“I love it,” Nadine said. “It’s a sure thing.”

“There are no sure things.”

“Oh, yeah?” Nadine said. “You can’t beat me.”

Davy took a five out of his pocket and slapped it on the table. “Where’s yours?”

Nadine held out her hand to Ethan, and he sighed and dug a five out of his pocket and handed it to her. “You’ll get it back, Ethan,” she said.

“No you won’t, Ethan,” Davy said. “Deal ‘em.” He watched her shuffle the cards, show him the queen, and then palm it while she moved the rest around. For only having practiced a couple of hours, she was damn good.

“Okay,” Nadine said, still moving cards. “Now, where’s the queen?”

“Right here,” Davy said, putting his finger on the middle card.

“Well, let’s look and see,” Nadine said, smug with her queen up her sleeve.

“Let’s,” Davy said, keeping his finger on the middle card. He turned over the eight of clubs to the right and the four of spades to the left. “Will you look at that? Neither one is the queen, so it must be the middle one.” He took the two fives on the table.

“That’s not fair,” Nadine said, looking outraged.

Davy took his hand off the card and grabbed her wrist. “Neither is this,” he said, sliding the queen out of her sleeve and flipping it at her. “Don’t let me catch you pulling this on anybody ever again.”

“Can I practice it on Ethan?” Nadine said.

“You’re screwing Ethan over enough,” Davy said. “You don’t need to take him at cards, too. Put the last coat of paint on the door instead.”

“I’m really tired of painting,” Nadine said dangerously.

“ ‘We keep you alive to serve this ship,’” Davy said to her. “ ‘Row well and live.’”

“Ben Hur” Ethan said, evidently not too perturbed about being screwed over.

“Honestly,” Nadine said, and stuffed the cards in her pocket.

Davy went back into the office and found Tilda watching through the door. “Your niece has a real knack for crime.”

“And yet I feel certain that you also can play that game,” Tilda said.

“Can,” Davy said. “I don’t.”

“So law-abiding,” Tilda said. “Such an example to us all.”

“Now about this burglary tomorrow night,” Davy said. “Definitely wear that Chinese thing. I like it.”

Michael was nowhere to be found that evening, but the next night, on his way to meet Tilda for one last theft, Davy knocked on Dorcas’s door. When Michael answered, Davy said, “Do not teach Nadine con games.”

“You’ve got to teach them when they’re young,” Michael said. “That’s another reason I have to go see Sophie. Dempsey’s a little underage yet, but doesn’t Sophie have a stepdaughter?”

“Dillie,” Davy said. “You will not be teaching her to con.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Davy stopped, remembering Dillie’s practice swing. “You just won’t.”

“Already taught her, huh?” Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

“I really wish you weren’t here,” Davy said. “I’m going straight, damn it.”

“Nice black shirt,” Michael said. “Robbing somebody?”

Davy closed his eyes and went down the stairs.


THE GALLERY looked beautiful and Gwen hated it.

She looked at her watch to check the time. Ten minutes to the preview. Maybe if she threw up on the cash register, they’d let her go upstairs and do a Double-Crostic.

Then she kicked herself. The entire family had worked their fingers to the bone for this place and it gleamed now, filled with the color and fun in Tilda’s furniture and a beautiful buffet that Thomas the Caterer had laid out, and they were going to make money, and she was whining because she wanted to be scuba diving. No, that wasn’t right. She wanted to go upstairs and pull the covers over her head.

“Mrs. Goodnight?” Thomas said, and Gwen looked up startled.

“Oh, Thomas, I’m sorry,” she said, trying not to stare at the two yellowing bruises on his forehead. “The buffet looks wonderful. You-”

“Could I talk to you for a moment?” he said, putting his hand on her arm, and Gwen was so startled, she let him draw her into the office. He took out a leather case and showed her a badge. “Thomas Lewis, FBI.”

Gwen squinted at it. “You’re FBI?”

“Shhh.” Thomas looked around. “I’m here undercover, Mrs. Goodnight, no one can know. Can you keep a secret?”

Oh, honey, Gwen thought.

“I’m investigating Clea Lewis,” he told her, keeping one eye on the door. “We think she murdered her husband.”

“Oh.” That actually sounded plausible.

“And stole his art collection,” Thomas went on. “Cyril Lewis was a very wealthy man, but when he died, the estate was bankrupt.”

“Well, Clea’s not cheap,” Gwen said. “Maybe they just spent it.”

