Faking It d-2

by Jennifer Crusie

  “That must be where you met Clea,” she said brightly.

  He waited patiently, not smiling, and she thought, Well, at least he’s not charming. Not like Davy. Who was also from Miami.

  “Do you know Davy Dempsey?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, still patient.

  “Because he’s from Miami, too,” Gwen said, feeling like an idiot. “Like you. And Clea.”

  “You winter in Florida, we summer in Ohio,” he said, completely deadpan.

  “Oh.” That had to be a joke. Didn’t it? “Why would you summer in Ohio?” she said, waiting for him to say, “It was a joke.”

  “It’s cooler here,” he said.

  She waited for him to say more but he just stood there, huge and patient. It was perverse and Gwen had had enough perverse for one lifetime. She leaned on the counter. “So it’s not cool where you live?”

  “It’s not bad.”

  “Air-conditioning?” Gwen said.

  “No.” She waited and the silence stretched out until he said, “I live on the water.”

  Of course, you do, Gwen thought. That’s why you came to Ohio to stay in a dark little overpriced apartment. “Ocean-front condo?”

  “My boat.”

  “Your boat.” White sands, blue water, alcoholic drinks with little umbrellas. I want a boat, Gwen thought and then kicked herself. Where would she put it? The Olen-tangy?

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No,” Gwen said. “I was thinking about your boat. I bet the water’s blue and the sand is white and all the drinks have little umbrellas.”

  “Not my drinks.”

  “Well, no, of course not.” Gwen looked at him, exasperated. “This boat has a bed and a kitchen and everything?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And you left it to come to Ohio because…”

  “I have work here. I won’t be staying long.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said. “Then why…”

  “Because renting from you is cheaper than staying in a hotel,” he said. “Although not faster.”

  “I’ll get the keys,” she said, but it wasn’t until she was in the office, rummaging in the desk drawer, that she realized where he was going to be staying.

  Two B. Right across from her.

  She picked up the phone, finding the paper with Mason’s number that she’d pinned to the bulletin board. She dialed and listened to the Weather Girls sing “I feel stormy weather moving in” while she watched Mr. Brown through the glass door to the gallery. He was looking at Dorcas’s seascapes. They would help him not miss his boat. Finsters could put anybody off the water for good.

  “Hello?” Clea said.

  “Clea?” Gwen said. “This is Gwen Goodnight. There’s a man here named Ford Brown who wants to rent an apartment from me. He gave you as a ref-”

  “I know him,” Clea said. “It’s okay.”

  “Oh.” Gwen peered through the glass again. He hadn’t gotten any less disquieting. “Okay. Thanks.”

  So Clea vouched for him and he had sixteen hundred in cash. Well, if he kills me, it’ll be what I deserve for selling out, she thought, and then she went out front, feeling that at least she’d done better than she had with Davy, although Davy had known the Milland movie.

  “The outside door is to the left,” she said, handing him the keys. “I’ll take you up.”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  He made her uneasy behind her on the way up the stairs, and she thought, If there was only a sign, something that would tell me this is all right, and then on an impulse, she turned back to him, her eyes level with his because he was two steps below her. “You don’t happen to know an eight-letter word that means ‘capable of sin,’ do you?”

  He looked at her with no expression on his face at all, and then his lips twitched. “No, ma’am.”

  “Oh.” Gwen shrugged, feeling like an idiot. When even the scary guys laughed at her, she had lost it. “Just a thought. I work Double-Crostics and that one’s stumping me.”

  He nodded.

  She sighed and went the rest of the way up the stairs, and he followed her to the room, looked around without comment, thanked her for her help, and shut the door, leaving her in the hall, a little rattled by the whole thing.

  I rented a room to an ax murderer, she thought. Who owns a boat. She turned to see Tilda on the stairs below her.

  “Who was that?” Tilda said.

  “Mr. Brown,” Gwen said, coming down the stairs. “He just rented Two B.”

  “Merciful heavens.” Tilda followed her into the office. “Right across from you. Gwennie, your luck has finally turned.”

  “He’s a tenant,” Gwen said.

