenly and you’d missed that threatening call earlier…”

She had been shuffling some papers on her desk, but then looked up sharply. “What threatening call?”

I took the blame and kept Abby out of this.

“I was in the gallery alone and your phone rang. Your office door was open and I took the liberty of answering…”

She stood up, cutting me off midsentence. “You what?”

I kept talking. “Some nut called, making threats to you, me and this gallery. Would you know why he’d do that?”

She glared.

“Everyone knows not to answer my personal phone.”

Then a tear slipped out. I took a long shot on Mr. UPS.

“I guess you already heard about his death then.”

She dropped to her chair. “You knew about my ex?”

UPS was her ex?

I dropped to a chair myself and bluffed. “Yes.”

Chapter 45

Wow & More

Anne sniffed. “I figured your blonde-hair-thing was a contradiction. You’re smarter than you look. I get the same thing because of my looks too. It drives me crazy.”

Did she just dis me or compliment me?

“I try to use it to my advantage,” I replied, then smiled.

Anne half-smiled, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.

“I guess you have some questions, right?”

I nodded. “A slew of them. I hope you’ll be honest.”

If she answered one truthfully, I’d be lucky.

“Coffee?” she asked.

I nodded again. She called Abby, who brought me a mug of coffee, then arched her brow at me in a ‘what’s going on’ question-mark.

I shrugged an ‘I don’t know’ gesture, thanked her for the coffee, and she reluctantly left, looking annoyed.

After Abby shut the door, I asked, “So?”

“I’m not volunteering. You were asking, remember?”

She wasn’t making this easy. I expected as much.

Where to start? The obvious. “Tell me about your ex.”

“Not much to tell, actually. It was a romp in the hay that didn’t work out.”

“So that’s your only regret?”

“What, that he wasn’t sharp or that great in bed?”

I almost spilled my coffee. She was serious.

I kept up the banter. “Well, that says it all right there.”

She smiled sadly. “Been there yourself, right?”

“A time or two. Did your ex do many deliveries here?”

Anne’s eyes fixed on me. “Pretty regularly.”

“Then you saw him quite a bit.”

She frowned. “Harassment personified.”

“What do you mean?”

She let out a sigh. “I’m so tired of carrying these secrets around. He gambled, owed big time. He started harassing me to copy a painting for him to sell to repay his debts.”

“But you’d be ruining your reputation in the art field.”

“Exactly! So I refused. Then he threatened me…”

“What could he possibly threaten you with?”

She paused briefly. “He knew I’d done it before.”

Anne was gifted and could restore and copy anything.

“You mean you forged a painting?”

“Ages ago. I wanted to see if I could actually pull it off. I did it just for fun. If anyone ever found out…”

Just then Abby burst in, “The police are here!”

Anne leaped to her feet. “What?”

A stern-faced mid-forties man in a somewhat rumpled suit, holding an ID and badge said, “Anne Wythe?”

Anne went rigid and paled. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Mind if I have a few words with you?”

Anne looked at me then sank to her chair. “Okay.”

He glared Abby and I. “In private, if you don’t mind.”

I got up and we both walked out.

Abby grabbed my arm the minute Anne’s office door shut behind us, whispering, “What does he want with her?”

She’d find out soon enough.

“Mr. UPS was Anne’s ex.”

Abby glanced back toward Anne’s office. “Wow! So her ex was Mr. Brown.”

I stopped cold, now grabbing her arm, whispering back, “…What did you just say?”

Chapter 46

What Do You Mean?

Abby turned to me. “What do you mean?”

“Just now! That name you just said!”

“You mean, brown?”

It hit. They referred to UPS as brown: Its truck’s color!

The text Clay got from Alicia was just one word: brown.

Like I said, a password, code…?

Or was it a warning?

I had to tell the others. “I’ve got to make a call, Abby.”

“Sure. Let me know what happens to Miss Princess.”

As I went upstairs to the loft, I glanced back. Abby was smiling. Was the worm turning, now that her nemesis, Anne, was taken down several notches?

I tried, but couldn’t get through to any of my crew, Clay included. All I got was voicemail. It was frustrating. What good was voicemail? This was information I didn’t feel comfortable leaving a message about. So I told them to call.

You never know who is listening, do you?

With nothing else keeping me at the gallery, I picked myself up and walked across the bridge over the Delaware River to Lambertville to visit the gallery owner, Jeffrey Price. Ten minutes later I was staring up at his sign: Price Gallery.

I stepped inside, hearing the identical ringing of a bell triggered by the door. I looked up. It was exactly like the one at Worth Gallery. At first I thought it was quaint, but now I was thinking maybe it really was a warning signal to whoever was in the back doing whatever.

I glanced around the gallery, impressed by the beautiful art objects and paintings: very similar to Worth Gallery. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he had copied Alicia and Chris’ style of presentation. Which then made me wonder who had opened their doors first? Which then made me consider all the history behind those rumors concerning the Worths’ gallery and the paintings they sold at a discount.

I leisurely sauntered among the art, taking my time, leaning this way and that, marveling at the frames too. Then I spotted motion sensors and a couple of cameras.

Did they have an alarm system like the Worth Gallery?

I was tempted to whip out my iPhone for its flashlight to find out by looking behind a few frames, but that would be pushing the obvious. I decided to lean in to get a real good look at the paintings themselves and the signatures at the bottom of each one.

Were these originals?

Who could tell what was a forgery or not? Even the best auction houses, like Sotheby’s and Christie’s, had been blindsided in past years with excellent forgeries. Art restorers like Anne and expert art appraisers working for insurance companies were taken in. I was learning the art world was a slippery slope to travel around in and quite dangerous.

I heard a mild cough behind me and turned.

Chapter 47

What the… & More

“Can I help you?” said Lenny, enjoying my reaction.

I had not expected to see Helen/Lenny at this gallery. Her transition from an incensed client confronting Clay and I, to art appraiser, and now finding her at a competing gallery was unsettling.

Still trying to make the leap, I said, “You work here?”

“No, I own it.” she said.

“But who’s Jeffrey Price? Doesn’t he own the gallery?”

“I’m Mrs. Price.”

“Then who was one of my associates talking to here?”

“One of my associates,” said Lenny

My trio read it all wrong.

“What happened to Jeffrey?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about him.”

Was he dead? It sounded like it.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

That threw me. I remembered my initial reaction to her: lean and mean, back at the Logan Inn when she interrupted Clay and me having lunch, demanding we help her. Then it hit me. “Hey, you told us your name was Helen Costner.”

“That’s my maiden name.”

A ruse that sucked Clay and me in. “Clever.”

Lenny gave a knowing smile. “I thought so.”

“So what was the purpose of the deception?” I asked.

“You might call it educating the uninitiated.”

“The uninitiated?”

“You two are obviously novices to the art world.”

I gave her a half-smile. “That obvious, huh?”

“We wanted you to start asking the right questions and stop what was going on if you could. We needed help.”

“We?”

“A few gallery owners, myself included.”

“Exactly what did you think was going on?”

She looked around to see if anyone was within earshot of us then leaned in close. “Discounts and cosmetic art surgery.”

I nodded. If she meant forgeries, why not just say it?

I could play vague too. “So others were aware what was going on and were reluctant to take on who was involved.”

I thought back. They approached us: UPS, Lenny and Tony. Clay and I should have picked up on that, but we were caught up and distracted by art information overload.

I now knew Lenny’s objective, but the others? UPS was dead. And Tony was feeling more and more like deception. And there were too many loose ends that needed tying up.

Were Lenny’s true intentions what she claimed?

“Can you give me a name?” I asked.

Lenny’s tone changed. “This artist’s name is Anderson.”

I looked at her odd segue. What artist? “What?”

“He’s a local artist. Quite good, don’t you think?”

From behind us came, “Ah, Jeffrey Price to the rescue.”

The words spilled out when I turned “You’re alive?”

He wrapped his arm around Lenny, “and kicking!”

“Sorry I couldn’t help you, Miss,” said Lenny stiffly.

Chapter 48

The Art Of Deception

I left Price Gallery more confused than when I got there. What was going on with Lenny and her husband? Why did she change the subject so abruptly? Was she afraid to speak in front of her husband? This cat and mouse behavior had trouble written all over it.

It was time for backup: Martha, Hazel and Betty.

When they called me back, I explained to my crew what we needed: find out what was going on over at Price Gallery. Improvise.

I also arranged a time to meet for drinks with Clay and the ladies later on. We had something to discuss: forgeries.

I returned to Worth Gallery and headed up to the loft. I needed to learn more about art forgeries. Whose money was involved? I opened my laptop and began searching.

The most notorious forger was Wolfgang Beltracchi. It said he could paint with the best and lie even better. For decades, experts were completely fooled by his elaborate art scam, making him, his wife, Helene, and his two partners millions. To date, Beltracchi was the most prosperous art forger in history. He was an extremely talented individual.

By the age of 14, he could copy Picasso perfectly. Later on, he began painting artists such as Max Ernst, Raoul Duffy, Fernand Lager and George Braque among other 20th century artists of the Impressionist and Surrealist genre.

What made Beltracchi different was he’d paint in the exact style of a famous artist (what he thought they would paint if they had other paintings out there). They were originals by Beltracchi, but painted with that artist’s name.

