Faking It d-2

by Jennifer Crusie

  The walk back to the gallery didn’t help, and when he was standing in the downstairs hall, going up to Tilda didn’t appeal, either. What the hell was her problem, anyway?

  He looked at the basement door. There was something down there that she kept locked up. Well, that was Matilda for you, nobody got in below. “Except me,” Davy said and went upstairs to bang on the door of the room he’d rented.

  “What?” Simon said when he finally answered, looking sleepy.

  “Take a break,” Davy said. “I need you to open a lock. Louise can spare you for five minutes.”

  “Louise isn’t here,” Simon said. “I have high hopes for tomorrow, however. What do you want unlocked?”

  “Basement door.”

  “Not a problem,” Simon said and went back inside the room.

  When he came back with his tools, it took him longer to walk down the two flights to the ground floor than it did to open the basement door.

  “It really is a shame you’re retired,” Davy said. “You’re an artist.”

  “I know,” Simon said. “But I really dislike prison. So you’re expecting to find something interesting down there?”

  “I have no idea,” Davy said. “Let’s go.”

  He flipped on the light at the head of the stairs, prepared to encounter one of those pit-of-hell basements that are usually under very old buildings, and saw white cement steps leading down to an immaculate hallway, so brightly lit the place glowed.

  “There is definitely something interesting down there,” Simon said.

  Davy frowned. “Already you know?”

  “Somebody spent money,” Simon said. “Not on this lock, but…” He pushed past Davy and went down the steps and Davy followed him. The stairs ended in a short hall painted as white as Tilda’s bedroom, and Simon stopped to listen. “Air cleaner.”

  “It’s cool.” Davy looked around. There were two doors facing each other across the hall and a row of empty bookcases at the end but otherwise the place was empty.

  “Temperature controlled,” Simon said. “They’re storing something valuable down here.”

  “Paintings?”

  “That’s the obvious guess,” Simon said, looking at the door on the left. “Hello.”

  “Hello what?” Davy said. “This was supposed to be my good time.”

  “This lock they spent money on,” Simon said, bending down.

  “Can you get in?”

  “Given enough time and enough motive, yes,” Simon said. “I don’t have either. It’d be a bugger. Go seduce the combination out of Tilda. It’ll be a lot faster.”

  “You don’t know Tilda.” Davy turned to the other door. “How about this one? Can you pick it?”

  Simon reached over and turned the doorknob, and it opened. “The first rule of B and E. See if it’s unlocked.”

  “Is there a reason everybody’s busting my chops tonight?” Davy said, and shoved the door the rest of the way open. He flipped on the light and the big room glared back at him, stretching half the length of the building, full of white sheets draped over God knows what, the walls, floor, and ceiling all the same flat white. “This family’s aversion to color is downright scary.”

  Simon nodded. “Louise wears red. I think. It’s hard to see color in the dark.”

  Davy raised his eyebrows. “Louise doesn’t like the lights on?”

  “It’s the only thing she doesn’t like,” Simon said. “Considering everything else she’s said yes to, it’s not much to ask.”

  “You’re an accommodating man.” Davy pulled on the first dustcover. “Jesus.”

  Snake eyes stared back at him from a blue and green wing chair. What he first took for stripes were snake bodies, undulating over the wings and down the seat, each body striped again in more colors, purple and silver, their little snaky heads turned toward him, grinning at him dark-eyed with evil intent.

  “Reminds me of Louise,” Simon said.

  Davy pulled the next sheet off and found a chest of drawers painted pink with blue-eyed daisies lined up innocently across the drawers, their curly yellow petals making them look like happy little suns.

  “Reminds me of Eve,” Davy said.

  He lifted the next sheet and found a table painted with sly-looking blue flamingos while Simon uncovered several chairs from different dining sets covered in campy yellow and orange butterflies. They moved through the room, finding a table painted with red spotted beagles, a chest of drawers slathered with lime-green snails, at least a dozen footstools painted with frogs and fish and mice, one perversely decorated piece of furniture after another until they reached the back wall and flipped back the last and largest dustcover and found a bed with a tree painted on the headboard, its spreading branches framing two human figures, one blond, one brunette.

