~ ~ ~
As promised, Wesley hosted the party for Mike Donovan’s tennis tournament. Champagne poured freely like water, and the guests milled about the large living room. Those brave enough to face the cold wandered by the garden and pool.
Mike had even more of a swagger to his step than usual. Wesley watched him leaning back against the mantle of the fireplace, his white suit cut perfectly to display his broad shoulders. Pamela, in a slinky red dress hung onto his arm and clung to him the way he'd seen Kate clinging to Johnny.
“Nice turn-out.”
Wesley turned to greet Bailey. “It is quite nice. Funny, I don’t remember inviting you here.”
“I took the liberty of inviting myself. Haven’t seen you around for a while.” The Italian responded as he sipped champagne. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his working suit, and as such stuck out like a sore thumb among the tuxedos and evening gowns—and he seemed to like it.
“At least you could’ve bothered to dress properly.”
“I came more for your company. Didn’t think you’d mind my appearance. By the way, heard through the grapevine that you might buy a vacation home down in Mexico. Nice and warm.”
“Yes, it is.” Wesley cleared his throat and turned to Bailey. “You can get to your point now—why you’re here—in that hideous suit. I find it hard to believe you showed up to discuss my vacation plans.”
Bailey’s brows rose. “I just wanted to go with you," he joked. "But now that I’m exposed I might as well confess. First of all, I was wondering if you’d want help out on some more cases in the future, and second, have you heard anything about Torres?”
“First of all, I’ll have to think about your offer. It’s a little suspicious that you’re suddenly wanting my help, and second, no, I haven’t seen any sign of that creep. He’s probably deep in the jungle of South America—where a snake like him belongs. Seems like everyone has flown south. Almost like it’s winter or something.”
“All the guilty ones at least. Well, we've heard from one of our sources that Torres might have returned to the U.S. Apparently his wife wasn’t too happy with him; his daughter of course stayed here, and he was never close with his stepson. Seems he had a thing for the East Coast. Could just be a rumor of course.”
Wesley shrugged. “Haven’t heard anything about it, although I would be glad to see that one behind bars. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“That would be helpful.”
Wesley moved while they talked and sat down in one of the large couches in front of the fireplace.
“Nice painting.” Bailey stood looking at the large landscape above the fireplace.
“Isn’t it?” Pamela asked in a high voice. “It looks so much like the one my father used to own. Sometimes I still have to do a double-take.”
“Oh, does it?” Bailey sounded bored. “Where did you get it?” This he directed at Wesley.
“From a mutual friend of ours, Phillip Drake. I thought it looked nice there.”
“It’s a bit cheap, if you ask me,” Mike commented, looking up at the painting as he patted Pamela’s hand on his arm. “But Wesley seems to have sort of an attachment to it, which is really what art’s all about, after all.”
Bailey’s eyes narrowed. He was quiet for a long moment, his head slightly cocked to the right as he stared at the painting.
“Really, Bailey. You surprise me.” Wesley chuckled. “I never thought you’d be that into an imitation Turner painting. For me it’s understandable. I collect art, and this one has sentimental value, but for you—”
“It’s not an imitation.” Bailey spoke quietly, his voice in awe. “It’s been right in the open the entire time. While Torres and his goons searched the countryside, it was right here in plain sight!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mike said, “But it wasn’t in plain sight the entire time. Wesley had it hidden away in his closet, and McNab told me he even hung it in the storage room for a short time, if you can believe that.”
Pamela giggled and tapped Mike’s arm. “Shh, let the man finish.”
“Yes,” Wesley turned to Bailey. “Do you mind explaining your random comment?”
“It’s all coming together now.” Bailey’s eyes were bright. “Drake is the one that stole the artwork. Torres filed the insurance claim for it, setting the authorities on Sam’s trail instead, for some reason or another. But Drake double-crossed him and took the painting with him, knowing Torres couldn’t possibly tell the authorities without incriminating himself in insurance fraud.” His voice rose until it was nearly triumphant at the end.
Pamela was quiet, and Wesley could see by the look on her face that she believed it. “It could’ve been Phillip. That would explain why no alarms were set off; he came over often for dinner, and he always carried his large briefcase with him. It would’ve been easy for him to slip it out the door when we were dining. But my father”—her voice got quieter—“I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that my father was involved.”
“Are you sure?” Mike gave the painting another doubtful glance. “It really doesn’t look good to me.”
Pamela nodded. “There’s only one way to know for sure. I know an art collector and appraiser here in the city that would be happy to take a look at it. That is, if you don’t mind, Wesley.”
Wesley shrugged. “I don’t mind. Although I do have one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That if it does turn out to be rightfully yours, you will let me borrow it a few months out of the year. It has a special sentimental value to it.
###END###
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