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  Kathleen made a slow turn, obviously demonstrating to her helpers what frames were to be placed where. Shel took a backward step, shielding her identity behind a potted tropical tree. Through the palms she could see Kathleen’s lovely face, which didn’t look nearly as crazy in daylight. Rob saw her at the same time. His eyes sparkled winningly when he touched Shel’s arm and said, “I’ve got this.”

  His approach was spot-on, pretending to be engrossed in the art, standing perilously close to where she stood, bright eyes aimed at one of her paintings. It was the perfect setup for her to brush against him, which she did, and for him to turn shy and apologetic, which he did, and very convincingly.

  From her safe vantage point, Shel quietly monitored a conversation she could not hear over the noise, supplying her own script for her amusement.

  “I am deeply drawn to this shit. Whoever could have created such masterpieces?”

  Across the room, Kathleen shyly smiled.

  “Why, it was me, silly.” Shel again inserted her own words when the woman’s lips moved.

  Though it seemed a bit soon, Rob was obviously making his move, an action that caused Kathleen’s kindhearted expression to change to a worried one. She motioned toward her workers.

  Shel continued to supply their words. “Go with you? Why, I couldn’t possibly leave my minions.”

  Rob motioned toward the patio doors.

  “Oh please. Run away with me, my beloved.”

  “I could never—” But Shel dropped her silly imitation when Kathleen followed him right out the glass patio doors. In her usual voice, she uttered, “Holy shit, she bought that act..?”

  Shel noticed a woman standing near her, curious eyes beneath a furrowed brow. She felt her own cheeks warm. She cleared her throat and touched her ear, hoping to give the woman the impression she was speaking into a Bluetooth rather than talking to herself.

  Rob’s plan was definitely working, but Shel was in disbelief that Kathleen had so easily taken the bait. She watched the pair leave across the patio and out of her line of sight. After all, it was the desired outcome, wasn’t it? The woman was as big a fraud as her husband claimed. Shel could turn over the location and collect her money without any attached guilt.

  Feeling oddly melancholy, Shel retreated to the same high booth where she’d earlier spied on Kathleen conferring with workers. A bartender trolling the area caught her eye and she waved him over.

  “Vodka tonic.” Her voice sounded monotone.

  She stared numbly at the glass doors for several minutes before making herself look away. With unexpected disappointment she realized Rob was experiencing great success doing exactly what Shel had asked of him.

  On the good side, Shel now had options if Richard Fortier didn’t pay up. As she wasn’t one to get her hands dirty kidnapping for ransom, she was perfectly able to hold out on providing him Kathleen’s exact location. Originally, that had been her only plan. Well, that and maybe some insurance money or jewels from Kathleen’s house, a plan that hadn’t panned out at all. Now, with the help of Rob, she was coming to believe there was a shadier side to Kathleen. She could threaten Kathleen about disclosing her location to the unhappy hubby. Kathleen could then either pony up whatever money she’d hidden, and there was surely some somewhere, or if that failed, there was always a third option.

  Option three involved widening her net; she’d go after Silvia Frances. She’d throw out a few decent bluffs—an expert tool of Shel’s—and get to the bottom of the women’s connection. If Silvia were a partner in crime, how bad it would look for her, working in the community church with children? Silvia’s wardrobe wasn’t cheap either, so she either had a place in society or she was running her own scam, assuring there would be value in Shel’s threat.

  If all else failed, there was always the list of victims that Richard Fortier had provided her. Certainly no highfalutin fellow would want to risk reexposure to scandal and embarrassment. Yes, by all outward signs things were looking up. So why then did Shel feel so awful?

  She stared at her watch, not bothering to acknowledge the server when he set a drink on the table before her. Half the liquid was gone in one swig. She closed her eyes and let the booze warm her system. In moments she felt looser. She downed the balance of the drink and shoved the glass aside.

  Feeling slightly off kilter, she clenched her eyes shut. She felt alone and empty, not exactly the good feeling fresh start she’d envisioned. Perhaps she’d been foolish to dream about such. Still, she would make damned sure she got her money, with or without a side of redemption.

