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

“The son of a bitch,” Tilda said, outraged. “He stuck me with the check?”

“That’s a guy for you,” the waitress said. “With the coffee, that’s nine eighty-seven.”

“Jerk.” Tilda dug in her purse for the money, kicking herself. She’d actually had semi-warm thoughts about the bastard, which just went to show how pathetic she was. Well, the good news was, he was out of her life.

And her Scarlet was back. She felt slightly sick at the thought but it was all good, having it back. It really was.

“Thank you,” she told the waitress and headed out the door, grateful for her narrow escape.

ACROSS THE STREET, Davy lounged against the side of a building, hidden in the shadows. Sorry about that, Betty, he thought as he saw the waitress catch her by the door. She looked up and down the street, undoubtedly gunning for him, and he stayed motionless in the shadows, watching her sling her bag over her shoulder and anchor the painting under her arm before starting off, taking long strides and making people turn to watch as she walked by. Clearly not cut out for crime, he thought as he began to follow her.

Four blocks later she cut down a side street and he picked up speed to catch her, only to find himself alone in an alley. Kicking himself for not watching her closer, he went back out into the street and looked around.

There was nothing of interest on the street except for a dingy brick storefront that had dim light filtering through its windows. Davy walked over and looked through the glass. The shop was dark, but at the back was a door with a window in it and people moving around inside. And through the shadows in the front of the store he could see two well-executed but depressed-looking seascapes.

Paintings.

That is not a coincidence, he thought, and stepped back to scan the peeling sign over the storefront. It was hard to read because the gold letters had faded, but after a minute he’d spelled it out: the goodnight gallery.

So Betty the art thief had connections to an art gallery. He caught sight of a smaller sign in the lower corner of the show window and moved closer to read it.

“Furnished Apartment for Rent,” it said. “Inquire within.”

He looked over his shoulder, suddenly cautious, remembering his dad: if things seem too good to be true, get out. Michael Dempsey wasn’t much of a father, but as a survivor, he had no peer.

Davy considered the situation. If some human being wasn’t setting him up for a fall, fate was. He thought about Betty, her pale blue eyes clueless behind those bug glasses, failing miserably at seducing him at Clea’s, stonewalling him with no finesse at all in the diner. The chances that she’d led him here on purpose seemed slim to none.

Fate, on the other hand, could very well be trolling for him. He’d been a pool player long enough to know that if you had to choose between skill and luck, you chose luck; a con man long enough to know that if you had to choose between a great plan and fate on your side, you picked fate. And here he was, up to his ass in skill and plans.

The situation required some thought and he needed some capital, so he went to find a bar with a pool table. Betty could wait.

After all, he knew where to find her.

FIVE MINUTES earlier, Tilda had let herself in the back door of the gallery and then into the office. Gwen was stretched out on the beat-up leather couch, her blonde hair picking up some flame from the bubbler jukebox, which was playing the Cookies’ “Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My Baby,” but Spot leaped to his feet from the threadbare carpet and launched himself at Tilda. She caught him as Gwen sat up so fast she almost slid off the leather couch.

“Where have you been? My God, I thought you’d-”

“I know.” Tilda tried to control Spot’s flailing rear end without dropping the painting. “It’s solved. Look!” She held up the paper-wrapped square, and Gwen sank back down onto the cushions.

“Thank God.” Gwen lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

Tilda dropped the painting on the couch and hauled the frantic dog up to her shoulder to comfort him as he began to hyperventilate again. “I know,” she said, patting him like a baby, enjoying his blatant need for her. “I can’t believe it’s all over.”

“It’s not,” Gwen said.

The office door opened again before Tilda could say anything, and Andrew came in, Eve padding behind him in purple pajamas and fuzzy slippers. “We heard you come in,” he said, pulling Tilda into a bear hug and crushing Spot in the process. “We’ve missed you, delinquent.” Tilda leaned against him for a moment, loving his arms around her, and then Spot gave a strangled moan and Andrew let go.

“Now me.” Eve shoved aside her ex-husband to hug her, too, her curls brushing Tilda’s chin. “We missed you so much,” she said, her voice muffled in Tilda’s neck.

“I missed you, too,” Tilda said, patting her back. “You have no idea how much I want to talk to you.”

Eve pulled away. “What’s wrong? If it’s money, we’re okay. Nadine sold an old painting for a thousand dollars!”

“Yeah,” Tilda said. “Not good. It was a Scarlet.”

“So?” Eve’s eyes went to the painting on the couch, the paper torn even more now so that most of the sky was visible. “Is that it? Why is it back?”

“Because it’s a fake,” Tilda said flatly.

“Why?” Eve picked up the painting and began to pick at the tape that bound it. “Because you signed it ‘Scarlet’? So?” She shrugged. “It’s a stage name. Like my ‘Louise.’ Writers do it, don’t they?” She looked at Tilda. “Write under fake names for their privacy? You were just painting in private.”

“We told people Scarlet was Homer’s daughter. They bought her paintings because of Homer.”

“I think her paintings were wonderful.” Eve tugged at the tape. “I think that’s why they bought them, not because of that old poop Homer.”

“Oh, Homer wasn’t that bad,” Gwen said.

Tilda lifted her chin. “It doesn’t matter now. We’re safe.”

“No we aren’t,” Gwen said.

Eve gave up on the tape and began to tear the paper off.

“Mason is looking for the rest of the Scarlets,” Gwen said, and Tilda held the dog tighter as her stomach went south again. “He wants to write about Scarlet. All he can find about her is that one interview your father did, so he wants me to tell him all about her. He wants to talk to her.”

“You don’t remember anything,” Tilda said, as Spot squirmed in her arms. “We’ve got the painting back, so-”

“I don’t think so,” Eve said, looking at the canvas as she dropped the paper on the floor.

“What?” Tilda said, and Eve turned it around so they could see.

“The one Nadine told me about had our building in it.” She pointed to the fat little cows that dotted the landscape. “She didn’t mention cows.”

Tilda looked at the painting and felt her lungs go.

Cows.

Gwen looked at Tilda. “That’s not the painting Nadine sold Clea Lewis. You stole the wrong painting.”

“I knew that guy was trouble,” Tilda said, still staring at the cows as she put Spot on the floor. They weren’t even her cows; they’d been her father’s idea.

“Guy?” Andrew said. “What guy?”

Her father had said, “Scarlet is a country girl. She doesn’t live in our building, for God’s sake, are you trying to blow this whole deal? She paints, I don’t know, cows. Go paint cows.” And Tilda had, fat little cows with gold filigree wings that flitted all over the landscape that Eve was holding up.

The landscape that somebody had bought.

Legally.

She felt for her inhaler in her pocket again. She was using it too much. Her asthma was out of control.

Cows.

“What guy?” Andrew said.