Chapter 3
William and I sit cross-legged on the tatami mat next to the coffee table, which periodically serves as an informal dining table in Uncle Tony’s apartment. It’s weird to be sitting next to William as if we’re old friends. We’ve known each other for years, but only in passing. We met first at my uncle’s engagement party, but I don’t remember much about that meeting. I was dating Rex at the time. Uncle Tony was so happy.
Takashi and Uncle Tony have disappeared into the kitchen because Takashi is packing a thermos of miso soup for Tony to sustain him. Cleo perches on her haunches next to me as if she is part of the discussion. Or hoping food is about to be served, although she knows not to eat from this table.
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask.
“Uncle Takashi loves that house. He wants to build a Japanese rock garden there. We were going to do it together.” William runs his hand through his hair. “He strongly supported my desire to have my own business. My dad was against it. I owe Uncle Takashi a lot.”
I nod. “Same. Both Takashi and Uncle Tony have always supported me.”
“So what’s your plan?” William asks.
“Just chat with them,” I say. “See if they know it’s missing.”
“That’s not a plan.” He leans back against the couch and stretches out his long legs.
Ugh, he looks all skeptical and haughty. I was wrong when I thought he didn’t show his emotions. I prefer Secret Service William.
“Do you have a better plan?” I ask. “It’s not like they don’t know me. I pop by periodically to see Uncle Tony. When I was a kid, I hung out at the theater all the time.”
“I know them too,” he says. “I’m the accountant for both Diane and Donald.”
I hadn’t realized that.
“Let Uncle Tony interview them. He can get more from them if we’re not there,” he says. “We have to be prepared. This may be our only shot to talk to them. When I did accounting fraud investigations, I’d interview the least important people first so I’d know more before interviewing the prime suspects.”
I absorb this. I’m always accused of reacting emotionally and being hotheaded. Maybe he’s right. I can’t mess this up.
“Fine. Tony can interview them alone,” I say. “They are probably the least likely to have stolen the paintings.”
Uncle Tony and Takashi return. I hug Uncle Tony goodbye.
“Don’t give up.” He hugs me tightly. “We don’t give up our dreams.”
“I know,” I say. “I won’t give up.”
After he leaves, I walk toward the window. Jade is not going to believe this. Outside, on Columbus Avenue, pedestrians meander and people dine as if all is completely normal.
I call Jade. “Playing Around 1:30 has been stolen.”
A shocked silence greets me and then, “What?”
“It was at my uncle’s house, and now it’s disappeared. We’ve reported it to the police.”
“How is that even possible? Do the police think they’ll find it?” she asks. “You can’t be in the exhibit without that painting. It’s the transitional piece. It’s the heart of the exhibit. Every artist gets three paintings: the before painting, the transitional painting, and the after painting.”
“I know,” I say. “I know.” A red balloon floats past the window. On the street, a boy points up, face scrunched. His mother leans down to hug him.
Shit.
“If you don’t have Playing Around 1:30 … Is this public yet?”
“I’m not announcing it, but the police will list it as stolen in the Art Loss Registry.” The red balloon disappears out of sight, blocked by the tall apartment buildings.
“I’ll call the gallery and let them know. We need to keep on their good side, so let’s at least give them some advance warning.” She sighs. “Call me back the minute you hear anything.”
I hunch over. It’s got to be psychosomatic, but my stomach is cramping up.
I hang up and run to the bathroom. I’d been hoping against hope that she would say I can still be in the show—that my two other paintings show enough contrast. But it’s really the transition piece that melds it all together.
I wash my hands, splash water on my face, and join the others in the dining room, which has now been transformed into a high-tech command center. Takashi has brought in laptops, and both he and William are staring at their screens and typing.
“I need that painting to be in the show,” I say. Takashi pats me on the back.
“I should call my mom too,” I say. “She can give John a heads-up if there is going to be press.”
I disappear into their back office to call my mom in private. The office is crowded. It’s got a single bed, a large desk, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with books about art and theater. How did the thief know the paintings were in the closet? Two computer monitors dominate the desk, and all sorts of computer equipment is underneath. A normal thief would have stolen the computer equipment if they wanted only money.
