Faking It - Crusie Jennifer (электронные книги без регистрации .TXT) 📗

“I had to see you.” He beamed at her as he sat beside her on the vanity bench. “Darling, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said automatically. “How did you get in?”

“The back door was unlocked.” Ronald put his arm around her. “I had to see you. I had to make sure you were all right. I’m taking care of you.”

“Yeah,” Clea said, disentangling herself from him. “You knocked out my help before he could do my laundry, and you sent me a hired killer. Thanks a bunch.”

Ronald looked wounded. “I thought you wanted a hired…” He made vague motions with his hand.

“No,” Clea said patiently. “I wanted you to send one to Davy. Direct trip.”

“I wanted you to know I’d come through for you,” Ronald protested. “I paid him, you know. All you had to do was tell him what to do.”

“That’s true,” Clea said, “that was nice of you to pay him. Thank you, Ronald.”

Ronald relaxed.

“But next time just do it,” Clea said. “He was a very scary man, Ronald.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ronald said. “I talked to him on the phone and wired him the money.”

Clea looked at him, exasperated. “So for all you knew, you were sending me some crazed serial killer.”

Ronald blinked back at her. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

Where do I find these guys? Clea thought. Do I have some kind of homing device that draws them to me?

“I thought we could go out and celebrate,” Ronald said, moving closer. “Or stay in.”

Clea shifted away. “Not a good time, Ronald. Maybe next week.” She stood up. “Now really, you have to get out of here.” She looked back at the body on the floor. “And do something about Thomas before-”

“Is that one of the paintings you bought?” Ronald said.

She turned and saw the Scarlet Hodge leaning against the wall, back from being framed. “Yes. That’s part of the collection.”

“I like it,” Ronald said. “You have very good taste.”

Clea looked at it doubtfully. It looked sort of amateurish to her, and it had a lot of colors. And she already knew how bad Ronald was at valuing art, the dummy.

“The artist has a very distinct style,” Ronald went on. “What did you pay for it?”

“A thousand,” Clea said, still bitter about that even though she hadn’t actually written the Goodnights a check yet. “And she can’t have been very good. She only painted six of them before she died.”

“She’s dead?” Ronald whistled. “That really increases the value. You’ll probably make a nice profit on it. We should take it down to Miami where there’s real money.” He stood up and put his arm around Clea’s shoulders. “You really have an eye, honey. Too bad you couldn’t get all six.”

Clea looked up to tell him not to call her honey, and he kissed her. It was an okay kiss, better than some, worse than others, but his timing was terrible. Still, she let him finish. After all, he was paying Ford. And he’d promised to check up on Gwen.

“So,” she said when he was done. “Did you find out anything about Gwen Goodnight?”

Ronald blinked, looking a little taken aback, and then he said, “Well, she’s broke. The place is mortgaged to the hilt.”

“How is that going to help me?” Clea moved away from his arms.

“Help you what?” Ronald said.

“Get me something better,” Clea said. “Find out that she was a hooker or killed her husband or something. Get me something that will bring her down and that gallery with her.”

“I don’t think she’s that kind of woman,” Ronald said doubtfully.

Clea stepped close again and looked up at him, and he swallowed.

“Every woman has secrets, Ronald,” she said softly. “Find out Gwen Goodnight’s and I’ll show you some of mine.”

“Okay,” Ronald said faintly.

Mason knocked on the door and said, “Clea?” and Clea thought, Honestly, and shoved Ronald toward the closet.

“Get in there,” she said. “To the back. And to the right, the far right, in case he opens the door. And do not make a sound.”

“But-” Ronald began and then saw her face. He nodded and backed into the closet, and Clea closed the door on him. She remembered the painting and opened the door again to shove it in after him. It was supposed to be a surprise, given to Mason on his birthday with cake and wine and sex in return for a nice ten-carat engagement ring. It was too soon to let him see it. Rushing a man was always a mistake.

Then she turned and almost fell over Thomas.

Honest to God. Well, Mason just couldn’t come in her bedroom. She grabbed her jacket, stepped over Thomas, and eased herself through the door so Mason couldn’t see inside.

“You ready to go?” he said.

“Absolutely,” Clea said, cheerful and supportive.

She looked at Mason from the corner of her eye as they went down the stairs. She could tell him Gwen Goodnight was broke and the gallery was in hock, but would that put him off Gwen or make him decide to rescue her?

“You look lovely,” Mason said, smiling at her.

He’d rescue her. Ronald was going to have to dig deeper.

“Thank you,” Clea said and kissed him on the cheek.

And she was going to have to try harder. “Too bad you didn’t get all six,” Ronald had said. That meant Mason would like all six. It would be a fabulous birthday gift. Well, how hard could that be? She could put an ad in the paper, see if anybody had one of the dumb things in an attic.

“I have an appointment after brunch,” Mason said as he opened the door to his Mercedes for her. “But this evening, the museum is having an opening. I thought we’d go.”

“I love it there,” Clea said, and thought, Oh, hell, more paintings. When Mason died, her next husband was going to be in something bearable, like fashion. She saw herself in the front row at all the runway shows and smiled.

“You really do, don’t you?” Mason patted her hand. “I had no idea.”

“Oh, there’s a lot about me you don’t know,” Clea said, and sat back in his Mercedes to plan.

TILDA SEEMED more cautious than usual with Davy when she came downstairs after lunch, and he thought it might have been the hair and the clothes: she was a redhead with dark eyes wearing a blue jacket that looked very businesslike and remote. To cheer her up, he found Shelby Lynne on the radio.

“Terrible jacket,” he told her when she was in the car.

“Gwennie’s,” she told him, keeping her eyes on the radio. “She interviewed for a job once.”

“Once?” Davy said.

“Not her thing,” Tilda said. “Any instructions?”

“Same as yesterday,” Davy said, trying not to stare at her eyes. Funny what a difference dark contacts could make. “I miss your eyes,” he said, and she looked over at him, startled, and then she smiled, that great crooked Kewpie-doll smile, and he thought, Good, I got her back.

“You can see them again when we get the mermaids,” she said, relaxing a little into the car seat.

“Mermaids,” Davy said and put the car in gear. “Can’t wait.”

The Olafsons lived in a neat little foursquare, surrounded by a neat patch of lawn that was rimmed with even neater strips of concrete. A single row of petunias edged the walk, each spaced precisely six inches apart. The only thing that jarred, aside from the whole anal-retentive landscape, was a tire leaning up against the trim white garage.

“Somebody who lives here likes order,” Davy said. “And somebody else does not.”

“Okay,” Tilda said.

“Pray I get the one who doesn’t,” Davy said, putting on his horn-rims, “and that the one who does is out.”

“Praying.” Tilda nodded. “I’m on it. I was wondering what happened to those glasses.”

“This time I’m Steve Olson,” Davy told her. “You’re definitely my wife. With any luck, I can do this without you, but if not…”

“I’ll come up and weed the petunias,” Tilda said.