Jane’s plane landed in Greensboro just after nine that evening. She pulled her carry-on from the overhead bin and made her way to the parking lot, glancing around from time to time to see if anyone was following. Just standard caution for a woman alone at night. She started up the rental, thinking it was about time she bought something new. Maybe she’d put some solar panels on the English Tudor, get a plug-in car, stick it to the oil companies. Like they’d notice.
As she paid for parking, a silver sedan pulled up behind her. Nothing unusual in that, but it kept pace with her to the freeway and stayed a few car-lengths back for several miles. She slowed, hoping it would pass her and she could catch a glimpse of the driver, but the car matched her pace. It stuck with her the whole way to Winston-Salem. She got off before her usual exit, watching in her rear view mirror. No headlights.
Just as she relaxed, the sedan showed up again. She took side streets toward home, trying to shake them, but the silver sedan found her and followed her down the rolling hills of Broad Street. Jane drove past her street and another one, then turned right on Gloria Avenue heading east, away from her house. The sedan continued down Broad. Jane stopped, rolled down the window and leaned out, trying to see the driver, but all she could make out was a shadow. Male, probably.
She turned her car around and drove to the house. She pulled into her garage, turned off the engine and listened. Nothing. She got out, peeking around the door. No headlights out front. She glanced around the side of the garage and peered through the thick bushes at the side street. A street light, but no headlights. No engine sounds.
Jane made her way through her backyard, then walked in shadows to the Sisters’ House. She knocked on the back door. A light illuminated the window in an upstairs bedroom. Snuffling sounds came from the kitchen, then a bark and the sound of scrabbling toenails on linoleum. The porch light switched on and Dorothea’s face appeared between the parted curtains.
“Oh, Jane. You gave me a turn.” Dorothea opened the door and moved out of the way of the bulldog who barreled through.
“Winston.” Jane bent down to receive a bath of dog kisses. Winston curled himself into a circle, his rear end wiggling more than his stump of a tail. “It’s good to see you, too.”
Dorothea smiled benevolently at the scene. “So you’re back.”
“Thanks for taking care of everything. Again.” Jane emphasized this last. She hugged the round woman, whose return hug seemed a bit subdued. She must be sleepy. Dorothea always seemed to be up at the crack of dawn. “I’m sorry to come late, but I wanted him with me tonight.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Dorothea said.
Jane waited, but the normally loquacious woman didn’t add anything else. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Jane asked.
Dorothea only nodded.
Jane walked back, feeling a little better with the solid bulldog by her side. Inside, the cats deigned to notice her presence when she finally found them curled up in the living room, but they dropped their aloof act once she filled their bowl. She retrieved her carry-on and purse from the car, still watching the shadows, Winston in tow. Back inside, she locked the door behind her and walked back down the hall, dropping her luggage at the bottom of the steps. Better check the messages. She made her way to the library. Exhaustion washed over her and she leaned against the wall. To think she used to be able to keep this kind of schedule—up before dawn, working until midnight, jetting through time zones. The blinking red light of the answering machine caught her eye. She walked over to the desk and pushed the play button.
“Jane, this is Lois. You’re not going to believe what I’ve found. Call me. On the land line.”
“Tomorrow,” she said to the machine. She carried her luggage up the stairs and got ready for bed. Once she pulled back the covers, the cats arrived to claim the choice spots and Winston lay down on the rug. She listened in the dark, but heard nothing. No car lights flashed across the ceiling of the room. At last, Winston’s snores lulled her to sleep.
✬ ✬ ✬
Next morning, Jane pushed back the curtains to the front bedroom to look for the silver sedan that had followed her from the airport. The street in front of the house was empty. She went up into the attic and pressed her face against each of the windows, looking all around the neighborhood, but found no trace of the car. After a shower and a cup of French roast, she shrugged off her nervousness and turned on her computer. Lois had sent her an email giving her the number for the company transporting the Blake art. About twenty minutes before they were scheduled to arrive, Jane took up watch at her dining room window. She walked back to the library and looked out the back to be sure Dorothea wasn’t wandering up the garden path for a visit. She returned to the front window and there it was—the silver sedan, parked on the next block over, but clearly visible. And empty.
“Shit.”
She moved to the living room window and scanned the front yard. Empty as well. “Winston, come boy.”