I take a deep breath and dial my mother’s number. She picks up on the first ring, and I relay the news.
“I told you to store it with us,” my mother says. “As soon as you got that exhibit, I said, ‘Store it with us. What if it gets damaged at Tony’s?’ Tony isn’t careful enough. He’s your father’s brother.”
Even now, she has to bring up my father. For someone who divorced my father a long time ago, she can never resist the opportunity to point out again what a mistake their marriage was.
“No one expected it to be stolen,” I say.
“Maybe you should have. It’s not as though the Vertex Art Exhibit hasn’t been advertised on the New York City subway,” she says. “I’ll let John know. Did you call Jade? What did she say?”
“That I can’t participate in the show without the painting.”
“Oh, Miranda,” she says. She actually sounds sympathetic—as if my mom hasn’t drilled into me since I was a child that I would never be successful as an artist. “I presume there’s no way you can just paint another one that will work?”
“No,” I say, scoffing. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“Maybe it’s a sign that you need to seriously consider a viable career. You can still paint at night. Ask Takashi about a career in information security. That seems to have some flexibility.”
“Information security seems pretty intense because it’s twenty-four seven,” I say.
“All careers are twenty-four seven nowadays.” Her phone rings.
“I know. I just meant …” I sigh. I meant that I wouldn’t have time to paint then. I work at my art twenty-four seven as it is, but it’s best to agree with her. “I’ll ask Takashi if he knows of some part-time information security gigs.” At least they’d be better paid than waitressing and allow my mother to say I’m in information security instead of food delivery.
“That’s my other line. Call me back if you hear anything,” she says. “And we’ll see you at John’s fundraiser. Max’s parents are hosting, so you have to show up.” My stepfather John is now managing a nonprofit, so the picture-perfect family is no longer needed for press appearances—just fundraisers.
I plod back into the dining room. Takashi and William’s spreadsheet of suspects displays on their computer screens with various columns like Motive and Opportunity.
“I think it’s Vinnie,” Takashi says. “I never liked him.” He waves me to a third open laptop on the table.
“Why did you use him as the dealer for the sale then?” William asks.
“He sold a Kimimoto recently and knows a lot, but we only gave him a two-month exclusive because he’s too slick for me,” Takashi says. “He also said this Kimimoto is one of his favorites and he had an immediate buyer.”
“What about the catering company? They could have hidden the paintings in their carts.” I sit at the glass dining table. “I can’t see any of your friends stealing your painting. And stealing mine must have been a mistake. We should talk to them.”
William puts an X under the Opportunity column for the catering company.
“Let the police talk to them first,” William says.
“But if the police talk to them, their guard will be up. And I need to find my painting now. What if they destroy it, thinking it doesn’t have any value? I mean, it really doesn’t have any cash value. It’s not like you can sell it on the open market. It’s not famous. But to me, it’s everything.” My voice breaks. I just can’t sit here and not do anything to find it.
Takashi taps his pencil. “We’ve known Kimberly since she started her catering company. We don’t know her staff, and they were also here, but I don’t think it’s Kimberly. Then again, I didn’t think the paintings would be stolen. And she did leave with a food cart after she finished cooking.”
“I agree she had the opportunity. But speaking from my own experience, if I’ve put in all that effort to start my own company, my reputation is everything. It’s not worth stealing a painting, even if the Kimimoto is worth half a million.” William types notes into the spreadsheet. “Who else could have carried the paintings out?” He turns to Takashi.
“I just can’t fathom that it would have been one of our close friends,” I say. “Let me call Kimberly and pretend I want to hire them.”
“Here’s the number,” Takashi says.
William shakes his head.
“She is capable,” Takashi says to William. “The waitstaff also left with food carts and a wagon—all the serving trays and dishes. I don’t remember who else had big enough bags. Vinnie had a large art portfolio because he was showing us the posters for his show featuring the Kimimoto.” Takashi stands. “Without more information, I wouldn’t suspect any of these people. I’m going to make some tea.” Cleo trails him out of the room.
I call Kimberly’s number. William leans forward in his chair across from me and stares at me, his fingers poised to type up notes on his laptop. He glances down when I give him my “piss off” look.
