Dog Collar Knockoff

by Adrienne Giordano

  Really, what she wanted was her father back. Flaws and all. The man moving toward her dressed like an orange Popsicle wasn’t him.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  He slid onto the bench across from her. By now, she knew not to try and touch him. Contact with the prisoners was forbidden. Every now and again, because her Dad was—believe it or not—an affectionate man, he touched her hand, but it always earned him a glare from the guard. Overall, he’d been a model prisoner. The guards treated him with respect, looked him in the eye when they spoke, and he did the same.

  “Hi, baby girl.”

  Baby girl. Her childhood nickname. And one he rarely called her anymore. Another testament to their strained relationship. With him coming home, they needed a truce. Even with Joey moving to Frankie’s, it would be close quarters. For her mother’s sake, she didn’t want them at war.

  “I can’t wait to get out of here, Lucie. First thing, I’m gonna grab your mother and we’re going out to the lake. I need sun and fresh air.”

  Lucie nodded. When it came to being by the water, she and Dad were of the same mind. “She’d like that I think.”

  “I’m glad you came today. Didn’t expect to see you until I got home.”

  “I know. And honestly, that was my plan. I hate seeing you in this place.” She held up her hands. “But I don’t want to argue over it.”

  He shrugged. “Then there’s a reason you’re here.”

  “There is.”

  “Frankie?”

  Oh, Lord! Once again everything revolved around Frankie—Mr. Perfect in her dad’s eyes—and whether they’d ever get married. “No, Dad. We’re still on the outs. Sorry.”

  “He’s a good—”

  “Yes. I know he’s a good boy. This time it was his doing, so save the lecture.”

  Dad’s lips bowed down as he took that in. “That’s… surprising.”

  “Yep.” She’d forego telling him about the Irish cop. One thing at a time. “There is a reason I’m here. You know I rented Carlucci’s for my new Coco Barknell headquarters, right?”

  “Yeah. Joey mentioned something about it when he was here the other day.”

  Joey, bless his devoted heart, visited their dad three times a week. Without fail. Mom didn’t even come that often.

  “He’s helping me with the contractors. We’ve been getting along. He’s actually helping me run the dog walking side of the business.”

  “Ah, that’s good. It’s the way it should be.”

  “I know, Dad. Anyway, I had a problem at the store yesterday and we thought—Joey and I”—throwing Joey’s name in there couldn’t hurt—“that I should tell you in person.”

  Dad’s frown came back. He leaned forward and dipped his head. “What happened? Someone robbed the place?” He bit down. “Rogue sons of bitches. I’ll knock their lights out.”

  “No. Not that.” Thank goodness. What a mess that would be. “Someone stored stolen merchandise in the storage room. Tracksuits.”

  As usual, her father sat still. The man wasn’t one for big drama. When faced with a problem, he typically kept his body movements to a minimum. Lucie always thought he did it to keep people a little off balance, make them wonder, like now, what exactly went on in his mind.

  “Sons of bitches. They know I don’t want my kids involved.”

  “It gets worse. Someone tipped off the police… Well…” She dropped her chin to her chest, closed her eyes and fought the increasing tightness in her throat.

  Risking the guard’s wrath, Dad touched her hand then slid it away. “What happened? Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

  This was the daddy she loved. No matter what, when it came to his family, he did what needed to be done. She raised her head, met her father’s gaze and held it. “I got arrested.”

  Boom. He leaned back, gritted his teeth, and slammed a fist on the table, sending the bang of metal echoing off the cement walls. “I’ll kill them.”

  And holy cow, Lucie flinched hard enough to almost tip her right out of her chair. Not only the unexpected physical reaction from her father, but the threatening outburst where a guard most definitely heard him.

  “Hey,” the guard warned from his spot by the door, “take it easy.”

  Dad shifted sideways, faced the guard, and raised one hand in a mea culpa. “Sorry.”

  The guard nodded and Dad came back to Lucie, closed his eyes for half a second, and breathed. Prison Zen moment?

