“And teeth. But I am not afraid.”
“You and Steve have a lot in common.” Tilda handed the dog to him.
“Speaking of dangerous females,” Davy said, slinging the dog under his arm, “where has Louise been? Simon’s starting to think she’s a figment of his imagination.”
“She’ll be back at the Double Take Wednesday night. She has Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday off.” She opened the bedroom door and saw her bed, looking vast and white in the moonlight.
“She takes three nights off from sex?”
“From the Double Take,” Tilda said. “Tell Simon to be patient.” Really patient, she’s not coming back here.
“That’s two days from now.” Davy put Steve on the floor. “I don’t know if he has that much patience. I don’t even think I do.”
“Develop some,” Tilda said.
“So that’s a no,” Davy said.
“If the question is what I think it is,” Tilda said, “then, yes, that’s a no.”
“You know, Vilma, playing hard to get can backfire.”
“I’m not playing,” Tilda said and locked herself in the bathroom to change into her pajamas. She liked sleeping in T-shirts better, but they had an adverse effect on Davy.
When she came out, he was already in bed, looking annoyed. She crawled in beside him, perversely glad he was there, and held up the quilt for Steve to tunnel under. Cozy, she thought as she felt the dog snuggled up to her through the sheet. She glanced over at Davy, who was fighting with his pillow and looking not cozy.
“So tell me, Vilma,” he said, punching the pillow again. “If you’re not playing, why do you let me back in your bed?”
“In my bed,” Tilda pointed out. “Not in me. There are limits here.”
“In your dreams.” Davy shoved his pillow behind him. “If I wanted to be in you, I’d be in you. You have lousy pillows. Why is that? Is Gwennie anti-pillow?”
“How would you be in me?” Tilda looked at him with contempt. “You would not be in me.”
“I have charm.” Davy shoved the pillow again. “Tomorrow I’m getting you better pillows.”
“You do not have charm,” Tilda said and then honesty made her add, “well, you don’t have that much charm.”
“I have charm you haven’t experienced yet,” Davy said. “Unplumbed depths of charm not yet unleashed on you.” He punched the pillow again.
“Well, let me know if you plan to unleash it,” Tilda said, snuggling down against her own pillow. “I want to brace myself.”
“Won’t do you any good,” Davy said. “I’ll get you anyway. How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Sink down into that pillow.” He frowned at her. “You gave me the lousy pillow.”
“I didn’t give you anything. You took it.”
“Let me see.” Davy jerked her pillow out from behind her and Tilda’s head bounced on the bed. He punched it a couple of times and shook his head. “No, this one’s lousy, too.” He dropped it on her face, and as she pulled it off she heard him say, “Tomorrow we get new pillows.”
“I like this pillow.”
“You think you like that pillow,” Davy said, trying to get comfortable again. “Once you try the new pillows, you’ll spit on that pillow.”
“I will still like this pillow.”
Davy leaned over her and Tilda blinked at how suddenly close he was. “Work with me here,” he said. “This is vitally important.”
“Pillows are vitally important,” Tilda said.
“Yes,” Davy said, so seriously she had to smile.
“Can you admit,” he said, “that there is a slim possibility that there might, just might, be a better pillow than the one under your head right now?”
“Well—”
He leaned closer. “Possibly, maybe, might be, yes?”
“Yes,” Tilda said.
“Then tomorrow I am getting you new pillows.”
“I like these pillows.”
“Did you know that after a year, half the weight of a pillow is dust mites?”
Tilda sat up, almost bumping into him. “What?”
“I swear to God it’s true,” Davy said, leaning back. “How old are these pillows?”
“They were here when I moved back home five years ago,” Tilda said, looking at her pillow in horror.
“We get new pillows,” Davy said, and tossed his on the floor.
“Oh, gross,” Tilda said and shoved hers after his.
“Of course, now we have nothing to sleep on,” Davy said. “Want to have sex?”
Tilda grinned at him. “That’s your boundless charm?”