“Hi, I’ve heard wonderful things about your company, and I’m wondering if you have a sample menu tasting. I’m looking to hire a catering company for a party I’m having,” I say. “You’ve had a cancellation? Great, I’ll see you in an hour.”
“You’re just going over there in an hour—with no preparation?” William asks.
“What do I need to prepare?” I ask. “Time is of the essence, and I’m going to get a sense of what she’s like.”
“What are you going to do, just ask her outright, did you steal the paintings?” William asks.
“Not directly, Watson.”
“Do you do indirectly?” William asks.
“I can be subtle,” I say. “It’s just not my preferred mode of being.”
William snorts. “It would almost be worth it to see your definition of acting with subtlety. But still, we should let the police interview them first.”
“I can’t sit around and wait for the police to handle it when it’s not going to be their top priority. I won’t be in the show unless I find the painting.” I can’t help it; my eyes well with tears. “I’m not asking you to come.” I wipe away a tear with my hand.
William hands me a handkerchief. I didn’t even know handkerchiefs existed anymore. This one is crisply ironed. I wipe under my eyes.
“Thank you. I’ll wash it and return it. But I don’t iron.”
He gives a half smile. “That’s okay.”
Why would a man like William—so reserved—carry a handkerchief? He’s not about to cry in public. And it has that lovely, fresh-laundry smell, not like it’s been sitting in his pocket, forgotten. I bite my lip.
William has hidden depths. I’ll figure you out, William. I do like a challenge.
“I’m coming.” He stands.
“You agree with me?” I ask.
“No, I’m coming to do damage control.”
“Charming.”
“Exactly. I’ll play the charming good cop.” He leans against the wall, his hands in his pockets.
“You’ll get in the way. Just stay here and do some Internet research.”
“If we have an hour, I’ll do some research on them before we go.” He sits, signing back in to the laptop.
“There’s no we,” I say. “Anyway, I’m going to go put on a costume.”
“Why?”
“If she recognizes me from the party and she stole the painting, she’s not going to reveal anything.”
“It’s a pity you changed out of your earlier costume. You could have gone as my mom again,” he says.
“We could discuss your dating life some more,” I say.
“Are you that interested in my dating life?” He leans forward.
I slant toward him. Two can play at this game. Our faces are close, across the glass table. His eyes are warm, and his thick hair definitely invites ruffling. “I’m more interested now that I’ve found out you carry around a handkerchief.”
He blushes and pulls back.
Shouldn’t play with fire.
I snort and disappear into Uncle Tony’s bedroom. His costume closet is a marvelous respite from real life. I pull out a wig and a makeup kit, changing myself into a brown-haired woman. Some dramatic eye makeup and some rouge add color to my pale cheeks, but I don’t have the energy or time to do a complete rehaul.
I walk back into the dining room. William’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head.
“What’s with you and disguises? This isn’t normal.”
“I’ve never pretended to be normal,” I say. “But it’s because of pictures of me in the press when my stepdad was running for mayor. After the first crying incident, I went out for a while in disguise. It was stupid, but I felt more in control.”
“What was the crying incident?” He closes down his laptop.
“When I was still in college, I was my stepfather’s rep at some panel of mothers with AIDS speaking about their journey, and I cried. The Squirrel ran a picture of me, calling me Weeping Willow. My middle name is Willow. And then the press followed me for a while, trying to get more pictures of me crying. Which wasn’t hard. But I can’t help it. And I don’t want to get to the place where I’ve heard so many of those stories that they don’t make me cry anymore. I still don’t understand how the other people weren’t crying.”
“It’s good to express your emotions. And not that easy.” His glance meets mine.
“We were supposed to be the picture-perfect political family, and the press would inevitably get a picture of me red-eyed or blowing my nose after attending some event, like a panel with single moms or families talking about their moving out of a homeless shelter. But as his campaign manager finally said, at least it showed I have a heart.”
“I’ll have to get more handkerchiefs if we’re going to hang out.”
I stare at him, hand over my open mouth, and then laugh. “Don’t expect me to learn to iron.”
“Let’s go,” William says.
