“Louise?” she said.

“Yeah,” Davy said. “Dorcas warned me about Louise. Who is she?”

“My… cousin,” Tilda said. “She works with Andrew at the Double Take. She’s not here very often. She doesn’t live here.” She was close to babbling, which meant she was lying. Again.

“What’s the Double Take?”

“Andrew’s club,” Tilda said. “The floor show is impersonators, all kinds, and people come dressed up like other people, and there’s a Karaoke Night on Tuesdays that really…” Her voice trailed off as if she’d realized she was talking too much. “You should go there sometime,” she finished. “Nobody there is what they seem to be, either.”

He turned back to the Rayons photo. “Louise doesn’t look much like you and Eve.”

“That’s not her,” Tilda said. “That’s Andrew.”

“No, the girl in the middle.” Davy looked closer. It was Andrew. A teenage Andrew in big hair and a puffy skirt, but still Andrew, looking prettier than either Eve or Tilda. “Oh. He makes a really good-looking girl.”

“He makes a really good-looking guy,” Tilda said.

“So, does your sister know you have a thing for her husband?” Davy asked.

“Had,” Tilda said.

“No, it’s still there.” Davy moved down to look at a more recent picture of Andrew, this time dressed as Marilyn Monroe.

“She had a husband,” Tilda was saying. “They’re divorced. And I had a thing, but it’s over.”

“I don’t think so,” Davy said, moving on to one of Na-dine’s grade-school pictures. Very cute. “Why’d they get divorced?” He went down the line of photographs until he found their wedding picture. “Did you get grabby?”

Tilda opened the last file drawer. “Andrew fell in love with somebody else.”

“Andrew has no brains,” Davy said, looking at Eve, smiling like a dewy angel, her face fresh and clean under her blonde curls.

“Andrew is gay,” Tilda said, “and Jeff is a great guy.”

“Andrew didn’t know this before he married Eve?”

“He says not. He says it was God’s way of making sure there was a Nadine.” She took a card out of the last drawer and tipped Steve gently to the floor as she stood up. “That’s it for here. I have to go downstairs. You are not invited, and you can’t stay here.”

“Tell me about this painting.” Davy swung around to confront her. “Why are we stealing it?”

“You do not need to know that,” Tilda said, starting past him.

“Oh, yes,” Davy said, catching her arm. “If I’m stealing it, I need some information. Who painted it?”

Tilda took a deep breath and then turned those eyes on him, glaring with intent.

“What?” he said.

“You know,” she said coldly, “there are people who are afraid to cross me.”

“And what a shame none of them are here,” Davy said. “Who painted it?”

She sighed. “Scarlet Hodge.”

Davy looked at her, dumbfounded. “Somebody named a helpless baby Scarlet Hodge?”

Tilda pulled her arm out of his grasp.

“Of course, Gwennie named you Matilda,” he said, reflecting.

“My father named me Matilda,” Tilda said. “After my great-grandmother, so show some respect.”

“Uh-huh. And your middle name?”

“Veronica.” When the silence stretched out, Tilda added, “After Ronnie Spector. ‘Be My Baby.’”

“You have my sympathies,” Davy said.

“It was almost Artemesia Dionne,” Tilda said. “You may keep your sympathies.”

“Okay,” Davy said. “So Scarlet painted them and Clea bought one. Where’d the other one come from?”

Tilda shrugged. “Mason Phipps, I guess.”

“So we take that one back.” He watched her stiffen. “Betty, you’re keeping things that don’t belong to you,” he said sternly. “That’s bad.”

Tilda stared back at him, unblinking, as Gwen came in radiating tension and said, “It’s set. They’ll be here at eight. Mason is thrilled?” She sounded not thrilled. “Did you get the files?”

“Going down after them now,” Tilda said, equally tense. They both looked miserable.

“Not used to crime, huh, girls?” Davy said.

“Good heavens, no,” Gwen said and went back out into the gallery.

“You may go now,” Tilda said to him, and he thought, I could be chasing divorced Eve right now. Then the light caught Tilda’s crazy blue eyes again, and she looked stubborn and difficult and exasperating and infinitely more interesting than Eve, if he could keep her from maiming him. And he already knew she could kiss.

“So,” he said, sliding down the door to sit on the floor. “Talk to me, Matilda Veronica. Tell me all about it.”