  “No imagination. I vote you go for it.”

  “Like you did?” Gwen said, and Tilda shut up.

  The gallery door opened, and Nadine came in from the street, running her tongue across her teeth as they went out to meet her. “It always feels weird,” she said. “Dr. Mark says hi. Everyone there was thrilled I’d been flossing.” She looked at them. “What’s up now?”

  “Gwennie just rented the last apartment,” Tilda said. “To a very hot guy.”

  “Simon?” Nadine said.

  “Who’s Simon?” Gwen asked.

  “No, a different hot guy,” Tilda said, frowning. “Although now that you mention it, it is raining men here.”

  “Simon?” Gwen said.

  “Davy’s friend,” Nadine said. “He’s staying in Davy’s room. He paid the rent.”

  “So where’s Davy staying?” Gwen said.

  “So about Mr. Brown,” Tilda said.

  “I think he moved in with Aunt Tilda,” Nadine said.

  Gwen looked at Tilda, who looked at the ceiling.

  “Right,” Gwen said. “Mr. Brown. I’m sure he’s a very nice man. He’s got that cowboy thing going. His first name is Ford. Maybe his mama was channeling John Ford when she named him.”

  “Ford Brown?” Tilda said, her eyes back from the ceiling. “Did you get his middle name?”

  “No,” Gwen said, going back to her stool behind the counter. “But I got his sixteen hundred dollars.”

  “Because if it’s Madox, we’ve got ourselves a tenant with a fake identity,” Tilda said. “Or the descendent of a famous painter, but what are the chances of that?”

  Nadine said, “Famous painter?”

  Gwen shook her head. “Or his mama loved her Thunderbird. Let’s not get too paranoid here.” She picked up her Double-Crostic book.

  “I have rehearsal,” Nadine said. “Keep me informed on the cowboy painter.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” Gwen turned to her puzzle.

  “Davy and I are going to go get a painting.” Tilda kissed her cheek. “I’ll call if we need bail.”

  “Oh, good.” Gwen ran her eyes down the list of clues as Tilda went out through the office. Thank God for Double-Crostics. There was never anything upsetting there.

  I. Prone to sin. Eight letters.

  Ford Brown, she thought.

  No that was nine letters.

  Doughnut.

  She moved on to K.

  Chapter 9

  U PSTAIRS, DAVY HAD GONE through the scarlet notes and was now contemplating his future. “I’m starting to like this room, Steve,” he said to the dog as they stretched out on the white quilt. “Like its owner, it has infinite possibilities.” Steve sighed and put his head between his paws and Davy scratched his ears. “You’ve really got a thing for her, don’t you? Good thinking on your part. She’ll never let you down. Dog biscuits and sleeping on the bed for life.” Steve rolled his head to one side a little to listen, and Davy thought about Tilda, taking care of everybody, desperate to get those paintings back so people wouldn’t find out her father sold forgeries.

  That had to be it. There had to be something wrong with those paintings, something dangerous enough to make Tilda turn to crime. Because she wasn’t a natural at it, that was for sure. He spared a
moment to wonder what Tilda would have been like if his dad had raised her instead of hers. Not much difference, he decided. Some people were straight clean through. They never got that insane buzz that sliding into forbidden territory set up in the blood, when every nerve ending sharpened and hummed, and every sound and scent was magnified. God, I miss it, he thought. Thanks for raising me to be an adrenaline junkie, Pop. At least he hadn’t turned out like his dad. There would be a horror story for you.

  There had to be another way to get that buzz. Some way that was legal. Bungee jumping. No, that was stupid. Drugs. No, that was illegal. Sex. That was Tilda. Okay, she wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but he could get a second shot and make sure she paid attention this time. She could even bite if she wanted to since, given Gwennie’s needlework, it appeared to be a genetic predisposition. He began to think about her instead of crime, and he was feeling fairly cheerful by the time he and Steve heard her step on the stairs.

  “We were wondering where you were,” Davy said as she came through the door and Steve sat up and wagged his tail.