“Fine, we can go together.” I give him a sideways glance. He smiles at me. Takashi comes back into the room.
“Did the paparazzi follow you for long?” William asks.
“One reporter was obsessed. Also, I think the rival candidate paid some photographers to follow me. He was such a sleazeball. He had put his kids on the payroll at the state level, and it was some big scandal, so he was trying to deflect attention by going after me.”
“It backfired,” Takashi says. “People liked you.”
“It backfired in terms of John’s campaign, yes,” I say.
We tell Takashi that we are leaving and lock the door behind us. Takashi says he will talk to Ryan, his close friend who was at the party. He works in cybersecurity for the Department of Homeland Security.
I prop up the wall as we wait for the elevator. How is it still only early afternoon?
“Does the press still follow you?” William asks hesitantly. I can imagine that he would hate having the press following him.
“No, not lately. The Intelligencer ran a note about my upcoming exhibition, but it was good press.”
“I thought any press was good press.”
“Whoever made that statement has never had a photo of them crying on the front page of a paper.” I shiver. “Maybe if you want to be famous.”
The elevator arrives and we get in. It’s one of those small, old-fashioned, wood-paneled ones with a metal grate that has to be manually opened and closed. As a child growing up in New York City, I loved the old grandeur of these types of elevators. Another tenant joins us in the elevator, and William moves closer to me. At the next floor, an elderly lady hobbles in with her cart. William gets knocked slightly and puts his arm out to keep from falling into me. His hand is on the wall next to my shoulder. Our glances meet for a moment. I look back down—at his broad chest. We’re very close, much closer than we’ve ever been. He swallows. I can’t take my eyes off his throat and the indent of his Adam’s apple. He removes his hand.
I admire the floor.
We exit the elevator and say goodbye to the doorman. A jazz band plays on the corner of Columbus Avenue, the trumpet’s notes soaring through the air. I drop a dollar in their bucket. As we walk uptown, the cafés are filled with people eating outside, desperate to enjoy the sun peeking through the clouds after a long, cold winter, even if it means eating with coats on.
“Don’t you want to be a famous artist?” He glances at me.
“I want my art to be famous, not me. I thought about going under a pseudonym too, but that felt too divorced from myself. Like why should I not get to publicly celebrate my creations? I don’t want trolls and weird guys to prevent me from celebrating my work.” I cross my arms. “What did you find out from your research?”
“She’s had this business for six years. According to her website, she started it as a way to make money from home when her kids were babies and she’d just gotten divorced. Tons of positive reviews. She still has a mortgage on her apartment, per public property records. The maintenance has increased lately, per recent sales in the building. Her schedule looks booked.”
“You found out a lot. If her business is doing well, then maybe she doesn’t have a financial motive.” A coolness whispers through the air. I zip up my sweatshirt. I should have grabbed a jacket. William’s wearing a jacket.
“Do you really think you’re going to come up with more after talking to her?”
“Yes,” I say. “Don’t you think you can learn a lot about a person from talking to them?”
“Always, but not their propensity for thievery,” he says.
Full, pastel skirts for spring swirl in one shop’s window. A card shop announces that Easter and Passover are coming up. William keeps pace with me. At a red light, we both peer down the side street, checking for oncoming cars, and cross in tandem.
“Are you still dating Rex?” he asks.
“No, we broke up about six months ago.”
“You’re close with your ex, then?” he asks.
“Yes. We’re still in our band, The Tempest, together. And we’ve been friends since we dated in high school. We started the band together, although at that time, our band was called Miranda Warning.”
“Clever.”
I smile. “And ‘You Have the Right to Remain Silent’ is one of our most popular songs.” I glance at him. “Aren’t you still friends with your exes?”
“Friends?” William says, “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“We’re just not.”
“How can you not stay friends with someone you once loved?”
“She started dating someone else pretty seriously shortly after we broke up, and that wasn’t exactly conducive to staying friends. Then she got engaged.”
“Really? I think that might help you stay friends because then it’s clear it’s over.”
“Not if it’s not for you,” he says.
I glance at him. He faces forward as if he’s revealed too much. I say, “Ah. There is that.”
