by Cassie Miles
“This might be the time for you to change location.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, but not anymore.” She dug into her purse and took out a pair of sunglasses. “When Fox said living at the Roost was mandated by the will, I wanted to run, to be anywhere but here. I hate being told what I have to do.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Midway down the next block, they entered a casual restaurant that featured thirty-two varieties of burger, ranging from tofu to steak tartare. At half past three in the afternoon, there were only a few other patrons, and Zach chose a table for four where there was room enough to open the file folder and take a peek inside. His suspicions of Fox made him wonder how the attorney might benefit financially based on Gabby’s decisions.
After they’d ordered—a portobello mushroom sandwich and draft beer for her and a cheeseburger and soda for him—he flipped through the papers until he found a copy of the actual will. The document was over twenty-five pages, single-spaced and written in lawyer language that made it difficult to skim. He noticed that Michelle’s initials were on every page.
Gabby took off her sunglasses and leaned across the table toward him. “What are you looking for?”
“An indication of what Fox hopes to gain.”
“If he sells the place, there’s probably some kind of commission.” She tilted her head as though she could read the fine print upside down. “He might have made some kind of side deal with the Forest Preservation lady.”
“Sarah Bentley? Not likely.” He’d met Sarah on a committee that planned local rodeo events. Her concerns matched his own: making sure the animals were treated humanely. “She’s not the kind of person who would get involved with shady business.”
“What was her connection with Michelle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Michelle ever talk to you about this plan to make me live at the Roost?”
“Not in so many words.” He remembered many evenings when he and Michelle sat on her porch and watched the sunset. The subject of family seldom arose. Zach had cut all ties with his parents back in Wyoming, didn’t know if they were dead or alive and didn’t really give a damn. Michelle had confided a secret he wasn’t ready to share with Gabby.
“Did she ever say why she settled here?” she asked.
He pieced together other bits of conversation into a narrative that didn’t reveal too much. “She used to talk about being a rebel—an artist who lived to express herself. Then she’d laugh and say, ‘We all did crazy things in the sixties.’”
“I don’t think Michelle ever stopped doing crazy things, and I guess that served her well as an artist.” Gabby sipped her beer and licked her lips. “But it doesn’t explain why she set up these conditions for me to live at the Roost.”
He saw hints of Michelle in the way she cocked her chin and the intensity in her dark eyes. But Gabby wasn’t a rebel who would take off across the country on a whim. “Maybe she wanted to give you a chance to follow your dream.”
“Then she should have consulted with me first. My dreams start with getting more schooling. Then I’d take an internship in Paris or Milan.”
“Exotic places.”
“The fashion capitals of the world,” she said, “but I can’t complain about not being exposed to the latest trends. I lived so close to Manhattan, twenty minutes away on the subway. During Fashion Week, I sneaked into more events than most people see in a lifetime.”
“Did you ever think about being a model?”
“Not possible,” she said. “I’m a few inches too short and definitely not a size zero.”
“You’re pretty enough.”
A huge smile spread across her face. “So are you. You’d make a terrific model.”
Parading around in dress-up clothes sounded like the worst kind of punishment. “I’m just a cowboy.”
“That’s why you’d be great. Women love cowboys.”
He was saved from further speculation when their food arrived. As he dug into his burger, he watched her. You could learn a lot about a woman from how she ate. Gabby had ordered a feminine choice with the mushroom sandwich, but she wasn’t afraid to pile on the pickles and tomatoes, pick up the whole thing and open her mouth wide to take a chomp. She attacked her food with the kind of gusto he’d seen in her before. She definitely wasn’t shy. As she chewed, she moaned with pleasure. It was an animal sound that he associated more with the bedroom than the lunch table. Not particularly ladylike. She swabbed her French fries through a glob of ketchup and popped them into her mouth. Not ladylike at all.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I like to see a woman who enjoys her food.”
“My manners aren’t the greatest. Back in Brooklyn, I usually grab something from a corner bodega or a fruit stand and eat on the run.”
“Do you cook?”
“Not without setting fire to the dish towels.” She washed down the fries with a swig of her beer. “That’s one of the great things about living in a big city. You’re never far from a place that serves something yummy. And there’s so much variety—Italian, Asian, Mexican, Greek. I love all the different tastes. How about you?”
He looked down at his cheeseburger. “I’m a meat-and-potatoes guy. On occasion, I’ll try something different.”
“And I like nothing better than a big juicy steak.”
He could tell she was fibbing, trying to fit in with her new surroundings. He doubted she could change that much. She came from a different world. At her core, Gabby was a city woman who dreamed of visiting Paris and ate sushi with chopsticks.
Despite their differences, he wasn’t willing to step aside and let her get railroaded. If anything, she needed his protection more than a cowgirl who was born and bred in the mountains. Glancing over at the file folder, he said, “Don’t worry. We’ll figure out what Fox is after.”
She wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “I barely had a chance to check out the numbers, but I noticed in the art portfolio that Michelle’s work was selling for big bucks. The real wealth in her estate might not be the property. It could be her paintings.”
