Wild Ride: A Changing Gears Novel

by Warren, Nancy

  Alex didn’t hold out much hope that her soft-voiced cousin could keep a determined Duncan Forbes out of hell itself if he had a mind to go there. But, amazingly, she managed it. Gillian, she was beginning to suspect, had hidden resources.

  So, when Alex was released the next day, it was her cousin who helped load all the flowers into the car and who drove Alex back to their grandparents’ home.

  ***

  Duncan decided he’d had enough of that rental. He wasn’t interested in driving a vehicle so common that a killer could rent one exactly like it to terrorize an innocent woman.

  Besides, when he’d arrived here he’d never intended to stay so long. The rental was okay for a couple of days. Not for any longer. Since Alex was refusing to see him he had time on his hands and frustration burning a hole in his gut.

  Duncan found himself scrolling through car listings looking for rugged, reliable four wheel drive small trucks and fuel-efficient SUVs. Something unique. He was yawning over his choices knowing he needed to call it a night when an ad for a motorcycle popped up.

  Clearly the ad was in the wrong section because Duncan wasn’t in the market for a motorcycle. His finger hovered over the button that would move him along to the next page.

  But if he was in the market for a bike this is exactly the bike he’d choose.

  He double clicked to bring the ad into better focus. A classic Indian, the bike reminded him of his younger days when he’d roared across Turkey in search of stolen Byzantine treasure. He’d retrieved the treasure and, thanks to some wily maneuvering, he and the Indian Chief — a classic from the thirties — had made it out alive.

  Of course, even a classic bike wasn’t practical out here and he couldn’t load up much in the way of equipment.

  But how much stuff did he need?

  The bike store was called Changing Gears and was located in a place called Harleyville. He’d heard of it, the bike shop was semi-famous. They could find you what you were looking for, fix any bike ever made.

  When he checked the map he discovered Changing Gears was far enough away that he shut down his computer and forgot about it.

  The next morning, he powered up his laptop and somehow the bike appeared again on his desktop. This was also an Indian Chief, though manufactured later than the one he’d driven, it looked decidedly badass. He didn’t know how he’d done it but somehow he’d saved that ad. Duncan wasn’t one to discount coincidence.

  He tapped his fingertips against the tabletop and then on a whim picked up his cell and called the number.

  “Changing Gears, Merle speaking,” a rough voice informed him.

  “I’m calling about the Indian you have advertised.”

  There was a pause. “Yep, the Chief.”

  Why was he doing this? He kept asking himself. Why was he asking a guy two hundred miles away about a motorcycle he didn’t need?

  The bike was in great shape, well maintained, never in an accident – and it was probably sold.

  “What?” Duncan heard himself splutter. “But it came up this morning on my laptop. It says it’s for sale.” Now that it seemed he couldn’t have the bike he discovered there was nothing he wanted more.

  “I’ve got a nice Harley, same vintage. Could give you a good price on it.”

  “No. Forget it.” He realized he was pouting like a kid who lost his marbles to a bully but he felt like pouting.

  “If the guy changes his mind I’ll call you.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He gave his number but didn’t hold out much hope.

  When he got a call half an hour later that was the raspy voice informing him he could, indeed, have the bike, he was as excited as he’d been when he’d bought his first motorcycle. “You hold it for me,” he warned. “I’m on my way.”

  He was able to drop off the rental near enough the bike shop that he could get a cab there. It wasn’t until he was walking into a nondescript beige cinder block building in a no-account town that he realized he had no transport. He’d become so determined on this bike. What would he do if the guy had lied and it was a piece of junk?

  But one look at the classic gave him the bone-deep pleasure of knowing he was looking at his next ride. The bike was sleek, rugged, the sort of vehicle a man could get into trouble on and ride his way out of trouble on.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said when he ran his hands over the ’41 Indian Chief.

  ”Ain’t no trailer queen there. That’s a bike that gets ridden and valued,” Merle said.