He copied the artist’s brush technique perfectly, using canvases from that time period. He even created artwork from paintings that existed but had been missing for years.

Signatures and provenances were documented with tea-stained labels and aged markings on the frames. Well-worn and old-looking black and white photos showed his wife, Helene, posing as her own grandmother with Beltracchi’s forged paintings hanging on the walls in the background.

Beltracchi’s wife claimed she received these paintings from her grandfather, Werner Jägers, who hid them before WWII in a country home near Cologne. She inherited them upon his death. This explained why the public never saw them before.

Art experts were fooled. Beltracchi’s paintings ended up on museum walls like the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Sotheby and Christie sold them at auction and they were also listed in many art catalogs. Various experts worldwide vouched for provenances of these works of art. The multi-talented Beltracchi fooled everyone with his counterfeits, which made him millions.

Were we dealing with real stolen paintings or forgeries?

Chapter 49

It Happens To The Best Of Them

“Well, how was he finally exposed?” asked Hazel over drinks at Triumph’s. It was crowded and the five of us were waiting for our table to eat dinner, but everyone was more interested in my account of Beltracchi and his downfall.

“A buyer from Munich,” I explained, “used scientific analysis and determined three paintings were fake.”

“Then what happened?” asked Betty.

“According to one article, one painting supposedly painted in the 1920’s tested positive for pigment developed in 1957. Beltracchi mistakenly used the wrong titanium white that wasn’t available in the period that the canvas was allegedly to have been painted.

“Berlin’s art fraud branch seized Beltracchi’s paintings, him, his wife and their accomplices in 2010. But because of a lack of further evidence at the trial, the judge terminated the proceedings with a reduction in jail time. Jamie Martin, a forensic art analyst, said, if those paintings were inspected more closely, Beltracchi would’ve been caught sooner.

“At the trial, prosecutors claimed that Beltracchi created 36 artworks that were bought for about $46 million dollars. Beltracchi himself claimed there could be well over 300 more counterfeit paintings still out there in circulation.

“It was reported that the four accomplices: Beltracchi, Helene and two others made millions of dollars over four decades. And since the trial, the police in Germany have discovered 60 more paintings as fakes. Whatever else may be out there is still undetermined.”

Martha whistled. “Even though provenance is proven and vouched for, you can still get taken in, even today.”

“Exactly my point!” I said. “If a clever art forger was talented enough, they can still fool the best of them.”

“The sad thing was the provenance on those paintings was proven as worthless as the paintings,” said Betty.

“There must be a lot of angry art buyers,” said Martha.

Clay nodded. “Galleries are probably being sued left and right and insurance companies must be nervous.”

Martha laughed. “Welcome to the world of sleuthing.”

Hazel suggested. “Maybe Mr. UPS did get his hands on a forged painting and sold it to the wrong party.”

“And someone found out,” said Clay, “and struck back.”

“If Anne’s original forgery wasn’t destroyed, her ex got hold of it and sold it, she might be in trouble too,” I said.

“Wouldn’t that depend on who bought it?” Betty asked.

I smiled. “Like Tony, maybe?”

“That could very well be the case,” said Betty.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Hazel, “but all this talking is making me hungry.”

Martha laughed. “I’ve got some chocolates here…”

Both Hazel and Betty held up their hands.

“You’re a bad influence on us,” scolded Hazel.

Martha saluted. “About time I got a compliment from you.”

Chapter 50

Where There’s Smoke…

The next morning Clay and I headed to the gallery. My senior trio had an appointment in Lambertville. We were by ourselves, determined to check behind the paintings to see what was attached to the Worths’ alarm system. We had read Alicia’s info on how to deactivate the whole system including the paintings and did that first, right after finding the monitoring system.

We found the system hidden inside the locked armoire on the gallery floor. Finding the armoire locked, it triggered a search for the key. I found it up in Alicia’s loft, taped to the underside of her top desk drawer. Clay took a guess at the password and tried the obvious: brown.

Our rationalization was that the sophisticated and pricey alarm system was used for the most expensive paintings. But we weren’t sure which paintings held the most value: another clue that Clay was getting in over his head in buying into this art business in the first place.

In Clay’s defense, how could he know, when he wasn’t privy to the original purchase price? But I didn’t think we wanted to bring that to Alicia and Chris’s attention. This art gallery business was proving to be a learning curve on the treacherous side. And, as far as Clay was concerned, every profession had one: some more than others.

We both heard a loud rumbling noise and stilled.

“Clay, did you hear that?”

Just then Abby rushed through the packing room door into the gallery. She still had her jacket on. Clay and I both turned after having just stepped back from one painting to make sure it wasn’t crooked. Our timing was perfect. We had just reactivated the individual alarms on the art and didn’t want to let on what we were doing.

Clay moved off after making eye contact, letting me know he was putting the key back in Alicia’s desk up in the loft. He didn’t want to forget to do it later.

Abby’s face was flushed. “You will never guess…”

I tried to calm her. “Take a breath first.”

A fire engine raced by blaring its siren. I glanced out the window then turned back to Abby. “Now, what is it?”

She pointed to the street. “That’s what!”

“What happened?”

Clay scrambled back down the loft stairs after hearing Abby’s alarmed voice. “What’s wrong?”

Abby was beside herself. “Did you hear that explosion?”

“An explosion? Where?”

Then I remembered my crew! Lambertville!

She could barely get it out. “The Price Gallery!”

Clay and I eyed each other, weren’t they going there?

I couldn’t voice my concerns about Lenny and Jeffrey Price in front of Abby. She was shaking like a leaf.

I grabbed Abby. “Was anyone inside?”

“I don’t know! The boutique next door told me as I pulled into our lot. They yelled over to me after getting a phone call from their other store over in Lambertville.”

Clay pulled me closer. “I can go check. You stay here.”

After Hazel and Betty came close to being blown up in Switzerland, I just couldn’t imagine…

“No, I’m coming too. Let’s go!”

I jumped when my cell phone rang, just as we were heading out the door. “Yes?”

Chapter 51

Who Was Responsible?

Martha spoke excitedly. “Did you hear about it?”

I let out a sigh of relief at hearing her voice. “I just heard,” I said, without adding more in front of Abby. The possible connections attached to the Worth Gallery and the Price’s was up in the air. I didn’t know if I could trust Abby at this point, especially after she delivered that art piece.

Abby started to speak, but I held up my hand.

Martha was breathless. Had she been running?

Then I heard commotion in the background: people talking and yelling.

“Where are you?” I asked her.

“The three of us are outside the taped off area in front of the Price Gallery. There was an explosion inside. Someone mentioned a possible gas leak.”

The line went silent. “Martha? Are you still there?”

“…The three of us had an appointment to meet Jeffrey Price and were running late.”

“Oh, Martha. It must be such a shock at how close…”

“All because Hazel had to stop at that damn craft store.”

I gave a nervous laugh: relieved her humor was intact.

Martha whispered, “I could kiss Hazel’s feet for that, but you didn’t hear that from my lips. I’ll deny it!”

“Feel up to staying to keep us posted?” I asked.

“Will do!” she said, but before disconnecting, shouted to someone, “Hey, as a public citizen I can stand right here!”

Abby and Clay listened intently as I explained the close call Martha, Hazel and Betty had: about to enter the Price Gallery when it exploded. I didn’t give the real reason they were there: to meet with Jeffrey Price to question him. The less Abby knew of our intentions at this point, the better.

“Should I give Anne a call on her cell?” Abby asked.

Clay and I made eye contact. Was Anne responsible?

“Good idea. I have some questions for her,” said Clay.

Abby took a few steps toward the back room for her cell, but then turned back to us. “You don’t think Anne…”

I didn’t want to raise any alarms and shook my head. Why jump the gun when we weren’t even sure if Anne was involved or not? Although she was in the thick of it, she could very well be an innocent bystander caught up with her ex and a web of art fraud. But then again, who knew?

After the packing room door closed behind Abby, Clay pulled me to the loft. He motioned to keep our voices low.

“So what’s your take on this?” he whispered.

I shook my head. “I have this strange feeling that what we think we see isn’t necessarily what we actually see.”

“I agree. We’re missing something obvious.”

“And it’s right in front of our noses.”

My old mantra, worth paying attention to, came to mind.

Who had the most to lose and who had the most to gain?

Chapter 52

Cause I said so

Now that the ladies were safe, Clay took off alone for Lambertville to see the accident scene and touch base with the Martha, Hazel and Betty. To tell you the truth, I think he was still concerned for their safety. If it was a gas leak, that was one thing. Otherwise, they’d be marked just for snooping around.

Tony sent that point home when he contacted the ladies at the restaurant that one afternoon. Even though there was no hard proof of Tony’s affiliation with any ‘organization,’ I couldn’t write him off from being a major player in this whole thing. There was something about the guy…

Abby returned so I figured I’d take the Jeep and go check out that old shed outside the Worths’ house: the one the four of us had been trapped in. I texted Clay, saying I was stepping out to run an errand. If he knew, he’d insist on coming along. He was busy enough. I could handle this.

Clay had previously padlocked the shed, even though another key might be out there. He was also on the lookout for Tony, who had disappeared into thin air. So I had to grab the key from the house. I walked over to the shed and gingerly stepped inside: that is after propping the two doors open with the two heavy logs.