“They did,” Thomas said. “On paintings. Cyril Lewis bought over two million dollars’ worth of paintings in the last year of his life.”

“Wow,” Gwen said, calculating the commissions.

“They were stored in a warehouse,” Thomas said. “But it burned to the ground the day before Cyril Lewis died.”

He was beginning to sound like a bad radio play. “And you think Clea killed him?”

“He wouldn’t be the first husband she killed,” Thomas said. “We could never get any evidence on her, but her first husband died under very suspicious circumstances. She’s a vicious woman. We have every reason to believe she’s put a contract killer in this very building.”

“Really,” Gwen said, trying to sound surprised.

“We think she’s trying to kill an ex-lover,” Thomas said.

“Really,” Gwen said, not faking anymore. “Huh.” She wondered if Tilda knew. Probably. Tilda didn’t miss much.

“The reason I’m talking to you,” Thomas said, “is that she’s showing a lot of interest in your gallery.”

“Not really,” Gwen said. “She’s-”

“If she tries to sell you the paintings,” Thomas said, “we’d like to know about it.”

“I don’t buy paintings,” Gwen said. “Galleries take artwork on commission. We don’t buy anything.”

“If she talks to you about paintings at all,” Thomas said, “we want to know.”

“We.”

“The Bureau.”

“Right.” The Bureau. “Well, I’ll certainly keep you informed,” Gwen said, thinking, If you’re FBI and Ford’s the bad guy, this country is in trouble. Hell, if he was the law and Clea was the bad guy, they were in trouble. “Have you been working for the Bureau long?”

“No,” Thomas said, straightening. “But I’m fully qualified.”

“Good,” Gwen said, getting to her real concern. “Can you cater, too?”

“I buy the food from restaurants,” Thomas said, a little shamefaced. “It gives me time to investigate the case.”

“Oh, excellent,” Gwen said, brightening. “Restaurants.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Not a soul,” Gwen said.

“And keep your eyes open for those paintings,” Thomas said as he opened the door to the gallery.

“Story of my life,” Gwen said, and went back to the gallery as the first customer opened the door.


HALF AN HOUR later, Tilda watched the gallery from the office, feeling odd, as if she were watching an old movie. She’d stared at a hundred previews like this, some so long ago she’d had to stand on a footstool to see through the window in the door. There was something wrong this time, and it took her a minute to realize that there was nobody out there being a ringleader, nobody standing in the middle of the room laughing and directing the show.

Then Mason made his entrance wearing a brocade vest, Clea on his arm looking magnificent in a black halter dress cut to her waist and huge gold hoop earrings. Mason moved to the center of the room, laughing and gesturing like a parody of Tilda’s father, and she thought, Poor guy. He just doesn‘t get it.

Davy came in from the hall. “And Vilma’s wearing her Chinese jacket. Must be time to steal something and neck in a closet.”

“Mason and Clea are here,” she told him.

“Then we’re gone.” Davy picked up Jeff’s keys, glanced through the office door, and said, “Whoa.”

“What?” Tilda followed his eyes back into the gallery.

Clea had turned around. Her dress had no back. As they watched, she turned to smile up at Mason, her perfect profile overshadowed only by her equally perfect bustline.

“Oh,” Tilda said, trying to keep the snarl out of her voice.

“Back off, Veronica.” Davy grinned down at her. “I’m just enjoying the scenery. I know she’s a hag from hell.”

“Yes, but she was good in bed, wasn’t she?” Tilda said, watching Clea walk across the floor, every movement liquid with grace. I don’t like you. “Better than me.”

“Yes,” Davy said. “Can we go?”

“Lots better than me?” Tilda said.

Davy closed his eyes. “Why do you ask this stuff? You know it’s going to be bad.”

“Tell me,” Tilda said.

Davy sighed and looked out at the gallery. “You see the stuff you painted? How every move you made painting it was just right because you worked really hard at it and because you have a genius for it?”

“Thank you,” Tilda said, touched in spite of herself.

“Clea fucks like you paint.”

“Oh,” Tilda said.

“If it’s any consolation, she probably paints like you-”

“You’re never touching me again,” Tilda said.

“Oh, and there was a chance I was going to before I said that?” Davy said. “Can we go now?”

“Absolutely,” Tilda said, trying to remember what was important. She was getting the painting back. Davy would get his money back. Then the show would be over and he’d go to Australia and she’d go back to her nice, calm mural-painting life.