  Davy started to laugh. “Okay, I’m getting this bed for my sister.”

  “Why?” Simon said.

  “Because that’s her and the stuffed shirt she married,” he said. “She’ll love it and he’ll hate it. It’s perfect.”

  “I don’t think that’s Sophie,” Simon said. “I think that’s Tilda. And Andrew.”

  Davy stopped laughing. “Oh.” Then he shook his head. “I don’t think it’s anybody, but it’s going to be Sophie and Phin.”

  “Handpainted bed,” Simon said. “That’s about a thousand bucks you don’t have.”

  “What?” Davy said, suddenly alert.

  “Handpainted furniture,” Simon said. “It’s expensive.”

  “How expensive?” Davy said.

  Simon shrugged. “It’s labor intensive. I’m sure they’ll give you a break on the price… What?”

  Davy scanned the room, trying to count while his thoughts climbed all over each other to reach the same conclusion. “How many pieces of furniture are down here?”

  Simon shrugged. “Forty. Fifty. Why?”

  “I think the Finster Era is over,” Davy said and headed for the door.

  TILDA WAS deep asleep when Davy turned on the light and said, “Rise and shine, Snow White, we need to talk.”

  “No,” she said, half-asleep, putting her pillow over her head to shut out the light. “No, I don’t want to have sex, no.”

  “Surprisingly, neither do I.” He sat on the bed and pulled the pillow away. “Wake up, Judy, we’re gonna put on a show in the barn.”

  Chapter 13

  “D AVY, I HAVE to work tomorrow.” Tilda squinted at the clock. “Oh, hell. I have to work today. It’s past midnight.”

  “The furniture in the basement,” Davy said and she sat up, awake and breathless.

  “What were you doing in the basement?”

  “We’re going to sell the furniture down there,” Davy said, as Steve poked his nose out from under the quilt to see what was going on.

  Tilda tried to take a deep breath. “How did you get in the basement?”

  “Door was unlocked. Pay attention. You have a lot of furniture down there.”

  “It was not unlocked,” Tilda said, wheezing a little on “was,” and he bent over her and covered her mouth with his hand.

  “Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “We are going to have a show of that furniture very soon. And we are going to invite Mason to host it. And Clea will come with him. And…”

  Tilda pushed his hand away. “And we can go steal our stuff back. Why can’t we just invite them to dinner?”

  “Because they now have staff,” Davy said. “In fact, you’ve met the staff. You kicked its head in.”

  “Oh.” Tilda sat up a little more, making Steve shift over, trying for deeper breaths. “But what-”

  “You’re going to need a caterer for the opening. You’ll hire him.”

  Tilda shook her head. “There’s got to be an easier way-”

  The wheeze was more pronounced on “easier,” and Davy opened her bedside table drawer and got out her inhaler. “Not one that will also make you money,” he said, handing it to her. “You’ve got a small fort
une down there.”

  She hit the inhaler and frowned at him. He looked sincere, but then, he always did, even when he was lying through his teeth. “Davy, nobody’s going to want to buy that furniture. I painted that when I was a kid.”

  “You painted it?”

  “Yes,” Tilda said, not in a mood to be sneered at. “Why?”

  “It’s really good.”

  “And that’s a surprise?”

  “I thought you only did the murals,” he said, backing off a little. “And I’ve never seen one of them. I had no idea how good you were. Oh, and I’m buying the bed.”

  “Why?” Tilda said, now really wary as she put the inhaler back in the drawer.

  “My sister’s anniversary,” Davy said. “I’ll pay you after I get my money back.”

  Tilda waved her hand. “Take it. You’ve more than earned it this week. But about this show-”

  “You need the money, we need the diversion, and all it’s going to cost us is some paint and advertising,” Davy said, stripping off his shirt. “It’s a no-brainer.”

  “Paint for what!”