With the doors braced wide open and the sun shining in, I could see clearly and didn’t need my flashlight like before. I was disappointed though. No paintings lurked in the corners, only spiders. Still, I kept searching.

I was lifting tarps and moving fencing and anything that could possibly block or conceal a crate when another dark shadow fell in beside mine. My stomach sank. Someone was standing behind me. I distinctly smelled aftershave and it wasn’t Clay’s. This one was overpowering and seemed familiar…

Uh-oh! As I began turning around, I heard that voice.

“That’s it. Turn around nice and easy-like, Blondie.”

I did as I was told, already knowing what was waiting for me when I did: Tony and his gun. I smiled. He didn’t.

“I hadn’t heard from you, Sam, so I followed you here.”

“You’re not exactly an easy person to track down.”

“Did you really think you could outsmart me?”

What the hell, I told him what he wanted to hear. “No.”

He laughed. “Smart girl. Said what I wanted to hear.”

Like I said before, maybe he wasn’t so dumb after all.

He motioned with his gun. “Let’s take a walk.”

I hesitated. “…Does this involve taking a ride too?”

If it did, I was going to duke it out right here in the shed.

Tony winked. “No, we’re going inside the house.”

My mind was racing. “What for?”

“Even though you conveniently unlocked and disarmed it for me, I have some business to attend to there and don’t need you sneaking up on me. Now move, ’cause I said so!”

Never get trapped. I had to get away no matter what.

Chapter 53

Don’t Say Something You’re Going To Regret

After entering the porte cochere door to the house, Tony locked the deadbolt. Good. He didn’t know where the key was and I wasn’t about to offer to show him. I could easily open a deadbolt, even at a dead run. I’ve had experience in running out of houses: some were better than others.

I turned to him, stalling. “Are we doing lunch or what?”

“Don’t do or say something you’re going to regret.”

“I’m already regretting coming here. Now what?”

He waved his gun. “Keep going toward the hallway.”

I glanced ahead, assessing the doors that might enable my escape: probably still key-locked, like they were when we left the house that morning. And the key to open them was attached to the Jeep keys still dangling in the ignition.

What was he planning to do?

A few steps into the hallway he said, “Stop!”

Like a smart girl with a gun to her back, I did. “And?”

“Wait a sec,” he said.

I stole a glance back. He was looking at a painting then turned to the opposite wall and looked at another one.

What the…?

“Move,” he then said, nudging me forward with his gun.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ventured cautiously.

Tony jerked his attention from a painting, annoyed.

“What? Can’t you see I’m busy here?”

“Well, yeah, but doing what? Maybe I could help.”

He looked at me like this was a trick question. “No!”

I shrugged. “Just sayin’…”

“Besides, you wouldn’t know anyway,” he said.

“How would you know unless you asked me, right?”

He considered my answer. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

I gave him a big smile. “Okay, shoot!” Then I realized what I had said and backed up a step. “Uh, I didn’t really mean that. It was just a figure of speech. Don’t take it….”

Tony frowned. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Well, I…”

He cut me off again. “It’s getting real annoying.”

“But…”

He pointed his gun at me. I shut up instantly.

“Good! At least you got that message.”

I waited a beat then tried again. “You were saying?”

“You’ve got me so screwed up, I can’t remember what the hell we were talking about!”

He couldn’t talk without waving his hands: that gun too.

“I volunteered to help you, remember?” I said warily.

He glanced at his watch. “I don’t have much time.”

I had to stall him until I could escape. “Ask away.”

By this time, we had stopped at a third painting. He eyed me then came to a decision. “I’m looking for an artist.”

“Which one?” I asked, cheerfully relieved.

“The one I was really promised and didn’t get.”

“But how are you so sure it’s here?”

“Because it’s not there,” he said, getting annoyed again.

I swear, I wondered if he might be related to Lenny.

I took a deep breath and calmly asked, “Where?”

He looked just as aggravated. “The gallery.”

“Aha! If it’s not at the gallery, it must be here!”

Chapter 54

The Long & Short Of It

“Are you always this shrewd at deductions or do you have a really good editor, because I’m starting to have serious doubts about your abilities as an author and sleuth.”

Now I was getting angry. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing to excuse. I’m just disappointed in you, that’s all. I was expecting someone more coherent.”

I started tapping my foot irritably. Gun or no gun, Tony was pushing the envelope: mine. I had to get away before something dangerous happened: like me killing him for the sheer joy of it. He was now criticizing me as an author and that was a big no-no in my world. “Okay, get to the point.”

“I thought I made it quite succinctly,” he said, smiling.

“What’s the artist’s name?” I said, through gritted teeth.

“Forget that Madonna and Child. It’s by Renoir.”

That receipt I found in Anne’s office!

Alicia’s office was far enough away to give me a chance to try and escape. I had to take that chance. Some people would kill for a Renoir. And I knew I was looking at one. No contest. Tony and his gun would win. But that Renoir might be my ticket out. “Hey, I think I know where it is!”

Tony’s head snapped to attention. His face was flushed from all our back and forth, while his steely gaze bored into mine. I didn’t blink, staring boldly back at him. If he knew I was lying, I think he was mad enough to shoot me then.

“It’s hanging in Alicia’s office way back there,” I said pointing toward the end of the long hallway. “It’s right next to Chris’ office.”

His face became animated. “No, kidding?”

I glanced at his gun. “Would I kid you at this point?”

Tony spun around and raced straight for Alicia’s office, completely forgetting his need to take me with him. I guess greed fogs the thinking when it comes to money. I, on the other hand, spun in the other direction and raced for the back door, but then stopped. He would realize I was gone, come back and have a clear shot down the long hall, all the way to the side door we’d both entered. I would be, like Martha once said, deader than a doornail.

I hung a left: the front door. But it wouldn’t open. This place was Fort Knox! I took the staircase. Tony was down below and to my right. I took a left toward my apartment. I heard swearing then footsteps starting up the staircase.

Where to?

I’d never make it to the apartment. The hallway upstairs was identical to downstairs: long. He’d have a clear shot. I veered into the first guestroom on the left and jumped into the closet, hid behind the closet door and waited.

I heard Tony run right by the guestroom, assuming I’d headed for the apartment. I heard that door open and close. I was about to leave when the apartment door opened again. He was working his way back, methodically checking each guestroom. Panicking, I glanced around and that’s when I spotted it: a ceiling hatch to the attic. I grabbed a luggage holder and climbed up on it, boosting myself into the attic.

I closed the hatch just as Tony entered that guestroom…

Chapter 55

Crawling From Trouble

I didn’t move a muscle and listened for Tony’s every step directly below me. The only thing separating us were insulation, floorboards and sheetrock. Even though it was cool in the dark attic, I was sweating profusely. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard him exit the bedroom, then he’d probably head downstairs to the check the basement for me.

I was so nervous I felt turned around. Which way to go?

It was a long attic: like the house. If I had my bearings right, one way was the master suite, the other was over the apartment and garages. I began treading gingerly. The only place to walk: a narrow centerboard. The rest: insulation.

If I missed and made a misstep, I’d plow right through the sheetrock below. I moved along the narrow boards then it abruptly ended: a solid wall of wood. …What the—?

But then to my lower right I spotted an opening, leading to the rest of the attic. It required me getting on my hands and knees to crawl through. And I did, very carefully. I came out onto another wide-open space. I began climbing over vent ducts and wiring. In no time I found it: a regular stairway leading downward with a standard oak door with doorknob leading directly to…uh-oh!

It was the master suite! I’d gone the wrong way!

Originally, I thought it was a closet when I checked the house that first night. It led to where I stood! Maybe Tony took the main staircase and I could make it down the upper hallway back to my apartment. He’d already checked that. I eased down the darkened stairs and grabbed the doorknob.

One problem: someone else was turning the doorknob from the other side: Tony! I let go, like it was a hot potato and froze, holding my breath. Then I heard him mumble, “Now why would she be so dumb as to hide in a closet when she’d know I’d check everywhere?” He let go. “After I check their bathroom I’ll head to the basement.” I heard him pause. Was he listening for me? But then he moved on to the Worths’ master bathroom: Time for me to leave.

I quietly hustled back up, retracing my steps in the attic: sure of my steps now and where I was going. I passed over the hatch I had climbed through, remembering another hatch that I’d noticed in our apartment. I had to crawl on my hands and knees at the other end of the attic getting to that area, but then found the hatch in minutes.

I removed it and saw my bedroom area with our stuff below. I swung down and gingerly dropped to the carpeted floor. I ran to the door, raced down the backstairs, released the deadbolt and aimed for the Jeep. The keys were still in the ignition. As I raced it down the driveway, I checked the rearview mirror, catching a very pissed-off Tony throwing his own car keys to the ground in rage.

I won this round, but the next one was up for grabs.

Chapter 56

Musings & Modus Operandi

As I drove, I made a panicky call to Clay, who told me not to return to the gallery, but to park on the next side street down from the Worths’ house and wait for him. He was heading over there with the others in his car rental he’d taken that morning to the gallery.

Clay had me follow his car back to the property. Like I expected, Tony was long gone and so was his huge SUV. After carefully searching the property and the house, Clay gave the all-clear for the rest of us to come inside.