  She opened her eyes and motioned to the floating waiter, and within moments he’d brought her a fresh drink. She chucked her hand in her pocket for cash.

  “Should I start a tab for you?” he asked.

  Shel started to put her money away then thought better of it. It was still early and nothing good could come from being a sloppy drunk. She commended herself for having not lost all perspective. She counted out a few bills. “That’ll be all. Thanks.”

  More than an hour later, she was still waiting. Her head ached, made worse by the noise the lunch crowd brought. They were a hoity-toity set of people if ever she saw them, probably women’s leaguers or Rotarians. She felt a flash of guilt for her cynical thinking. In truth, nobody in Naples had been even slightly rude to her. Well, nobody except for the nosy cop.

  Only when she rose out of her seat did she remember her earlier death-defying jump from a too high bathroom window. Slightly wincing, she did a gentle stretch before heading toward the concierge’s desk.

  The same gentleman beamed his pleased smile her way. “As you can see, the Lady is in quite good standing.”

  She glanced at her approved cash advance line, hoping her eyes wouldn’t physically bulge from their sockets. She swallowed, licked her lips, and put on her best casual attitude when she said, “Thank you.”

  Her hand trembled as she filled out the dollar amount. She studied it and briefly considered tacking an extra zero on the end. In the end, she figured it might make her look desperate and possibly sound unnecessary alarms with the hotel staff or worse, the credit card company. Fortier would get word in no time. She slid the request for ten grand back to the gentleman, who nodded and carried it off to the office. Twenty minutes later she left the desk with cash in her pocket. It wasn’t a hundred grand, but it helped alleviate the sting of finding absolutely nothing of value in Kathleen’s tiny house. Besides, if she followed her newly formed plan, she’d get what she had coming to her, perhaps more.

  She paused in the hallway in front of a chalkboard sign posted outside a restaurant that was casual compared to the other swank eateries. The host seated her in a corner booth and soon she was dining on a heaping roast beef on rye with a side of “hand crafted” chips, reminding her that Naples was nothing if not artsy with its food.

  In the middle of a particularly large mouthful, Rob slid into the seat across from her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “She is one tough nut to crack, I’ll tell you that much.” He grinned and made a low whistle.

  “But you did? Crack her, I mean?” Shel said after swallowing her too-big bite. It felt stuck in her throat. Still surprised to see him, she’d expected she’d seen the last of him. For a while, she wasn’t even sure why she’d bothered hanging around. The thoughts spun through her head as she sipped her water then pressed forward. “Did she pursue you? Were you able to—”

  “Give me a chance, would you?” He playfully wagged his index finger at her, like a parent admonishing a naughty child. “First, let me commend you for being a clever little wench. That’s some shtick—find a sucker with a record and hold it over his head until he dances like a monkey? I gotta hand it to you, I didn’t see that coming.”

  Her expression was deadly serious. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s cool. You’ve got a little larceny operating in you. Don’t we all?” He paused dramatically as he leaned back against the
booth. His Cheshire grin didn’t show signs of fading. “Of course, I was insulted at first; you did use me after all. If you needed a wingman, you could have just asked.”

  His nonsensical accusations were causing Shel to quickly lose her patience. She narrowed her gaze. “I’m forming my own notions, but let’s find out how large an idiot you really are, Rob. Did you follow our plan at all? Did you even attempt to scam the scammer, at all?”

  “Yes and yes. Girl’s got no game and she’s got no cabbage.”

  Shel shook her head. “What?”

  “No dough.” He rubbed his fingertips together. “No bread, no moolah—zip. My guess is she’s a starving artist. Not well traveled, no jewelry, and her clothes are three seasons old, if you know what I mean.”

  Shel didn’t. “Cite your supporting evidence.”

