Faking It - Crusie Jennifer (читать книги бесплатно полностью .txt) 📗

“It’s cooler here,” he said.

She waited for him to say more but he just stood there, huge and patient. It was perverse and Gwen had had enough perverse for one lifetime. She leaned on the counter. “So it’s not cool where you live?”

“It’s not bad.”

“Air-conditioning?” Gwen said.

“No.” She waited and the silence stretched out until he said, “I live on the water.”

Of course, you do, Gwen thought. That’s why you came to Ohio to stay in a dark little overpriced apartment. “Ocean-front condo?”

“My boat.”

“Your boat.” White sands, blue water, alcoholic drinks with little umbrellas. I want a boat, Gwen thought and then kicked herself. Where would she put it? The Olen-tangy?

“Is there something wrong?”

“No,” Gwen said. “I was thinking about your boat. I bet the water’s blue and the sand is white and all the drinks have little umbrellas.”

“Not my drinks.”

“Well, no, of course not.” Gwen looked at him, exasperated. “This boat has a bed and a kitchen and everything?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And you left it to come to Ohio because…”

“I have work here. I won’t be staying long.”

“Oh,” Gwen said. “Then why…”

“Because renting from you is cheaper than staying in a hotel,” he said. “Although not faster.”

“I’ll get the keys,” she said, but it wasn’t until she was in the office, rummaging in the desk drawer, that she realized where he was going to be staying.

Two B. Right across from her.

She picked up the phone, finding the paper with Mason’s number that she’d pinned to the bulletin board. She dialed and listened to the Weather Girls sing “I feel stormy weather moving in” while she watched Mr. Brown through the glass door to the gallery. He was looking at Dorcas’s seascapes. They would help him not miss his boat. Finsters could put anybody off the water for good.

“Hello?” Clea said.

“Clea?” Gwen said. “This is Gwen Goodnight. There’s a man here named Ford Brown who wants to rent an apartment from me. He gave you as a ref-”

“I know him,” Clea said. “It’s okay.”

“Oh.” Gwen peered through the glass again. He hadn’t gotten any less disquieting. “Okay. Thanks.”

So Clea vouched for him and he had sixteen hundred in cash. Well, if he kills me, it’ll be what I deserve for selling out, she thought, and then she went out front, feeling that at least she’d done better than she had with Davy, although Davy had known the Milland movie.

“The outside door is to the left,” she said, handing him the keys. “I’ll take you up.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

He made her uneasy behind her on the way up the stairs, and she thought, If there was only a sign, something that would tell me this is all right, and then on an impulse, she turned back to him, her eyes level with his because he was two steps below her. “You don’t happen to know an eight-letter word that means ‘capable of sin,’ do you?”

He looked at her with no expression on his face at all, and then his lips twitched. “No, ma’am.”

“Oh.” Gwen shrugged, feeling like an idiot. When even the scary guys laughed at her, she had lost it. “Just a thought. I work Double-Crostics and that one’s stumping me.”

He nodded.

She sighed and went the rest of the way up the stairs, and he followed her to the room, looked around without comment, thanked her for her help, and shut the door, leaving her in the hall, a little rattled by the whole thing.

I rented a room to an ax murderer, she thought. Who owns a boat. She turned to see Tilda on the stairs below her.

“Who was that?” Tilda said.

“Mr. Brown,” Gwen said, coming down the stairs. “He just rented Two B.”

“Merciful heavens.” Tilda followed her into the office. “Right across from you. Gwennie, your luck has finally turned.”

“He’s a tenant,” Gwen said.

“No imagination. I vote you go for it.”

“Like you did?” Gwen said, and Tilda shut up.

The gallery door opened, and Nadine came in from the street, running her tongue across her teeth as they went out to meet her. “It always feels weird,” she said. “Dr. Mark says hi. Everyone there was thrilled I’d been flossing.” She looked at them. “What’s up now?”

“Gwennie just rented the last apartment,” Tilda said. “To a very hot guy.”

“Simon?” Nadine said.

“Who’s Simon?” Gwen asked.

“No, a different hot guy,” Tilda said, frowning. “Although now that you mention it, it is raining men here.”

“Simon?” Gwen said.

“Davy’s friend,” Nadine said. “He’s staying in Davy’s room. He paid the rent.”

“So where’s Davy staying?” Gwen said.

“So about Mr. Brown,” Tilda said.

“I think he moved in with Aunt Tilda,” Nadine said.

Gwen looked at Tilda, who looked at the ceiling.

“Right,” Gwen said. “Mr. Brown. I’m sure he’s a very nice man. He’s got that cowboy thing going. His first name is Ford. Maybe his mama was channeling John Ford when she named him.”

“Ford Brown?” Tilda said, her eyes back from the ceiling. “Did you get his middle name?”

“No,” Gwen said, going back to her stool behind the counter. “But I got his sixteen hundred dollars.”

“Because if it’s Madox, we’ve got ourselves a tenant with a fake identity,” Tilda said. “Or the descendent of a famous painter, but what are the chances of that?”

Nadine said, “Famous painter?”

Gwen shook her head. “Or his mama loved her Thunderbird. Let’s not get too paranoid here.” She picked up her Double-Crostic book.

“I have rehearsal,” Nadine said. “Keep me informed on the cowboy painter.”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Gwen turned to her puzzle.

“Davy and I are going to go get a painting.” Tilda kissed her cheek. “I’ll call if we need bail.”

“Oh, good.” Gwen ran her eyes down the list of clues as Tilda went out through the office. Thank God for Double-Crostics. There was never anything upsetting there.

I. Prone to sin. Eight letters.

Ford Brown, she thought.

No that was nine letters.

Doughnut.

She moved on to K.

Chapter 9

UPSTAIRS, DAVY HAD GONE through the scarlet notes and was now contemplating his future. “I’m starting to like this room, Steve,” he said to the dog as they stretched out on the white quilt. “Like its owner, it has infinite possibilities.” Steve sighed and put his head between his paws and Davy scratched his ears. “You’ve really got a thing for her, don’t you? Good thinking on your part. She’ll never let you down. Dog biscuits and sleeping on the bed for life.” Steve rolled his head to one side a little to listen, and Davy thought about Tilda, taking care of everybody, desperate to get those paintings back so people wouldn’t find out her father sold forgeries.

That had to be it. There had to be something wrong with those paintings, something dangerous enough to make Tilda turn to crime. Because she wasn’t a natural at it, that was for sure. He spared a moment to wonder what Tilda would have been like if his dad had raised her instead of hers. Not much difference, he decided. Some people were straight clean through. They never got that insane buzz that sliding into forbidden territory set up in the blood, when every nerve ending sharpened and hummed, and every sound and scent was magnified. God, I miss it, he thought. Thanks for raising me to be an adrenaline junkie, Pop. At least he hadn’t turned out like his dad. There would be a horror story for you.

There had to be another way to get that buzz. Some way that was legal. Bungee jumping. No, that was stupid. Drugs. No, that was illegal. Sex. That was Tilda. Okay, she wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but he could get a second shot and make sure she paid attention this time. She could even bite if she wanted to since, given Gwennie’s needlework, it appeared to be a genetic predisposition. He began to think about her instead of crime, and he was feeling fairly cheerful by the time he and Steve heard her step on the stairs.