  He opened his eyes. “You were locked up?”

  She nodded. “Only for a few hours. Joey called Willie and they bailed me out.”

  Best to hold off on Tim’s involvement. Her father wasn’t exactly a young man and the combination of his straight-laced daughter being arrested then being aided by a cop might give him a heart attack.

  “Willie said he’d talk to the prosecutor, but basically, we have to prove I had no knowledge of this. If we don’t, I’ll have a criminal record.”

  “You’d never work for a bank again.”

  Being stubborn, Dad still saw Coco Barknell as a side job until she went back to investment banking. Right now, she didn’t have it in her to remind him her intention was to grow her side job into a Fortune 500 company.

  Dad drilled his finger into the tabletop. “That’s not gonna happen. We’ll find the one who did this. Believe me, whoever it is will go to the cops and clear this up. All charges will dropped. Believe me.”

  *

  On Monday morning, Lucie was beginning to feel—odd as it was considering her current circumstances—lighter. A casual dinner with Tim the night before might be part of her mood. Something about him took the pressure off, let her feel at ease and not so tightly wound.

  And, best of all, there was no arguing over distancing themselves from the life. As much as she loved Frankie, the issues in their relationship revolved around their families. And no matter how they tried, they always wound up in the same ugly place.

  With Tim all the baggage went away. She could simply be a twenty-six-year-old woman finding her way in the world. One who wanted to kiss a cute detective, but whose nosy brother wouldn’t stop interrupting long enough for that kiss to happen. Damned Joey.

  But right now, she had a job to do on an August day so hot her lips weren’t just dry, they were shedding.

  Nugget, an adorable tan and white Beagle, pranced alongside Lucie, scoping out the next patch of grass to fall victim to his urine stream. On walks, Nugget didn’t mess around. He was all business, all the time. The fact that Lucie slipped him a treat when they got back to the house probably didn’t hurt, but this dog was a dog walker’s dream.

  “One thing, Lauren,” Lucie said to her trainee. “Nugget always gets a treat when we’re done. It’s part of his routine. Don’t forget, okay?”

  Lauren jotted a note in her trainee book. Being a stickler for details, Lucie had created a handbook with the Coco Barknell logo on the front and Lauren dutifully took notes on each pet. Regardless of who walked the dogs on any given day, the transition between walkers needed to be smooth.

  Joey, of course, was the wild card. Chances were he completely blew off her instructions and did his own thing. She’d like to set up some kind of surveillance to see. Hmm…a doggie cam. That might have some merit. She’d have to work out the logistics.

  Lucie and Lauren trekked back to Nugget’s house, a renovated brownstone that, in this neighborhood, went for at least three million. The Horvaths had moved in over a year ago, but the house still looked newly remodeled. Mrs. H. apparently had OCD tendencies because the counters always sparkled—quite a feat with black marble—and the floors held not one scuffmark. Nada.

  On her best day, Lucie couldn’t manage avoiding footprints on the hand-scraped floors and always wound up cleaning them before she left. Luckily, she never had to go farther than the mudroom.

  Once through the back door, Nugget immediately plopped his furry butt in front of the treat cabinet.

  “He’s so cute,” Lauren said.


  Bending low, Lucie gave Nugget a scratch and a nuzzle. “Yes, he is.” She kissed the side of his head and handed him a treat. “Good, baby. Lucie loves you.”

  “You’re so good with the dogs, Lucie. The owners must be crazy about you.”

  Lucie shrugged. “We had a dog growing up. He died when I was in college. Some day I’ll have another one.”

  Some day when she lived in her own place again. And was allowed pets. Her apartment downtown hadn’t allowed animals, and Mom certainly had no interest. She had her hands full with Joey.

  And Dad.

  She snorted. A dog would probably be easier to control than those two.

  Lauren scooped up Nugget’s water bowl. “He’s out of water. Poor guy. I’ll fill it.”

  “Okay. The kitchen is right through there.” Lucie pointed then checked the time on her phone. “We’re a few minutes behind, so let’s make this quick. Grab some paper towels while you’re in there. We might have to clean the footprints.”

