11

I climbed my exterior stairs and examined the door and window for signs of forced entry or booby traps. Nothing.

Erring on the side of caution, I jogged back down and rounded the building to go in through the front. I stopped by Nate’s apartment first to find out what his brother had to say after we left yesterday. He wasn’t home. I wandered around the building looking for him, figured he must be doing repairs in one of the apartments. He was always here on Saturdays.

But today he wasn’t. Strange.

Okay, I’d put off entering my place as long as I could. No note on the door. That was a good sign. I walked closer. No evidence of tampering on the lock or around the frame. I tapped the door with my knuckles. “Harold? You okay in there?” I pressed my ear to the door. “Harold?”

“Meow!”

Good, no toxic gases inside primed to take me out. I unlocked the door and scooped up Harold. “Good boy,” I cooed, nuzzling him against my chest until my heart stopped knocking around inside and Harold started clamoring to be released.

“Okay, okay, I guess the shooting rattled me.” The police interrogation hadn’t helped. “Sure, an FBI agent should’ve had the presence of mind to get a description of the guys shooting at her and the vehicle they were driving. Because hey, we’re not like sane people who duck the second they hear gunfire!”

Harold paused long enough from his face-cleaning regimen to give me a Grumpy Cat frown.

“What? I’m a little rattled. Okay?”

One thing was for certain: I’d better get unrattled before tonight’s dinner. I changed into an old T-shirt and jeans and pulled out my paints. Painting always calmed my mind. I was currently working on a still life of a bowl of fruit. Never mind that I’d eaten two pieces from the bowl—the banana and an orange—since starting it over a week ago.

It was a good thing I didn’t intend to let Aunt Martha wangle information about the Dali theft out of Nana tonight, because I sure didn’t want to give a rundown on my prime suspects. Not with Gladys’s kids and Tasha’s probable lover topping the list.

A blob of paint smeared the banana skin, making it look rotten, along with my painting skills. Ugh. This wasn’t working. I was getting tenser instead of relaxed!

I shook out my arms, willing my muscles to become as flaccid as Dali’s dripping clocks, and suddenly inspiration struck. I could paint a surrealistic bowl of fruit. The image of Ramaz Razmadze’s scowl-faced apple chomping into a slice of another apple came to mind.

Hmm, something less . . . cannibalistic would be better. Something cheerful. I tried transforming the banana’s bruise into a tuxedo so I could paint him dancing with a pear, but he came out looking more like a disgruntled zucchini.

Oh, forget this. I jabbed my brush into the paint thinner.

A pithy Scott Adams quote I’d once seen on an art poster came to mind—Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which to keep. Well, this was definitely not a keeper.

I finished cleaning the brush and opted for a hot shower instead, since I hadn’t had time for one this morning. I brought my iPod into the bathroom and cranked up the volume to drown out the thoughts of what Nana would think about the direction of my investigation. And I locked the bathroom door. I’d seen Psycho.

I turned on the water and waited for it to get to the right temperature. Okay, now visions of Norman Bates slashing my shower curtain were plaguing my mind. Suddenly the loud music didn’t seem like such a smart call. I flicked off the iPod.

A shower didn’t seem like a great idea either. I put the plug in the tub and switched the water to the tub spout. A nice, quiet bath—that’s what I needed.

I dutifully arrived at my parents’ house at a quarter to six. Early enough to help calm down Mom before Dad arrived with Nana, but not so early that Aunt Martha would have time to grill me about my progress on the case. My parents still lived in the same modest, 1940s two-story I grew up in in University City, just west of St. Louis. The street had been loud and full of bikes and skateboards when I was a kid, but my generation had grown up and moved out, leaving behind a quieter street with more flowerbeds and lawn ornaments than ever would’ve survived my childhood.

I pulled into my parents’ empty driveway just as their neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, burst out her door, chasing after a half-dressed tyke. She scooped him into her arms and smacked a big kiss on his cheek, then scolded him for running out. Only it sounded more like a playful game than that he was in trouble. No wonder Mom had grandkids on the brain. Half the neighbors were entertaining them these days.

Those flowerbeds’ days were seriously numbered.

I let myself inside. “Hey, where’s Aunt Martha’s car?”

“She finally listened to your father and sent it to the shop to have that pinging noise checked,” Mom said from the dining room off the entrance.

How Dad had distinguished a ping from the pongs and plufts it’d been making for years was a mystery to me.