“No, I spent all my charm talking you out of the pillows.” Davy got out of bed, picked up his shirt from the chair, and wadded it into a ball as he came back to her. “I thought I might get you on the momentum.”
“You’re pathetic,” Tilda said.
“So that’s still a no.”
“Yes,” Tilda said. “That’s still a no.”
“Confusing.” Davy stuffed his shirt under his head and rolled away from her.
Tilda looked at the lovely strong line of his shoulders in the moonlight. “I know,” she said and rolled away from him.
GWEN OPENED the gallery on Wednesday morning, poured herself a cup of coffee, punched up a Shirelles medley on the jukebox, got a pineapple-orange muffin from the bakery bag, took everything out into the gallery to the marble counter and her latest Double-Crostic, and thought, Someday I’m going to die, and my body will still do this. And nobody will notice.
To her right, the sun streamed through the cracked glass pane above the display window, and the loose metal ceiling tile bounced silently in the breeze from the central air, while the Shirelles sang “I Met Him on a Sunday.” She should mention the cracked window to Simon, who’d evidently exhausted the entertainment possibilities of Columbus without Louise, and was now poking around the building, making notes to update the security. “This place is a burglar’s dream,” he’d told her. She’d gestured to the Finsters. “And he’d steal what?”
Davy had been grumpy for the past two days, too, which had to be either his money or Tilda, Gwen wasn’t sure which but she was sure it wasn’t good. “He’s FBI,” Gwen told Tilda. “Make him happy. Whatever it takes.”
“Mother of the Year, you’re not,” Tilda said. He was also spending a lot of time playing pool somewhere with people who had deep pockets. “You could earn a living doing that,” Gwen told him when he came in one night and gave her more muffin money. “And then it wouldn’t be fun anymore,” he said, and went upstairs to Tilda’s room.
And then there was Ford, who had brought her piña coladas every day without once breaking into an expression, although he did stay to talk about the gallery. It was flattering how much he wanted to know about her and sad how little there was to tell. The piña coladas helped ease the shame considerably. She had four umbrellas now, pink, blue, green, and yellow, and she kept them in her pencil holder where she could see them because she figured they were as close as she was ever going to get to blue water and white sand.
That’s pathetic, she thought, which made her think of Mason, who’d called both Monday and Tuesday to thank her for going to lunch and then talked about the gallery wistfully. He was working up to asking her something, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was: he wanted to buy the gallery. Heaven, she thought, except that she couldn’t, so no point in thinking about it. But at least her life was expanding. Now instead of looking forward to a Double-Crostic every day, she could look forward to a Double-Crostic, a phone call from Mason, and a paper umbrella from Ford. “Whoa, Nellie,” she said, “now I’m really getting somewhere,” and slapped open her Double-Crostic book.
By noon, having written in “ophidian” for “snakelike,” “nimiety” for “redundancy,” and “enswathe” for “wrap as a bandage,” she was feeling much better. Of course anybody who would use “dofunny” as an answer for “gadget” was clearl
y insane, but that was puzzle-makers for you. She was still annoyed with this yahoo for spelling “toffee” with a y. And that “heavily built birds” clue that turned out to be “rough-legged hawks” was just—
“Grandma?”
Gwen looked up from her book. Nadine stood there, looking solemn with Ethan behind her.
“I thought you went to paint the mural with Tilda,” Gwen said.
“I did,” Nadine said. “Yesterday. We painted the under-painting. It was boring so I’m not going to be a muralist.”
“Probably a good idea,” Gwen said. “So now what?”
Nadine looked at Ethan. “Well, Ethan and I were concerned about Mr. Brown.”
“Why?” Gwen said.
“Because Aunt Tilda said he had a fake name,” Nadine said.
“She was kidding,” Gwen said, going back to her Double-Crostic.
“I don’t think so,” Nadine said. “Ethan and I bugged his phone.”
Gwen jerked her head up. “Nadine.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Goodnight,” Ethan said. “We didn’t hurt the phone.”