We stop to let a waiter carrying dishes pass in front of us; he then pauses at the curb as a delivery guy cycles by on the bicycle path that cuts between the restaurant’s outdoor shed and the street. Birds tweet.
“Kimberly might still have a motive if she thought her business would be doing better or it’s more work than she expected,” I say. “At least you look really respectable and like you’re actually going to be a customer.” He’s wearing this button-down shirt, slightly open at the neck. I look away. My yoga pants and oversize T-shirt are a sharp contrast. My attempt to dress my outfit up with a flowery scarf from Tony’s closet is probably a hard fail. At least my shirt doesn’t have paint stains.
He says, “I don’t want to hire them. Not if we think they stole your painting.”
“Well, think you do. You’ve got to believe the lie to be believable. You can’t come along if you’re going to blow our cover.”
He harrumphs. “I’m not going to blow our cover. I still think we’re going about this the wrong way. We should talk to her last if we think she’s the most likely suspect.”
He’s cute when he acts all stuffy.
“After the police have questioned them and they’re not going to talk?” I ask. We cut across Eighty-Fourth Street toward West End Avenue. A school sits on one side of the tree-lined street; kids shout from the playgrounds and basketball courts on both sides. Pink and red impatiens dot one shady planter while begonias strut in another. The bare tree branches are like spiderwebs obscuring the buildings behind them.
At the red light on Amsterdam Avenue, trucks roar by. The cheerful, blue-and-yellow signage of West Side Kids beckons across the street. Next to us is a check-cashing place. Does Kimberly make enough money with her business?
“And this isn’t going to be a police priority,” I say, hands on hips.
“You have a point there,” he says.
Several people seated on the green, iron benches soak up the sun while eating lunch out of paper bags in the median mall that separates the uptown and downtown traffic of Broadway. Movie posters at the corner cinema announce some caper movie. No, thanks. I’m living one.
“Why did you and Rex break up?” he asks.
I sigh. “We’re better as friends. Ultimately, we’re two needy artists, and we just didn’t work out.” I realized this when Rex didn’t show up for my art show hosted by my friend Audrey at her apartment. He called me late that night to say he’d forgotten; he’d been caught up in a creatively inspired moment. As an artist, I understood. I’d done the same when in the middle of a painting. And the song he wrote that night, “Mirex,” is one of our fans’ favorites. But instead of enjoying my art opening, I’d spent a good portion of the night wondering where he was, worried that he’d been hurt when he didn’t answer his phone. He had turned it off so he could concentrate. As a girlfriend, I wanted him to be there for me.
Kimberly’s Renaissance Revival apartment building sits in the middle of the block on West End Avenue.
He grabs my arm. “So let’s ask about her business and how she hires her employees, right? We’re agreed we’re not going to address the actual case.”
I nod. “Unless it seems like an opportune moment.”
“I have a feeling we define opportune moment differently.”
The doorman announces us, and we take the elevator up to Kimberly’s apartment. She’s waiting at the door. She’s small, with short, brown hair, brown eyes, and a pink apron tied around her waist.
“Come in, come in,” Kimberly says. “I’m so glad this worked out.”
The front door of Kimberly’s apartment leads straight into the living room. A small, round table sits on one side, a couch and a TV on the other side. On the sideboard, there’s a clear, plastic box of crayons and a stack of coloring books, plus a stack of board games. We walk into the kitchen.
“Oh wow, your kitchen is amazing,” I say. “This is huge for a New York apartment.”
“I knocked down the original wall and converted the dining room to be part of the kitchen,” she says.
We sit at a rectangular table by the windows. The different smells of basil, melted cheese, rosemary, and dumplings fried in oil waft over from the two trays of appetizers already on the table. My stomach growls.
“So this is a general selection I’d prepared for the prior client who couldn’t come,” Kimberly says. “We use organic ingredients only. I shop and cook the day of the party.”
We eat several appetizers she prepared for the no-show client. They are delicious. But then, I knew they would be. I’ve been eating her food for years at Uncle Tony’s parties.
“Mmm … these are scrumptious,” I say, my mouth full. I never had lunch. As a starving artist, maybe this should be my approach in the future for getting free meals.