❖ ❖ ❖

ACROSS TOWN, Clea sat at her bedroom vanity and fumed, mostly so she wouldn’t panic. Mason was besotted with that horrendous Goodnight woman.

If Gwen had been twenty, it would have made sense.

Clea looked in the vanity mirror. Forty-five years of taking exquisite care of herself couldn’t make her twenty. The way she’d squandered her youth appalled her. Rich men had wanted her, but she’d wanted to be an actress. She’d wanted to show everybody she was somebody.

The problem was, you needed money to be somebody.

You don’t have much time, she told her reflection savagely. You made stupid choices and now the clock is ticking. This one has to be the one. Do something, you dumb bitch.

The contempt she felt for herself was making her frown. That added a good ten years right there. She smoothed out her forehead, shoving away her anger, and with the anger gone, all that was left was panic.

No. Clea straightened on the vanity bench and smiled at herself. Her competition was not a twenty-year-old, it was Gwen. Gwen was old. So maybe it wasn’t the woman, maybe it was the gallery. In which case, why didn’t he buy a damn art gallery? Honestly, men.

The phone rang and she picked it up, ready to mutilate whoever it was on general principles.

“Clea!” Ronald said. “Darling!”

Darling, my ass. “Tell me Davy Dempsey is on his way to Tibet,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Why would he go to Tibet?” Ronald said.

“You were supposed to get rid of him, Ronald,” Clea said. “You’re failing me, Ronald.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Ronald said, panic making his voice rise. “But it’s okay. I talked to somebody-”

“I don’t want you to talk to somebody, I want you to get rid of him,” Clea said. “Do not call me again until he is out of the way.”

“But I did-”

Clea hung up on him, taking savage satisfaction in smacking the receiver down hard. Those phones where you pushed the button to hang up were never going to last. People needed cradles to smash receivers into to let fools know they were pushing their luck. Fools like Ronald. Her eyes narrowed. And Gwen Goodnight.

She needed a contingency plan. She tapped her foot for a moment and then picked up the phone and hit star 69. “Ronald?” she said a moment later, her voice much softer. “I’m sorry. I’m just so worried about Davy.” On the other end of the phone, Ronald made soothing noises. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Clea thought. “There is one way you could help. You know so many things, so many people. Could you be my darling and find out everything you can about Gwen Goodnight and the Goodnight Gallery? Especially Gwen Goodnight.” Ronald babbled all over himself. “You could? Oh, thank you, darling. I’ll be thinking about you.”

She hung up and thought, He’ll get something. That was one good thing about Ronald. He was efficient. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Frown lines again. She looked forty. Her face blanked out in panic -she was not aging, not yet, she didn’t have any money, she wasn’t going to be alone and poor- and then she took a deep breath and looked again, smiling.

An angel smiled back from the mirror.

“Don’t do that again,” Clea said to the mirror, and went to her closet to find something to wear that would make Mason forget all about galleries and Gwen Goodnight.


TILDA FROWNED AT DAVY, sitting calmly against the door to her escape, looking pretty damn good for a stalker-thief. “I don’t want to talk to you. Move.”

Davy smiled up at her. “So tell me, Matilda, was Dad slightly crooked?”

“Hey!” Tilda straightened, flustered with what she hoped looked like indignation. “Listen, you, my father had an impeccable reputation, my whole family does, for generations. We’re Goodnights.”

“Good for you.” For the first time, Davy looked a little taken aback. Steve walked over and sniffed him, and Davy scooped him into his lap and held him there like a shield.

“He used to warn people about some of the paintings,” Tilda said, on a roll. “He’d tell them to wait, to get more documentation-” She broke off as Davy perked up.

“Documentation. That’s how he knew if a painting was real?”

“He traced its provenance,” Tilda said, her voice full of forged virtue. “He found out where it originated, who sold it first, got letters from people who had owned it. He-”

“He was trusting a lot of people, then,” Davy said, patting Steve. “All he’d need is one crook in the bunch and only the artist would know for sure.”

Tilda snorted. “You can’t even trust the artist. They used to take paintings to Picasso for verification, and if he’d painted them and he didn’t like them, he’d deny them. But if somebody else had painted them and he liked them-”

“He’d claim them,” Davy said. “That makes sense.”

“Only if you’re dishonest,” Tilda said virtuously.