Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

“Okay, we’ve been here before,” he said to her, keeping his hand over her mouth as he pinned her to the quilt. “Unless you want everybody in this place to know you’re a burglar, keep your voice down.” She glared at him over his hand, and he said in a more conversational tone, “No kicking. No biting. And don’t have an asthma attack.”

She brought her knee up and he rolled to avoid her, and caught sight of Dorcas through the open door, watching them, as unperturbed as Ariadne. Tilda shoved him away and herself off the bed with one motion, and stood out of arm’s reach, looking frantic. “How did you get here? How did you find me? What are you doing here?”

“Renting a room?” Davy said.

“No you’re not,” she said and shot out the door. He went after her, but she was fast on her feet, and Ariadne got in his way, so he didn’t catch her until they were on the ground floor.

“This,” Betty said, as she fell through a door with him right behind her, “is the guy from last night.”

Three people stared at him: Gwen, a pretty little blonde who looked a lot like Nadine, and a tall blond man who had clearly decided to dislike him on sight. Behind them, Steve the dog eyed him warily in front of a huge pink-and-orange bubbler jukebox playing some woman singing “I’m into Something Good.”

“Hi,” Davy said, not sure what to do next.

“You rented the room to a thief,” Betty said to Gwen.

“Actually, I’m not a thief,” Davy said.

“Oh.” Gwen nodded. “I knew there was something wrong with you.”

“You’re the burglar in the closet.” The little blonde dimpled at him.

“The guy who stole the wrong painting?” the tall guy said, hostile as hell.

“The burglar thing was a one-time deal,” Davy told the little blonde.

“Evict him,” Betty said to Gwen. “Refund his rent.”

“We could use him,” the blonde said, and Davy thought, Whatever you want, honey.

Then the other shoe dropped. “Wrong painting?” Davy said.

The little blonde held out her hand. “I’m Eve.”

I’m Adam. “I’m Davy.” He took her hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Nadine’s mama,” she went on, more wholesome than he’d thought possible in a woman over twenty. “And Vilma’s sister.”

“And this is Andrew, Nadine’s father,” Gwen said pointedly.

Damn, Davy thought and let go of Eve’s hand. He nodded to Andrew who did not nod back, which made sense since he’d been ogling Andrew’s wife.

“And you know Tilda,” Gwen said.

“Tilda?” Davy said, turning back to Betty, starting to grin. “As in Matilda?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice like ice.

Davy shook his head. “And you got mad when I called you Betty.”

“I didn’t get mad,” she began. “I-”

“How important is it that we get the painting back?” Andrew said to Tilda, and Tilda abandoned Davy in a nanosecond to focus on him.

“Very important,” Tilda said. “But I can do it.”

Andrew shook his head at her. “No. You stay out of there. Let this guy do it.”

“Gee, thanks,” Davy said. “But no.”

“No?” Eve looked crushed. “Can’t you wait to go to Australia?”

“What?” Davy said.

“Nadine said you were on your way-”

“Oh.” Davy shook his head. “No, it’s not Australia.”

It would have been fun to comfort Eve, but Andrew already didn’t like him. “I stole you a painting already, remember?” Davy said to Tilda. “Everything you asked for, square board, night sky, stars…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gwen said, her voice fair. “They do look-”

“I said a city scene,” Tilda said. “The one you stole had cows in it.” Her tone was not warm.

“Be nice, Tilda,” Eve said. “Describe the one you want him to steal and send him after it, and all our problems will be over.”

“Honey,” Davy said to Eve, “if I could steal another painting, I would, just for you, but I can’t get back in there.”

“Why not?” Tilda said, and he transferred his attention back to her.

“Because there may be people in the house,” he said. “And I have recently learned that’s a very bad idea.”

“So if there weren’t any people in the house, you could do it?” Gwen sounded as if she were heading for something, and Davy focused on her.

“Yes,” Davy said.

Behind them, the jukebox changed records and someone who was not Linda Ronstadt began to sing, “You’re No Good.”

“Because I might be able to get them out of that house,” Gwen said. “Mason wants to look at the files. If we take out all the Hodge files first, I could invite him over, and Clea would follow him to keep an eye on him, and he could shuffle through the records as much as he wanted. And his house would be empty.”

