CHAPTER 25
Nash
Bee entered my home office late Monday afternoon. I’d been fielding phone call after phone call from home; the PERL auction ticket garnering a growing amount of interest. The news of the theft had gone global by now, and the panic for collectors to get their piece of PERL had multiplied tenfold.
I’d barely left my office all day and was eager to know if Sybil was alright, but I also wanted to respect her solitude. She undoubtedly needed to digest our moment together this morning. I wanted her to feel comfortable, not pressured.
Bee let out an exasperated puff of air, slumping into the leather chair opposite my desk. “I have found absolutely nothing to suggest any of our suspects are PERL.” She grumbled.
“Nothing?” I asked.
Her forehead fell into her hands. “I’ve been hunting down every one of the PERL patrons on the list, and none of them are giving off any red flags.” She let out a long, frustrated breath. “Most of them are shit artists, and they don’t seem to have color issues—style issues, yes. Color? No.”
I chuckled.
“Do you know how hard it is to fake interest in bad art?” She glowered. “That’s what I’ve reduced myself to, Nash.”
Her hair was a complete disaster. She still wore the pajamas from last night; little tufts of cat fur covered her chest. She put her feet up on my desk. It looked like she was wearing cat socks with little calico cats all over them.
I pointed at her feet. “What are those?”
She looked where I pointed. “Socks.”
“With Mr. Beans on them?”
She chuffed. “Yeah, so?”
“It’s only been a day, literally.”
“So what? Prime overnight shipping. Mr. Beans is my new boyfriend, and I love him.”
I smiled. “Has Sybil emerged?”
She shook her head. “What happened? Why is she all tucked away in there? I brought her some food at one point, but she didn’t answer, so I left it. I took Bill out when he was scratching once, but didn’t see her then, either.”
I couldn’t help my sly smirk.
“What did you do?” She pulled her feet down, leaning forward and shooting daggers with her gaze. “You weren’t inappropriate with her, were you? You know how I feel about men overstepping.”
“Me? Of course not.” I was a little hurt she’d think that. “But her? Well…”
Her eyebrows shot through the roof. “She made a move on you? No. Not Sybil. How?” I could see her wheels whir to life.
I cut my hand through the air, trying to stop her racing thoughts. “Nothing like I’m sure you’re thinking. She just fell asleep and latched onto me like her life depended on it. It was harmless. Cute, but harmless. I think she was just searching for a comfortable place to sleep, and I was it.”
“Right, and I’m sure you let her, of course you did. You know, the gentlemanly thing would have been to set her back where she was and tuck her in.”
I tilted my head, giving her a look with a who do you think I am to it.
“Nash!”
“What? It felt good, and she slept all night. She seemed happy. I won’t deny her that.” I feigned innocence.
“You’re gonna make her my sister-in-law, aren’t you?” she shot back, trying to scare me. It didn’t. “I’ve never once heard you talk about a woman like this, and cuddling with her when I’m in the room? Ew.”
“You were passed out and making love to the wall. Besides nothing happened.” I fanned her away.
She shook her head and gave me the finger. “Don’t scare her away, okay?”
I shrugged. “I think you should give Sybil the benefit of the doubt. She’s braver than you give her credit for. Like I said, harmless. If anything scared her, it was the fact that she enjoyed it.”
She was contemplative and quiet for a moment before changing the subject. “What should I do about the PERL suspects?”
My leather office chair squeaked as I leaned forward, placing my elbows on my desk. “Let’s review it all one more time. We probably missed something. They haven’t remained anonymous this long through blind luck. They’re smart and know how to be invisible.”
My phone dinged with the doorbell camera. I picked it up and turned it on. It was a fire marshal, the same guy I’d watched comb through Sybil’s rubble today from my office perch.
I stood. “I need to get this.”
Bee didn’t bother to move, staying in my office instead of making the long trek down four flights to the front door. We really needed an elevator. She switched on her own doorbell camera feed and slumped back in the chair to monitor from a distance.
Opening the front door a few minutes later, I greeted the marshal with a handshake. He was a big man like me, older, with a mustache and peppery, full hair.
He cleared his throat. “Is Sybil Kauffman here?”
“She is, but she’s sleeping.”
The marshal hummed, “Ah, no problem. I just wanted to drop off the fire report for her to look over. Can you pass this along?” He thrust a folder toward me, and I took it.