  “I plan to do both.”

  ”What are you lookin’ for?”

  Was this some kind of joke? “A motorcycle.”

  “No. Don’t mean the bike. I mean you. You’ve got the look of a man who’s hunting for something or somebody.”

  He stared at the man who looked like he’d been both hunter and hunted in his time.

  “Ah, I’m looking for buried treasure,” he said, not too inclined to spread the word on his real purpose for visiting Swiftcurrent.

  Merle stared at him for an uncomfortable moment during which he felt like his head was a crystal ball. He figured this guy had done way too many drugs. At last he shook his head slowly and said, “it’s not buried. The treasure you’re looking for is in plain sight.”

  “How can you say that? You have no idea what I’m looking for.” Why was he even arguing with this guy who looked like he’d seen Easy Rider a few too many times and never moved on?

  Those strange, blue green eyes kept looking at him. “I’ve known men like you before. So caught up in treasure hunting you miss what’s right in front of you.” He smiled briefly. “Or who’s in front of you.”

  Okay, he didn’t need head shrinking. He needed this bike. He took her for a test drive which only made him more convinced. Within an hour he had a brand new helmet on his head and a brand new –to him – bike taking him wherever he wanted to go.

  He felt the familiar roar, the wind buffeting him, the rumble of the road beneath him taking him back to Alex.

  ***

  “Thank you,” Alex said as Gill brought in her lunch on a tray. It was the very same soup their grandmother used to make them when they were sick as kids—canned cream of mushroom, and egg salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

  “Making your meals is the easy part,” Gillian said, pushing her long blond hair behind her ear. “Keeping Duncan Forbes out of this house is the Herculean labor. The man won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Tell me about it. He’s the pushiest guy I’ve ever met.”

  “If you ask me, he’s in love with you.”

  Alex laughed, but it sounded a bit like a sob. “I can’t believe you are still such a romantic.”

  Her cousin blushed like a teenager. “I am a romantic.”

  Well, maybe Alex’s own love life was a disaster, but it seemed somebody was having more luck. “So, this whole thing with Tom? Last time I saw you two together you were throwing a frying pan at his head.”

  Gill fussed with a flower arrangement, sticking her finger into the florist’s foam to check for moisture. “He brought me flowers. He apologized. we’re trying to take things slowly.”

  “I remember when you had a crush on him in high school.”

  “I don’t think it was a crush,” her cousin said in a voice so soft Alex could have imagined it.

  “Wait a minute? What do you mean?”

  Gillian put her face in her hands. “Oh, forget it. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  But Alex had had a lot of time to think while she’d been lying here, and she’d heard Tom Perkins’s voice downstairs several times. Those visits weren’t all to check up on her. He’d taken her statement at the hospital, and they were trying to track down the car that had tried to run her down. He had no reason to be hanging around this house unless it was for Gillian. A stunning idea occurred to her. “You’re in love with him.”

  “You have a concussion.”

  “Is he in love with you?”

  “Alex! Gi
ve me a break.”

  And suddenly, the past fell away. “Oh, my God. That’s why you ran away, isn’t it?”

  Gillian dropped her hands from her face, and it wasn’t a crazy woman with a history of drug abuse staring at her, but an adult who’d made mistakes and accepts them. Her cousin didn’t speak, as though words were too precious, or too painful. She nodded.

  She napped after lunch. Normally, Alex looked on naps as a weak indulgence, but she’d been traumatized, nearly killed. She felt weak. She indulged. When she woke, Gill brought her in some tea and a sketch of a bouquet of flowers. She didn’t need to ask who’d sent it. She recognized the hand of the artist.

  “He said these won’t wilt in a few days. He also said he’s not leaving until you agree to see him.”

  Alex was feeling stronger by the minute. She could fight her own battles now.

  “Tell Duncan I’ll see him tomorrow, anytime after lunch.”