I dropped my coat onto the hook by the door and joined Mom in the dining room. I knew we were in trouble when she didn’t even lift her head as she circled the table, polishing and laying out silverware. “Everything okay?” I whispered so Aunt Martha, who sounded as if she were leading a marching band of pot bangers in the kitchen, wouldn’t hear me.

Mom spun around, slicing the air with the last fork in her hand. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s been baking and cooking all day, going on and on about how much your grandmother is going to love the meal. Malgucci even delivered fresh beef from his brother’s butcher shop.”

Malgucci was either Aunt Martha’s newest male friend or her pet project. I wasn’t sure which. His selfless donation of one of his kidneys to save Mrs. Burke’s life seemed to convince Aunt Martha he was a reformed man, despite his mob ties.

Mom gasped. “You don’t think she’s planning to poison your grandmother, do you?”

I laughed. Then abruptly clamped my mouth shut at Mom’s frown. She was serious.

“Aunt Martha despises your grandmother. For a wedding gift, she gave me a tiny ‘Stella’ doll and a package of pins.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed again.

Mom pulled a stack of her best china plates from the hutch and handed them to me. “Martha can’t stand your grandmother’s pretentiousness, but that’s just the way Stella is. I figure why fret over what I can’t change.”

“But be honest. Did you ever poke a pin or two in the doll?”

Mom grinned. “The whole package. The first day of our honeymoon, when she called our hotel room and kept your father talking for close to an hour.”

“No way!”

“Yes way. I hid in the bathroom and vented on that ridiculous doll so I wouldn’t be tempted to say anything negative to my new husband about his mother.”

I gaped. Wow, my mom was pretty amazing. I think I’d have read Dad the riot act. Or worse, blown up long before the wedding day and forced him to choose who he really wanted to spend the rest of his life with. “Did Dad know about the doll?”

She nodded. “After he hung up the phone, he came looking for me and saw it, pins and all.”

“What did he do?”

“Apologized. Tossed the doll in the dustbin. And whisked me out of the hotel.” Mom got a far-off look, and a serene smile slid to her lips. “We sightseed our way around the western states, never staying at any hotel more than one night.”

“Sightseed?”

“Sightsaw?”

She wrinkled her nose, and I had to agree it didn’t sound any better.

“You know what I mean,” she went on. “And we unplugged the phone the minute we checked in each night.”

Ha. My dad, the romantic.

Mom lifted a crystal tumbler from the cupboard and seemed to lose herself in watching the light dance off the decorative pattern. “I decided that week if his mother wanted to spend the rest of her life finding fault with me, that was her choice, but I wasn’t going to ruin another minute of my life fretting over her opinion of me. Or give her more ammunition. She’d raised the man of my dreams, and for that, I could never thank her enough.”

Tears clogged my throat.

The doorbell rang.

“Did you invite more people to dinner?” I asked, quickly finishing setting out the plates.

“Oh no.” Mom hurried to the front window. “You don’t think Aunt Martha invited Malgucci?” She peeked past the curtain. “It’s Tanner.”

My heart jumped. What was he doing here? He’d given me the green light to come. Said he was sure no drive-by shooters would serve up appetizers before the meal. Had he changed his mind? He should’ve called. Now he was going to get Aunt Martha speculating and Mom worrying and . . .

I strode to the door and swallowed hard, forcing calm, cool, and collected into my voice. “Hey, Tanner, what’s up?”

Tanner rested his forearm on the edge of the doorframe and leaned into it ever so casually. “Is that a trick question?”

“No, what are you doing here?”

“Your father invited me for dinner.”

For a nanosecond, I suspected he’d made up the invitation as an excuse to play watchdog for drive-by shooters, until a whisper of uneasiness snuck into his eyes as he shifted his attention to Mom. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No worries,” Mom exclaimed, cheerily waving away his concern. “You’re always welcome.” Once upon a time, Tanner had been a star pupil in my father’s second-year economics class, and they’d gotten reacquainted when Tanner was assigned as my field-training agent. I’d still been living at home at the time, and Mom had invited him in for dinner when he’d followed me home so I could change before a surveillance stint. He’d won Mom over with his assurances that he’d always have my back. My dad had just been excited to have a guest who understood his economic words of wisdom.

In Dad’s mind, everything about the world and human nature could be compared to the stock market, so having someone at dinner versed in the lingo made his day. And he’d made a point of inviting Tanner back at every opportunity. Sometimes it drove me a little crazy. Tonight . . . I was grateful for the reinforcements.

Stepping inside, Tanner swept his arm from behind his back and offered Mom a colorful bouquet. “These are for you.”