Winston galumphed down the steps and arrived in front of her, ears perked. “Come,” she repeated, slapping her palm against her thigh. She headed across the living room for the screened-in porch, bulldog right beside her. The bare branches allowed her to see all the way down to the rose garden, but the evergreens blocked the side yard.
Winston pushed at the screen door and she let him out first. He sat in the drive waiting, showing no signs of alarm, just impatience for her to follow. Together they checked the yard, making a circuit through the apple trees on the side, past the well-mulched vegetable garden, then checked the compost pile, the bare grass where the old chicken coop had stood, and finally the bushes behind the garage. Winston found no strangers lurking about nor did he catch any new scents. His ears drooped when he realized they weren’t going for their run.
The grinding of brakes in front of the house sent Jane running up the driveway just in time to direct the delivery truck. She waved for them to pull around to the side. Better not advertise to the whole neighborhood. Under Winston’s close supervision, the two men who’d packed the paintings and prints for New York made short work of carrying in the small crate. She asked them to take it up the stairs and leave it on the landing. They handed her the portfolio of sketches. She signed for everything, and they drove the truck around the drive and out the other side. Jane locked the side door behind them, then checked all the others. The sedan still sat empty just down the street.
Hammer in hand, Jane pried open the crate, lifting each piece out carefully, going over each one with the feather duster, and returning it to its place in the Blake room. She knocked the crate into several pieces and carried it to the basement, hammer stuck in her pocket in case she needed it. Then she headed for the library. She needed to call Lois.
Just as she picked up the phone, the doorbell rang. Winston stood in front of the door, ears perked, rear wagging. Friend rather than foe, then. She opened the door.
Anna and John Szeges stood on the step.
“Hi,” Jane said, trying to cover her surprise. “How nice to see you.”
“We need to talk,” Anna said, her voice stern.
“Uh, sure.” Jane’s stomach knotted. She felt like she’d just been called to the principal’s office. She led them into the living room and stood back, letting them decide where to sit. They remained standing. “Can I get you anything?”
“Sit down, Jane.”
Surprised by her commanding tone, Jane sat in the arm chair next to the bookcase, then realized there were no other seats around her. She jumped up and moved to the fireplace, perching on the edge of the love seat. Anna sat across from her, but John stood behind his wife, looming like a crow in his black suit.
“When we knew Sister Emma was passing, we tried and tried to find the right person to oversee this house,” Anna began. “I thought it should be Dorothea, the purest and sweetest soul in our group.”
Jane tried to interject, but Anna pressed on. Apparently this was a prepared speech. “The Lord had other plans. After Emma insisted we add your name, we drew the lot three times, against my husband’s advice.” He stirred behind her. “The lot is rarely used in modern times and it’s against tradition to draw more than once, but I insisted. You had left the church, left all spiritual ways, and I couldn’t imagine how you would be a suitable successor. And now you have proven me right.”
They know about the New York trip, Jane thought.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
Anna ignored her and pressed on. “And yet the lot did fall to you. There must be something I do not see.”
“Where is it?” John asked.
“Where is what?” Jane looked up at him, frowning.
“The painting.”
“Uh, how did you—”
“You think we’re that stupid? That we wouldn’t notice that you stole one of our most loved and valuable pieces?” he fumed.
“But I returned the paintings this morning,” Jane said, straining forward. “I just put them all back.”
“All?” Anna’s gaze sharpened.
“That’s impossible,” John said. “Now all the entrances have new locks, thanks to you. You could never have gotten in without this.” He held up a shiny new key.
“But . . .” Jane pointed toward the stairs, “I just . . . . Wait! That painting? Oh, fuck.”
“Keep your filthy language out of this house,” Anna scolded.
John hesitated, studying her, then asked, “What painting are you talking about?”
“The ones upstairs in the Blake room. I took photos and sent them to an art dealer. He said they might be originals and asked to see them.” The words tumbled out. “I shipped them to New York—”
“You what?” Anna shouted.
Suzie B burst out from beneath the couch and ran up the stairs.
“But they’re back now.” Jane held out her hands to forestall them. “They were delivered this morning. I know I should have asked, but . . .”
The two stared at her, incredulous.
