“You know, he’s starting to sound interesting,” Phin said.

“Famous last words,” Davy said. “Head for high ground.”


UP IN HER BEDROOM, Clea dabbed the last of her tears away and faced the unavoidable truth: Mason was leaving her for a fifty-four-year-old woman who didn’t moisturize. It was a slap in the face of her entire worldview. She’d spent forty-five years taking excellent care of herself, only to lose to a nobody who was going to have jowls at any minute. God knew how long it had been since Gwen had done a sit-up. One hundred. That was how many Clea did every morning and every night, one hundred damn sit-ups, and what had it gotten her? Dumped for a grandmother, for God’s sake. The woman had given birth, she had stretch marks, she had a stomach -Clea put her hand on her own supernaturally flat abdomen- and still she was winning. That was so wrong.

Well, Gwen had messed with the wrong woman this time. “This is not over,” she said out loud. “This is not over.”

She dumped her purse out on the bed until she found Ford Brown’s number. When he answered, she said, “We had a deal.”

“What?” he said.

“You were to keep Gwen away from Mason.”

“Look, you brought him to the gallery,” Ford said. “She hasn’t come to the house, has she?”

“No,” Clea said. “And I did not bring him. He went on his own.”

“I can’t stop him,” Ford said. “That’s up to you.”

“And Davy’s still there,” Clea said.

“Is he bothering you?” Ford said.

“Yes,” Clea said. “His existence bothers me.”

“I can take care of that if you want,” Ford said. “Just say the word.”

Clea swallowed. “Gwen is the bigger problem.” She looked around to make sure no one was listening.

“Gwen?” He sounded taken aback. “You want me to hit a woman?”

“No, I don’t want you to hit her,” Clea said, exasperated. “I want you to-” Her eye fell on the open closet door, the place where she’d hidden the painting. She stretched the phone cord over and looked inside.

The Scarlet was gone.

“What?” Ford said.

“Wait a minute,” Clea said, her heart in her throat. She put down the phone and went to the closet and then over to her laptop. Three minutes later, she picked up the phone, her heart hammering, and said, “Do not do anything to Davy Dempsey. I need him alive.”

Oh, God, Davy had her money. She sat down on the bed, trying not to shake. He’d taken it all. Mason was slipping away and she had no money and she was forty-five.

“Are you okay?” Ford said.

“No,” Clea said, her voice shaking. “I’m not okay. And you did not keep Davy Dempsey out of this house. He stole a painting from me and he took my money. And if you kill him, I’ll never get it back. Just watch him.” She bent and put her head between her knees, trying to keep from fainting. She had no money. And you couldn’t find men with money unless you had money. Or youth. Oh, God.

“For how long?” Ford said.

“What?” Clea said, trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

“For how long do I watch him?”

“Until I get the money back,” Clea said, swallowing. No need to panic. She still had time. She could still bring this off. She deserved to bring this off, damn it. Zane had left her with nothing, Cyril had left her with nothing, it was her turn. “Watch him until I get the money back and then you can finish the job.” She straightened and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and tried to smooth out her face. Terror made her look old. She couldn’t be old. Oh, God-

“All right,” Ford said. “Exactly what does ‘finish the job’ mean?”

“What?” Clea said, still trying to cope with the mirror. “I have to go. Just watch him, damn it, and do a better job than you did last night. I can’t believe-”

“He never left the gallery last night,” Ford said. “I watched him the entire time. When the gallery closed, he went downstairs with Tilda.”

“Maybe it wasn’t last night then,” Clea said. “But it was him.” She thought about Davy, impossibly young with her all those years ago, just impossible with Tilda now, and she wished she’d never met him, in spite of all the good times and good sex. It hadn’t been that good, not good enough for the price she was paying now. “I wish he was dead.”

“Is that an order?” Ford said.

“No,” Clea said. “For Christ’s sake, pay attention. He’s got my money. He has to stay alive until I get it back. If you kill him, his sisters will inherit everything, and I’ll never get it back.” She thought about Sophie, implacably efficient and not a little obsessive about her baby brother. “Do no? kill him.”

“Just checking,” Ford said and hung up.

