Faking It Read online

  “Mr. Abbott already paid my retainer,” the man said. “The final bill pretty much depends on what you need.”

  Clea thought about it. What she needed was Gwen Goodnight pushed off a bridge and Davy Dempsey shoved under a bus, and here was the guy who could do both. She bit her lip and looked at him again. He looked very efficient. She’d finally met a man she could count on, and he was a killer. One damn thing after another.

  “Mrs. Lewis—”

  “I’m thinking,” Clea said. Okay, maybe they could take this one step at a time. “I need you to watch him for me. His name is Davy Dempsey. If he tries to come after me, if he tries to come into this house, I need you to stop him. To protect me. He’s associating with this woman, Gwen Goodnight. I think they’re trying to swindle my fiancé, so I need you to watch her, too.”

  “A woman?”

  “I said watch,” Clea said. “Just watch her. If she gets close to Mason, if he goes to see her, I need to know so I can protect him.”

  “Uh-huh,” the guy said. “You want me to watch.”

  “Both of them,” Clea said. “Let me know if they do anything that looks suspicious. And keep them away from me and Mason.” She sat back. That sounded good. Nobody dying, and her alone with Mason. “That’s it. Oh, unless you can find out anything illegal or immoral about Gwen Goodnight. That would be good. Anything you can get on Gwen.” He didn’t look impressed so she added, “So I can protect Mason from her. And from Davy. It’s part of your job.”

  “Where are they?”

  “She runs the Goodnight Gallery,” Clea said and gave him directions. “That’s the last place I saw Davy, too.”

  “And if I have expenses?” Brown said.

  “Ronald will take care of it,” Clea said, standing. “Do you have a number where I can reach you?”

  “I’ll call you with one when I find a place to stay,” he said. “First I’ll need descriptions of these people.”

  Clea sat down again, not sure of how to get rid of him.

  “Well, Davy is about six feet, dark eyes, dark hair, good build” —she faltered there a little, remembering— “cocky as all hell, thinks he’s God. Gwen is about five four, blonde hair going gray, watery blue eyes, not much body, not much of anything, really. She runs the gallery.” She smiled at him, trying to look innocent. “I don’t know what Davy’s doing in town besides stalking me.”

  “Okay.” He hadn’t taken any notes, which was probably good. No evidence. Then he stood up to go, which was even better.

  “So you’ll call me if anything happens,” Clea said, following him to the door.

  “No,” he said. “If anything happens, I’ll stop it.”

  “Right,” Clea said. “Good man. Best of luck.”

  She closed the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief, both that he was gone and that he was going after Davy. God knew where Ronald had found him —Ronald must have depths she wasn’t aware of— but now that he had, her troubles were over.

  She did spare a thought for what he meant by “I’ll stop it,” but then she decided that since she hadn’t told him she wanted Davy dead in a ditch, it wouldn’t be her responsibility if he ended up there.

  All in all, a good morning. She started up the stairs to dress for the art museum and then slowed down. Breakfast. She had Thomas’s number someplace. All you had to do to make life run smoothly was hire the right people, she decided.

  Really, it was so simple.

  SINCE IT WAS Saturday, Gwen slept late, but at noon she opened the gallery, poured herself a cup of coffee, punched up an eighties medley on the jukebox, got the last pineapple-orange muffin from the bakery bag, and took everything out into the gallery to the marble counter and her latest Double-Crostic. 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. She thought, I have been doing this for too many years, but there wasn’t much push to the observation since she was undoubtedly going to be doing it for too many more. She looked at the Finster-laden gallery and shook her head, and then bent over her puzzle.

  The clue for I was “liable or prone to sin.” What the hell was that? Eight letters, possibly starting with a P, definitely ending in an E. Nothing. She had nothing.

  Maybe Davy would know; he’d gotten the Milland movie. And she’d bet he had more than a passing knowledge of sin, too.

  Thunder boomed on the jukebox for the Weather Girls’ intro, the bell rang, and she looked up. The man coming in the door was taller and broader than Davy, his dark hair grizzled around his temples, his face seamed by hard living. “You have a room for rent?” he said, and his voice wasn’t as harsh as she’d expected, but it wasn’t gentle, either.

  “Uh, yes,” she said, trying not to step back. It wasn’t that he looked threatening as much as it was that he was so much there, blocking all the light from the street. “I’ll need references—”

  “Clea Lewis recommended you,” he said. “My name’s Ford Brown. You can call her.”

  “Oh.” Gwen let her eyes slide toward the phone. “Uh—”

  Then he took out his wallet and opened it and Gwen saw money. Lots of it.

  “Eight hundred a month,” she said. “Two months’ rent up front.”

  He counted out the bills, several of them hundreds, while she watched. Ben Franklin, she thought. Just lovely. Where the hell had Clea met this guy?

  “Are you from around here, Mr....”

  “Brown,” he said again. “No.”

  Gwen smiled at him, waiting.

  “I’m from Miami,” he said, handing her the bills.

  “That must be where you met Clea,” she said brightly.

  He waited patiently, not smiling, and she thought, Well, at least he’s not charming. Not like Davy. Who was also from Miami.

  “Do you know Davy Dempsey?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, still patient.

  “Because he’s from Miami, too,” Gwen said, feeling like an idiot. “Like you. And Clea.”

  “You winter in Florida, we summer in Ohio,” he said, completely deadpan.

  “Oh.” That had to be a joke. Didn’t it? “Why would you summer in Ohio?” she said, waiting for him to say, “It was a joke.”

  “It’s cooler here,” he said.

  She waited for him to say more but he just stood there, huge and patient. It was perverse and Gwen had had enough perverse for one lifetime. She leaned on the counter. “So it’s not cool where you live?”

  “It’s not bad.”

  “Air-conditioning?” Gwen said.

  “No.” She waited and the silence stretched out until he said, “I live on the water.”

  Of course, you do, Gwen thought. That’s why you came to Ohio to stay in a dark little overpriced apartment. “Ocean-front condo?”

  “My boat.”

  “Your boat.” White sands, blue water, alcoholic drinks with little umbrellas. I want a boat, Gwen thought and then kicked herself. Where would she put it? The Olen-tangy?

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No,” Gwen said. “I was thinking about your boat. I bet the water’s blue and the sand is white and all the drinks have little umbrellas.”

  “Not my drinks.”

  “Well, no, of course not.” Gwen looked at him, exasperated. “This boat has a bed and a kitchen and everything?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And you left it to come to Ohio because ...”

  “I have work here. I won’t be staying long.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said. “Then why ...”

  “Because renting from you is cheaper than staying in a hotel,” he said. “Although not faster.”

  “I’ll get the keys,” she said, but it wasn’t until she was in the office, rummaging in the desk drawer, that she realized where he was going to be staying.

  Two B. Right across from her.

  She picked up the phone, finding the paper wit