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He’s still got my wrist in a vicelike grip. “She was trying to steal your necklace.”
“I-I—” I want to explain. That I wasn’t stealing it, but that’d be a lie and I’m no liar. So, I go with “It’s mine.”
“It’s yours?” the colossal woman snaps. “I beg your pardon.” She’s wagging her long finger at me. “Wait a moment. You were asking me about the locket earlier.”
Duh. Like half an hour ago.
Our little convo is interrupted when the gallery manager, a guy named Paul something, also the guy who hired me, steps up. “What’s going on here?”
“Oh, hey, Paul.” I do my best to act nonchalant.
I fail.
“She tried to steal my necklace.” She’s pointing at me again. “Call the police.”
Well, crap on a cracker. Not the police. “No.” I shake my head. “Here.” I hold the locket out to her. “I was just looking at it.”
Fred and his lofty grandmother are glaring at Paul. She’s the one that gets the ball rolling by saying, “Get her out of this room. This is going to ruin Frederick’s night if people hear what’s happening. All eyes will be on her and not the paintings.” She sniffs snootily like rich people do in movies and books. “While you do that, I’ll call the police.”
“You.” Paul points at me. Everyone is pointing at me. “Come with me. I’ll lock you in my office until the police arrive.”
Lock me in his office? He can’t. I’ve got an event to run. “That’s not necessary.”
Apparently, Paul doesn’t believe me. “If I had handcuffs, I’d cuff you to something so you can’t run off.”
I can’t believe he’s just taking their word over mine. Rich people get all the breaks. “I’m not going to run off.” I wouldn’t, on principle. The fact I’ve got about two thousand dollars’ worth of equipment at this event is reason two. No way will I leave without that stuff.
That’s when Molly appears. “What’s up, boss?”
How do I say this without incriminating myself? “I’m in a bit of a bind. You’re in charge. Make sure you get all of my stuff if I’m arrested.”
“Arrested?” Molly looks at the scene around her. “Uh… you want me to call my dad?”
Her father is a lawyer. Granted, he’s a tax attorney, but I’ve known him forever. No matter, any lawyer is better than none. The Maloneys used to live next door to my grandparents. “Good idea. No. Great idea. Yes. Give him a call, please.”
“Jesus,” Molly snorts. “You’re in deep shit if you want Carl Maloney involved.”
I believe I am. In deep doo-doo, that is.
Chapter Three
It doesn’t take long for the law to arrive. I’m not sure what I expect, but it wasn’t this, because in the fifteen or twenty minutes since they made the call, I imagined a scene where twenty officers from the SWAT team arrived, guns drawn, to arrest me.
It didn’t happen like that though. Instead of a full-on tidal wave of police, the door to Paul’s office opens and a man steps inside. Just one. Not twenty, or even two. He’s a big fellow. Tall, broad, and quite handsome in a rugged sort of way. He’s wearing an ill-fitting gray suit that’s seen better days. He’s got on an equally worn shirt that could have been white when it was new but now is more ivory. Not dirty, just worn a lot. The tie reminds me of one that hung in my grandfather’s closet. He called it his death tie because he only wore it to funerals. Ironically, he was buried in that tie. Anyhoo, it was just like this guy’s, black with alternating white stripes. No paisley-patterned ties for this man. No way.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Ugh. Don’t you hate getting called ma’am? “Good evening, erm, sir.” Might as well be cordial.
“My name is Detective Whelan.”
“Whelan?” I perk right up. I’ve got to ask. “How do you spell that?”
“Uh, well, W-h-e-l-a-n.”
I nod and smile. “Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