I don’t ordinarily drink wine at lunch, but that day was far from ordinary. My hands were pulsating with energy as I explained my stall tactics, verbal dueling and escape from Tony earlier. I held out my glass for more wine as I retold them about the Renoir Tony was looking for.

Hazel whistled. “A Renoir, the impressionist artist.”

“He has expensive tastes,” said Betty.

“No wonder he was hopping-mad. I’d be too. It sounds to me that Tony got screwed,” said Martha. “Big time.”

“Yes,” said Clay, “But who sold the Renoir to Tony?”

We all sat there lost in our own thoughts. I had checked Alicia’s home office myself when Clay said it was safe to enter. There weren’t any missing paintings. Matter of fact, nothing appeared to be missing from any of the walls anywhere in the house.

If I were a criminal, I’d be tempted to clean house, especially if I had a huge SUV at my disposal like Tony. Why did he just leave? All Tony wanted was the painting he paid for, but never received. Was it real or a forgery? Was that receipt planted in Anne’s office to implicate her?

Either way, he’d paid big bucks and wasn’t happy. Neither were we. We were no closer to solving this than we were a few days ago, just more frustrated. I took another bite of my sliced turkey sandwich and sipped more wine.

Clay slid his foot up and down mine under the table, whispering, “Your athleticism in the attic was inspiring.”

Was he kidding? Now? “Dream on.”

Martha cleared her throat. “Are you done playing footsy with Sam, Clay? We need a modus operandi here.”

Clay winked at me. “We’ll continue this later…”

Hazel slapped Clay gently. “You rake, you.”

“If I was only a little younger,” sighed Betty, smiling.

“We need to get our Mojo working,” said Martha. “This art business has painted us into a corner and it should be the other way around, with the criminal on the defensive.”

I sat up. “What we need to do is speak to Lenny alone. How can we get her away from her husband? She seemed fearful of him, and now that explosion: bad karma.”

Just then my cell rang. “Hello? …What? Oh, my God! That’s terrible. Yes, we’re here. Of course you can.”

After I hung up, Clay asked, “What was that all about?”

“I was Lenny! Her husband is now a none-issue. He’s dead! Lenny said that after the explosion, it was time she explained her behavior the day I was at her gallery. This is truly bizarre. She’s coming here! Tonight! For dinner!”

I swear, my life was stranger than fiction.

Chapter 57

Marinating & Musings

After making a call, Clay said that Jeffrey was found under the rubble of the debris from the gas explosion at Price Gallery: a shock to us, but apparently not to Lenny. She had calmly invited herself to dinner. Apparently, the grieving widow wasn’t grief-stricken, but hungry.

I marinated some thick lamb chops in teriyaki sauce and pineapple juice and marinated shrimp with fresh minced garlic, basil, olive oil, Parmesan Reggiano cheese, salt and pepper for grilling.

When I’m stressed, I think and cook: big time.

I was currently fixing a salad of Romaine lettuce, dried cherries, mandarin oranges and sliced almonds and Chinese crispy noodles. I would top it later with a homemade fresh orange rind, juice and olive oil dressing.

Dessert was cubed pound cake, with lemon curd over it, a dollop of whipped cream then drizzled with some melted chocolate with a ginger snap cookie stuck in the top, served in tall martini glasses: a quick and elegant finish to dinner.

I considered the last few days. We never found exactly what Tony removed from the Worths’ shed: we assumed paintings. I never got the chance to ask him. Guns have that effect on me. I concentrate more on flight than fight mode.

Anne was depressed since her ex and picture-hanging wire were found in his UPS truck: a strangling. It would have been nice to know this earlier, but the police were tight-lipped about the whole thing. Like Martha said, “He won’t be making any more right turns for Brown.”

That symbolism was sending a message to whom?

Ever since the call and then the death, Abby was jittery whenever the phone rang or the gallery door opened and the bell tinkled. I didn’t blame her one bit. She also began leaving the gallery well before dark. Clay understood and didn’t push her on it. We were all on edge.

I finally met the part-timer the day before, Antonia Walters, who helped box the paintings for the gallery in the back. She was fiftyish, of average height and weight with brown/gray streaked hair. Her affable manner was a pleasure and the opposite of Anne’s abrupt one.

She worked quickly and quietly. I wanted to speak with her privately. She might have heard or seen something worth paying attention to. Clay already spoke to her earlier, but as another woman, she might confide in me.

You never know, right?

Betty and Hazel came into the kitchen and began setting the table for dinner. Martha grabbed some wine goblets, uncorked some Santa Margarita Pino Grigio and poured us each some before dinner.

I liked that: a woman with priorities…

“I figured we’d need fortification for later,” she said.

I turned to her. “Are you referring to Lenny’s visit?”

She laughed. “This evening should be a doozy.”

Hazel grabbed a dried crisp Chinese noodle and popped it into her mouth. “This caper sure is a complex one.”

Betty grabbed a glass and sipped. “Sleuthing is hard.”

Martha winked. “That never stopped us before, has it?”

Chapter 58

More Food For Thought

Most of the dinner talk, quite frankly, was stilted and kind of weird. No one wanted to bring up the subject of Lenny’s husband or the explosion. We were all waiting for her to broach the subject. Believe it or not, our crew was running out of mundane subjects to talk about. I think that’s because we weren’t a mundane bunch.

After we settled in with my dessert and oohs and aahs were expressed, Lenny set her spoon down and sighed.

“I guess you think my being here tonight is unusual…”

Hazel gently patted Lenny’s arm. “It must be hard.”

“…And very sad to say the least,” added Betty.

Martha cut to the chase. “If you ask me, it’s a tad odd.”

Lenny looked up sharply then smiled at her. “I agree.”

Martha leaned in. “So, what gives. We’re dying here.”

I winced at Martha’s unvarnished and truthful statement.

Clay interceded. “Lenny, your behavior seems…”

I finished for him. “A little suspect at this point to say the least.”

Lenny leaned back, dabbed her mouth with her napkin and said, “As a matter of fact, I’m surprised Jeffrey lasted this long.”

She had everyone’s attention. Except for the ticking of the wall clock in the background, it became eerily quiet.

It sure sounded like she’d expected this to happen.

“Want to explain?” I asked.

Lenny sighed again. “Sure. Everything I told you that morning in my gallery was true. I had no relationship with my husband: not anymore. He’d gone to the dark side of greed. So I didn’t want to talk about him. Your group spoke to one of my salespeople, not my husband. Jeffrey was busy in the back, packing up a forged painting. I was too scared at that point to do anything about it.”

Our mouths hung open then verbal chaos erupted.

“Where did the forgery come from?” Clay asked.

Lenny shook her head. “That I don’t know.”

“Who at your gallery was involved?” asked Betty.

“My husband only,” said Lenny. “He trusted no one.”

“When did you find out?” asked Hazel excitedly.

“Changing sheets, I found a wad of cash: $100,000.”

“And selling art wasn’t that lucrative,” I said.

“Not at our gallery,” replied Lenny.

“Did you confront your husband?” asked Clay.

“Of course. I wanted no part of it and he knew that.”

“Did you threaten to go to the authorities?” asked Betty.

“Not after our two cats were found dead on our doorstep.”

“How gruesome!” Hazel said frowning.

“You think Jeffrey did it to scare you?” Martha asked.

“No, he was just as shaken up as I was. But he knew…”

“How long has this laundering been going on?” I asked.

“About as long as it’s been going on at yours,” she said.

We all looked at each other. Another dot connected.

“Did you mention any of this to the police?” I asked.

“Jeff is dead! I’m still alive. I aim to keep it that way.”

Chapter 59

Juicy Tidbits & Morsels

The next day I was still reeling over Lenny’s eye-opener of a story. But in a way, I wasn’t, not after that day in her gallery. Did I think Lenny was being truthful about not knowing who else was involved? Maybe, but I wasn’t sure. I mean she was an appraiser, wasn’t she? And she probably knew what was going on from the very beginning. But was that outside threat what kept her quiet or was she a part of it and trying to deflect attention away from her for the time being.

If that was so, then what was she biding her time for? I recalled Tony obsessing over the Renoir. Was Lenny his partner? Now, that was something I hadn’t considered before: an art appraiser and Tony. Now that Jeffrey was dead, she could pin it all on Jeffrey, while she cashed in.

Was she after the Renoir for herself?

I walked into the gallery with every intention of talking with Antonia, but my senior special got there first. They were sitting in the kitchen, having coffee and laughing.

I almost didn’t recognize Antonia, who was now smiling broadly, glowing from all the attention showered upon her.

“Samantha,” she said, “Your friends brought Danish.”

Martha winked at me. “She works so hard back here…”

“Everyone forgets I’m even here,” said Antonia.

Hazel handed her another Danish. “It’s our pleasure.”

Betty poured her more coffee. “And about time.”

Flushed with excitement, Antonia said, “Call me Tony.”

Everyone went silent for a beat. …Tony?

Antonia got nervous. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Uh, no. It’s just an odd nickname, that’s all,” I said.

“My daddy always wanted a boy,” she said, blushing.

We all breathed a collective sigh and nodded.

Martha bent in. “Speaking of Tony, do you know one?”