“You’re right.” He hadn’t considered the artwork. Living so close to Michelle and watching her work, he’d come to take her art for granted. “While we’re in town, we should pay a visit to her agent.”
Their meeting with Fox couldn’t have been much worse. He hoped Osborne would be more helpful.
* * *
THE OSBORNE GALLERY wasn’t easy to find. Instead of being located among the high-rent retail boutiques, the gallery was on the outer edge of town. If there hadn’t been a sign by the edge of the road, Zach would have thought this place was a private residence with an overabundance of weird lawn sculptures. He parked the truck in a small gravel lot where there were two other vehicles.
Gabby unsnapped her seat belt and peered through the windshield at a huge gray-ish statue that must have been ten feet tall. “What do you think that’s supposed to be?”
“Looks like a tree with wings.”
“Four sets of wings,” she said. “Maybe it’s supposed to represent motion, like a tree springing into the air.”
Either way, the thing was damn ugly. He shoved open his door. “Let’s get this over with. Bring the portfolio.”
“Don’t forget to lock the doors to the truck. Fox made me promise that I wouldn’t lose the legal papers, even if these are only copies.”
Under his breath, he muttered, “And we wouldn’t want to disappoint Fox.”
He’d never been good at dealing with people in authority, especially those who enjoyed lording it over everybody else. More than once, he’d turned down a client who had plenty of money but a nasty attitude. People like them didn’t deserve to own horses.
He followed her along the flagstone pathway that wound through several other odd statues to a wide deck outside a good-sized house with a shake-shingle roof. In this area, a property like this would be wort
h millions. Selling other people’s art must be profitable. Rather than walking right in, he pressed the doorbell.
The double doors swung open, framing a tall, thin man with a gray ponytail and a fringed vest that hung down to his knees. He wore shapeless pants that draped over the tops of his sandals. The front of his loose-fitting shirt was open to the waist, showing off a necklace that reminded Zach of a dream catcher.
When Gabby introduced herself, he wrapped his arms around her. “My dear, I’ve been expecting you.”
“Did Mr. Fox tell you I might visit?”
“In my morning meditation, my spirit guide said I would connect with Michelle. I’m Harrison Osborne. Welcome.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said as she detached herself from his embrace. “And this is Zach Sheffield.”
He stuck out his hand to avoid getting hugged. Osborne’s eyes were too bright, his palms were sweaty and he kept licking his lips—all symptoms of drug use. Zach had to wonder if the art dealer might have an addiction problem.
Osborne led the way into his gallery, which was bright, well lit and divided with partitions allowing more wall space for hanging paintings. The artwork ranged from detailed landscapes to bold splashes of color. Osborne regarded each with a genuine fondness as though seeing it for the first time. He grabbed Zach’s arm and dragged him over to a large canvas filled with zigzag lines. “Do you feel it? The ocean?”
Zach shut him down before he could launch into a sales pitch. “I’m not in the market, and I’m pretty sure I couldn’t afford any of these paintings.”
Osborne dropped his arm and turned to Gabby. “I don’t have any of your great-aunt’s work on display because I’m prohibited from selling it until the inventory is complete.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Gabby went to a seating area beside a window and placed the portfolio on the coffee table. “What can you tell me about paintings that haven’t been listed?”
“No time to talk,” Osborne said with an extravagant wave of his hands. “I’m dreadfully busy.”
As far as Zach could tell, there was no one else in the gallery and no sign of pressing business. Osborne’s claim to be busy was a ruse. He wasn’t going to let this guy hustle them out the door without answers. “You probably know that Gabby is Michelle Rousseau’s heir. If you want to continue handling her artwork, you might want to make time for us.”
“Where are my manners? Would you care for tea?”
Gabby nodded. “That would be lovely.”
When Osborne darted through the partitions and disappeared into another part of the house, she whispered, “Did Michelle ever mention him to you?”
“Never.”
She flipped open the neatly inventoried portfolio. “It’s hard to believe anybody so scattered could put together these tidy lists. He must have an accountant or something.”
And they weren’t going to learn anything by sitting politely and waiting for Osborne to make another flamboyant appearance. Zach knew better than to let an addict take control of the situation. “Let’s see what he’s doing.”
They picked their way through the artwork to a door in the rear wall that opened into a room with a dining table and chairs. Unlike the bright, clean display area, this was a place where someone lived. On the opposite side of the room, there appeared to be a kitchen. Hearing voices, Zach paused to eavesdrop.
Osborne was talking to another man. His words were rushed. “Why did they come here? I don’t need this kind of pressure. It’s too much for me.”
“Deal with it,” the other man said.
“It’s so easy for you. If I lose my reputation, I lose everything.”
“Then get rid of them.”
Chapter Eight
If Gabby had been alone, she would have been terrified. Get rid of them? Those words sounded nasty and much too lethal for her to deal with. Luckily, Zach was here. She grabbed his jacket and tugged. In her opinion, it was time to bolt.
