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I’m a ghost on the breeze, never to be suspected or even considered.
The woman’s anxiousness is ramping up, judging by the way she’s nibbling at her lip now. Whether it’s the elapsed time or a return of her conscience, I don’t know. “You have to hurry.”
I nod, and she leads me to the third one. Another painting. I do a cursory examination, not truly interested and only finishing my casing of the room, but something in the layers of paint catches my eye.
I look again in another spot, and then another. The crackling of the paint is all wrong. This piece should have aged out with spiderweb-style cracks, and while they’re there, the cracks are too pronounced in some areas and nearly indistinct in others. Storage in non-climate-controlled areas might cause that, but this piece has been in a documented private collection for generations. It would have been cared for diligently.
I’d have to do a deeper examination, but I’m reasonably certain this is a forgery. That it’s for sale by a reputable auction house tells me that fact is unknown, and I muse mildly about how long the original’s been gone. For all I know, the forgery could have been passed off for a generation or more. Or it might be a new development by a family who needs funds but is unwilling to sell off an important heirloom.
But I don’t tell the woman who’s looking toward the door and then at her watch. I save that information for myself. Instead, I push my glasses up my nose and dip my chin. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. We need to go now.”
I nod and follow her back out. I consciously don’t look back at anything, not wanting to show my hand in the middle of the game. Anyone who reviews the tape would think I came, I saw, I walked.
There’s a man coming back in the door as we return to the front desk area. At the sight of him, the woman with me freezes like a deer in the headlights, stammering. You’d make a terrible criminal. “Oh, hi . . . Randy. This is . . .”
I step forward to help, taking charge before she blows the whole fucking thing up without even meaning to. It’s for her good as much as my own. “Mike. I’m a . . . friend.” I say the word with a hint of allusion, letting Randy fill in what that might mean. Boyfriend, side piece, truly just a buddy. “How’s it going?”
The woman steps closer to my side as Randy gives me a surprised nod. I fight the urge to bristle at her closeness and instead look down at her, faking fondness to sell the cover story. “I’ll see you later?”
Implication drips heavily from the question, and Randy’s eyebrows go up another inch. Perfect. At this point, it’d take an act of God to get this woman to tell anyone about what she just did. She pushes her hair behind her ear. “Yeah.”
I move toward the door, glancing back once to make sure Randy bought the whole thing. He’s already striding down the hall, not paying the woman any mind. But she picks up the envelope and mouths, “Thank you.”
I smile in answer, but as soon as the door closes behind me, the fake smile falls away instantly.
I’ve got more work to do.
It’s late afternoon before I get back home, changing clothes into comfortable jeans and a T-shirt before going next door. I knock and hear Nut and Juice go crazy on the other side. “It’s me, you little monsters. Go get Poppy.”
A moment later, the lock slides, and I’m ready to press inside and get Poppy back in my arms as soon as possible. It’s been a long day of prep, but as soon as I lay eyes on her, I know something’s wrong. First, her mouth is a thin line, lips pressed tightly together. Second, she doesn’t jump at me like one of her overly hyper dogs who are swirling around my ankles.
“Get your ass in here.”
Damn. What happened since this morning? The flatness in her usually bright tone guts me.
“Writer’s block back?” I ask, hoping it's only that and not something much more dire. If it’s that, I’m more than up for naked muse time and pep talks and whatever else it takes.
No such luck. She shakes her head and sits on the far end of the couch, her legs curled up in front of her, putting a literal wall between us. I sit down on the other end, turning toward her and laying an arm across the back of the couch, intentionally choosing an open posture that invites her to crawl into my lap.
Poppy doesn’t take the invitation and looks at me evenly. “Tell me about when you took my laptop.”
“We’ve covered this,” I point out.
