Chapter 31 Snake Pit
Snake Pit
Penelope panted as she shut her front door, her skin prickling with leftover sweat, thighs aching from the final uphill push. She crossed the foyer in quick strides and disappeared into the bathroom to turn on the shower.
She wasn’t much of a runner, though every now and then she punished herself with a jog through a nearby park—like this humid Sunday morning. While not unbearable, the Atlanta air had clung to her skin like a wet towel, especially toward the final stretch.
Lucia had texted her earlier, asking for a rain check on their weekend plans: “My Italian friend needs me.”
Penelope hadn’t pried, but she knew exactly what that meant. She also understood Lucia’s loyalties, given that she’d promised to finish the job, yet it still filled her with frustration that this had to be so dangerous.
Of course, Lucia had been living this life for close to two decades, and it was hardly the first time she’d done something so risky. None of that meant Penelope had to like it—and she most certainly did not.
She might have said she was out—done with chasing Valentina—but that didn’t mean she could stop caring.
Especially not now. Not when it was Lucia stepping into danger.
And knowing that they planned not only to go after Valentina but also to hit her warehouse left Penelope restless—crawling with as much anxiety as a picnic blanket covered in jam and red ants.
Then there was her father. Was it even fair to judge him so quickly? Of course, there had been a trial.
Penelope had gone for a run to shake off her nerves. Now she was exhausted and losing her mind.
She’d considered calling Montgomery to casually ask about the status of the Madonna investigation, maybe feel out what the museum knew.
But she’d shut that down fast. Montgomery already had an eye on her, and the last thing Penelope needed was to draw more attention to herself by asking the wrong questions at the wrong time.
Instead, she settled on her couch and texted Valentina.
I have questions about my father. You owe me at least that much.
She truly wanted to know, but even more so, Valentina liked to talk.
And indeed, five minutes later, her phone rang with an unknown number. How theatrical.
Bracing herself as if about to enter battle, she answered. “Hello?”
“I do not understand how you can sincerely believe that I owe you, given all I’ve done for you, darling,” Valentina said in lieu of a greeting.
Penelope rolled her lips. Of course, she’d open like this—everything was a performance. She idly wondered about what lived beneath that veneer of posturing, this eel-slick act.
“You said that you liked him.”
“I did.”
“Was that because he helped legitimize more of your stolen and forged art?”
“Who’s been whispering such tales into your ear? For the record, forgeries are more Francesca’s domain. You’ve met her, haven’t you? And her little forger? Quite talented, I must admit—but sadly, far too predictable.”
Penelope didn’t interrupt, but the certainty with which Valentina said it knotted in her stomach.
“I hope you’ve not been telling tales on me, Dr. Blackwell. That would be quite rude.” She paused. “And disappointing.”
Penelope clenched her jaw to prevent herself from saying something she shouldn’t, especially since Valentina could get her into trouble. Playing nice was making her itch.
“I called about my father. I want the truth.”
“The truth? That’s a big ask. Doesn’t the truth always depend on the eye of the beholder?”
“Beauty, Valentina. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Hmm, perhaps, but chi dice la verità è sempre odiato.”
“I don’t speak Italian, but you just said something about truth?”
“Those who tell the truth are always hated.”
Penelope’s lips pressed together. “I didn’t realize you cared about my opinion of you.”
“I don’t.” She sighed. “These things are complicated, and we always only know our own version, our own motivations.”
“It’s pretty clear-cut. Either he helped you, you forced him, or you played him.”
“I do not need to force people, Dr. Blackwell. You’re just looking for a reason to forgive him because you believe we’ve been in—what’s the word—cahoots, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I told you he helped me—no force, no tricks—you’d still be missing the most important piece.”
“And that is?”
“Motivation! Isn’t that what’s needed to solve a crime? If not, Agatha Christie has steered me wrong.”
Penelope pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t see how that changes anything.”
“Oh, my darling, it changes everything. But perhaps you’re too young to understand, or life has treated you too kindly for you to grasp the truth.”
“I won’t get a straight answer, will I?”
“You’re not talking to the right person. Have a wonderful day, my friend.”
The line went dead.
“I’m not your friend,” Penelope muttered, drumming her fingers against her thigh.
She hadn’t gotten the truth about her father, not really, but she was certain of one thing: Valentina knew.
And now Penelope had to decide how to best warn Francesca.