“Thanks, I will get it to her when she wakes.”
“That’d be great,” he chuckled. “Also, just in case she sets up over here, I don’t want her repeating the same mistake.
I need to stress that she be more careful with how she gets rid of flammable refuse.
She needs a metal trash can specifically for that type of garbage.
She should also bring the flammable refuse to a PaintCare site or local household hazardous waste location for proper disposal so we don’t end up with a dumpster fire.
It’s pure luck she survived with that amount of accelerant present.
It made quick work of her tinderbox over there. She’s lucky to be alive.”
I frowned. Looking down at the manila folder in my hand, I grew curious. Sybil had discussed a lot of hobbies, but she never mentioned anything involving hazardous waste of any kind. An icy chill fell over me as I shut the door. The thought of her dying curdled the contents of my stomach.
What was she hiding?
When I turned, Bee was there. “Why was he talking about PaintCare?”
Surprised, I jumped—I hadn’t heard her coming down the stairs. “I thought you weren’t coming down.”
“I changed my mind. Why was he talking about PaintCare,” she repeated, adamant.
I tapped the folder against my hand a few times, thinking. “What do you know about PaintCare?”
She shrugged. “That’s where all our flammable art restoration garbage has to go—the paint-thinner-soaked cotton we use to strip antique paintings of varnish, and so on. All of that is combustible. I mean, hell, the oil paint is even combustible.”
We began strolling toward the kitchen, lost in thought. I placed the envelope on the counter, keeping my voice low. “Has Sybil ever mentioned painting to you?”
Her brows pressed together. “No, not at all. I try to talk about art sometimes, because of my career and the fact she was literally at an art show, but she doesn’t seem interested.
Like you said, it seems like she was more or less dragged to the PERL shows against her will.
” She sat on a stool with a plunk. “Plus, we’d already checked her off the list. Why? ”
“The fire marshal said hazardous materials caused it. But she’s never once mentioned any hobby or activity of the sort.”
Bee’s eyes got big. “Why would she lie?” Then she laughed. “Maybe this is a Breaking Bad situation, and she’s cooking meth in there.”
I glowered at her joke. “No meth labs, Bee.”
She whispered conspiratorially, but with mirth, “It’s always the quiet ones.”
“We’d have had a cop at our door then, not a fire marshal.” Chuckling, I shrugged, but both our gazes fell to the folder with interest.
“Should we open it?” she asked.
My breathing felt measured. I didn’t want to betray Sybil’s trust, but I needed to know. My curiosity wouldn’t let this stand. Reaching forward, I flipped the folder open, and we both leaned closer. There was a cover page for the report; we scanned it.
“Fire started in the third-level artist studio,” Bee whispered. “Improper disposal of artists’ oil paint rags, paper towels and other items of similar identification?” Her gaze slid to mine.
I reached out and flipped to the next page.
There were several black and white printed images: A soot-caked bucket of paint tubes; a few angle shots of lateral beams that seemed to show starting points; burned and ruined easels; a giant collapse in the center of the floor, likely where the combustible materials were of the highest concentration.
My eyes drew back to the image of a bucket of paint tubes, something there niggling at me. “Look at that,” I pointed out when I finally worked out what was wrong with it.
Bee squinted, picking up the sheet. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
I directed her attention to one of the tubes that was mostly untouched by fire.
“The label looks covered on purpose, with tape.” I found another.
“And here too. All of them look that way.” The metal bucket appeared to have protected them from the fire, especially since the tubes were made of aluminum.
“Why would someone cover a label like that?” Bee asked, but I felt she already had an answer in mind. “Unless—” she trailed off and her hand slapped the table.
“Unless, they didn’t want to see the names. The label, the color, didn’t matter to them,” I filled in.
She was nodding, placing the sheet back in the folder and stepping back. “But I tested Sybil, you tested her. And the nail polish yesterday, she—”
“She didn’t pick a color; you did.” I glowered. “I remember because you kept using my favorite color on purpose, and it pissed me off.”
Her hand went to her mouth. “Holy hell, you’re right.”
Nodding, I swiped the folder from the counter and closed it. “We can’t let Sybil find out we know.”
“So you’re calling it,” Bee ventured. “You really think it’s her.” It was a statement, and not a question.
Rounding the counter, I rummaged through our junk drawer to find an envelope. Opening the folder, I removed the report and folded it, stuffing it into the envelope and sealing it with the tape strip.