“It was really easy,” Nadine said. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll be a detective.”
“I’m thinking you’ll go to jail,” Gwen said. “That’s illegal. You stop it right now.”
“We’re not the ones going to jail,” Nadine said, and Ethan nodded. “Not after what we heard.”
“What?” Gwen said, not really wanting to know. She liked those little umbrellas. And the piña coladas were good, too.
“Mr. Brown is a hit man.”
“Oh, hell,” Gwen said, and closed her Double-Crostic book.
Chapter 12
“OKAY, EXPLAIN THIS to me again,” Tilda said later that afternoon when she got home after underpainting too damn many water lilies. “Ford Brown is a contract killer?”
“Nadine bugged the phone in his apartment but didn’t put a tape recorder on it,” Gwen said, holding an ice pack to her forehead with her right hand and a drink with a purple umbrella in it in her left. “She swears she heard him talking to Clea Lewis about Davy and that it sounded like they were talking about killing him.”
Tilda sat down next to her on the couch. “Well, I suppose it’s possible. She took his money and she knows he’s coming back for it. And I think it’s a lot of money. But isn’t there some horrible penalty for killing an FBI agent?”
“Oh, God,” Gwen said. “And I rented a room to him.” She looked at the drink, sighed, and drank a slug of it. “Hard to believe that a week ago, I thought any change would be good.”
“You know, it just doesn’t seem probable,” Tilda said. “Of course, neither does the FBI thing. What did Davy say?”
“He’s been gone all day,” Gwen said. “I don’t know where ...” She straightened. “You don’t suppose he’s already—”
“No,” Tilda said. “I don’t think he’s that easy to kill. I’ll talk to him when he comes in.”
Gwen put the compress down. “Exactly what is going on with the two of you?”
“Exactly nothing,” Tilda said. “We’re helping each other recover lost property. Then he leaves for Australia and I go to Cleveland to paint a Starry Night in a bedroom.”
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said and offered her the compress, but not the drink.
“Don’t be,” Tilda said. “This is exactly the way I want it. Men screw everything up.”
“Yeah,” Gwen said, looking at the umbrella in her drink. “I know that. I just wasn’t expecting a killer doughnut.”
“Well,” Tilda said. “There’s always Mason. I know he’s with Clea, but that’s not going to work out, he’s too sweet.”
“Mason wants the gallery, not me,” Gwen said. “I’ll stick with Double-Crostics. They’re annoying, but they don’t court you for real estate or try to kill your tenants.”
“Good point,” Tilda said and watched her mother drift back out to the gallery.
BY TEN that night, even Tilda had begun to fret, so she was relieved when Davy came in the bedroom door, carrying two big plastic bags.
“Pillows,” he said, emptying the bags on the bed. “Four of the best that money can buy.”
“Thank you,” she said. “That was thoughtful. Is it possible that somebody might have hired someone to kill you?”
“That’s the rumor.” Davy stripped off his shirt. “Hell of a day.”
“Nadine already talked to you?”
“Nadine?”
“Nadine tapped Ford Brown’s phone and now she thinks Clea Lewis hired him to kill you.”
“The cowboy?” Davy said. “Huh. Could be.”
He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, and Tilda thought about throwing something at him. She picked up a pillow and then decided it was too good to waste on him and went downstairs to find pillowcases instead. By the time she came back, he was in bed and Steve was under the covers again.
“Come here, Vilma,” he said, patting the sheets.
“I have a headache,” Tilda said. She tossed him two pillowcases and began to cover the two that were left.
“You know, I’ve never heard a woman actually say that until now,” Davy said, picking up a pillow.
“New experiences are good,” Tilda said, and covered the second pillow. Then she slid into bed and sank back. “Oh, these are really good.”
“So am I,” Davy said. “You want to tell me what’s wrong here? Because I could have sworn you made it Sunday night.” He flipped one covered pillow behind him and started on the next one.