  “Working,” Tilda said. “Remember me, Matilda Veronica, Mural Painter? That’s what pays the bills here, boy.” She made kissing noises at Steve. “Hi, puppy.”

  “That would be Veronica the control-freak bitch you mentioned last night?” Davy said, trying to imagine her making kissing noises in leather. It was surprisingly easy. He patted the bed beside him. “Come and talk to me about these paintings.”

  “It’s all in the notes.” She sat down beside him and Steve climbed into her lap and sighed with happiness. “The first one was the city scene,” she said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “That’s the one Nadine sold to Clea.”

  “The one I keep missing,” Davy said, watching Steve stretch his head to meet her fingers.

  “The second one was the cows and the third one was the flowers,” Tilda said. “You got those.” She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and smiled at him crookedly, her Kewpie-doll mouth askew, the first real smile she’d ever given him, and he leaned toward her a little because she looked so warm.

  “Then there were butterflies,” she said. “Somebody named Susan Frost bought that. She’s in Gahanna.”

  “Butterflies,” he said, and wondered what she’d do if he went for that warm place under the curve of her jaw.

  “Then mermaids,” she said. “A guy named Robert Olafson got that one. He lives in Westerville.”

  Maybe he wouldn’t wait until he had all the paintings. Maybe-

  “And the last one, which I can’t believe he sold, is dancers,” Tilda said. “That one went to Mr. and Mrs. John Brenner.”

  “Why can’t you believe he sold it?” Davy said, enjoying the energy in her voice. “This is your dad we’re talking about, right?”

  “Because it was smeared,” Tilda said. “It was damaged. But my dad sold it anyway.”

  She looked unhappy, so Davy changed the subject. “Okay, today we get the butterflies.”

  “Can’t we do them all today?” Tilda said. “Can’t we just go buy them back?”

  “Sure,” Davy said. “Unless they don’t want to sell. Or they want more than we have to spend. Let’s take our time and do it right.”

  “Oh.” Tilda swallowed. “I thought… well, that you could do anything.”

  “ ‘You rush a miracle man,’” Davy said,“ ‘you get rotten miracles.’”

  She pushed her glasses back up again. “So what do we do if they don’t want to sell?”

  “We convince them,” Davy said cheerfully.

  Tilda’s face changed.

  “What?” Davy said.

  “You sound like… somebody I used to know,” Tilda said.

  “Your dad,” Davy said.

  “No,” Tilda said, but she was lying. She really was a terrible liar.

  “Who forged the Scarlets, Tilda?”

  “The Scarlets aren’t forgeries,” Tilda said, rising. “But we need to get them back anyway.”

  “Okay,” Davy said, rolling off the bed. “Try not to kick anybody this time.”

  “Oh, God, I’m trying to forget that,” Tilda said, wincing. “That guy’s probably okay, right?”

  “I didn’t see anything in the paper,” Davy said. “And he’s not exactly in a position to whine. He was breaking in, too. He probably came to and got out of there.”

  “Right.” Tilda opened the bedroom door, leaving Steve disconsolate on the bed. “You sure you know how to do this?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Davy said. “I know exactly how to do this.”

  DOWNSTAIRS IN the gallery, Pippy Shannon sang “He Is,” the phone rang, and Gwen discovered to her disgust that the answer to M, “sweetheart,” was “tootsy wootsy.” “Goodnight Gallery,” she said, still frowning at the puzzle book.

  “Gwen? This is Mason Phipps.”

  “Oh.” Gwen shut the puzzle book and tried to sound bright and innocent. “Hello.”

  “I wanted to thank you for last night.”

  “Oh, my pleasure,” Gwen lied. “Really. Like old times.”

  “I’d like to show my gratitude by taking you to a late lunch tomorrow,” Mason said. “You can get away from the gallery on Sunday, can’t you?”

  I’ll never get away from the gallery. “I don’t know-”

  “I would truly appreciate it if you’d join me, say about two?”

  Gwen thought she heard some vulnerability in his voice. The poor man was living with Clea. That could leave anybody flayed and bleeding.