“Good idea,” Bee said. “I’ll slide it under her door. Here, give it to me and give me a sticky note. I’ve been giving her things all day, so it won’t seem suspicious.”
I handed her a sticky note, the envelope and a Sharpie.
She wrote, “From the fire Marshall,” across the front of the sticky note. Rounding the island, she marched down the hall and slid it under Sybil’s door like a hot potato. She stood there for a moment, biting her nails before returning.
“We need to be certain it’s her,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Let’s see if she’ll tell us the truth about the fire.
If she lies, we’ll know for certain. And if we’re right—we have to get rid of that painting you stole, return it to Henry.
She can’t be living here with her own stolen art hanging in your office, for Pete’s sake. She’d hate us if she found out.”
I nodded. Neither of us was ready to give her up. Despite the short time frame, she was a perfect fit in this family—and the perfect fit in my arms. I refused to jeopardize what was already a tenuous but amazing situation.
“If it’s her,” Bee began, glancing from side to side, “we’ll just make it all go away. We have to protect the secret, and Sybil.”
“I agree.” I swept my hand across my face and down my stubbled jaw.
“At some point, she’ll tell us.” She was nodding, sure of it. “And then it’ll be fine. Maybe someday we can all come clean and laugh about it,” she assured.
Bee was shifting from foot to foot when I looked down, finding Mr. Beans there, rubbing up against her cat socks. How the mighty have fallen. He looked about as in love with her as he was with Sybil. I felt a little left out. I thought we’d become bacon buddies.
She nodded in confirmation, slapping hands against her thighs. “Great. Cool. Well… call off the cavalry, mystery solved. I can’t believe our initial assumption was right.”
I huffed. “We don’t know that for sure. You just said we needed to know for sure.”
Bee looked sure, regardless. She had a blank look on her face, accepting this as fact. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s her.”
Honestly, I believed it too. Sybil was shy and didn’t want to be noticed. That made sense. PERL didn’t want to be known either. Sybil knew who I was and what I did. It made sense she’d throw me off her scent any way she could. I’d have done the same.
She’d lied to us, or had she? She said her friend made her go to the shows. Maybe the friend she was referring to was Dr. Catherine. It had to be. She said so herself—Catherine was her only friend. What if this was an exercise for Sybil, something Catherine put her up to?
My mother’s therapist did similar things called exposure therapy. It was the only way we could ensure my mother got the care she needed in terms of doctor visits and check-ups. It was all treated as exposure therapy since her agoraphobic nature made tasks such as that difficult.
Holy shit, and I’m just making it worse.
I’m drawing more attention to her, putting more pressure on her. She’s probably terrified of the new publicity and fame my theft brought. She would hate me if she knew.
Everything was happening too fast. Regret was palpable, but was it regret? I didn’t regret meeting her, and without stealing the art, I might not have. We are inevitable. Fate is pushing us together in so many ways, it’s obvious.
I turned to Bee, her thoughts appearing as jammed as mine. “Help me make her some food. I’ll find out for sure.”
Bee nodded. “Good plan.”
“And don’t, for the love of God, mention the auction,” I added. “We’re fortunate she doesn’t seem to know about it yet.”
She nodded once. “I’d be surprised if she didn’t know. I would think by now she’d have seen the headlines, and Catherine should have told her. Maybe she’s hiding that like everything else?”
“You’re right. But with the fire? I never see her on her phone.
I think she avoids the news, especially in this economy.
It’s probable she hasn’t heard between the hospital and drama.
What if Catherine is trying not to overwhelm her?
I guess we could bring it up and see how she reacts?
But maybe not yet; let’s just keep everything vanilla for now until we know more. ”
“All of this is crazy.” Bee was pulling things from the fridge, lining them up across the counter. It looked like cheeses and fruit, various liquids.
I nodded. “Crazy, but also exciting. What are the odds?”
She chuffed. “Right? I think you’ve been ‘divinely intervened’, Nash.”
I laughed, feeling my tension relax.
Bee stopped chopping, holding a knife loosely in her hand. “Did she just get, like, ten times sexier? I mean, if I were a man, I’d have a hard-on.”
I gave her a playful shove.
“You do, don’t you!” she accused.
All I could do was shake my head.
“I mean, she might even be cooler than Taylor Swift.”
I guffawed at that.