“I did.” Tilda slipped a little farther under the covers. “Thank you. Good night.”
“Matilda,” Davy said. “Talk.”
Tilda frowned at him. “Me, talk? I tell you a guy two floors down is going to kill you and you don’t bat an eye. What is it again that you do for a living?”
“ ‘I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork,’” Davy said.
“Grosse Pointe Blank,” Tilda said. “This is not a movie.”
“I find it hard to believe that Ford Brown is trying to kill me.”
“And that’s because...?”
Davy shrugged. “What’s he waiting for?”
Tilda thought about it. “Instructions?”
“That must be it,” Davy said. “Since this may be my last night on earth, how about—”
“No,” Tilda said.
“You want to explain this to me?”
She tried to frown at him but the sheet was in the way. “Hey, I can not want to.”
“Yes, you can,” Davy said. “I just want to know why. Come on.” He smiled at her. “Talk to me.”
Tilda shook her head, her mouth under the covers. “I’m much too worried about Ford gunning you down. If I was under you, he’d get me, too.”
“He’s too efficient for that.” Davy leaned closer, his smile still in place. “Tell you what. Ten minutes. I’ll beat my own best time.”
“Really not in the mood.”
“Five minutes.”
“Davy.”
He sighed and pushed himself up in the bed until he was leaning against the wall, the new pillows bunched behind him, and he looked damn good shirtless in the moonlight. “Okay, then tell me why, so I don’t make whatever terrible mistake I made again.”
“You know you didn’t make a mistake.” Tilda slid deeper into the bed, and Davy pulled the sheet down so her face was uncovered.
“It’s hard to hear you under there. Come on up and talk.”
Tilda closed her eyes. “I have to paint tomorrow, and I need my sleep.”
“So tell me and get it over with. Where’d I screw up?”
Tilda thought, Tell him something so he’ll shut up, and shoved the covers down. “Okay, if I tell you, you have to promise not to get insulted or wounded or mad.”
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Davy said, sounding unconcerned.
“Listen, there’s a reason people lie to each other,” Tilda said, feeling waspish. “It
keeps them from killing each other.”
Davy pulled her pillows out from under her head.
“Hey!”
Then he piled up her pillows against the headboard and patted them. “Come on. My ego can take damn near anything.”
“Well, that’s true.” Tilda sat up and scooted back against the pillows. “Okay, but you asked for it. I tried to be polite. It’s embarrassing.”
“Well, spit it out and get it over with.”
“No, that’s it. That’s what’s wrong. You. Sex. The whole thing. It’s embarrassing. And dangerous.” She turned to find Davy looking at her with his “you’re insane” look. “I don’t know you very well, okay? I met you five days ago. I don’t know anything about you and all of a sudden there you are.”
“There I am,” Davy said, sounding mystified.
“You know.” Tilda pointed to the south. “There.”
“That’s where the good stuff is. You’re overthinking this.”
Tilda looked straight ahead. “I know what I feel.”
“Because,” Davy went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “if you think about it too much, you’ll never do it.”
“Not true,” Tilda said, exasperated.
“I mean, when you think about what you’re actually doing—”
“Which I don’t want to.”
“—let alone what you sound like—”
Tilda winced. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
“—it makes you wonder how anybody can videotape themselves—”
“Oh, God.” Tilda sank down into the bed, trying not to imagine a videotape of the couch.
“—although I’m up for that if you are.”
Tilda sat up. “Are you nuts?”
“Why?” Davy said, startled.
“Do you pay any attention to me at all?”
“Well, I’d like to,” Davy said. “But you have a headache.”
“Not that kind of attention,” Tilda said, warming to her subject, “although I could point out that you don’t pay a lot of attention there, either.”
“Hey,” Davy said. “I paid attention.”
“Yes, to what you were doing,” Tilda said. “Not to me.”
“You were what I was doing.”
“It’s not like you talked to me. It’s not like you made eye contact.”
Faking It Page 20
