Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
“Wait here,” Luke says as he jumps out of the car and strides toward the front door.
For once, Grand and I do as instructed. But I have my phone in my hand before he reaches the front door and have already punched in, but not called, 911.
He’s out in less than five minutes and he doesn’t look happy. “Obviously, someone broke in. Again . Only this time they took the time to search the entire house. It’s trashed.”
“Oh no!” Grand and I make a move toward the front door.
Luke stops us with a look. “Isn’t the alarm system working?” he asks quietly.
“No, it works fine.” It takes everything I’ve got to meet his gaze. “It’s just that it’s, um, you know, daytime.” I swallow. “And we, uh, usually just put it on at night when we go to bed.”
He sighs. Somehow, he manages not to say a lot of the things he’d clearly like to. What he does say is, “Someone is still looking for something.” His gaze grows steely. “I find it hard to believe that neither of you has any idea what that thing or things might be.”
I blink and focus on looking innocent.
Luke shakes his head and sighs. “Nope. Not falling for that look. You’ve been using it since elementary school.”
This is the trouble with trying to outwit someone who’s known you since you were a child. If Luke and I are going to have any kind of relationship as adults, I’m going to have to up my game. Or tell him the truth.
“I…I think I need to go inside and sit down,” Grand says, swaying slightly. “Could you, could you help me, Luke?” She reaches for his arm before I can determine whether this is a performance.
“Of course.” Luke wraps one strong arm around her shoulder and gently grasps one of her hands.
I hope he doesn’t see the wink she aims my way as I begin to move from her other side and step behind her to prevent any chance of her falling backward.
“Oh my,” Grand whispers as we step off the stairs into the living room.
There’s no winking or smiling as we take in the main floor with its slashed sofa cushions and paintings ripped off the walls, their canvases peeled back. Luke wasn’t exaggerating when he used the word “trashed.”
“It’s even worse upstairs,” he says as we move into the kitchen. “Why don’t you take a seat?” He leads Grand to a dining room chair.
“You too,” he says to me, only it’s not a question.
The only thing missing as he interrogates us yet again about what Grand has that someone wants this badly is a bare lightbulb over our heads and two-way glass into an observation room. But the longer we hold out, the more determined Luke becomes. (Which is exactly how Cassie Everheart and every other television cop or detective would play it.)
It’s only when Grand, who can apparently cry at will, has tears streaming down her cheeks that Luke stops firing questions at us.
“I’m sorry,” he says to her as he plucks a tissue out of a nearby box and hands it to Grand. “I know how stressful this must be for you. You need to arm your alarm system anytime you leave home, and we can ask the Treasure Island Police Department to continue doing regular drive-bys until we figure this out.” He draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “But I don’t know how to help or protect you if you won’t tell me the truth.”
· · ·
Grand and I let out audible sighs of relief once the front door closes behind Luke, but we don’t speak until we hear him drive off. Neither of us are remotely ready to begin cleaning up the mess that surrounds us, so I grab bottles of water and plop back down at the dining room table.
“We need to tell Luke what’s going on,” I say to Grand. “ASAP .”
“No.” She shakes her head.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean, I haven’t kept The Madonna hidden all these years just to bandy it about now.”
“I don’t think telling a police officer, whom you’ve known practically his entire life, that bad people are breaking into your home in order to steal a painting that actually belongs to you is ‘bandying.’?”
She stares at me.
“It’s not safe, Grand. Whoever’s after it is clearly serious. And dangerous.”
“No.” Her eyes flash with indignation. “I not only painted The Madonna , it’s a self -portrait, for God’s sake. Even if no one else ever knows or acknowledges it. It belongs to me.”
“I hear you, Grand. But do you have proof of any kind?” I ask quietly.
“You’re doubting your own grandmother?”
“No, I’m not. But others will. Especially since for the last sixty-plus years, the world has been told that it was painted by Phillip Drake.”
“Hmph.” Grand folds her arms across her chest.
“Hmph? Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?”
“What else would you like me to say? It’s not that complicated. I painted The Madonna for the man I had stupidly fallen in love with. When he proved to be a liar and cheater, and I discovered he’d signed his own name over mine, I took it back. The fact that the world has been told otherwise isn’t really my problem.”
“I’d agree with you if someone wasn’t trying so hard to steal it.”
Grand takes a long swallow of her water and shrugs.
I look her right in the eye and force myself to say what needs to be said. “You do realize that given Brian’s wife’s affair with Phillip and her place in the New York art scene, Luke could be right. It’s possible that Brian could be after more than just your company.”
“That’s so insulting.”
“I know, Grand. And I’m sorry to have to even suggest it. But at this point he’s our only logical suspect.”
Her hands tighten around her water bottle, but she doesn’t argue.
“So,” I say carefully, “I’m assuming you have it hidden somewhere that the people who’ve been after it haven’t yet discovered.”
“I think that’s a fair assumption.” Her tone remains serious, but her eyes twinkle.
“You’re actually not going to tell me?”
“No.”
“I’m your own flesh and blood and you don’t trust me?” It’s more statement than question.
“Well, you are sleeping with a policeman.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “What if it accidentally slipped out in the throes of passion?”