She gives us a binder with various menu options and clippings of reviews. As we flip through the binder, I ask her about her specialties and how much advance notice she needs. She usually needs a month’s notice, but she occasionally has cancellations so it’s always worth checking.
“This is lucky. I just created this new recipe,” Kimberly says. “Can I try it out on you? It’s not final yet. I made two different variations, and I’m not sure which one is better.” She bustles over to the far counter and pulls two trays out of the oven. She scoops off quiches and lines them up on plates. “What do you think?”
She hands us each a plate marked with A and B. William and I sample both. We pick B as light and flaky, tasting of mushrooms, eggs, and eggplant with herbes de Provence. Yummy.
“You look familiar.” She studies me closely. My chest tightens at the thought she might recognize me. William’s ability to see through my disguise has shaken my confidence. She’s not going to agree to cater a party if she knows we’re related to Tony and Takashi—especially once she finds out that she’s a suspect in an art heist.
“Both are delicious.” William gives her this amazing smile, and she melts. Apparently, we’ve got a secret weapon with his killer smile. It changes his whole face, like the sunshine peeking from behind clouds to warm you on a rainy day.
“How big is your company?” I ask.
“Three employees. Me, my sister, and a pastry chef.”
“And you’ve been together for a long time?” I ask.
“Six years now,” Kimberly says.
“That’s amazing,” I say. On the wall to our side are two framed children’s drawings; one says For Mommy in big, hand-scrawled crayon letters.
“It really is. I feel blessed that we’ve been so successful. I wanted to cook on my own schedule, and this has been a dream come true.”
William is right that it’s not worth risking your dream for money. But maybe catering was her dream before, but now it’s a nightmare.
“But isn’t it hard to do all this cooking and be in people’s homes and give up your evenings?” I ask. “Most of my jobs are at night, and I sometimes regret missing out on that time to hang out with friends.” On the flip side, I get paid while out at the party.
“No, it’s perfect,” she says. “It allows me to be with my kids during the day, cooking, and then I can work evenings when they’re asleep or with their dad. It’s really worked out even better than I could have expected.”
The room darkens as the sky outside turns gray. She puts on a light in the corner.
“So even if you won a million dollars, you’d still do it?” I ask.
She tilts her head and furrows her brow.
That question did not come out smoothly. I can’t do this. I’m too emotionally involved.
“Is that a requirement to cater for your party?” Kimberly scratches her head.
William looks at me, eyebrow raised, as if to say, “Now what, Sherlock?”
“No,” I say. “But if I can’t choose between all the caterers because you’re all good, I’d rather support the one who’s pursuing their passion. Painting is my passion, so I’m all for supporting that person.”
If you did steal Playing Around 1:30, please know that it’s not merely canvas with paint.
She nods. “I’d still cook. Cooking is my passion. I might write a cookbook if I won a million dollars. I’d probably cut down on the catering jobs.”
That is an honest answer.
William changes the subject. “And do you provide waitstaff too?”
“Yes, we have two people available to serve as waitstaff—Lena and Miju.”
“How long have they worked for you?” he asks.
“Since the beginning. But they’re freelance. They’re both actresses, so I can’t promise they’ll be available. They have other gigs. They also work for Star Catering.” Star Catering is a big, well-known outfit. Even I was on their part-time roster. “Why are you so interested in how long my employees have been with me?” She sits across from us at the table.
“I need to know that whoever is in my apartment is discreet and trustworthy,” William says.
“I vouch for my employees. Believe me, it’s my name on the company.” She pushes her chair back, away from the table. “And I don’t know what you mean by discretion, but believe me, I don’t need business so badly that I’m willing to take jobs that require any extra discretion if you’ve got weird, kinky habits or something. I’m not sending my waitstaff into that kind of situation. They’re like family.”
William sits up straight. “We do not have any weird, kinky habits. I’m letting people I don’t know into my apartment, and I want to make sure I can trust them. I think that’s a valid question.”
“Do you mind if we confer for a minute?” I ask.
“No, go ahead.” She retreats to the far counter, leaving us at the dining table, and moves the quiches into glass storage containers. The exhaust fan is on, so I don’t think she can hear us, but I still pull my chair closer to William’s.