Antonia hesitated. “Not that I know of. …Should I?”

Out of the blue, Hazel asked. “What about Anne?”

“What about her?” Antonia asked.

Martha nudged her. “Have any juicy tidbits for us?”

“She has a lot of phone calls and one in particular…”

We were leaning in when Anne burst through the door.

“Ms. Walters! You have shipping orders to fill!”

“Oh, my! I was having such a good time, I forgot!”

Flustered, Antonia just about ran from the room.

Anne gave us a steely eye. “Don’t distract the help!”

To tell you the truth, Anne’s outburst never registered. None of us threw back any snarky remarks because we were still reeling from a fact that hit us all at the same time.

Martha eyed us. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

I whispered excitedly, “I should’ve caught that earlier when I met her. Antonia Walters! Tony’s lighter! …AW!”

“She doesn’t look like a smoker to me,” said Hazel.

Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.

Chapter 60

None Of The Above …Crap

The minute I heard Clay leave via his car rental (he was meeting with so-called friends regarding UPS and Jeffrey’s deaths), I hightailed it back to the gallery in the Jeep. Like an idiot, in all the excitement that morning, I had left my laptop up in the loft. It was so unlike me to be so forgetful. But considering events lately, I cut myself some slack. It was a chance to observe the dynamics of the gallery.

After cleaning up from our lunch at the house, Martha, Hazel and Betty left to snoop around in the Worths’ house, then check the packing/storage room that was downstairs to uncover evidence. They warned me to be careful. We were all uneasy about the ominous MIA: Tony. Clay urged me to keep my cell phone on. He didn’t have to tell me twice.

Abby and Antonia were in the Worth gallery packing area working. They said Anne was busy with clients on the phone in her office. Good. Everyone was there, so I went to work adding info into my laptop on the latest revelations. As a few customers came and went, I hustled down to help, telling the others to keep on working. They were busy and very grateful. Evidently, Anne was back to normal too.

Every once in a while, I would walk through the packing area to see what was going on and being packed up. Abby and Antonia were fielding calls about deliveries while packing. Now and then as they passed shipping info to Anne, it allowed me to overhear her explaining to one of the clients what she could or shouldn’t do to a painting so it’s would retain its value. Obviously, some clients needed persuading. After all, I’d heard her services didn’t come cheap. Art restorers, the good ones, made decent money.

The gallery was humming along and the recent deaths were put on hold because everyone’s attention was pulled elsewhere with the exception of me. This was challenging.

Who was guilty? Who was implicating the others?

I called Martha at home to say I was running late. I wanted to start on the first draft of my next mystery about the art of deception. After a while and needing to stretch, I stopped typing and glanced up. The nightlights were on in the gallery and it was now dark outside.

When did that happen?

No light was on in the loft. I was typing by the glow of my laptop. I glanced down to the tall windows below in the gallery. The street appeared deserted. I was so into my draft I never thought to look up or check the time. It was hours.

I decided to call it quits and did my backup. This was an unusual mystery that had potential. My agent would love it. It had market sizzle, too, to satisfy my publisher. My editor would be busy. I was so pleased with how it was turning out I was actually looking forward to my editor’s humorous and snarky side-margin remarks. I was about to shut down my laptop when I heard something downstairs. I thought back to earlier.

Abby had been the last to leave, right?

I vaguely remembered someone yelling up to me…

Did I make sure the door was locked? Set the alarm?

None of the above. …Crap.

Chapter 61

…And Then Some

Should I panic or wait to see if it was someone who forgot something legitimately and came back to retrieve it? That thought lasted all of two seconds. The odds were not running in my favor lately. Nasty things were going on and I was alone or at least thought I was.

But then another thought struck me. Whoever was down there probably thought they were alone in the gallery too, right? I was up in the loft silently working by the glow of my laptop. This was the perfect time for someone nefarious to sneak in and do whatever they were going to do and I was in the perfect position to catch them at it.

First thing I did was retrieve my cell phone and make sure it was turned on and had enough juice: it did, good. Then I switched it to silent/vibrate mode. I had to stay focused and remain calm. I slowly descended the stairs to the bottom then slid along the gallery wall in the shadows, working my way to the packing room door then paused.

I heard a voice. No! Two voices. I strained to hear them. They were muffled. I had to hear what they were saying. I also wanted to see what they were doing. I looked down at my phone. Should I text Martha and Clay? Since things had turned deadly, I let them know exactly what was going on. I wasn’t taking chances this time.

I placed my hand on the door handle and turned it slowly. Next thing I knew it swung outward forcefully right in my face and I was knocked on my ass, seeing stars after cracking my head hard on the hardwood floor. Two black-clad figures stood over me: one holding a gun. The room was spinning in circles as they leaned in close.

Then everything went black…

Someone was shaking me gently. I opened my eyes. My vision was fuzzy at first then began to focus. I tried to concentrate on what the voice was saying.

“Is she dead?” asked the female voice.

Then a man’s voice said, “She’s coming to!”

“Flash that light on her,” said the female.

They rolled me over. I raised a hand to shield my eyes.

“Jesus! It’s Samantha!” said the female.

It was bad enough trying to focus, but that bright light…

“I’ll turn on the lights,” the male said getting up.

Information was slowly filtering through to my brain. Those voices… They felt familiar. My head hurt like hell from the rough fall, but I forced myself to think. Then it hit me. “I know who you two are….”

“Shhh….” said the female.

“Easy does it,” said the male.

I blinked once then blinked again, staring up at the duo.

It was Alicia and Chris Worth, the gallery owners.

Chapter 62

Well Look Who’s Here…

I didn’t know whether to try and bolt or pretend to faint so they wouldn’t shoot me because Chris was holding a gun. Their eyes focused on where I was staring: his hand. He put the gun down on the floor to put my mind at ease.

I sat up and winced, rubbing the back of my head.

Alicia, a gorgeous redhead, flashed apprehension. “Are you sure you’re okay? I feel terrible you fell and got hurt.”

“Can you at least speak?” asked Nordic-blonde Chris.

I looked Alicia in the eye. A.W. “…Do you smoke?”

She turned to Chris. “Should I have her count fingers?”

“I’ll explain later,” I said, rubbing my head. “Ouch!”

“Sorry about that,” said Alicia contritely.

“We thought you were an intruder,” said Chris.

I began to relax, but only slightly. This could be an act.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be in London!” I accused.

Alicia shook her head. “We were right up the road.”

“Where?” I asked trying to make sense of it all.

Chris smiled. “We were staying north of New Hope at the Hotel du Village.”

“But you texted Clay from London.” I countered.

Then they both smiled. What a dummy. Texting doesn’t confirm or deny where you were texting from. “Smart.”

“We were hoping you guys would help us catch who’s been trying to ruin us,” explained Alicia.

“I know we should have alerted you, but our computers were hacked. We were desperate, not knowing who to trust. We only felt safe sending brief texts to Clay,” said Chris.

“This has been a rat’s nest and complicated,” I said.

“We knew it wouldn’t be easy,” said Chris.

“Why didn’t you let on to Clay?” I asked.

“We ran after our last threat, but then talked it over at the airport and decided to return, but do it without telling anyone. We knew Clay along with you and your crew were more than competent to flush out who was ruining us.”

“But after our UPS guy was killed then Jeffrey, we decided to dig deeper ourselves, but at night instead when no one was around. We were going to call Clay after we finished checking the paintings in the gallery tonight…”

I was quite alert now. “So that was one of you that I saw in the gallery that evening in the dark, checking behind the paintings,” I said. “What were you checking for?”

“That was me,” said Chris, nodding. “We needed to see if someone was tampering with any of the paintings when our computer system was hacked. Someone had access.”

“What made you leave after only checking one wall?”

“I thought I heard someone. I didn’t want to be spotted.”

“I was watching you,” I said.

I tried to stand on shaky legs, so they helped me up.

“Perfect! Just who I’ve been looking for,” said a voice.

Just when you think you’ve got a handle on it…

Chapter 63

A Thug, A Lighter & A Renoir

The three of us stood there staring at an angry Tony.

“You know, my patience has reached its limit,” he said. “I either want a refund or my Renoir!”

Alicia and Chris looked at each other then at me.

“What is he talking about?” asked Alicia.

“What Renoir?” Chris asked.

I briefly explained how I had met Tony and the painting he allegedly bought and the amount he paid. “I had no clue the name of who painted it until the other day when Tony chased me through your house at gunpoint looking for it.”

“Alleged? I paid cash instead of a check for a discount!”

Cash? Maybe Tony wasn’t as smart as I thought.

Chris and Alicia both turned back to Tony.

“We know nothing about that,” explained Alicia.

“We never sold a Renoir to anyone,” said Chris.

Shouts were heard as the packing room door flew open. Anne was roughly shoved through it, slamming into the three of us.

“Who do you think you are?” she then snarled over her shoulder at the person who had shoved her into the room.

We looked from Anne to who had pushed her in.

Antonia smiled smugly back. “Tony’s mother, Antonia Walter’s.”

I then turned to Tony. “And you are?”

He smiled. “Anthony Walters.”

I just had to know. “Okay, which one of you smokes?” They looked at me like I was crazy. “The lighter?” I said.

“Neither of us,” said Tony. “It was a gift.”