  “She’s classy, but not sophisticated. Think about all the things you’d do if you were an artist with means.” He nodded, obviously pleased with himself. “You’d go see the great works in sweet places—Musee D’Orsay, Bushwick Galleries—I dropped it all. She has a working laymen’s knowledge, probably from books.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “Books. It’s always easy for me to spot a faker, though I can’t say she was trying to fake me out.” He appeared momentarily puzzled. “Girl acts like Florida is the first sun she’s ever had on her face. Had she not been so well spoken, which speaks to decent education, I’d have pegged her for being fresh off the farm. Oh, and she was very wary of me.”

  Shel tensed. “She made you, you moron.”

  “No.” He shrugged. “I mean she could have, but I doubt it. Her reactions were too spontaneous, too legit. Seemed more like the brand of wariness you have when small-town folk have warned you about city-slickers.”

  “So you’re a profiler now?” Shel rolled her eyes and quickly got down to business. “I thought you were a pro at this pick-up biz. If she were so fresh off the farm, you’d have her by your side by now. You failed.”

  “Oh, I did not fail. Picking up is my business—it’s what I do.” He seemed very serious about that point, and leaned forward to make it. He continued in a quiet, firm voice. “I gave her my best low-key moves, employed some smooth don’t-know-much-about-art-shit moves, and even offered to buy her dinner. No traction. But that’s still good news for you, right?”

  “How could there possibly be good news for me?”

  “She’s an obvious lesbian. There you go.” He again sat back, proudly crossing his arms across his chest. “My work here is done.”

  When every last piece of his odd summary had clicked into place, Shel felt her cheeks burn. “You’re an enormous idiot, you know that? You think that’s what I’m after here? A piece of tail?”

  “No shame in bringing on a professional consultant.” He glanced toward the ceiling, as if he were considering it all. “I admit, even an unwilling wingman is better than none at all. I applaud you. Nice work.”

  “She told you she is gay?” In her wildest imaginings she couldn’t hear those words come from the feminine woman’s sweet lips.

  “Not with words, but why else would she turn me down flat?” He chuckled, his healthy ego on full display for Shel. “Please—get real. Never happens.”

  “Let me see if I comprehend.” Shel continued glaring at him. “Despite my clear directives, you thought the mission was to find out whether or not she was straight.”

  “This is odd advice coming from me, but I’d go for it even without the money. She is pretty damned amazing to look at.” He swiped her water glass and started to take a sip, but Shel reached a hand out and stopped him. The water sloshed over the rim and onto the table between them.

  “God only knows where those lips have been.” She set it back down and sighed with disgust. “Thanks for nothing.”

  Instead of being put off, he appeared to sympathize. “Look, it’s clear that cops make no money…” He paused and gave her outfit and hair an exaggerated gander to make his point. “You look like you’re used to it by now. True this dame hasn’t got a pot to piss in, but she’s swell. Go after it.”

  Disbelieving her ears, Shel repeated, “You have seriously fucked this up.”

  Appearing immune to her insults, he continued. “I’ll warn you that she’s got kid-baggage, surprise-surprise.” He shivered. “Only good thing about kids is visiting the place where they started.”

  She tossed the crude words around her brain and shook her head until it hurt all over again. “You’re really a pig.”

  “You sent me on a job for your personal benefit, and I’m a pig?” He appeared to easily shrug off her opinion of him, whispered, “That’s the pot calling the kettle black isn’t it, Officer-Detective?”

  “You utterly failed the job I gave you.”

  “And you’re happy I did,” he cockily declared. He started to lean onto the tabletop, but looked as though he thought better of it. Dusting pretend lint off his sleeves, he grinned. “Almost forgot, they said I could return these for cash.”

  He slid his sleeve back enough for her to see that indeed, the tag with all its zeroes was still intact. Rob beamed with pride at his alleged brilliance then glanced at his borrowed watch. “Gotta run, but thanks for cutting me in. It was fun.”

  “Fun?” She felt like she was in the Twilight Zone.

  “Yeah—we could be a real team, you and me. I could be, like, your gaydar.” He slid out of the booth and stood. “Feel free to bounce all your potential hot-ass dates off me. There’s bound to be a flunky in there somewhere. With chicks like that, money or not, I live for the day.”

