Chapter Thirty
Thirty
I stand frozen in Grand’s bathroom trying to figure out what to do. More than anything, I want to go to Luke and ask him for help, only I don’t know how nearby the kidnappers are. For all I know, they’ve placed tiny cameras or recording devices around the town house and are watching me now.
Oh God, oh God , I think but do not say because I don’t want them to see how freaked out I am. Or see my lips moving and think I’m talking to someone.
I freeze when Luke’s voice reaches me from downstairs. “Sydney? Where are you?”
“Just throwing on some clothes. Be right down!” I shout as I run into my bedroom and do just that. Then I stroll downstairs as nonchalantly as I can with my heart pounding like a bass drum in my chest.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Sure,” I lie. “I’m just dragging a bit from all our, um, nocturnal activity.”
He cocks his head, and I can practically see his Spidey senses kicking in. “Where’s Grand?”
“She’s having a lie-in this morning. And I think I’m going to take a bit of a nap, too.”
“Okay. I’ll call you later and—”
“That would be great.” I yawn and stretch when what I really want to do is throw myself into his arms and tell him what’s happened to Grand.
“So I’ll call you later,” he says again, studying me more carefully.
“Okay,” I say as I follow him downstairs into the foyer. “Sounds good.” I go up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek then practically push him out the door, afraid that if he lingers, the kidnappers will assume I’m asking him for help.
When he’s gone, I plop down on the sofa, drop my head into my hands, and somehow manage not to cry. Because if they are watching me, I don’t want them to see how frightened I am.
I breathe deeply, in and out, while I try to push the fear away. Think, Sydney, think. Where would you hide The Madonna if you were Grand?
The one thing I know for sure is that Grand thinks the way she paints—in broad strokes and startling color. She is a “seat of the pantser,” driven by her emotions and instincts.
Trying to trust my own instincts, I force myself off the couch. Then I search her studio, her car, her bedroom, and every cabinet, closet, nook, and cranny in the town house where a rolled-up canvas could possibly fit. Nada.
Then I sit at the dining room table and stare out at the water. There, I think until my head starts to pound, which doesn’t take long, given how frightened for Grand I am. I command myself not to give up because time’s wasting. But ultimately, I’m forced to accept the fact that despite how much I love my grandmother and how close I’ve always felt to her, I can’t put myself all the way into her shoes or her head. Trying to think like Grand is not working, but I have to do something.
Blinking back tears, I realize that while Grand is the person who hid The Madonna , Cassie Everheart is the “person” who could figure out where The Madonna is hidden; and she’d do it in one episode. Cassie wouldn’t be sitting around whimpering. She’d take action of some kind.
Unable to sit still another moment, I leave the town house and begin to walk the cobblestone street that weaves through the complex. With each step, I ask myself, What would Cassie do?
Despite having played her for years, I do not have the epiphany I’m so desperate for. No solution or course of action pops into my head, so I force myself to think about all the crimes Cassie solved. There were a few that involved kidnappings and hostage situations. But regardless of the crime, the first thing Cassie did was focus on the things she did know, not the things she didn’t.
Cassie would mentally sift through the people in Grand’s world until she came up with a suspect or person who she could get information from. In my case, it needs to be someone who’s not in law enforcement, who spends time with and/or has access to Grand and has some connection to the art world.
As Luke has pointed out more than once, Brian Boyer checks all these boxes. And he began courting Grand practically the moment he met her. Luke believes Brian is the bad guy or is at least tied to them. If Luke is even partially right, Brian may be the only person who can conceivably help me find Grand.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head for Brian’s building. Channeling Cassie, I march up to his front door and ring his doorbell. When there’s no response, I bang on the door until my fist is raw. But Brian Boyer does not come to the door or buzz me inside.
When I call his cell, it immediately goes to voicemail. I’m afraid to leave a message and I’m not even sure what I’d be asking for.
· · ·
Back at Grand’s, I sink into her sofa and stare out the living room sliders. I have no idea what to do next.
I can’t tell Luke what’s going on, and Brian is not responding, which only increases my suspicions that he’s involved. I’m all my grandmother has. But I’ve looked for The Madonna everywhere I can think of and still haven’t found it. I can’t leave Grand in the hands of the kidnappers, whoever they are, a moment longer than necessary. Especially since I’m not going to be walking into their lair with the painting.
I need a plan B. Something that will get me in with some chance of getting Grand and me out alive.
I feel myself spiraling toward the pit of despair, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to pull myself out of it. If I let myself panic, I won’t even have a chance to save Grand.
I need something devious that will take the people who have Grand by surprise and give us an opportunity to escape. I ask myself what Cassie would do, and when she doesn’t pipe up with an answer, I run through scenarios the Murder 101 writing staff came up with for her over the years. There was drug trafficking, human trafficking, murders, and missing persons cases, but I can’t remember any that feel applicable. And of course, this is not a television show. And the kidnappers are not actors.
My heart pounds. My fear of failing Grand is a living, breathing thing. I’ve got to come up with a bluff convincing enough to get me into where she’s being held so that I can do everything in my power to make sure we at least have a shot at walking out alive.
I walk back down to Grand’s studio and stare at her easel. Then I look over at her stack of blank canvases and pull up a photo of The Missing Madonna on my phone. I used to copy Grand’s work when I was younger. I couldn’t create anything impressive on my own, but I painted some credible copies.
I waste valuable time trying to convince myself that I could paint a convincing copy of The Madonna with Phillip Drake’s signature on it, but I haven’t painted in years, and I don’t have the time or the talent to even attempt to re-create Grand’s Madonna , not to mention figuring out how to “age” it.