Jane flushed a furious red, anger replacing embarrassment. “You weren’t honest with me, either. I thought I was inheriting this house. You never explained I was just a caretaker. You lied about what the OGMS was. There are strange things going on around here.”
“What strange things?” Anna asked, “What is she talking about, John?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
Anna and John stared at each other, their faces confused. Then both turned their eyes on Jane. There was a moment of silence.
John took a long breath, struggling to master himself. “Show me these paintings you’re talking about,” he said in a calmer voice.
His quiet tone took some of the wind out of Jane’s sails. She blinked, then stood. “Follow me.”
She led the two up the stairs, opened the door to the small bedroom and stood back. “After you . . . please,” she managed.
The three crowded into the room. Jane pointed to the painting of a series of angels circling a man who held his hands in his head, distraught and disheveled. “The art dealer said this one is new. At least none of the Blake experts had seen it before.” She kneeled down and thumbed through the sketches. “And these.” She showed them the Garden of Eden sketch, then the one so like the painting in the tantric room.
“That must be it.” John leaned down to examine this last one. “Someone must have seen this study and realized we had the finished work.”
“You mean that big one down in the . . .” Jane struggled to find the right word, but failed. She pointed down.
“Yes, Jane, that one. It’s been stolen,” he said.
Jane’s eyes rounded. “You’re kidding.”
“Do we look like we’re kidding?” Anna snapped.
“So, you’re telling us you didn’t take it?” John asked.
Jane gaped like a fish. “Take it? I would never— How could I even get it down? Much less carry it out? It’s huge. ”
John studied her a moment longer, then said, “We saw you enter that room on the security cameras, but they were disabled the night of the theft.”
Jane shook her head in disbelief. Could this really be happening? Then she looked back at the two accusing faces. “Do I look like I know how to disable a security camera?”
“Clearly we don’t know what you’re capable of,” Anna said primly.
“When did this happen?” Jane asked.
“We’re not sure exactly. None of us had been downstairs for a few days,” John answered.
“Oh, my God.” Jane’s hand flew up. “I’ll bet it was that Phillip and his Southern Belle cousin.”
“Who?” John asked.
Jane told them about Phillip LeBelle’s visit and his interest in the art work. “In fact, he’s the one who got me investigating this. I never would have imagined any of these were originals if he hadn’t suggested it.”
John’s eye lit up. “Would you recognize them?”
“I think so.”
“Could you describe them clearly enough to produce a sketch?” he continued.
“Maybe.”
“Good.” He turned to Anna. “I’ll call Dreher.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and walked out of the room.
Anna and Jane stood regarding each other like two bristling cats. Finally, Jane broke the silence. “I’m sorry about that painting. I really am, but I didn’t take it. I wasn’t even here.”
“We still don’t know exactly when it was stolen,” Anna pointed out. “But we’ll get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, we don’t think it’s safe for you here. Not after the theft. And now this news.”
“What do you mean?”
“Talk to Dreher.” Anna showed herself out, leaving Jane wondering what she’d meant.
The first thing Jane did after they left was call Lois. The phone rang through to her voice mail, unusual for a work day. Where was her assistant? “Lois, you have to call me. Something’s happened.”
She looked out the dining room window. The silver sedan was gone. She paced the length of the living room, Winston watching with a concerned look on his mug. Jane found herself sitting in front of the piano. She opened it and started playing random chords, searching for something calming, but her fingers never found the right sounds. She closed the lid and went into the library to call Lois again. This time there was no answer at all.
The doorbell rang again and she found the mysterious Mr. Dreher standing on the front porch.
“Ms. Frey.” He inclined his head slightly.
“Please come in.”
He was accompanied by a woman carrying a sketch pad, who he introduced as Salali Waterdown. “She’s a member of the Order of the Grain of the Mustard Seed.”
“You mean the Omega Grant Management Systems?” Jane snipped.
Winston growled, but Dreher studiously ignored the bulldog. “We were not straightforward with you from the very beginning because we do not advertise our existence.”
“It seems like you should tell a person who is asked to live in one of your houses.” Jane turned on her heel, not giving him time to respond, and ushered them into the living room. “Can I get you anything?” she asked, her ingrained southern hospitality overtaking her anger.
“Coffee would be most appreciated,” Salali said. Her melodious voice matched her soft skin. Her hair, two streams of silky black, framed her angular face.