“Grand. This is serious.”
“Believe me, I know that, sweetheart. But I promise you it’s in a safe place.”
“Like a bank vault? Or a safe-deposit box?”
“My lips are absolutely sealed. But only because I believe that the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”
“Well, that’s funny,” I snap. “Because I think we’d both be safer if you weren’t hiding the painting. Surely there must be someone who knows the truth.”
“Most definitely,” Grand replies. “It’s clear that Phillip must have told someone before he died. I’ve had that painting for almost sixty years. And it’s only now that Phillip’s gone that someone is trying to steal it from me.”
“Well, that someone seems unwilling to give up. And the attempts are escalating,” I point out. “We need to tell Luke the truth and we need to do it right now.” I pick up my cell phone.
“But,” Grand sputters.
“No, no buts. I’m going to call him right now and ask him to come back.”
“But it has Phillip’s signature on it. What if he doesn’t believe that it’s mine? What if—”
“Grand, he’s known you since he was a child. I seriously doubt that he’d confiscate the painting or arrest either of us. Especially not for a theft that isn’t technically a theft. That took place in another state. Before Luke was even born. At least then you wouldn’t be the only one with a target on your back.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” Grand says with what sounds like real regret. “But I need more time to—”
“No. No more time. No more lying.” I call Luke and ask him to come back. Less than ten minutes later he calls and tells me he’s at the front door.
· · ·
It’s Saturday afternoon, and Sandcastle Books’ Book Club and Story Time are underway in the back room.
On the adult side of the wall divider, six women sip wine, laugh, and join in a discussion of The Second Life of Mirielle West by Amanda Skenandore, led by Myra.
On the other side of the divider, their children, who range in age from four to six, sit on the floor in front of me while I hold up a board book of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are so that they can see his illustrations as I read the story to them.
An eagle-eyed off-duty cop, sent by Luke and introduced to everyone as Myra’s nephew James, stands guard just inside the divider. I do my best to ignore his presence and focus on the children.
Where the Wild Things Are was my very favorite book when I was their age, and I try to do the characters and their voices justice as I read.
At the end of the story, I pass out paper and crayons so that they can draw and color pictures of Max and their favorite wild things. Then I arrange them as best I can in front of the vignette on the kids’ wall and use my phone to get a picture of them.
When the adult conversation comes to an end a few minutes later, I open the divider all the way so that I can get a shot of the whole crew in front of Grand’s mural, which I tag and share on social media.
Despite our need for private security, the afternoon has been a win-win for both age groups and the bookstore, because each mom buys next month’s book club read and a copy of Where the Wild Things Are for their child.
· · ·
I’m still smiling hours later when Luke shows up just off duty and still in his uniform.
“Hey there. How’d story time go?” His tone is affectionate and relaxed, and a small shiver of happiness snakes up my spine when he puts an arm around me and drops a kiss on the top of my head.
“Good. It was comforting having James here. And it turns out kids are a pretty undemanding audience. I mean, there was some herding and gathering involved, but it was way less stressful than auditioning.” I smile up at him. “I think the kids and their mothers enjoyed themselves. We also got some great shots for social media, and Myra sold quite a few books.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah, it was. How did your shift go?”
“Fine,” he says. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Now, I’m hoping to have dinner with a beautiful bouncer before escorting her to work. It’s pretty much every man’s fantasy.”
I roll my eyes, but mostly to fight off my urge to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him senseless.
“James is going to drive Grand home and stay there until the night shift arrives. Are you up for grabbing a bite over at Paradise Grille? You’ve got close to an hour before you need to be at Harley’s. We can catch the sunset and get some food in you in case you need to kick some butt tonight.”
“Perfect.”
I hug Grand and Myra goodbye. Luke and I stroll across the street hand in hand and place our orders at the counter. Then we nab an empty picnic table overlooking the Gulf.
The sound of the tide washing in and out is soothing. Luke toasts me with his beer and I raise my margarita to him in return, then we sip contentedly as the cool breeze skims over us.
When our burgers and fries are ready, Luke retrieves them from the counter, and we chow down.
“So,” I say between bites, “I do believe it’s your turn to plan a date.”
He finishes off a French fry then grins. “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten. In fact, I’ve got the perfect thing in mind.”
“Which is?” I ask.
“Oh, no you don’t.” His grin gets bigger. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Not after the trouble you went to, to surprise me with those mani-pedis.”
Ruh-roh , I think, but do not say.
We share a dessert while we watch the sun sink slowly into the Gulf. Then we amble over to Harley’s, where he gives me a lovely, lingering kiss at the door.
“Have a good evening and don’t take any shit from anyone,” he says quietly. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
I nod and place a kiss on his cheek. It’s kind of nice to have someone unrelated to you by birth who cares what happens to you.
“If you’re free tomorrow at four, I’ll pick you up for our date.”
“Okay. Why don’t you give me a hint where we’re going so that I know how to dress?”
“Nice try.” He laughs. “But my lips are totally sealed.” He does a locking motion in front of his lips.
“But—”
“Sorry,” he says, though it’s clear he isn’t. “I want it to be a surprise. Just like the date you planned for me.”