I rack my brain trying to come up with a plan C, but the only option left is to bluff my way in with a rolled-up canvas of the right size, hand it over, then pull Grand behind me and a pistol out of my boot so that I can hold it on the kidnappers while I back Grand and I out of there, hopefully before they fully realize they don’t have the real Madonna .
I know this is a risky plan, but I’m pretty sure that while they’re likely to pat me down when I arrive, they’re not going to make me take off my boots. I tell myself that this could work because men tend to underestimate women—a truth Cassie Everheart used to her advantage in numerous episodes.
Now, all I have to do is find a pistol small enough to fit in a boot. Before I lose my nerve, I call Luke and hope like hell he doesn’t let it go to voicemail.
He answers on the third ring. “Hey, Sydney. How’re you doing?”
“Great!” I lie.
“And Grand?” he asks. “How’s she?”
“Good!” I put a smile on my face to help me sound “upbeat yet nonchalant.” “She’s on a plane to Atlanta right now. Her best friend is in the hospital and Grand wanted to spend some time with her. Plus, she wants to see the family and check out her house for herself post-break-in.”
Okay, that was totally TMI. I clamp my mouth shut and remind myself to be careful not to lie too enthusiastically. Then I remind myself that this is not really lying. This is me trying to save my grandmother’s life.
“And, um, I have the afternoon off so I thought it would be fun to go to the shooting range and blow off a little steam.”
“I’m off this afternoon, too. Do you want to go grab lunch then hit the range together?”
I hesitate because I’d give anything for this to be just an ordinary day when Grand’s life isn’t in danger and spending time with Luke is an option. “I’d love to, but I have a really limited amount of time.” This at least is true. “I, um, wondered if I could borrow the pistol I used last time.”
“Sure,” he says after the briefest hesitation. “Do you want me to bring it by?”
“No! I mean, no thank you.” If anyone’s watching the town house, I cannot be seen talking to Luke. “I’m, um, already in my car heading back up the beach. Is it okay if I stop by to pick it up?”
“Yeah. Okay. See you in a few.”
Luke’s waiting in the parking lot near his truck when I arrive. He has a smile on his face as he hands me a small black canvas bag that holds the smaller Glock and a full magazine, but I can feel his full attention on me. He knows me far better than I’d like, so I flash him my biggest smile. “Should I bring it back to you when I’m finished?” Assuming Grand and I aren’t dead?
“No, don’t worry about it. Keep it as long as you like.”
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it,” I say as I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder so that he can’t see the panic and fear I’m trying so hard to hide. And because if my attempted rescue of Grand doesn’t go well, I might never see him again.
· · ·
Back at Grand’s, I keep the gun close to me in case they decide to come after me and The Madonna rather than send the car to pick me up as planned.
After an hour I’m close to climbing the walls.
My phone rings. I grab it. But it’s only Myra.
“I haven’t seen your grandmother around. Do you think she’ll be able to make her art class tomorrow afternoon?”
“Oh, um, I don’t think so. She’s been under the weather.”
“I thought something must be wrong. Why don’t I bring over some matzo ball soup? They don’t call it Jewish penicillin for nothing.”
“That’s so incredibly sweet of you. But please don’t do that just yet. She’s sleeping. A lot. And she really has no appetite. And I wouldn’t want you to be exposed to her germs. My throat’s already feeling a bit scratchy.” I use my acting skill to cough pathetically.
“Ach, I never get sick. I have the constitution of an ox.”
“No, really, Myra. Please…”
“Fine. I’ll leave it on the front steps when it’s ready and ring the bell to let you know it’s there.”
“No, Myra…”
But she’s already hung up. If Grand and I survive, I’m going to work on becoming a better liar.
· · ·
I sit up on the couch all night worrying about Grand and all the things that could go wrong once the car arrives. After a cup of coffee that I hope will kick my brain into gear, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on clothes that I can move in easily. I make sure that the gun’s magazine is full and that the gun is not cocked. Then I spend thirty minutes practicing walking in the boots without favoring the one that has the gun in it. I spend another thirty minutes bending over, whipping the gun out, and cocking it so that I’m ready to fire. When I can do this smoothly in under ten seconds, I use the time that’s left imagining all the possible worst-case scenarios. The worst, of course, is that Grand is already dead, and they kill me the moment they discover I don’t have The Madonna . Then there’s the scenario in which they discover I don’t have The Madonna and immediately kill us both. Or they kill me and torture Grand until she tells them where The Madonna is. Or they torture me until Grand tells them where The Madonna is, at which point they kill me then force Grand to take them to The Madonna . I’m also somewhat worried that Myra will show up with her matzo ball soup at the exact time the car comes to pick me up. And she ends up getting killed, too.
When the dark sedan pulls up in front of Grand’s unit at twelve on the dot, I walk outside, trying to appear unafraid, which proves almost impossible when I see Brian Boyer behind the wheel. A second large scary man climbs out of the passenger seat, ushers me into it, buckles the seat belt around me, and puts a pair of sunglasses on me that are so dark, I might as well be wearing a blindfold. Then he slides into the back seat, where I can feel, but not see him, positioning himself in the exact middle of the back seat; a spot from which he can presumably shoot either of us easily.
“I’m sorry.” Brian doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “I didn’t want to be a part of any of this. But when the Drake family discovered I’d met your grandmother, I owed them so much money, I couldn’t refuse.”
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” I shoot back. “In my experience there’s always a choice—even if it’s the lesser of evils. But I’ll promise you one thing: If you let my grandmother get hurt, I will hunt you down, even if it’s from the grave.”