Mom blushed. “Oh my, you didn’t need to do that.” She beamed up at me with her he’s-a-keeper eyes, before bustling off to the kitchen in search of a vase.

“I hope you know what you’re in for,” I whispered in his ear.

Tanner glanced at Dad’s car pulling into the driveway with Nana. “Your dad mentioned something about needing an impartial referee.”

“Hah.” I stepped out to hold open the screen door since Nana had decided she needed to use a walker to get around tonight. “You are so not going to think this is worth a free meal.”

Nana hobbled inside, muttering about the uncomfortable ride in Dad’s little car. Dad’s disinterest in status symbols had never ceased to be a disappointment to her. While the streets named after prestigious universities gave Mom and Dad’s neighborhood an air of respectability, it wasn’t prestigious enough for Nana’s only child. She’d wanted Dad hobnobbing with the upper class. But Dad hated pretense. He’d just wanted to live in a nice neighborhood with a good school and to be within walking distance of his job at Wash U.

At the sight of Tanner, Nana paused in the doorway, straightening to her full five-foot-eight, straight-as-an-arrow height. “Who is this young man?”

“My colleague Tanner Calhoun.”

He stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Nana’s jaw tightened, her gaze shifting to mine, telepathing Why is your colleague joining us for dinner?

Apparently, Dad could read her mind too, because he climbed the stoop behind Nana and said, “I invited him to join us.”

Nana’s demeanor warmed considerably at the news, no doubt assuming that, as requested, I hadn’t shared any information about Gladys’s missing painting after all. But I had a bad feeling that keeping Aunt Martha from saying anything about the case wouldn’t be easy.

Aunt Martha bustled into the dining room, carrying a large pan of shepherd’s pie between her giant oven mitts.

The kind of oblong cake version of meatloaf with mashed potatoes squashed on top had been one of my more favorite meals as a kid . . . when Mom stuck to mixing vegetables like peas and corn with the beef, not . . . brussels sprouts.

“Sit, sit. Dinner’s ready.” Aunt Martha’s gaze skittered across each of us, and when she spotted Tanner, she frowned.

“I seem to be back in her bad books,” he whispered close to my ear.

“No accounting for taste,” I said with a shrug. The truth was, Aunt Martha was secretly, or maybe not so secretly, rooting for Nate to be my beau. He’d been her apartment superintendent for several years before she convinced me to take over her place. A scheme that I now suspected was designed to throw Nate and me into each other’s paths.

Not that Dad’s impromptu invitation meant Dad was rooting for Tanner. At least . . . I didn’t think so.

Dad said grace and then launched into a discussion with Tanner about last week’s market dip.

Nana spooned a bird-sized portion of shepherd’s pie onto her plate, then proceeded to study it as she sipped her water. Mom scooped up a big helping and began shoveling it into her mouth, no doubt to keep from saying anything she’d regret if Nana got around to voicing whatever she was thinking.

“It smells delicious,” I said to Aunt Martha, who rewarded me with a beaming smile.

“How are plans for the drop-in center fundraiser coming along?” Aunt Martha asked, directing the question to Nana.

Tanner must’ve heard my sudden intake of breath because he shot me a concerned glance.

I knew Aunt Martha too well. The question was a ploy to get around to talking about art—Gladys’s art.

“Quite well, thank you for asking.” Nana picked up her fork and held it in precisely the right way as she nudged a minute sample of the food onto the tines.

I readjusted my cavewoman hold on my fork and shot Aunt Martha an ixnay-on-where-I-know-you’re-going-with-this glare.

She ignored it. “I’m delighted you’ve decided to include a few of the youths’ pieces in the silent auction. Will that charming Tyrone’s be one of them?” She patted her napkin to her lips, the picture of innocence. “I met him last month when I filled in for Serena’s assistant. Such an accomplished chap. I’m thinking of buying one of his pieces.”

Nana deflected the question to me with a shift of her gaze.

“Oh. Um, that was the plan,” I said vaguely, still hoping I could convince Tyrone to change his mind about pulling his piece.

“Will you purchase a new piece for yourself, Stella? I couldn’t help but overhear, when you called looking for Serena yesterday, that you’d wanted her advice on some art.”

“Perhaps.” Nana’s interest in the food on her plate intensified.

I tapped my foot against Tanner’s leg and with a head twitch in Aunt Martha’s direction, signaled I could use some help.

The serving spoon he’d just filled with seconds paused in midair. “The meal is delicious, Martha. How do you get such a nice flavor in the meat?”