I wanted answers. “I have another question for you.”

Tony sighed. “What now?”

“What was in the crate from the Worths’ shed?”

His face went beet red. “Nothing! It was empty!”

“Mind me asking what was supposed to be in it?”

I could see steam rising. “My $100,000 painting!”

I held up my index finger cautiously.

Tony sighed again. “Now, what?”

“How did you know the Worths’ gate code?”

He pointed at Anne. “Her ex gave it to me.”

I turned to Anne.

“I swear I had no idea. He must have gotten it from my wallet. I’m awful with numbers. I go to the Worths’ if they get a new painting that might need repair work.”

Alicia nodded. “She’s telling the truth. That’s why we agreed to the gallery arrangement: her talent and expertise.”

I turned back to Anne. “Can you explain the receipt?”

“My ex forged my signature, but I didn’t know to who.”

I turned back to Tony again. “You had two receipts?”

His face flushed red again. “I got screwed twice.”

I half-smiled. “That was an expensive lesson.”

Antonia swatted Tony. “You bought both paintings?”

“It was an investment and the price was right,” he said.

Antonia shot back, “Madonna? My ass. That’s not a famous painting of her, you idiot! Tell me you at least got our money back. I should smack you for sheer stupidity.”

“There was a slight set-back,” Tony said. “It’s missing.”

“Which one?” Antonia asked.

“The $100,000 one.”

It looked like Antonia was going to attack her own son. We backed up when the two of them began arguing back and forth. I made eye contact with Chris, looking from the floor to his gun. He glanced at Alicia, who was watching the two of us, eyeballing back and forth. She blinked, okay.

Chris nodded at both of us. It was now or never.

He dove for his gun, but was quickly cut off by Tony, who was faster and stronger. They both hit the wall with the paintings and Alicia screamed as one crashed to the floor. Something broke loose from behind it: a canvas.

Antonia pointed and yelled, “Tony, stop. Over there!”

Chris’s gun was still on the floor forgotten temporarily.

Anne shouted, “My Renoir!”

“Your Renoir?” said Tony walking over to it to look.

By this time we were all circling the canvas.

Tony’s was beaming. “I finally got it.”

I looked over to Anne. “…Your Renoir?”

“Remember I told you my ex threatened me…?”

The Renoir was the painting Anne forged, her ex must have found and stolen, then sold it.

“But what about Jeffrey? Who killed him?”

Anne’s eyes flashed to mine. “Don’t look at me.”

Antonia shook her head no.

“I didn’t kill anyone. I just threaten a lot,” said Tony.

“Then Jeffrey really did die in a gas explosion,” I said.

“I guess so,” said Anne.

“Then who killed your ex?” I asked her.

A loud laugh: we all turned. …Lenny? She turned to Anne, laughing harder. “Your ex and Jeffrey were complete fools. Your ex sold the painting through Jeffrey and he stuffed the $100,000 under our mattress. I found it and took it. But then Tony began threatening Jeffrey when he discovered the crate was empty. Your ex stiffed him on the delivery, so Jeffrey figured he would just give Tony back his money.

“That was when Jeffrey became completely unhinged and confessed to me because he couldn’t repay Tony. He said that Tony’s money was missing from under the mattress. It was a perfect plan.

“All I had to do was to get rid of some loose ends and I’d have the Renoir and the money for myself. So I waited patiently for one of you to find if for me. Of course, I had to use some diversions and decoys along the way to stall you. But it was worth it because now I have the Renoir!”

Oh, we were in big trouble…

Chapter 64

Who’s Gonna Tell Lenny The Truth?

There was a silent eye battle between Anne and me that started the minute the dynamics in the gallery turned south.

Who was going to tell Lenny the truth: that the Renoir was a fake?

Both of us kept subtly shaking our heads no.

Lenny, who I might add had a gun of her own, abruptly aimed it at us, after telling everyone to group together.

“Want to share what that was all about?” Lenny asked.

We both shook our heads no. My mind was scrambling for a way to stall her. She’d go nuts if she were to find out that, after two murders, she was chasing a worthless forgery.

And where the hell were Martha, Hazel, Betty and Clay? Surely one of them received my text by now! This art business was as cutthroat, but had turned deadly and would turn deadlier any minute.

Tony’s fists were clenching and unclenching. He paid for that Renoir, and as far as he was concerned, forgery or not, it was his, and not Lenny’s. I really do believe he was actually contemplating taking her down barehanded.

I wasn’t about to die over a lousy forgery.

“Enough!” All eyes fixed on me. “Anne?”

If looks could kill, Anne’s would’ve: me. I backed up.

Lenny swung her gun over to Anne. “What?” she asked.

“Well, this whole thing never should have happened.”

She had everyone’s attention including Lenny’s. I edged sideways behind the others moving closer to Lenny. Anne explained about her expert skills of flawlessly restoring paintings. But before admitting to her forgery, she began to explain about her ex stealing the Renoir and trying to sell it multiple times to God knows how many people to pay his huge gambling debts.

So far she had three forged receipts with her signature on them, but she had no idea who they were written to or where the money went. She only knew of the amounts that she found on those receipts. Her ex must have hidden them in her desk when he made his deliveries to the Worth Gallery. She was scared to go to the authorities because she received death threats over her ex’s debts by phone.

Close enough to Lenny now, I dove for her, knocking the gun from her hand, but not before it went off in a downward curve. Chaos erupted as Tony pinned Lenny to the ground and I fell sideways. Chris grabbed his own gun and Alicia picked up Lenny’s gun.

“Oh, no!” screamed Lenny, pointing.

We all looked. There on the floor lay the Renoir with a huge hole in it from the bullet, which was now embedded in the old hardwood floor of the gallery.

Alicia stood over a spread-eagled Lenny on the floor.

“Were you the one who spread all those false rumors and lies about our gallery, the artists and their paintings?”

Lenny laughed. “Everybody flocked over to your place because it was so unique and different. We lost business.”

“Enough to kill two people for? I don’t get it.”

Lenny took one last look at the destroyed Renoir. “That was my ticket out of the art rat race. I’d have an original Renoir to sell and $100,000 in cash and have the life I’ve always wished for.”

I shook my head. “Not now, Lenny. Oh, you’ll probably get life alright, but not the one you were expecting.”

I picked up the Renoir and turned to Anne. “You know, it’s really a great forgery.”

Anne’s face suddenly flushed with pleasure as she came over to admire it too. “Why thank you, Sam!”

Lenny still pinned down, screamed, “…It’s a fake?”

I looked down at her and smiled. “Best of the best!”

Anne put her arm around my shoulder. “Aaaw, Sam!”

I guess that meant we were best buds now.

Then the back and front doors burst open. “Police!”

Clay rushed over and hugged me. “Sam, are you okay?”

I nodded. “It was Lenny. She killed UPS and Jeffrey for a forged Renoir. Can you believe it?”

Then chaos erupted a second time as everyone began talking and statements and stories were written down. I think the police had their night cut out for them and would be buried in paperwork. Speaking of paperwork, I now had my mystery solved and could put pen to paper so to speak.

But something was missing. I looked through the throng of people. Where were Martha, Hazel and Betty?

Just then there was shouting coming from the front door and the crowd parted.

“We were in the basement: no signal!” huffed Martha rushing to us. “Drove that damn Gator from their house…”

“My ass is sore. I had ride in the back,” griped Hazel.

“You lost the coin toss, my dear,” said Betty hysterical.

And so was I, hours later: three miles in that gator. We stayed up late that night while I spun the tale that would end up being my next mystery: artistically done, if I do say so myself. A sense of humor helped too, don’t you think?

I’m not sure what’s in store next, but I guarantee this:

It certainly won’t be dull. It never is, is it?

This ends No Hope In New Hope.

For a preview of the next book in the Samantha Jamison Mystery Series, Book 8, The Lush Life, please continue reading right after this:

SPECIAL NOTE TO THE READER

Thank you for reading Book 7, No Hope In New Hope: I do hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked this book, I hope you choose to check out and read the rest of the mysteries in the series. Here are some other possible suggestions:

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Please read on for the preview excerpt of the next book in the Samantha Jamison Mystery Series, Book 8, The Lush Life

The Lush Life

A Samantha Jamison Mystery

Book 8

by

Peggy A. Edelheit

Copyright © 2014 by Peggy A. Edelheit

Chapter 1

Hung Up On The Details

My definition of murder: intentional killing of a person, mainly with premeditated malice.

Check.

So far I qualified.

Come to think of it, I qualified on all counts.

I was okay with the premeditation part, I certainly felt malice. I even had justification: a damn good excuse.

Why?

My ever-challenging and sporadic sleuthing partner in crime, Clay, had made a promise involving me without asking me first, taking advantage of our relationship.

As a mystery author, I wrote about them: murders, that is, but this time I felt like committing one, especially after Clay never bothered checking with me. It didn’t involve the Worth Art Gallery he recently considered acquiring. That deadly deal was history. No, this involved me housesitting.

After selling their art gallery to someone else, Clay’s friends, Alicia and Chris Worth, decided to take their trip to Europe for a month so they could collect some personal art. They asked Clay if he’d work from their house until they got back. Busy sidetracked with a new investigation, Clay promised them I’d do it. So my evil thoughts flourished.