  “We will?”

  “Client is a neat freak. Can’t blame her. The place is stunning.”

  Lauren headed into the kitchen with Nugget’s bowl while Lucie stowed his leash.

  “Lucie?” Lauren called. “Do you think I could use the bathroom?”

  Now she had to pee? Before this was over, they’d be scrubbing every inch of flooring on the first level. But they’d been moving for two hours and Lauren had slammed two cups of coffee. As an employer, Lucie couldn’t very well limit her intake of liquids.

  Or her need to pee.

  “Sure. The Horvaths don’t mind. Down the hall on the right.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  She set the bowl on the counter and scooted down the hall. “Oh, that’s cool.”

  “What?”

  “Have you seen this painting?”

  Here we go again. “Lauren, go pee. Focus.”

  “I know, but it’s right here on the wall across from the bathroom. You’ve gotta see it. I think it might be a Nodai.”

  Lucie would have to inventory which clients were art collectors and not assign Lauren to those homes. A passion for art was enviable, but not when they had a schedule to keep.

  “We have to go.” Lucie squatted to gather some of Nugget’s toys. “Here you go, baby.”

  “It’s just so beautiful. I’ve never seen a real one.”

  A real one. Oh no. Two months ago, she’d passed Bart Owens’s card to Mrs. Horvath. Sculptures and paintings throughout the first floor were obvious indicators that they liked art, so Lucie, thinking of her loose agreement with Bart regarding commissions, had told Mrs. Horvath about the gallery.

  But that had been the last of it. She’d never been notified of a sale, and she certainly never asked. She’d simply trusted Bart would let her know. Or hand over a check.

  Lucie shot to her feet. Disregarding the fear of footprints, she hustled to where Lauren wistfully admired a giant painting spanning the four-foot wall across from the powder room.

  Eeee-gads. Lucie slapped her hand over her eyes. What the hell is that? Could it be what she thought? Nah. No one would put that across from their powder room where guests and children would see it.

  Had to be a mistake. Lucie cracked two fingers for a peek and—hello, fella.

  In the painting, maybe something from the Renaissance period based on the color and appearance, a naked woman sat backward on top of an equally naked and—eh-hem—extremely endowed man.

  In a half-buried wheelbarrow.

  A wheelbarrow!

  Lucie dropped her hand from her eyes and took it all in. Every perverted and yet entirely fascinating inch. Every inch. “Wow.”

  “I know, right?”

  “What is this? Early European porn?”

  “No,” Lauren spat, her outrage obvious. “It’s the earliest form of erotic art. Look at the lines, Lucie. It’s amazing.”

  She tipped her head sideways. Too much. Quite literally. The man’s… uh… member, or rather the size of it, damn near terrified her. She glanced down at her crotch, then back to the man in the painting. No way that thing fits. No way.

  What sane woman would let… She couldn’t even think about it. God, the agony. She closed her eyes and scrunched her face. “I almost can’t look at it.”

  Lauren laughed. “Trust me. If this is a Nodai, and I think it is, it’s a classic. Worth millions.”

  If that were the case, Lucie should invite an artist into Frankie’s bedroom when he did his magic on her. They’d be billionaires. Just thinking about Frankie and his zest for lovemaking—and the lack of it in her life—made her cheeks hot. Now what? She was some kind of nymphomaniac from looking at a painting?

  “Are you sure?” she asked, still not believing this painting was on display across from the bathroom. “Millions?”

  “Yes! What makes them so valuable is they’re part of a series. Twelve in all, if I remember. They all show different sexual positions. I’d have to look this one up to see what number it is. I wonder if it’s labeled anywhere.”

  Lauren reached for the frame and Lucie locked on to her wrist. “No you don’t. If this thing is worth millions, you can’t touch it. Not when you’re on Coco Barknell’s time. If you damage it, I get sued. Nuh-uh.”

  The company’s insurance premiums would skyrocket.