Jane went into the kitchen, Winston close on her heels, and filled the basket with fresh grounds, poured in water and waited, leaning against the counter, head in hands. What had Anna meant when she’d said Jane wasn’t safe here anymore? Why wasn’t Lois calling back? Winston leaned against her leg and whined. She stroked his head, but his soulful eyes still emanated concern. The coffee machine’s light indicated the cycle was finished. Jane poured the whole pot into a carafe, grabbed mugs, cream and sugar, and carried it all back into the living room, almost tripping over the solicitous bulldog.
She found her cousin Frank in deep conversation with Dreher. Jane came up short. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have to work?”
“I heard about the theft. You said you were in New York?”
“Yes, I took some of the sketches up to an art gallery.”
“Jane,” Frank shook his head, “you should have asked.”
Frank’s admonishment penetrated her defenses. She could hear her grandmother’s voice telling her why her actions were wrong. Childish shame flooded her, washing the anger away. She looked down at the floor, fighting the feeling. Jane knew she should have asked to borrow the art pieces and had used their deception to excuse her own duplicity.
“I’ll get another cup,” she mumbled, her face beet red, and escaped once more into the kitchen. Tears blurred her vision and she tried to wipe them away, still reaching for her self-righteous anger. But it didn’t come. Instead, the soft weight of a bulldog leaning against her leg let the tears escape. After a minute, she washed off her face, squared her shoulders, and went back to face the music.
Frank broke off his conversation with Dreher, taking in her red eyes, and opened his arms to hug her. Willing herself not to cry more, Jane returned the hug. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“Any time.” He pitched his voice for her alone.
Winston let out a long sigh.
Jane pulled back and cleared her throat. “So, who wants coffee?”
“I’ll take some.” Salali’s smile was kind.
Frank shook his head. Jane poured cups for Salali and herself, then took hers to the couch, sitting across from Salali, just as she had sat across from Anna earlier. Dreher sat across from Jane.
Salali started. “Let’s begin with you describing this man. Then we’ll sketch the woman.”
“I’ll try, but it’s been several days.”
“If you can’t remember enough detail, we can put you into a light hypnotic trance,” Dreher suggested.
Jane’s eyebrows shot up.
“Frank will be here,” Dreher hurried to add.
“We might not be able to get a good picture without that,” Salali intervened. “Now, let’s start with the man. Would you say his face was round, oval, one of these shapes?” She held up a sheet of paper with a series of circles and ovals in dark black lines.
“Uh, that one,” Jane pointed to one of the shapes, “but with a square jaw.” Then she answered a few simple questions and a picture began to form. This stimulated her memory further and soon Philip looked at her from the sketchbook. Jane wondered if Salali did this kind of thing professionally.
“I do,” she answered the unvoiced thought.
“Oh.” Jane’s mouth mirrored the sound.
“I sometimes work for the police as a psychic investigator.”
“Really? I didn’t know people actually did that.”
“Oh, they don’t advertise it, let me tell you.”
“Seems like a lot of things aren’t advertised,” Jane said, this time without rancor.
Salali tore out the sketch and handed it to Dreher, then started fresh, asking questions about the woman who’d accompanied Philip. Jane had more trouble remembering her.
“Would you give me your permission to put you in a more relaxed state? It might help you remember,” Salali said.
“Uh,” Jane glanced nervously at Dreher, “You mean hypnotize me?”
“Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”
“I suppose that would be all right. If you do it.”
Frank came and sat next to her on the couch while Salali led Jane through a relaxation process. Jane resisted at first, but the heavy weight of a bulldog lying down on her feet finally allowed her to relax. The room slipped away.
“. . . steal that painting?” A rough voice asked.
Jane’s body jerked. Her eyes flew open.
Dreher leaned toward her eagerly.
Jane whipped her head around, scowling at Frank, then fixed Dreher with a glare. “What in hell did you just ask me?”
Dreher sat back with a huff.
“How dare you try to invade my mind?”
“What are you trying to hide?” he countered.
“Nothing, you’re the ones who were hiding things. Maybe still are.”
A ripping sound captured her attention. Salali held up a sketch that caught Margaret exactly.
“Wow,” Jane exclaimed despite her anger.