  ***

  Alex was out of bed Duncan was happy to see when he showed as instructed. She received him in the living room, in an old leather recliner that allowed her to keep her feet up. She looked pale, but improving. She also looked pissed. Her first words were, “I am so angry with you.”

  It wasn’t as though Alex needed to say the words; anger vibrated in the air around her, glared at him through her narrowed eyelids, snarled at him through her pursed lips.

  But at least she was finally talking to him. After banging down the door every day for the three days she’d been home, he’d finally convinced Gillian to tell her stubborn-ass cousin that he wasn’t going anywhere until they’d talked.

  He noticed his sketch was tacked to the wall, though. That had to be good. Better than ripped to shreds and tossed to the floor anyway.

  He wasn’t the most even-tempered man in the world, he knew. Alex was a recovering attempted murder victim, but that couldn’t stop the annoyance. “You don’t seriously think I was trying to kill you, do you?” he snapped.

  She looked at him the way she’d look at a dung beetle. “No. I don’t think you’re trying to kill me. But I think there’s more than murder going on in this town. And you’ve been lying to me.”

  Now, when a woman said you’ve been lying to me, there were a lot of possibilities, but in this case he suspected only one. “You checked up on me?”

  She nodded. “I admit to being criminally slow. Every thirteen-year-old with a crush checks out their intended on Google or creeps them on Facebook. Me, I trusted what you told me.”

  “You have a crush on me?” In spite of the fact she was sleeping with him—well, had been sleeping with him — he was flattered about the crush business.

  “Could we stick to the point, please? You deliberately withheld the real purpose of your visit here.”

  His eyes narrowed in frustration. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about the other night. I was coming to tell you everything.”

  “Sure, you were.”

  He settled on the couch where he could see her. Leaned forward. Knew it was time to spill. “There is a missing Van Gogh hidden somewhere in this town. I represent the rightful heirs. I believe your grandfather brought the painting into the country during World War II. What was I supposed to do? Blab it all over town?”

  She raised both hands and started rubbing her temples. As a stalling-and-hoping-for-pity tactic, he had to give her full marks. It was a good one. He felt like an asshole for burdening her when she had a headache. “My head is a little fuzzy, but what is this about a Van Gogh?”

  “Look, Alex,” he said gently, “I know this isn’t your fault. It was your grandfather who took the painting a long time ago. But I have to find it and restore it to the rightful owners.”

  When he started the speech she looked puzzled; by the time he finished, he wasn’t entirely sure why her face was suffused with red verging on purple.

  She pushed her chair out of reclining, rose, crossed the room, and glared right into his face, looking all the world like a furious female from the movie screen.

  “Alex,” he said, putting a hand out to her.

  “You think–” She opened and closed her luscious mouth a few times as though gasping for breath. “You think my grandfather was a thief?” He winced as her voice rose another decibel. If she got any madder, crystal was going to start shattering all over town. “And you didn’t tell me why you were really here. Why? Because you think I’m a—a—thief’s accomplice?”

  “No. No! Well, maybe at first I thought that, but not since I got to know you better.”

  “Would that be before or after you started sleeping with me?” Her voice wobbled. He wasn’t sure if it was shock, anger, concussion, or a combination of all three. So, even though her question enraged him, he kept his voice calm. “Now, that’s not fair.”

  Since she still appeared to be in a state of semi-shock, he decided to tell her the entire tale and see what she could make of it. It wasn’t as if she could get any angrier with him, and maybe, once she calmed down, she’d help him find the bloody thing.

  “Alex, I am here to write a book, exactly as I told you. But, as you no doubt discovered web surfing, I also help locate missing treasures, mostly art. I have a lot of sources and I heard a rumor that your grandfather had been the last person to see the former owner of a missing Van Gogh alive and with the painting.”

  She glanced sharply his way and her brows drew together, so he knew she was listening.

  “He was a Frenchman. His name was Louis Vendome. Ever heard of him?”

  She shook her head, giving him the dung beetle look again.