  But he’d want to talk about Tony, On the other hand, if she didn’t eat lunch with him, she’d be eating it with a Double-Crostic. “Tell me an eight-letter word for ‘capable of sin’ and I’ll go.”

  “All right,” Mason said, sounding taken aback. “Any other clues?”

  “Begins with P, ends in E.”

  “Give me a minute,” he said, and there was a smile in his voice, and she thought, This is a nice guy. I should go to lunch.

  “It couldn’t possibly be ‘peccable,’ could it?” he said finally.

  “Peccable?”

  “You know, as in ‘impeccable,’ only the opposite?”

  Gwen opened the crostic book. “Hang on.” She filled in the letters and then transferred them to the quote squares. “I’ll be damned.”

  “That’s it?” Mason said.

  “I’ll also be having lunch with you,” Gwen said, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “I can’t believe you got that. Because I was never going to.”

  “I was motivated,” Mason said, the smile in his voice growing bigger.

  “You are my hero,” she said.

  They talked about Double-Crostics for a while, and he thanked her again for the night before, and when she finally hung up the phone, she was looking forward to seeing him again. I wonder if that’s a date, she thought.

  It’s just lunch. But Clea isn’t coming along. I wonder…

  The door opened as Pippy did her big finish, and Gwen saw Ford Brown, now forever a cowboy in her mind with the soundtrack to match: Do not forsake me, oh, my darling. “Oh,” she said to him, trying to ignore the music in her head. “Is everything all right upstairs?”

  “It’s fine.” He looked around the gallery. “Nice place.”

  Gwen looked around at the dingy walls and cracked window and dull wood floors. “Uh-huh.”

  His lips twitched in that not-grin again. “I was being polite.”

  “That only works when there’s some possibility it might be true,” Gwen said, wondering what he was up to. She hadn’t known him long, but she knew he was being abnormally chatty.

  “So why isn’t it?” He wandered past the Finsters, his hands in his pockets.

  “What? Nice?” Gwen shrugged. “No money.”

  Ford stopped at the cracked window. “Wouldn’t take that much.”

  “Are you a contractor?” Gwen said.

  “You could say that.” Ford turned back to her. “I was heading for lunch. Wh
at’s your favorite restaurant?”

  “Lunch,” Gwen said.

  Ford nodded patiently. “You tell me where the best place to eat is, I’ll pay you back by bringing you lunch.”

  “Do I look hungry or something?” Gwen said. “Because you’re the second guy who’s offered to feed me in fifteen minutes.”

  “People eat,” Ford said. “Usually about this time. Even in Florida.”

  “Imagine that. I figured you all lived on the fruit in the drinks with the little umbrellas.”

  “What is it with you and the umbrellas?” Ford said.

  “Just looking for a way out of the rain.” Gwen went back to her Double-Crostic. “Try the Fire House. Great seafood. You’ll feel right at home.”

  An hour later he brought her back a piña colada with an umbrella in it. “Extra fruit,” he said when he put it on the counter. Then he went upstairs.

  “Damn,” Gwen said, surprised, and tasted it.

  It was delicious.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  WHEN DAVY and Tilda got into Jeff’s car that afternoon, Davy said, “Here’s the way this goes. When we get there, I go to the door. You watch me. You will stay in the car, unless I do one of three things, then you come up with me.”

  “Three things,” Tilda said.

  “If I motion you up and call you Betty,” Davy said, “be a ditz. I’m the one in charge, I’ll patronize you a little bit while you search through your purse.”

  “Big purse,” Tilda said, holding it up. “Is Betty a ditz because I was such a mess in the closet?”

  “You were not a mess in the closet,” Davy said. “You were Vilma in the closet. If I need somebody to jump my bones, I’ll call you Vilma. Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s going to come up this afternoon. If I call you Betty and say we’ve been together a year, you put a hundred-dollar bill in the mark’s hand and then you look for a second hundred.”

  “The mark?”

  “Pay attention,” Davy said sternly. “If I say we’ve been together one year…”

  “I put a hundred in the mark’s hand and then start digging for a second hundred,” Tilda said.

  “Right, if I say we’ve been together for two years…”