Faking It d-2 Read online

  No. Michael would sell everything they had including Steve and then leave with the money. Sweet man, but completely immoral.

  Across the room, Nadine was smiling and laughing, too, and selling furniture, and for a moment, Gwen could see Tony in her, or at least his charm. Then the woman Nadine was laughing with came over and paid a hundred dollars for a footstool painted with dancing cats and Gwen thought, She got his gift for selling damn near anything, too.

  She smiled at the woman and took her money and looked around for Mason. He was talking to a graying man in a suit about a table covered in red beagles. Gwen could have sworn she heard him say “investment” clear across the room.

  It was going to be a long night. My gallery for a piña colada, she thought, and went to rescue another customer.

  THE BASEMENT window was still broken so Tilda and Davy got in without a problem, and it was like old times, climbing the stair to Clea’s closet in the dark.

  “Very nostalgic,” Davy said, echoing Tilda’s thoughts. “Go on upstairs to the room with the paintings and find your Scarlet. I’ll hit Clea’s bedroom for the laptop.”

  “Okay.” Tilda looked up the next dark staircase with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

  “Unless you want to search the closet with me,” Davy said. “That’s always interesting for us.”

  “Upstairs it is,” Tilda said, and spent the next hour on the next floor with a penlight, flipping through dozens of wrapped paintings looking for eighteen-inch-square paintings or something that might be an eighteen-inch square framed. Some of the paintings had been clumsily unwrapped, and she gave in to curiosity and looked.

  There were some nice pieces, but nothing startling. As a collector, Mason didn’t have much flair, which was pretty much in line with the rest of Mason, poor man. Maybe Gwennie could liven him up some.

  She found the last square painting, carefully unwrapped a corner of it, and saw a checkered night sky, but not one of hers. What the hell? she thought and unwrapped it completely. It was eighteen inches square with a blue checked sky, but it was a forest scene, and she’d never painted a forest. She moved the penlight to the corner to make out the name, printed in block letters in the lower right corner: Hodge.

  Huh, she thought. Homer. I never saw this one. She’d forgotten that she’d copied the checkerboard skies from Homer, maybe because she’d liked doing them. Well, that made sense. She was a forger. She moved the penlight over the painting to see what else she might have copied. The trees certainly weren’t anything she’d have done, but in between the trunks were little animals, and she’d always liked painting animals, although not like these, they were too small and they had…

  Tiny sharp white teeth.

  Chapter 16

  “O H, GOD,” TILDA SAID, and sat down on the floor. It couldn’t be. It was a coincidence. Maybe Gwennie had gotten the idea for the teeth from Homer. Except that Gwennie had been embroidering teeth long before Homer showed up. Now we’re going to have to steal back all the Homers, she thought and then realized the impossibility of it. Homer had painted dozens and dozens of paintings. No, Gwennie had painted dozens and dozens. Some were in museums. There was no way she could get them all back.

  Gwennie was Homer. That was enough of a mind-bender right there, even without the museums. Tilda shoved herself up off the floor and rewrapped the painting to take it with her. One floor down, she found Davy waiting for her. “I couldn’t find-” she began and then she saw what he was holding, a package about twenty inches square.

  “This it?” he whispered, handing it to her. “Believe it or not, it was actually in her closet this time.”

  She pulled the painting out of the frame-store package by its cheap new frame and saw the Goodnight building. “This is it,” she said, sadness seeping into her bones. The first Scarlet, the start of the whole mess. Except not, because there was Gwennie.

  “Are you okay?” Davy whispered.

  She stuffed the painting back into the box before Davy noticed that Scarlet had painted the gallery building. “Boy, what a relief,” she whispered, trying to fake happiness. “I can’t thank you enough. And now you’ve got your money and you can go.” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “You did get your money, didn’t you?”

  He looked down at her, his face hard to read in the dark hall. “No. I’ll have to think of something else.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I’ll help you. Whatever it takes.”

  “Good,” Davy said. “What’s in the other package?”

  “A souvenir for Gwennie,” Tilda said. “Let’s go home.”

  WHEN THEY got back to the gallery, Davy carried the wrapped Scarlet into the office behind Tilda. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with her, but something had happened, and it wasn’t good. It had to be the painting she was carrying, another wrapped square, so maybe she’d found a seventh Scarlet, maybe there were more to steal. Maybe it wasn’t time for him to go yet.

  That was not as annoying as it should have been.

  Tilda went out to Gwennie, and across the room, Nadine saw Davy and waved. He motioned her over.

  “Did you get the painting?” she said when she came in. “Is that it?”

  “Yes,” Davy said, watching Tilda. “I need your laptop.”

  “Okay.” Nadine ran upstairs and came back with her computer.

  “Get me online,” Davy said.

  Nadine plugged in the phone line and tapped a few keys. “Anything else?”

  “Nope,” Davy said, sitting down. “How’s it going out there?”

  “Your dad is amazing,” Nadine said. “Mason is a horse’s ass.”

  “I’ll help tomorrow night,” Davy said. “I lied, there is one more thing. Where does Gwennie keep the bankbooks?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Embezzling your college fund.”

  “Right,” Nadine said. “Like I have one. They’re in the top left-hand drawer.”

  “Thank you. Go play.” When the door closed behind her, Davy logged on to his account and looked at the balance. Two point five million, a nice round number. There had been a little more in Clea’s account but he liked round numbers.

  For some reason, this one wasn’t much fun. Not as much fun as being without had been. Some people aren’t meant to be rich, he thought. Some people need the edge.

  And some people need college funds.

  He grinned to himself and began to move money.

  “HOW’S IT going?” Tilda said to Gwen when she’d finished selling a chair covered in ducks to a woman who seemed thrilled with it.

  “Except for Mason, pretty well,” Gwen said. “We’re not mobbed but…” Her voice trailed off as she saw the painting Tilda held up. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Mason’s storeroom,” Tilda said. “Look familiar?”

  “Of course,” Gwen said. “It’s a Homer Hodge.”

  “No, it’s a Gwen Goodnight,” Tilda said.

  “No,” Gwen said. “I painted the kits. Homer painted those.”

  “Gwennie, I know…” Tilda said and then stopped as light dawned. “Oh, hell, Homer was your Louise.”

  “Not really, dear,” Gwen said. “Homer never had sex.”

  “Davy was right,” Tilda said. “Group therapy. Now.”

  “He was like the Double-Crostics,” Gwen said. “A different place to go, away from reality. And then I got tired of him, and I quit.”

  “Dad must have been upset.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said, smiling.

  “You didn’t tell me,” Tilda said. “You let me move out thinking Homer was real.”

  “I wasn’t too proud of him,” Gwen said. “It was those damn paint-by-numbers. Once I started to mess with them, Tony decided I was a great primitive painter, but that wasn’t enough, he had to be Brigido Lara and create his own art dynasty. He kept saying it would be Grandpa Moses and he’d have exclusive rights.” She sighed. “He wouldn’t even let Homer be female, damn him.”