  Long after he was gone, Shel still stared at the doorway. While it was true that Kathleen Fortier was at least two decades younger than his youngest sugar mama, she’d felt too stunned to even properly insult him with that fact before his departure.

  Her initial disappointment had taken a brief foray into excitement to which she was neither entitled nor would she ever benefit from. Rob had been right about one thing: women as educated and gorgeous as Kathleen wouldn’t give her a second look. The reality was that for her, snagging a woman like Kathleen would require more than a wingman—possibly it would take an entire flight crew.

  On the heels of that bunch of ridiculous notions, she came full circle to Rob’s certainty that Kathleen was a basic pauper. In her earlier search of the woman’s house, Shel hadn’t recovered a dime let alone diamond. His mention of her not being well traveled didn’t much concern her; there could be a million reasons why someone would choose not to travel. He’d mentioned the possibilities of what would an artist do if she had money, and although Shel could hardly believe she was following the lead of a professional scam artist bartender, she was compelled to work along that same vein.

  What would a creative person hope to provide for their child?

  Inevitably her thoughts went to the young mother delivering drugs all those years ago.

  “Mothers always hope their child will do better,” she’d said, tired eyes shining. In a whisper she added, “Anyhow, it’s surely what I hope.”

  Shel clenched her eyes tightly shut as if she could physically purge the memory. It still pained her after all these years.

  Kathleen, if she were a decent mother, would also want better for her child. The woman herself could create beautiful things; she’d want to give her daughter an artistic environment in which to thrive. Yet the yellow cottage lacked art, even books. There were no paints, not even a radio for music or television on which to watch a movie. Given monetary limitations, was it possible Kathleen attempted to “do better” by her child, if only by way of nursery décor? She thought about its brightly painted walls, simple, yet stimulating toys, and the fact that the walls were adorned with the only pictures in the house. If Shel ignored the warnings of Richard Fortier and went strictly with gut instinct, the answer seemed clear: Kathleen was giving her daughter everything she could. It so happened to be that her everything just wasn’t much.


  Then again, maybe she simply provided the kid just enough stuff to get her to shut up. Like that, Richard Fortier’s claims were infiltrating her already shaky objectivity.

  Why wasn’t Kathleen asking for that ransom? What was she waiting for, and why?

  Being held for ransom isn’t supposed to be a cultural experience, her inner con artist butted in next. Turning the whole damned nutty bunch over to the authorities is what’s best for the kid—or so urged the last dregs of the old cop inside her.

  Her eyebrow arched as she considered what it would be like to nail Mrs. Fortier should Rob’s suspicion turn out to be an accurate one…

  “You fucking nutty bitch,” she quietly, firmly said aloud, emerging from her internal rambling. She was staring at her now cold sandwich and she wasn’t alone. The waitress stood over her wearing a confused look. Shel scrubbed her hands through her hair and quickly apologized. “Sorry—I was…talking to myself.”

  The young waitress looked uncertain and her voice wavered when she asked, “Is there something wrong with the sandwich?”

  “No, no.” Shel fished her wallet out of her pocket and found a few bills. “Could I get this wrapped?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time she stumbled through the door of the Third Avenue house, streaks of pain were shooting up her leg, into her lower back. If history had its way, she’d be stiff as a board within a few hours. The way it already felt, she worried that this round might really be a doozy. Shel toed her shoes off, and with the agility of an aging arthritic, slowly changed into sweatpants and T-shirt. Two Tylenol later it was time to lie down.

  She considered the bed then the couch, but both would be too soft. Should she lie down, she might never get back up again. She eyed the wide, flat coffee table only a moment before gingerly lowering herself onto its top. Holding her breath, she willed it not to collapse under her. Within seconds, she’d deemed it relatively solid. Legs dangling over the edge, she took short, shallow breaths and stared at the whirling ceiling fan. Her eyelids grew heavy.