But then Clay clarified the Worths’ no-can-lose freebie.

They were so impressed with our investigative skills in solving the problems plaguing their gallery, they suggested we continue to stay in their old, stone French house while they were gone, as well as Martha, Hazel and Betty: my senior-sleuthing crew. If Clay was needed elsewhere, like now, he could just leave and return anytime he wanted to.

I’d use Alicia’s home office, Clay would use Chris’s. The house was located minutes from downtown New Hope, an hour fifteen minutes from New York City, an hour from Philadelphia and two from both the beach and mountains.

Now, as far as murder was concerned, I had seriously contemplated the dastardly act when Clay first told me, but after some reflection, especially after they topped it off by offering me the use of their master suite, I reconsidered.

I’d get to live the lush life plus receive a cash bonus.

Alicia’s office turned out to be the perfect place to finish my seventh mystery, No Hope In New Hope, the one about art fraud. But after I hit the attachment tab to send that manuscript off to my editor, I just sat… and sat, tapping my finger on my laptop. Now what would I do?

The driveway annunciator buzzed: a car. I opened the foyer door, registering shock. “Mona?” I hugged her then glanced behind her… no car. “Who left you off so fast?”

She leaned in, winking and whispering, “He did.”

“Who’s he?” I asked, still gaping at her standing there.

My former college friend quickly shoved me back inside and slammed the door behind her. “My potential fiancé!”

I barely choked out, “...You have another one?”

“Don’t be snarky,” she said. “You know all about him!”

I stood there vigorously shaking my head. “Nuh-uh.”

“You invited me here, remember?” Mona persisted.

“Invited you… here? To the Worths’ house?”

“Don’t play around,” hissed my ample-figured, quirky, and impulsive friend. “This could be life or death!”

“How come everything with you is life or death?”

“Look, we’re pressed to the wall here,” she countered.

I paused. “...We? Same old, just a different day, right?”

Still leaning into me closely, dark-haired Mona began perspiring. Odd, considering it was cool out. What was she really up to? There was normally a degree of suspicion in the air whenever Mona called or showed up. I tried to shake off a sense of foreboding on another repeat episode. She was obviously under the gun, pushing this, this… what?

Footsteps approached. We both looked toward the door.

Mona lowered her voice. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

Now curious, I relented. “We better because...”

Mona silenced me and opened the door. “Teddy!”

Beyond Mona stood a fine masterpiece of manliness: one hot-looking guy about six foot-three, muscled, solid as a rock, light brown wavy hair that curled at the collar and the deepest blue eyes...

This vision was Mona’s fiancé?

I hesitated then stuck out my hand awkwardly.

“...Uh, hi. I’m Samantha.”

Teddy sized me up: my thin figure, long blonde hair, fair complexion. I was the polar opposite of Mona.

“...Mona, she’s your sister?”

My eyes darted to Mona’s. ...Sister?

Mona gave me a cheerful smile and a sly wink.

I had ventured into Mona’s skillset once again. Lying.

Chapter 2

But Then Again, Why Not?

Mona bit her lip. “A real surprise to some, right, Sam?”

Responsible for this home, my eyes veered to Teddy. He appeared distracted by two oil paintings hanging above the Worths’ foyer table or was he more interested in the framed antique mirror between them?

Who was this guy? What was this fiancé thing?

I smiled tightly. “Yup, it’s always a real surprise.”

Mona gave me a slight nod of relief.

“You got my email about our arrival, right?” she asked.

I glanced from Mona to Teddy, who was now watching and waiting for my response to Mona. I was flying blind here. I raked my fingers through my hair then played along.

“Sure. How long were you two planning to stay?”

“...Uh, just a few days,” Mona said, now relaxing.

“But all that’s left is the apartment over the garages.”

Mona frowned. “No other rooms are available?”

I faltered. “...Why, are more people coming?”

“No, but it’s such a big house. I thought...”

Then I realized she didn’t know. “The ladies are here,”

She eye-rolled. “Just what I needed: that senior trio.”

“I thought you’d be more excited,” I said, smirking.

“Can’t wait to see them,” she threw back, brightly.

Sure didn’t sound it.

“Don’t you have bags to bring in?” I asked.

Mona turned to Teddy. “Do you mind getting them?”

Tossing her a megawatt smile, he said, “Sure, Baby.”

After Mona closed the door, I choked out, “...Baby?”

“Hey, he’s no mental workout, but the rest of him does.”

“What’s going on? What’s with the fiancé routine?”

“He thinks you’re my long lost sister and...”

I cut her off. “Now where did he get that crazy idea?”

“I’m not getting all your questions...”

I pushed back once again. “But this isn’t my house...”

“I know that, but he doesn’t. That’s why we’re here.”

She always talked in circles. “For what, may I ask?”

“Are you dense? For what might be going down!”

I swallowed hard, knowing her and not liking where this conversation was heading. “...Going down? Where?”

Mona glanced at those two paintings over the foyer table then turned back to me clearly disturbed by my response to her arrival. “Why, here, of course!”

“I’m hearing and so not liking what you just said.”

“You’re the one who preaches expect the unexpected!”

“And the unexpected involves this particular location?”

“And my skills,” said, Mona, losing her patience.

“Sorry, Mona, I need more than that to go on.”

“What’s with you? Why are you acting this way, Sam?”

I knew her now familiar modus operandi of stretching the truth. “I’m gun-shy from past experience,” I countered.

“Then consider this encounter one more learning curve.”

“In what, how to dodge another bullet?”

“Like the saying goes: practice makes perfect.”

There were info gaps in Mona’s unexpected appearance and exactly why she was here a mile wide.

“Ah, the expert at taking literary license (lying) speaks,” I shot back.

She gave a sly grin. “I leave the literary to you. I have the license to carry a gun. When called to duty, I show up. It’s as simple as that.”

Called to duty? That last cliché got me. “By whom?”

Mona’s phone dinged then she held up her finger while she read a text message. I tried to read it, too, but she hastily deleted it so I couldn’t then she said, “Hey, I should keep an eye on Teddy. We’ll talk later.”

I was left standing in the foyer as Mona took off for the side entrance to join Teddy and help empty their car.

I reluctantly shut the door, muttering, “Yeah, but by that time I’ll be regretting I ever opened the door on this one.”

As I exited the foyer, I considered the significance of Mona’s sudden reappearance, grudgingly admitting it just might be the diversion I needed from a month of boredom that was already staring me in the face: babysitting this house. Clay had already taken off for his next case and my last mystery was put to bed. So why all the foot-dragging on my part? Why was I resisting what had unexpectedly arrived at my doorstep? I laughed.

Because big trouble always followed Mona, that’s why.

Chapter 3

Deal Or No Deal

My definition of a zoo: A place or situation that’s crowded, or a group that is loud and uncontrolled. That accurately would describe the Worths’ house once Martha, Betty, and Hazel learned the thirtyish duo, Mona and her fiancé, Teddy, were in residence over the Worths’ garages.

So with Clay long gone by the time Mona and her honey arrived, I figured that was probably a good thing. He would have wanted to hang around to scrutinize Teddy, before the three ladies had the chance to first check him out (ogle him) then digitally probe his background.

I was relieved when I caught Teddy trailing after Mona, toting two carry-on bags up to the garage apartment.

Good, that meant they weren’t staying that long.

While the two lovebirds unpacked, I went to the kitchen. I watched from the doorway, smiling at my seventyish sleuthing crew, Martha, Betty, and Hazel as they set up for dinner. I trusted them implicitly and admired their intuition and how clever yet different they were from each other. I quickly filled them in on our new houseguests.

The thin and fashion-challenged Martha with her spikey white short hair asked, “Why’d Mona show up out of the blue with some hunk, who’s supposedly her fiancé?”

Tall and reedy Betty tucked some loose gray strands back into her bun and asked, “Is this her second or third?”

Shorter, plump Hazel with her curly, gray hair chuckled. “Engaged in Ocean City, an alleged marriage in Boca, now maybe a fiancé? She’s all over the map with relationships.”

“I admit, it’s never dull with her around,” said Martha.

I laughed. “It’s never dull with you three either. Besides, I’m always outnumbered. Mona’s my perfect age-equalizer to my favorite and unpredictable senior crew.”

Martha harrumphed. “We’re your only senior crew.”

Betty and Hazel initially fooled people by their proper, old-fashioned behavior, but were a nice counter-balance to Martha’s in-your-face personality. They were all a constant in my life, challenging me to take mental and physical leaps that I never would have considered before I met them.

Mona, on the other hand, kept popping in and out of our lives both helping and hindering, but in the end, coming through only to disappear to who knew where. We were never inclined to delve too deeply into her legal and illegal connections as long as it didn’t involve jail time for us.

Clay, my very personal undercover, private investigator, used Mona and her networking skills to assist him on some of his investigations whenever they were needed.

I grabbed some tomato/basil wraps, slathered on some Parmesan/ranch dressing, slices of turkey, baby lettuce, diced tomato, cucumber, and shredded mozzarella cheese.

Hazel folded them. “Why would she bring Teddy here?”

“And what do you think is going down?” added Betty.

“We must separate Mona and Teddy from each other,” I said. “I need some answers. Any suggestions on how we’ll accomplish that small miracle?”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’ll do it,” sighed Martha. “The sacrifices I make...”