  “Your grandfather never mentioned the name?”

  This time he got only the you are the bottom of the insect totem pole expression. No head shake.

  “It was right before France fell in World War II.”

  This time her nostrils flared. She knew her grandfather had been there when war broke out. He suspected Grandpa’s war stories filled at least one of those tapes she was transcribing.

  “Louis was killed fighting with the Resistance and the painting disappeared. A lot of treasures disappeared during the war. Looted or destroyed by Nazis, or hidden by their owners, who never had a chance to go back and find them. Every once in a while another one turns up. Found in an attic, buried in a wine cellar, an old mine.” He shrugged.

  “Or in St. Petersburg.”

  “You did do your research on me.”

  “You were one of the team who discovered that some of the art stolen by the Nazis was ‘liberated’ by the Russians and ended up behind the Iron Curtain, not seen again by the west until Glasnost.”

  He nodded. “A lot of people have contacted me over the years hoping I can help them get their families’ treasures back. Sometimes I can help, most times not. The Vendome family was one. After hearing their story, I told them their quest was probably hopeless.

  “Then a few months ago I heard a rumor that a man called Franklin Forrest had been studying art in Paris and knew Vendome and his family’s famous painting. The rumor suggested Mr. Forrest might know how to find the painting. Olive Trees with Farmhouse.”

  She blinked. “The black-and-white photocopy that you were painting that day when I — brought you dinner.”

  “Right. I came to Swiftcurrent specifically to interview your grandfather and see if he could tell me anything that might help. Frankly, I probably wouldn’t have done more than give him a phone call if I hadn’t also wanted a quiet place to write where I could do some climbing.”

  “So you came here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And when you found out Franklin Forrest was dead, you decided to seduce his granddaughter for information.” Her voice was calm enough but her eyes burned with fury.

  “No!”

  Her brows flew skyward. “We didn’t exactly hit it off, yet you pursued me until you got me into bed.”

  The room seemed to grow uncomfortably warm. “I’m not saying I didn’t want to see if you knew a
nything about the painting, because I did. Maybe I would have taken a brush-off better if I wasn’t thinking you were the last hope for finding that Van Gogh. But I swear to God I didn’t sleep with you for information. I wouldn’t do that.”

  She did not look convinced.

  “Alex, haven’t you figured out by now that I am not the only person who heard that rumor. I’m not the only one who thinks you have that painting, or know where it is.”

  She gasped as the truth hit her. “The dead man in my library?”

  He nodded. “He’s been known to work for a dealer in L.A. who doesn’t do all his deals on the floor of his gallery. Why do you think Plotnik was killed in one location and then dumped in your library?”

  She might still be angry with him but he had her full attention. “In the art section.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But, why did they try to kill me?”

  “Not to take away from your ordeal, but if they’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

  She was pale, but he could see she was reasoning through what he’d already concluded. “Yes. Of course. They wanted to scare me into giving up the painting, I suppose. Except that I don’t have it. My grandfather — how I wish he’d been alive when you arrived here and you could have met him. He was a wonderful man, honorable and decent. He would never steal. Never.”

  “I’m sorry too that he passed away before I got here. I never knew him, so I can’t comment, but he may not have stolen the picture.” He rose and began to pace, as though movement might help him to a solution.

  “Think about it. The Nazis had truckloads of stuff they took off the Jews and anybody else they saw as their enemies. They looted Poland, Italy, Holland, France and Belgium of its treasures. Desperate owners and gallery managers tried to smuggle or hide art works to keep them out of the hands of the Third Reich. Because they didn’t only confiscate what they wanted, they had a nasty habit of destroying art they thought was degenerate. That included some of the great modern masters. Maybe your grandfather smuggled the picture out for safekeeping.”

  “And never gave it back?”

  Duncan shrugged. “His friend was dead. Maybe he didn’t know about the family. He never sold the painting during his lifetime, so he didn’t profit himself.”