Clea hung up the phone and sat, thinking fast. She didn’t have the know-how to embezzle the money out of Davy’s accounts, Ronald had done that, so maybe-

She straightened. How had Davy had the know-how? How had Davy gotten the numbers, the password? How-

She picked up the phone and dialed again, and when the phone clicked, she said, “Ronald, we had an appointment. Get your ass over here. You have some explaining to do.”


WHEN TILDA and Eve got back, Nadine was bagging trash in the gallery.

“Have you seen Davy?” Tilda asked.

“He left,” Nadine said. “He went to Temptation to see his sister.”

Tilda took a deep breath. “Did he say anything? About me?”

Nadine shook her head. “Michael and Dorcas left, and Davy took off after them.”

“Did he leave a note?” Tilda said.

“No,” Nadine said. “He was in a hurry. What time are we opening the gallery?”

“I don’t know,” Tilda said and turned to see Eve, standing behind her, radiating sympathy and suppressing “I told you so.”

“He’s coming back,” she told Eve.

“Of course he is,” Eve said.

“I have to go work,” Tilda said and headed for the attic.

He was coming back. She was not going to be an idiot and panic because he went to see his sister and didn’t leave a note, for heaven’s sake. He’d come back to sell the fakes. They still hadn’t played Grandma and Mussolini. He’d promised her that. He always kept his promises.

He was a con man.

He’s coming back, you dummy, Tilda told herself.

He had to. He had her van.


RONALD DID NOT look guilty when he showed up, and that made Clea even madder. She dragged him into the bedroom and shut the door, even though it was pointless since Mason wanted Gwen Goodnight, the bastard.

“You gave Davy Dempsey my account numbers,” she said, practically spitting her rage. “You betrayed me.”

“He beat me up,” Ronald said, looking untouched. “And who are you to talk about betrayal? You’re living with another man. You-”

“Davy took my money, Ronald,” Clea said, stepping closer. “He took all of it. Every man I’ve ever trusted has left me penniless and now I’m penniless again, and you helped the man who did it.”

“You’re not penniless,” Ronald said. “You can sell your art collection.”

“He took that, too,” Clea said, remembering the Scarlet with increased rage. “He wiped me out.”

“Well, there’s that,” Ronald said, pointing to the starry-night chair Mason had insisted on lugging home from the gallery for her.

“Ronald, pay attention, that’s junk,” Clea said. “I lost a fortune here, and you want me to be a junk dealer?”

“That’s not junk,” Ronald said. “That’s a Scarlet Hodge.”

“No it isn’t,” Clea said. “That’s…” She looked at the chair again. It did look a little like the Scarlet. “It’s not the same artist,” she finished, not snapping anymore.

“Yes it is,” Ronald said. “It was obvious when I looked at the show at the gallery last night after you ditched me by the catering table.” He sounded put out. “But I couldn’t tell you because you had to talk to the important people. Like Mason.”

Clea tuned him out to look at the chair again. It could be a Scarlet.

“Look at the motifs,” Ronald was saying. “The color choices. Look at the brushwork. It’s the same painter. Now about Mason.”

Clea waved him off and sat down, thinking fast. Maybe Ronald was right. Suppose Tilda Goodnight was Scarlet Hodge. Was that illegal?

“Clea, you’re not listening to me.”

“Ronald, if somebody painted under somebody else’s name, would that be illegal?”

“Yes,” Ronald said. “It’s forgery. And I don’t care. Clea, Mason isn’t what you think he is. He’s-”

“Going after Gwen Goodnight, I know,” Clea said. “Give me a minute here.”

Why would Matilda Goodnight forge Scarlet Hodges? There had to be money in it somewhere, but for right now, the important thing was that she had something on Tilda Goodnight, and Davy was sleeping with Tilda Goodnight. And nobody knew better than Clea how Davy was about the women he slept with.

“Clea-”

“Quiet. I’m thinking.”

So all she had to do was threaten to expose Tilda, and Davy would have to give the money back. Clea frowned. No he wouldn’t, not if she couldn’t prove it, and she couldn’t prove it without the painting. So first she had to get the painting back.

And Davy would have given Tilda Goodnight the painting, she was sure of it.

“How do you prove something’s a forgery?” she asked Ronald.

He frowned at her. “Lots of ways. Clea, we have to talk about us.”

“Give me one of the ways,” Clea said.

“Show it to the artist who is supposed to have painted it,” Ronald said, exasperated. “I’ve been very patient, Clea, but it’s time-”