I whisper, “I don’t think she did it. I think we should tell her and explain that it’s my dream painting.”
“You don’t think she did it, and yet you want to invoke her sympathy in case she did do it?”
“Exactly.”
He understands. Didn’t expect that.
“That doesn’t really make sense.” His brown eyes seem to be laughing at me.
“It’s called covering all your bases,” I say. “And I don’t think she did it. I’m not saying that someone else in her company didn’t do it.”
“If they did, I don’t think the sympathy card will work. That’s going to hurt her business.” He closes the binder.
She turns off the exhaust fan, but she’s now running water to wash the trays.
“Not if they return it discreetly,” I say. “It doesn’t have to be public.”
“How can you guarantee that?” He leans back in the chair, his arms crossed.
“I’m not going to guarantee that,” I whisper. “But I’m not about to go screaming to the press that the paintings were stolen and then returned. The press won’t particularly care if the paintings have been returned. There’s no longer any story then. And do you think the police or DA will prosecute the crime? I mean, given that they’ve called it a victimless crime when the paintings have been stolen, it’s going to be even more of a victimless crime when the paintings are returned. I can’t imagine it will be high on the list of crimes to prosecute.”
He nods. “Why do you think she didn’t do it?”
“I believe her that this is her dream job. No one is going to hire her if things are being stolen while her company is catering.” I eat the last chicken satay, dipping it into the peanut sauce.
“Yes, but it’s a half-million-dollar painting.”
“But you’d never look at it and think it’s a half-million-dollar painting.”
“That’s why we know whoever stole it knows its value,” William says.
I get a chill. “All right, that’s a good deduction. We need to work from that point.”
Kimberly turns around at the sink and comes over.
“Excuse me, but are you guys almost done discussing?” she asks. “I have to prepare for my gig this evening, so it’d be good if we could wrap this up.”
Her body language is comfortable. She’s facing us, her arms open, a spatula in one hand, a potholder in the other.
William shakes his head at me. I grimace. Not saying anything is hard for me. I’d like to blurt it out and see what we get. I pile up our plates on the tray. We both stand. A sudden rainstorm outside patters against the windows.
“The food was delicious,” he says. “We have a few more to try, but we doubt that they’ll be able to top you. You’re definitely top of the list.”
Or at least your employees are.
Her phone beeps, and she checks her email. “I just got a booking request for that date. It’s a long-term client. I have to give her preference.” She walks us to the door. “But please keep me in mind if you want to do something in the future.”
The booking seems too convenient. She doesn’t want to cater our party because we’ve been too weird.
“We will. Thank you for the food anyway,” William says. “If you reconsider, please let us know.”
The rain outside stops as quickly as it started. William grabs his jacket, and she walks us out to the front door. He pushes the door open and steps into the hallway. I follow him, but then turn around.
If we’re not hiring her, I won’t get a chance to ask her.
“Would you st—?”
William covers my mouth with his hand.
“Argagag.” My words come out muffled behind his hand.
“C’mon, Miranda,” he says. “We’ve taken up enough of her time. Miranda is just having a rough time today because she suffered a career setback.”
Career setback. What a euphemism. I glare down at his hand.
He shuffles me toward the elevator.
“You guys are cute. Strange, but cute.” Kimberly closes the door.
I lick his hand.
He removes it immediately.
“Yuck.” He wipes his hand on his jeans.
“You’re lucky I didn’t bite it,” I say. “What was that?”
The elevator door opens, and William pulls me inside.
“I should ask you the same. You were about to ask her if she stole the painting.” William runs his hand through his hair. “We agreed we were not going to ask that. We can’t torpedo the police investigation.”
I put my head in my hands. I’m letting my emotions override my common sense. I just need to know what happened to my painting. “Even if she didn’t steal it, she knows her staff. She’d have insight.” It was easier at Christie’s when I could ask direct questions as part of the investigative team. “And now we can’t hire her to cater our party.”
“It was more helpful than I thought it would be. We’ve eliminated Kimberly as a suspect, at least for now,” he says. “And we can still hire the servers. They work for that Star Catering company.”
“As do I.”