But he had a different idea. He shuffled his feet to make the sounds of footsteps on the hardwood floor. Loudly, he said to her, “I think he came back this way.”
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Making them think we didn’t overhear.”
When he strode across the dining room, she followed, making sure to keep his large, muscular body between her and the threat. In the kitchen, Osborne stood behind a marble-topped island. The man leaning against the countertop had the thick neck and heavy shoulders of a bodybuilder. His dark hair was cut military style. This was the guy who said that he wanted to get rid of them, but Zach stepped right up to him, introduced himself and asked, “Is that your truck out in front?”
“That’s right.”
She remembered the clean red truck with a logo stenciled on the door, and a name she didn’t recall.
Zach’s memory was better. “Ed Striker.”
“Right, again.”
“We’ve met before.”
“About four years ago,” Striker said. “I delivered a couple of horses to your ranch for Adele Berryman.”
“I remember.” Zach grinned. “Mrs. Berryman had some strange ideas.”
Striker didn’t grin back, but he nodded. “Yeah, she did.”
“Well?” Osborne opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water and took a long drink from it. “Aren’t you gentlemen going to tell us what these strange ideas were?”
“She had a pair of remarkable horses,” Zach said, “thoroughbred Arabians, a male and female. Mrs. Berryman called them Angelina and Brad. By all rights, they should have been producing pretty little colts and fillies, but they didn’t have an interest in each other. I told Mrs. Berryman that there were a number of places she could go for an insemination procedure, but she had it in her head that there needed to be a natural attraction. And she thought I could help.”
Gabby couldn’t believe it. “You did sex therapy for a horse couple?”
“I’m not taking credit,” Zach said, “but Brad and Angelina have produced two sets of twins in the past four years.”
“I’ll be damned,” Osborne said.
Zach confronted the other man. “What are you doing here, Striker?”
“He does handyman work for me.” Osborne took another sip of water and held the bottle to his forehead. Though it wasn’t hot, he was perspiring. “Packing and shipping these artworks, especially the sculptures, is difficult, and Striker has a knack for it.”
With a body like Striker’s, heavy lifting was a given, and she wondered what other skills he might have. She was still having trouble reconciling the neatly organized portfolio with Osborne’s flighty personality. “Is Ed also an accountant?”
“Why would you think that?” Osborne asked.
“The catalog of my great-aunt’s work is so precise. I expected you to have someone who handled those details.”
“I handle all the records myself.” Osborne stuck out his skinny chest and preened. “I’m an MBA and trained accountant, which is why my clients stick with me. I make them money.”
She revised her first impression of him. The baggy clothes and sandals were a costume he wore to make people think he was artsy-fartsy. Osborne was, in fact, a raging capitalist. “So it’s not all about the art?”
“Aren’t you a sweet, naive, little thing.” He reached over and patted her cheek. “I appreciate the talent, but this is a business.”
“Is that what your spirit guide told you?”
“Ouch.” He yanked his hand back and looked toward Zach. “She bites.”
“Yes, she does.”
Actually, she was more comfortable with the MBA version of Harrison Osborne, even if he did want to get rid of her. “Let’s skip the tea and go back in the other room. I have some questions.”
Striker was already heading for the door. Before he left, he glanced back over his shoulder at Zach, who was still watching him. For a moment, they stared at each other, communicating on a primal male level as though they were a c
ouple of chimps warning each other off. She wanted to believe that Zach won that confrontation, but she wouldn’t forget Striker’s hostility. The handyman seemed like the most obvious person to stage a break-in at the Roost.
In the display room with the portfolio in front of her on the coffee table, Gabby sat on the sofa. “Mr. Fox said the inventory wasn’t complete. Why is that?”
“Give me a break,” Osborne said. “It’s only been a few weeks, and it’s time-consuming to track these things down. Some of the paintings are on display in museums or at schools. Others are in other galleries and haven’t sold.”
She watched Zach saunter through the gallery and take a position beside one of the front windows. From there, he could see the parking lot and make sure that Striker got into his red truck and drove away. Having Zach on her side gave her the confidence to believe that she might just find her way through this mess and come out the other side in one piece.
She opened the portfolio to the front pages that listed paintings that had been sold and their sale price. “This goes back twenty-five years. There are hundreds of listings.”
“That’s not an inventory I threw together overnight,” Osborne said. “Sales figures need to be updated every year for accounting and for taxes. Michelle had copies.”
Gabby made a mental note to search Michelle’s office for these records. “How do you keep track of it all?”
Osborne sat cross-legged on the rug opposite her. “When Michelle completes a painting, I fill out a single-page Certificate of Authenticity, signed by her and by me. After the work is purchased, I send the certificate to the new owner and keep a copy for my files as a record.”
She flipped through the portfolio to the pages for unsold artworks. Each painting had a photograph and a brief description, including details such as size, title, date and asking price. “Is this the certificate?”
“It’s the same information. The original signed certificates for unsold paintings are valuable, and I have them locked away in my safe.”
Zach left the window and sat beside her. “You’re supposed to turn all that stuff over to the lawyer, right?”