Tilda rounded on Davy, switching tactics so fast he was surprised she didn’t leave skid marks. “You didn’t get what you wanted, either. You could go in and get the painting and whatever-”

“No.” Davy stared her down. How Eve’s pale blue eyes could be so sweet, and Tilda’s same blue eyes so icy was beyond him.

“Why not?” Tilda said.

“Because I’m not letting four complete strangers send me off to commit a crime for them,” Davy said. “That would leave me pretty exposed, don’t you think?”

“You can trust us,” Eve said earnestly.

“You, maybe,” Davy told her. “But your sister has conflicted feelings for me. She’s tried to maim me several times now, so ratting me out to the cops wouldn’t bother her at all. She goes with me.”

“It’s okay,” Tilda said to Gwen. “I looked in most of the rooms already, it’ll only take a few minutes. I checked every place but Clea’s closet and the third floor.”

“You didn’t check the closet?” Davy said.

“I was attacked when I tried,” Tilda said.

“Because I didn’t look there, either,” he said. “I found the cows on the next floor up. Big room, full of wrapped and packed paintings. I took the first one I saw that was the right size and shape and had stars.”

“I would have done the same thing,” Eve said, nodding at him, and Davy thought, What a sweetheart.

“So it’s probably in her closet.” Tilda took a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

“I’ll call Mason,” Gwen said and headed for the gallery.

Davy smiled at Eve, and Andrew took her arm.

“We have things to do,” Andrew said, keeping an eye on Davy as he dragged Eve from the room.

Davy turned to look at Tilda, now standing all alone in front of the jukebox, eyeing him as though he were something hissing the dog had dragged in.

“So, Betty,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s get to know each other.”

“Oh, hell,” Tilda said, and collapsed onto the couch.

THE LAST OF “you’re no good” tailed off, and Davy looked around to see what he’d gotten himself into. It was a medium-sized room filled to capacity by a huge old leather sofa and an equally huge old walnut desk that looked as though it might have once been valuable. They flanked the jukebox and a large round oak table with beat-up, mismatched chairs that didn’t look valuable at all, everything including Steve the dog sitting on a very beautiful and very worn Oriental rug.

“Cash flow problem?” Davy said to Tilda.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for me,” Tilda said. “It’s that I think it’s creepy that you know where I live.” She frowned at him, her blue eyes cold behind her bug glasses, her Kewpie-doll mouth flattened to a tense line.

“I followed you home last night,” Davy said, and went over to a row of photos on the wall.

“I’m supposed to be reassured by that?” Tilda said as he looked at the array of school portraits and holiday snapshots. “You stalked me.”

“That’ll teach you to neck in closets,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something with files?”

She was quiet behind him for a minute and he tensed, but then he heard a chair scrape as if somebody had yanked it across the floor and then a file drawer open, and he went back to the pictures, fairly sure she wasn’t going to attack him.

The pictures must have been up in no particular order since there was one of an angelic-looking blonde baby next to one of three teenage girls in fifties bubble hair and big skirts, leaning together with their chins out, over a pen scrawl that said “The Rayons.” One looked like Eve, but that couldn’t be, she was much too young to have been a teen in the fifties, and on the other side-

“My God, you’re wearing a poodle skirt and big hair in this picture,” he said, turning to look at Tilda. “How old are you?”

“None of your business,” Tilda said, bent over a card catalog. Steve glared at Davy from her lap. “Get away from my family.”

“There’s no reason to be bitchy,” Davy said. “If you’d told me your name when I asked nicely, I wouldn’t have had to stalk you.”

“It was a high school talent show.” Tilda slammed the drawer and opened the next one. “Nineteen eighty-five. Retro kitsch.”

“And your talent was…”

“Singing. And no, I’m not very good at it.”

“The Rayons?”

She took a deep breath. “Gwennie raised us on girl group music like the Chiffons. You know, this is really creepy, having you here.”

“Vilma, you frenched me in the dark, and now you’re upset I followed you home?”

“You didn’t follow me home for that,” Tilda said, looking at him over her glasses. “You’re up to something.”

“You know me well.” Davy went back to the pictures. “Who’s the third girl? Louise?”

The silence behind him was deafening.