“I’m sorry,” Salali mouthed, then pitched her voice for all to hear. “Jane is an excellent hypnotic subject. We should be grateful that she’s given us such good information.”
“Thank you, Salali,” Dreher said, “Would you and Frank take these sketches to my office? I’ll be right over.”
Salali’s eyes cut back and forth between Dreher and Jane, but she rose and collected her things.
“We’ll talk later,” Frank squeezed Jane’s hand.
Jane followed them to the door. On the front porch, she whispered to Frank, “Why did you let him do that?”
“He just jumped in.” Frank shook his head in frustration. “I thought it would be more disturbing to you if I tried to stop him.”
Jane frowned. “You don’t think I did it, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” Frank said. He hesitated before adding, “Remember you’re family. You’re always welcome at our house.” With that, he followed Salali down the front walk.
Jane took a deep breath and walked back to face Dreher. “You seem to have a lot to learn about respecting other people’s boundaries.”
He laughed. “That’s ironic coming from you.”
Jane flushed. “Ya’ll started the lying. I was wrong to borrow the paintings. I admit it, but I didn’t steal anything.”
Dreher shook his head, then squared his shoulders. “Your innocence or guilt,” he emphasized this last, “is yet to be determined. But either way, I can no longer guarantee your safety in this house. We’ll give you forty-eight hours to find other arrangements. You are hereby evicted.”
“What?” Jane yelled. “You can’t—”
He turned on his heel and walked toward the front door, Jane following, Winston right behind her.
“You can’t do this,” she shouted.
“I think you’ll find that we can,” he barked at her. “Read your contract.” Dreher slammed the door behind him.
Winston charged the door, barking. Jane yelled in frustration. She grabbed her star pendant. Damn it, she belonged here.
The phone rang. She ran into the library. Maybe Lois was finally calling her back. Lois would find a way to fix this.
“Jane Frey?” a male voice asked.
“This is Jane. Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Gregory Titlebaum, the lead partner at Titlebaum, Smyth and Williams.”
“Oh, good. I was just about to call Lois.”
A heavy sigh pulled Jane up short. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that Lois Williams was involved in a car accident late last night.”
“Oh, my God. Is she all right?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news.” His throat seemed to be closing around the words. “Lois died of her injuries just a few hours ago.”
Jane’s mouth worked, but no words came out.
“We found a file on her desk with a note. Apparently she’d tried to call you.”
“Uh, yes, last night, I think. But Lois can’t be dead.” An image of Lois laughing, her rings sparkling as she made some gesture, flashed across Jane’s inner eye. “Are you sure?”
“It’s a shock.” His voice was thick. “Would you like us to appoint someone else to represent you?”
“Someone else? Lois and I . . .” Jane squeezed her eyes tight. A sob escaped. Then she said in a rush. “Please send all my files. She has my current address.” Then Jane realized she wouldn’t be staying in this house. “Can you overnight it?”
“The thing is,” he hesitated, “the NSA has seized her computer and cell phone. They were in the car. They’re coming here to take all the files tomorrow.”
“The NSA?”
“That’s correct.”
Jane couldn’t imagine why they’d be involved. “Lois left me a message about the case we’ve been working on.”
“We’ll see if we can find out.”
“When is the—” Jane couldn’t say the word. She still couldn’t believe it. “When are the services?”
“We’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.” Jane hung up and slumped into the chair. She stared at the phone. Winston laid his head in her lap and she stroked him, tears rolling down her face. The two cats sat in the doorway, watching. The bulldog tried to push himself into her lap. Jane slipped out of the chair and buried her head in the dog’s neck. He whimpered and tried to turn around to lick her face.
Jane wept for her lost friend, for her wicked sense of humor, for her camaraderie over the years, for that shared knowledge of what it had been like as women to break the glass ceiling, for being the one person who’d known her so long. She wept for her lost childhood dream of living in this house, of playing music, even teaching, continuing Miss Essig’s tradition.
Then it hit her. Lois’s death might not have been an accident. Maybe something about this whole business had alerted the wrong people. What had Lois said in her last message?
You’re not going to believe what I’ve found.
Could the car wreck have something to do with the theft of the Blake painting? With the money transfers? Knight had said anyone dealing in oil and gas needed a security team. Maybe Lois had been murdered.
Jane reached for the phone and dialed the only person alive that she still trusted.