  “The gallery.” He shoved off his jeans and crawled into bed beside her, making Steve shift again. “You’ll never con people into paying a hundred bucks for a footstool with the place looking the way it does now. Perception is reality, babe. We have to bring this place back from the dead.” He settled into his new pillows, looking very pleased with himself.

  “No.” Tilda’s breath went at the thought.

  “Yes,” Davy said. “I don’t know why you want the gallery to fail, but you’ve got to get over it. We need a successful opening to keep Mason busy, and you need the money.”

  “I don’t want the gallery to fail.” Tilda felt the familiar scraping wheeze begin in her lungs.

  “Right,” Davy said. “You’re the only one with the brains and the push to make this place work, and you spend all your time on the road, leaving Gwennie to sell Finsters. You’ve done everything but put a stake through its heart.”

  “I have not-” She tried to take a deep breath.

  “Which I wouldn’t care about but it’s a pretty sweet setup, Tilda. It’s a crime to let it go to waste.”

  Tilda heard “crime” and reached for her inhaler again. “I’m not much of a salesman. Woman. Person.”

  “I am,” Davy said. “We’re selling the furniture in the basement.”

  “Is that why you want to do this?” Tilda said. “Because it’s a sweet setup and you’re a salesman?”

  “No,” he said, looking unsure for the first time since he’d ruined her sleep. “Matilda, I want to sell that furniture. You’re not doing anything with it. How long has it been down there?”

  “Seventeen years,” Tilda said.

  “Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t do this.”

  Because anybody with any kind of an eye at all could tell that furniture was painted by the same person who painted the Scarlets.

  Tilda’s stomach heaved at the thought.

  “I’m waiting,” Davy said.

  On the other hand, there were damn few people who had seen the Scarlets. Davy had, and he hadn’t figured it out. Clea had, but she didn’t appear to have much of an eye. Mason had, but he was so caught up in the fine-art thing, he wouldn’t want to believe Scarlet had painted them.

  “Okay,” Tilda said. “Okay. But you’re going to be the one who tells Gwennie.” She fell back against the pillows. “I’m sure this is a mistake.”

  “You have no faith.” He leaned over and picked up his jeans from the floor and pulled something from the pocket, and then he slid his hand under her chin, warm on her skin, and before she could say, “Hey,” he’d stuck something papery down the neck of her T-shirt.

  “Off.” She batted his hand away and pulled the neck of her T-shirt open to see two twenties and a ten on her chest. “I don’t take cash.”

  “That’s your cut from the twenty I borrowed,” Davy said. “Half my winnings.”

  “Maybe I should just send you out to play pool,” Tilda said, fishing the bills out of her T-shirt.

  “We’ll use that as a backup,” Davy said. “First, we’re going to sell furniture.”

  WHEN TILDA woke up the next morning, Davy was gone, but he’d left a note that said, “Don’t forget to tell Gwennie.” Great, she thought, and went downstairs with Steve to get orange juice and ruin Gwennie’s day.

  “Hi,” Gwen said when Tilda came into the office. “Davy still alive?”

  “Yes,” Tilda said. “And that’s not funny.”

  Eve waved at her from the table, her mouth full of muffin. “How’s Monet?” she said when she’d swallowed.

  “Boring as ever,” Tilda said, as Steve went to sit at Eve’s feet in hopes of muffin. “He deserves to be on a bathroom wall. Oh, and speaking of Davy, he wants to do a gallery show of my old furniture and I said yes. Well, gotta go to work.” She headed for the door.

  “Hold it” Gwen said, sounding panicked, and Tilda sighed and turned back to get orange juice and fill them in on the night before.

  “He’s convinced this is the way to get everything back,” Tilda said as she finished. “I argued, but-”

  “Don’t argue.” Eve hauled Steve onto her lap to pet him better. “They’re FBI. Which I actually find sexy.”

  “That’s Louise,” Tilda said. “Pull yourself together. Or in your case, separate yourself better.”

  “I’m against this,” Gwen said gloomily.

  “I know,” Tilda said.

  “Mason’s going to be thrilled,” Gwen said, even gloomier. “He’ll be all over the place. There’ll be dozens of people all over the place. I’ll never finish another Double-Crostic again.”

