by Amy M. Reade
“Sylvie, come here,” he said after a few minutes.
“What?”
“Just come here.”
I joined him at the shop door as he shut off the lights. “What are you doing that for? What if Florian can’t find the shop?”
“Look,” he said, pointing outside. A dark car crawled along the road just fifty meters from the shop, its lights off.
“Do you suppose that’s Florian?”
“I don’t know. I wonder why the driver doesn’t have the headlamps on.”
“Why did you turn off the shop lights?”
Seamus shrugged. “So whoever it is can’t see us watching.”
“It’s a bit creepy, don’t you think, standing here watching someone in the dark?”
He didn’t answer.
The car slowed to a stop in front of our house. After just a moment, a slight figure stepped out of the car and stood looking up at the shop.
“That’s Florian,” Seamus said, his voice low. “Even in the dark I can tell him by his size and shape.”
I nodded. Seamus took my elbow and we returned to the kitchen. “Why are we sneaking around our own house?” I complained.
“Something’s a bit off about this whole thing,” Seamus said, stroking his beard again. “Why would Florian drive around without his headlamps on?”
We stood in the kitchen, looking at each other, until the shop doorbell rang. Seamus returned to the shop, flipped on the light, and opened the door. I followed him, and together we watched as Florian skittered into the shop, checking over his shoulder.
“Is the painting ready?” he asked.
Seamus pointed to the large package on the shop counter. “Aye, it is. Say, Florian, did you realize your headlamps are out?”
Florian, who had been looking around the shop, jerked his head toward Seamus. “Is that so? That’s funny. I didn’t even realize it. I’ll have to remember to switch them on when I go back.”
“How far away is your bed and breakfast?”
“Just a few miles.”
“It’s dangerous to drive around here without headlamps. Lots of twists and turns in the roads. Be careful,” Seamus cautioned.
“I will,” Florian assured us. He pulled out a thick envelope. “How much do I owe you?”
Seamus quoted a high number and Florian opened the envelope. Rifling through its contents, he pulled out a wad of notes and handed them to Seamus, who watched him with wide eyes.
“Och, man, do you always carry that much cash wi’ ye?”
Florian looked straight into Seamus’s eyes with a boldness that seemed uncharacteristic. “Not usually.” Seamus took the hint and looked away. Strange that such a meek little man could make Seamus feel self-conscious. Seamus had done time in prison, for heaven’s sake, for injuring a man in self-defense. He wasn’t afraid of anyone.
“Well, thank you for stopping by on such short notice,” I said, hoping to hasten Florian’s departure. “Good luck with your painting.”
Florian gave me a long look and nodded, then left the store carrying the large painting with both hands.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” Seamus said as he locked the door and turned off the lights.
“Should you call the other man and tell him the painting is gone?”
“I can’t. He hung up before I could get a mobile number from him.”
“We really should get a caller ID service.”
We stood by the door and watched Florian drive away, once again without the use of headlamps.
“He’s going to get killed on these roads,” Seamus muttered.
“He is a strange one, that’s for sure.”
Meet the Author
Credit: John A. Reade, Jr.
USA Today bestselling author Amy M. Reade is a former attorney who now writes full-time from her home in southern New Jersey, where she is also a wife, a mom of three, and a volunteer in school, church, and community groups. She loves cooking, traveling, and all things Hawaii and is currently at work on the next novel in the Malice series. Visit her on the web at www.amymreade.com or at mreade.wordpress.com.