First things first—instead of risking heat stroke by going on another run, she went back to her usual method of distraction: research.
This time, she combed through donation records both from The Met and Belgrave’s own PR material for the time frame of her father’s tenure.
After half an hour of a big, fat nothing, she spotted a familiar name: Barry Whitfield. Apparently, he wasn’t just a registrar but also acted as a consultant on the Bone Harp, a painting that was later quietly deaccessioned.
“Why would they pull it from the museum catalog without announcement?”
It happened sometimes, but usually with smaller, less recognizable pieces—so as to not upset donors—a scenario currently playing out at the Meridian with the Madonna and Ms. Lewis.
Back to INTERMUSE, and no, The Bone Harp wasn’t a forgery—the style, materials, and technique matched other verified works by Eliza Greer.
Still, the provenance of the painting looked questionable, although that might just mean it was stolen and traded on the arts black market at some point.
The issue she stumbled on an hour later? The donor was a shell company tied indirectly to Belgrave. When she leafed through her father’s notes, she found some of his more cryptic entries, and next to one, in a faded pencil script, it read: Lewis pushing too soon. Not ready.
Her fingers tightened around the page. Nausea clawed at her stomach, and she forced herself to take several long, deep breaths.
She flipped the page. On the back was a number—just that. No label, no explanation. She picked up her phone and dialed it before she could second-guess the impulse.
Disconnected.
Of course.
She sat back in her chair, the folder still open on her lap, and closed her eyes.
Maybe she wasn’t out. Not entirely. Not if this led somewhere.
Not if it could hurt Lucia.
After hedging for half an hour and not wanting to seem clingy or give the impression she was in some sort of “fearful, worried girlfriend mode”—God, was she a girlfriend? A topic for another breakdown—Penelope texted Lucia.
Could we talk if you have a moment?
Give me ten.
Penelope blew out a tight breath and turned on the TV, flipping through channels, eventually settling on a documentary about snakes. On-screen, a boa coiled around its prey, silent and merciless. How apt. The only question: Who was the predator and who was the prey? Could she be both?
Nine minutes later, her phone rang.
“Hi. What’s up? You all right?”
“Yeah.” She cleared her throat. Lucia’s voice was a warm counterpoint to her previous caller and the subsequent research. “I’m guessing your Italian friend chose this weekend for your little incursion?”
“Yep, and again, we’ll hang out the weekend after at the latest. Maybe even during the coming week? I don’t know your schedule and if that would be OK, but—”
“It’s not about that.” Penelope couldn’t help but smile.
“Oh. OK. What is it, then?”
“I spoke to…the other Italian.”
“The other… Wait, you talked to…the arch nemesis?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do that?” Lucia asked, concern coloring her voice.
“I wanted to discuss my father and his involvement with her.”
“I thought you were sure you’d get no answers. So why bother?”
“Logic and feelings aren’t always in agreement. Besides, sometimes you just have to try, and I had…nothing to lose.”
“Nothing to lose? Pen, she’s dangerous, and—”
“I know. That’s exactly why I’ve contacted you.”
“Did she threaten you?”
“No, but I think she knows.”
“Knows what?” Lucia asked.
“About your plan.”
“How? You didn’t tell her, right?”
Heat flashed through Penelope. “Are you seriously asking me that? Because if that’s what you think of me, then—”
“No, no. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” She sighed. “I just… How? We don’t use any of the old devices, and none of us would talk.”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“Kinda. If we have a…busybody in our midst, we need to know.”
“You might need to let that go and just accept that… Baby Jesus’s mother is gone,” Penelope said flatly.
“Wait, what?”
A beat of silence.
“Oh, well, fat chance. Have you met my Italian friend?”
“Right.” Penelope sighed. “Then maybe find another way?”
“I’m not sure there is one. What exactly did she say?”
“That you are both too predictable.”
Silence again.
“Lucia?” A pause. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes. It’s just… That’s it?”
“I’d say that’s plenty. And have you ever dealt with her directly? Believe me, that was a lot. She knows. And if I had to guess, she’s not the type to sit idly by and let it slide.”
Penelope could only hope they’d take her warning seriously. She knew her reading of Valentina was accurate, or at least accurate enough. She knew her type.
Penelope was her type—obsessively so. At times, Valentina felt like an exaggerated, theatrical reflection of what Penelope herself might have become had the world, or she, tilted a different way.