  “I know,” Tilda said.

  “At least Mason isn’t a hit man,” Gwen said.

  “Plus there’s all those free lunches he shells out for,” Eve said helpfully. “A man who pays for food is good.”

  Gwen frowned at Tilda. “Is there any chance that the four of them are toying with us? Like this is a plot they’re doing together?”

  Tilda looked at her over her glasses. “Any chance that Davy, Simon, Ford, and Mason decided to drive us crazy at random? Sure, why not? I have to go. Give Steve to Nadine for the day, be nice to Davy when he comes back, and don’t let Ford kill him. The last thing we need here is a murder investigation.”

  “I won’t be here,” Gwen said. “I’m having lunch with Mason. Someone else will have to draw the chalk outline.” She got up. “This is going to be a disaster.”

  She went out to the gallery, and Tilda frowned after her. “We should do something about her.”

  “Like what?” Eve said, still cuddling Steve. “The only thing that would make her happy is a nice trip somewhere on a boat-”

  “A boat?” Tilda said.

  “-and you know she wouldn’t go. She won’t leave us.”

  “Why a boat?”

  Eve shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s doodling boats on everything now. And her pencil cup has five little paper umbrellas in it. She says she’s saving them for a rainy day.”

  “Boats and umbrellas.” Tilda sighed. “Well, at least it isn’t teeth. I have to go to work. Davy has plans for after lunch.”

  “Naked plans?” Eve said.

  “No,” Tilda said. “We’re not doing that anymore.”

  “Me, neither,” Eve said, and didn’t sound happy about it.

  “Simon misses you,” Tilda said helpfully.

  “Simon misses Louise.” Eve put Steve on the floor. “He doesn’t know me.”

  “His loss,” Tilda said.

  “I don’t know.” Eve pushed her orange juice glass away and sat back. “I’m not that interesting. Not like Louise.”

  “Eve, you are Louise,” Tilda said. “You know, maybe you should pull yourself together after all. Tell Simon the truth.”

  Eve closed her eyes. “There’s a part of me that wants to. I think, ‘He’s great in bed and he likes N
adine and he’d be the perfect lover and husband and father to my kid,’ I mean, he’s the guy who really could pull me together.”

  “So tell him.”

  Eve tilted her head back so she could meet Tilda’s eyes. “Are you going to tell Davy you’re Scarlet?”

  “Never,” Tilda said.

  “Yeah, that’s what the other part of me says.” Eve stood up. “Especially with Simon’s damn mother rule. Maybe I should do what you do, bury Louise in the basement and never let her see the light of day.”

  “Hey,” Tilda said. “There’s only one me. Nobody’s buried in the basement.”

  “Tell that to Scarlet,” Eve said.

  AT NOON Clea met Ronald for lunch. “This better be good, Ronald,” she said as she sat down at the patio table, already annoyed because Mason had left for another business meeting without telling her where he was going. He’d been having a whole hell of a lot of business meetings, and she was pretty sure he was having them with Gwen Goodnight. And now Ronald was taking her to lunch in the sun, but her picture hat kept most of it from her face, and she looked wonderful in picture hats, so that was better. She relaxed into her chair and looked around at the other women, chatting away while the rays destroyed their skin. What were they thinking?

  “It’ll be good,” Ronald said. “It’s the best restaurant in German Village. Well, one of the best. It-”

  “Not the food,” Clea said. “What have you got on Gwen Goodnight?”

  “Oh.” Ronald sat back. “So that’s why you wanted to meet.”

  “Ronald,” Clea said, “I’m having a very, very bad week. Tell me Gwen Goodnight had a sex change and is really a retired shoe salesman from Des Moines.”

  “No, she’s Gwen Goodnight,” Ronald said, looking puzzled. “Her maiden name was Frasier. She was an actress and a dancer.”

  “Good,” Clea said, feeling cheered. “There must be something shady in her past, then.”

  “Not really,” Ronald said. “Her first daughter was born six months after she was married, but that’s not really scandalous anymore.”