I nodded, not quite sure how Martha would pull off finding out just why and Mona and Teddy had shown up, but knowing her, she’d get it done, and very creatively too.

Betty just shook her head. “Oh, poor Teddy.”

Hazel never looked up while plating the wraps. “He’ll never know what hit him.”

I stared over at the ever-flamboyant Martha, who was now whistling while she cleaned up the counters. I could also hear those wheels turning. She was plotting already.

“I still have a trick or two up my sleeve,” she chuckled.

Martha, her stilettos, and Teddy all in one room.

Chapter 4

Descriptions & Grammatical Errors

Definition of an anomaly: Something that deviates from what is considered normal or expected, an inconsistency. That pretty much summed up my relationship with Clay, which wasn’t exactly what you’d call normal. We stayed in the same place with irregularity. Our whole relationship was a definite-maybe.

Clay and I go way back to when I was chasing down leads to find out why my husband, Stephen, had died under suspicious circumstances. Little did I know at that time when I first met Clay, he was not only a quaint bookshop owner, but also a very sly PI: a private investigator.

With and without Clay’s help, I solved that mystery. Of course, we both had commitment issues. So we eventually worked through my lack of trust in his slick segues in what was really going on back when we first met by managing some great undercover moments since then.

I’d say my relationships with my crew are ones for the books: my books. Each time we all get together to solve a another mystery, it ends up in my next novel. My agent usually fields my sometimes outrageous stall tactics, while my editor thinks up red side-margin, spot-on comments that are not only helpful, but give me a chuckle or two, while she critiques the believability of my mysteries and sentence structure. I love her to death, but...

Hey, we’re talking fiction, right? I always counter many people and characters speak grammatically incorrect.

* * * * *

Take note of the following:

“This was the most unkindest cut of all.”

(Marc Anthony - Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: Double superlative)

“To boldly go where no man has gone before.”

(An intro to each episode of Star Trek: split infinitive)

“You ain’t heard nothing yet, folks.”

(Al Jolson – Movie: The Jazz Singer: Double negative.)

P.S. Thank you, James Harbeck for those fine examples.

(I could go on and on.)

Hopefully, you understand the essence of my point.

(Adverbs first, tend to show the speaker’s attitude)

...chuckle

* * * * *

Martha surveyed the Worths’ impressive kitchen. “We sure were lucky to stay another month in these deluxe digs with all this stainless steel, granite, and marble.”

I stared out the floor-to-ceiling whole wall of windows showcasing the back gardens while I sliced some baby Bella mushroom then turned back to the others. “So what do we owe Mona’s visit to other than her potential fiancé?”

Hazel put butter and olive oil into the pan. “I certainly didn’t expect her pending engagement.”

Betty grabbed some Italian balsamic vinegar to drizzle over the just-sliced tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, and the garden-fresh basil on the platter. “From what you said, it all sounds so cloak and dagger.”

Martha stopped tearing up the Romaine lettuce leaves. “I noticed she wasn’t too excited we’re here. Must have put a crimp in her elaborate plans, whatever they were.”

Hazel turned to Martha. “Why do you say that?”

“Whenever Mona shows up there’s usually trouble.”

“True, but that’s what’s so exciting!” exclaimed Hazel.

I shook my head. “You’ve all read too many mysteries.”

“No,” said Martha. “We’ve been involved in too many.”

I handed over all the newly-sliced mushrooms to Hazel, who then slid them easily into the hot pan. I then sprinkled on some salt and pepper as they began to sizzle.

“I’d like to know what we’re dealing with,” I said.

“Do you think she’ll tell us the truth?” asked Martha.

“I sure hope so,” I replied, then chuckled. “And to think I thought I’d be bored once I finished my last mystery.”

“Bored never seems to come into the equation where we’re concerned, does it?” Martha said.

“Sam, your grin says you love every minute of intrigue that lands in your lap,” laughed Betty.

I tried to suppress another chuckle, but failed.

“And,” added Hazel, “as long as you have us, your top-notch sleuthing team backing you up, you’re golden.”

But as I considered Mona’s unexpected and suspicious arrival, I began to feel itchy. Like people get who ignore all the warnings about its hazards, but still walk right through poison ivy. Why turn back? I was already exposed.

I had stepped into it, but the question was, into what?

Chapter 5

Fact From Fiction

Our eyes traveled back and forth across the beautifully-set, flower-laden, and candlelit table, as Mona glossed over how Teddy and she met: an online dating site. Mona recited in a less-than-wordy explanation how she input her dream-date material. I gave Teddy the once-over. Her description of him had fit perfectly, which I found highly dubious. Mr. too-good-to-be-true Teddy and the ever-shrewd and savvy Mona were an unlikely pair: a beyond-believable match.

“Teddy, what caught your interest in Mona?” I probed.

“I wrote online I was an avid art enthusiast, and to my surprise, Mona replied she was just as passionate about art, and so was her sister, who had an impressive art collection. And here I thought witty Mona was just another pretty face, but after discovering our mutual interest, my world tilted.”

‘My world tilted?’ What idiot’s date guide did he read?

“Aww, Teddy,” said Mona, blushing.

Oh, please...

Martha had to look away for fear of cracking up.

My BS meter was off the scale. He was Mona’s match alright: both experts in the con market. Was that her reason for latching onto him? Okay, I admit his good looks could stop traffic. But other than that, what was this really about?

With Mona, trust me, something was always going on in the background. I was still lost in my musings of the, ‘how-they-got-together angle’ when Teddy turned my way and kept glancing back and forth between Mona and me.

“I’m having a hard time seeing any kind of resemblance between you and your twin sister, Mona.”

“Sam and I are fraternal twins, that’s why,” said Mona.

I swear, I almost spit out my wine. Fraternal...twins?

Mona quickly added, “Hard to believe, huh?”

Martha jerked Mona’s way. “Takes a leap of faith...”

Hazel coughed into her napkin to mask her laugh.

Betty took a gulp of her wine, not daring to speak.

Then I realized I hadn’t let my crew in on the lie Mona had spun about us being related and turned to explain.

“...Uh, you remember me saying how different we were, being sisters and fraternal twins, too, don’t you?” I said, subtly winking, trying not to blow Mona’s mounting lies and still trying to figure out what she had up her sleeve.

Snarky Martha eyed Mona’s full figure. “Must have been a tight fit for your Momma. I feel her pain.”

Mona glared at Martha. “You’re such a jokester.”

“True,” said Martha. “That’s what keeps me going.”

“What? You’re imagination or your sense of humor?”

“Where you’re concerned, both!” she said, grinning.

Teddy checked his image on a silver bowl on the table.

“Overreacting is unhealthy, Mona. It causes wrinkles.”

Martha laughed. “Ah, Teddy offers intriguing advice.”

Smoothing down his hair, he turned back to Martha.

“...Yeah, I’m just full of intrigue.”

Silence. Obviously, his focus was elsewhere: on himself.

“He sure is full of something,” whispered Martha.

“Are you familiar with my mystery series, Teddy?”

“I guess unraveling clues can be interesting.”

“Especially when someone slips up and gets their due.”

Perspiration appeared on Teddy’s upper lip. He broke eye contact and glanced toward Mona then the clock.

Now, Teddy, why so nervous?

Mona and Teddy were two peas in a pod: deceivers. But Mona pretty much fought for the good side. So that left me thinking Teddy was on the opposite side of that spectrum.

What was the big push to stay here?

Then the obvious hit me: the Worths’ vast art collection. They trusted me to protect their property and possessions. Why’d Mona expose it to this con? Had Teddy latched onto Mona because of this art? Were they conning each other?

I’d been watching Teddy’s every move since he came down from their apartment for dinner. He hadn’t glanced at anything else but mirrors and the art. Mona had to notice.

This whole thing felt like a set-up: a bad one.

Martha’s eyes caught mine then caught Teddy’s, asking him, “How about a drink and a game of pool downstairs?”

Teddy jumped at the invitation to leave the table. “Yes!”

He was most likely glad to get away from more scrutiny. Besides, a bunch of women and one man makes men kind of edgy. Just ask Clay. It happened frequently.

Mona jumped up too. “That sounds like a good idea...”

I stopped her, brooking no excuses. “No,” I whispered.

Then I nodded as Martha wearing her stilettos gave me a wink and a thumbs up as she followed Teddy. I turned on some music, hoping it would muffle both upstairs and downstairs.

Martha was taking one for the home team.

~~~~

Other Books by Peggy A. Edelheit

The Samantha Jamison Mystery Series

The Puzzle Book 1

Without Any Warning Book 2

86 Avenue du Goulet Book 3

A Lethal Time Book 4

Mouth Of The Rat Book 5

Death Knell In The Alps Book 6

The Lush Life Book 8

Too Close For Comfort Book 9

Memoir: The Riviera is Burning

Visit my website: http://samanthajamison.com

About The Author

Peggy A. Edelheit has three sons, lives with her husband & Miniature Schnauzer, Samantha II & spends time between Bucks County, PA and South Florida.

Visit the author’s website: http://www.samanthajamison.com

or

Twitter: @samanthajamison

I am so grateful to all my readers for all your wonderful

feedback and support. Thank you, Peggy