Faking It d-2 Read online

  Yeah, like you’ve ever wanted to wake up with a woman you’ve slept with, he told himself. Especially one who seemed less than pleased with the night before, which was really confusing because she’d definitely made it that time. Complicated woman, Celeste.

  Maybe getting the fifth painting that afternoon would work the kinks out of her. That was the problem with women, they were high maintenance, needed attention all the time, flowers, phone calls-

  “Oh, hell,” he said, remembering his sister Sophie. She’d probably tried to call him. He crawled out of bed and found his cell phone in his jacket pocket and clicked it on to check his messages. It rang almost immediately and he looked at the number. Nobody he knew. “Hello?” he said.

  “I’ve been calling you for days,” Ronald said. “You should leave that cell phone on.”

  “So I can talk to you?” Davy said, sitting back down on the bed. “No.”

  “I’m trying to help you,” Ronald said. “I wanted you to know that Clea knows you’re in town.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Davy said.

  “Well, I didn’t tell her,” Ronald said.

  “Blow me, Rabbit.”

  Ronald exhaled loudly into the phone, apparently in disgust. “I’m trying to help you. She’s really angry. You’re in danger.”

  “Am I?” Davy said.

  “She’s hired a hit man, Davy,” Ronald said.

  “Good to know,” Davy said, checking his watch.

  “I didn’t tell you this before,” Ronald went on, “but one of the reasons she had to have your money is that her husband didn’t leave her anything. She needs that money, Davy. You should get out of town.”

  “She’s lying to you, Rabbit,” Davy said tiredly.

  “No,” Ronald said. “It’s true. He had a great art collection and the warehouse it was in burned down, and the insurance company is refusing to pay. He was wiped out. She really needs your money. Let her have it and go.”

  “A torched warehouse? Christ, that’s the oldest fraud in the book. I can’t believe she-” Davy said, and then stopped. “Wait a minute. How do you know he had a great collection?”

  “I told you, I helped Clea value it after he died. That’s how we met. She turned to me in her grief and-”

  “The warehouse burned before he died, Rabbit. You just said so.”

  “Oh,” Ronald said. “Well, yes, I helped value it before he died. But nothing happened between us until-”

  “My ass,” Davy said. “You helped Clea burn an empty warehouse to collect the insurance. Where are the paintings now?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ronald said. “I’m trying to save your life. I’m not kidding.”

  “I know,” Davy said. “You have no sense of humor. Tell Clea I said hi and not to burn any more storage facilities. Does she still do that thing with the feather and the ice cube?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Rabbit, don’t tell me you gave her three million dollars and she never pulled out the feather and the ice cube.”

  “I don’t know why I called you,” Ronald said. “You don’t deserve to be saved.”

  “You called me because if somebody tries to kill me, you want to be sure you don’t go down for it,” Davy said. “You’re covering your ass, as usual. And I don’t deserve most of the stuff that happens to me, including having all my money stolen by a Judas of a friend.”

  “It wasn’t your money,” Ronald said automatically.

  “Good-bye, Rabbit,” Davy said. “Call me if Clea hires anybody else. I live for these updates.”

  “She hired some help around the house,” Ronald said, trying to be snotty. “I’ll call you if she gets a dog.”

  “Around the house,” Davy said, straightening. “Does this help live in?”

  “I think so,” Ronald said. “Why?”

  Oh, fuck, Davy thought. They should have gone after the last painting sooner. Now he had a third person to get out of the house, and it wasn’t likely Mason and Clea were going to let Gwen invite the kitchen help to the gallery for the night.

  “Davy?”

  “What does the help look like?” Davy said.

  “Thin. Dark hair. Rather foolish looking. Not anybody Clea would sleep with,” Ronald said, sticking to the essentials and ignoring the fact that if he’d said “blond” instead of “dark hair,” he’d have been describing himself.

  “I think I know him,” Davy said. I think I dragged him into an empty room after Tilda kicked his head in.

  “He didn’t look very competent,” Ronald said. “But then, it’s hard to get good help.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Davy said. “They embezzle from you.” He hung up and tried to work out a plan to get the help out of the house. Maybe he could find out the guy’s night off. There was always a way. Life could be a lot worse. He could be Rabbit.

  “No, I couldn’t,” he said and went to shower.

  DAVY WAS waiting when Tilda came back for lunch, and they took off for Clintonville and the fifth painting with Tilda as a redhead again. The Brenner house was a foursquare, maintained but not rehabbed, with a front porch crowded with pots of greenery that Davy recognized under the generic heading of “grandmother’s houseplants.” The woman who opened the door would have fallen under the heading of “nice old lady” had Davy been a nice young man. Instead, he looked at her and thought, Mark.

  “Hi,” he said, smiling his best nice-young-man smile, and sure enough, Mrs. Brenner smiled back. Such a nice young man. “My name is Steve Brewster, and I’m collecting for Art for Masses. We ask for donations of old paintings and framed artwork which we sell to benefit the homeless.” She nodded, smiling back at him. “There was an article in the Dispatch not too long ago,” Davy lied. “Maybe you saw it?”

  “Why, yes,” the woman said, adjusting her glasses.

  God protect this woman, Davy thought, but he said, “We were wondering if you might have an old painting or two hanging around.” He grinned. “So to speak.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I did have an attic full of them, but my husband’s nephew Colby cleaned it out for me. I think he hauled all of them to the dump.”

  Hell. “That was thoughtful of him,” Davy said.

  “Not really,” the woman said, losing her smile. “He charged me quite a bit for it. And then there was the fee at the dump. After all that, I almost wished I’d left them up there.”

  Fee at the dump, Davy thought, and immediately downgraded the nephew from good human being to classic cheating mark, the guy who deserved to go down. “I don’t suppose he told you which dump?” Davy said. “We do a lot of salvage.”

  “No,” the woman said, shaking her head, “but it was an expensive one.”

  “Could I have your nephew’s phone number?” Davy said, trying to keep his voice from growing grim. “That dump sounds like a good place for us. For charity.”

  “Of course,” the woman said and disappeared back into the house, leaving her door open.

  Oh, honey, Davy thought. Get a Doberman.

  “Here it is,” she said, coming back to the door with a slip of paper and a five-dollar bill in her hand. “He’s up in Dublin.”

  The creep lived in upper-crust Dublin but he was still ripping off his aunt? Take this guy for everything he’s got, Davy’s lesser self whispered.

  “I’ll give him a call,” Davy said, turning his inner con man back to the job at hand. “And I’ll make sure to send you a receipt so you can claim the donation on your income tax.” He tried to take the paper without the bill, but she shoved both at him.

  “Oh, no, I’m just sorry I couldn’t help more,” the woman said. “Please take this, too. I’m sorry it can’t be more-”

  Jesus, Davy thought. “Absolutely not,” he said, sliding the slip of paper out from under the bill in her hand. “Our charter only allows us to accept artwork. You’re much too generous.”

  “Well, I still have my home,” she said. “And they don’t, poor things