  Lauren snatched her hand back. “Sorry. But I’m so curious. Lucie, these paintings are rare. I think most of them were destroyed in a fire in the 1800s. I’d love to know where they got it.”

  So would Lucie. Because a deal was a deal, and if this painting was worth millions, Bart Owens owed her a good chunk of cash. But considering how rare Lauren said the paintings were, it could be a copy.

  Or Bart sold the Horvaths a fake. After Lucie vouched for him.

  A sick feeling tumbled inside her and a vision of the cell she’d been locked in on Saturday flashed in her mind. Here we go again.

  “I don’t know where they got it.”

  But she’d find out. Somehow, she’d find out.

  *

  At home that evening, Lucie sat at the dining room table with her laptop and her favorite Notre Dame glass. The glass held diet pop, but she might be switching to something stronger if Bart Owens turned out to be, as Ro would say, a lying, scheming rat bastard.

  She took in the stacked plastic bins in the corner and the bolts of fabric propped against grandma’s breakfront. As soon as the renovations on Carlucci’s—she had to start thinking of it as Coco Barknell—were complete, all these supplies would be moved over and her mother would have her dining room back.

  In time for her father’s return.

  Timing was essential. Mainly because she had no interest in her father carrying on about how his dining room looked like a storage closet. Much less the idea that Mom was now working almost thirty-hours per week as a seamstress. Oh, boy, that would be interesting. No wonder Joey wanted to move out.

  The front door flew open and smacked against the wall. Seriously, Ro was going to put a hole in the wall if she kept that up. Lucie’s best friend strolled in on five-inch heels that made her already long legs look like skyscrapers.

  She came to a stop at the end of the table and cocked one hip. “Sorry it took so long to get here. I came as soon as I got your message. What’s up?”

  “We’re on a mission.”

  Ready for action, Ro did a fast clap and immediately slid into the chair next to Lucie. “I love missions. What is it?”

  “We have to verify if a painting I saw at the Horvath’s today is a fake.”

  “Another painting? What is it with you?”

  “I know. I can’t help it. Lauren spotted this one when we walked Nugget today. According to her, if it’s real, it’s worth millions.”

  Ro puckered and blew air through her lips. “Is this one you brokered for Owens?”

  “Not sure. That’s part of the mission. I did pass along Bart’s name to Mrs. Horvath a few weeks ago, and I know the painting
is probably new because it wasn’t there last week. But Bart didn’t tell me if he sold her the painting.”

  “Okay. I gotcha. You want to see if the thing is real first in case Owens makes a habit of selling knockoffs. And if it is, you can ask him if he’s been a rat bastard and cheated you out of your cut?”

  Ah, Ro. How well Lucie knew her. “Simply put, yes. I started researching the entire series of paintings. Most of them were destroyed in a gallery fire in 1821. I was just starting to look up each individual piece to find the Horvath’s.”

  Ro smacked her hands together then flicked them out. “I’m on it. What do you need me to do?”

  “There are a lot of paintings in the series. We’re double teaming it. I’ll show you a photo of the Horvath’s painting and then we need to figure out if it was one of the ones destroyed. If it wasn’t, we figure out where the real one is. Who knows if the Internet can tell us all that, but it’s worth a try.”

  Lucie picked up the tablet she used when she didn’t feel like lugging her laptop around and handed it to Ro. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, I’m going to show you the painting. Try to refrain from any sarcastic comments.”

  “This sounds juicy.”

  “You really have no idea.”

  Anticipating something exciting, Ro scooted closer. “Is it porn?”

  How did she know that? “Why would your mind automatically go there?”

  “It’s porn? Really?” Ro hooted. “You’re kind of a prude, so I went straight to porn.”

  A prude. Of course there were worse things, but somehow it felt like an insult. Whatever. “Lauren says they’re classics of early European erotic art. It’s meant to titillate.”

  “I always loved that word. Titillate. It sounds so dirty.”

  Focus. Focus. Focus. “Remember. No sarcasm.”