“HP Sauce,” Aunt Martha said and returned her attention to Nana.

I widened my eyes at Tanner to induce him to say more, but he shrugged and mouthed I tried, then tucked into his seconds.

“The housekeeper who works next door to your friend Gladys,” Aunt Martha chattered on, “said your friend had an expensive painting nicked.”

Nana’s fork clattered against her plate. “Why am I not surprised? Can never trust the help to mind their own business.” She looked to Dad. “Remember the trouble I had with that busybody housekeeper I had to let go after your father died?”

“That’s it!” Aunt Martha exclaimed, and all our gazes snapped to her.

“What’s it?” Mom asked.

“The housekeeper. Her name was Horvak, wasn’t it?” Aunt Martha asked Nana and then turned to me. “I told you the name sounded familiar. Eight months. Eight months I’ve been racking my brain, trying to remember where I’d heard it before.”

My mouth went dry. Petra—the woman who’d orchestrated the Forest Park Art Museum heist—was a Horvak. A Horvak who’d claimed to know who killed my grandfather. A claim I hadn’t been able to substantiate since a sniper took her out to save the man she’d kidnapped.

At Nana’s yes to Aunt Martha’s question, my own questions piled up in my mind, but I couldn’t push a single one past my thickening throat. I didn’t remember much about Nana and Granddad’s housekeeper. Only that Nana had fired her soon after Granddad’s death. I’d assumed it was because Nana put the house up for sale, but apparently it had been something the housekeeper had said . . . or knew.

Inexplicably, my attention shifted to Nana’s hands deftly cutting the meat on her plate. They were pale and bony and bedecked with gold rings studded with gemstones. I gasped, a memory of the night Granddad died flitting through my mind. I’d been ten years old, staying over to paint with Granddad while Nana went out to a church event. When we’d heard a car pull in the driveway, Granddad had scooted me back to my room through the secret passage, saying Nana would have his hide if she saw he’d let me stay up so late. Except I didn’t because I heard strange noises and got scared. I remembered seeing a pinpoint of light seeping through the paneled wall, and when I stuck my eye to it, I saw a hand returning a book to the shelf.

My breath stalled in my throat. It couldn’t have been Nana’s. She wasn’t a murderer.

I forced my attention from Nana’s hands to Tanner. After hitting nothing but dead ends trying to substantiate Petra Horvak’s claim, Tanner had convinced me the woman’s assertion had been nothing more than a well-researched ploy to buy herself time to get away.

Now . . . a hint of doubt shadowed his gaze as it shifted to Nana. “What was your housekeeper’s first name?”

I was still holding my breath and got a tad lightheaded. Her housekeeper couldn’t have been Petra. She was too young. And Horvak had been Petra’s married name, so it couldn’t have been her mother.

Nana shot Tanner an indignant look. “Why on earth should you care about the name of my former housekeeper?”

“Her name was Lucille,” my father said in a tone that warned us not to answer Nana’s question, which was fine by me. The only other female Horvak with a familial connection to Petra was her ex-husband’s deceased mother, and her name was Irina.

I imagined Dad didn’t want us to upset Nana by bringing up Granddad’s unsolved murder. Not that I’d ever seen her get terribly emotional over anything. She had the British stiff-upper-lip stereotype down to an art.

Aunt Martha drew a breath as if she was about to launch into another question, but Tanner spoke up first.

“I brought a special treat to go with our after-dinner tea.”

“You did?” I interjected. Tanner was actually more of a coffee man, but he knew the surest way to my parents’ hearts was to embrace their British roots.

He flashed me a wink that I didn’t like the looks of, then pushed away from the table and began picking up dishes. “Some stunning photos of Serena I thought you’d like. I’ll just help you clear the table and then maybe we can plug my thumb drive into the computer.”

“Oh, we can view them on the new TV,” Mom said, jumping up to join him in clearing the table.

“Brilliant idea,” Aunt Martha chimed in, not sounding put out by having her interrogation thwarted, which I couldn’t help but think should worry me. “I’ll put the kettle on and bring the plate of biscuits I fixed into the living room.”

Dad carried a dining room chair to the living room and shifted the sofa chairs so everyone would have a good view of the TV. Nana joined him without comment, probably as relieved as I was to escape Aunt Martha’s probing.

By the time Mom, Aunt Martha, and I joined them with the tea and cookies, Tanner had the first picture up on the TV.

Mom gasped. “You look so happy, Serena. Ward, doesn’t she look happy?” Mom said to Dad as if it were a rare sight. She beamed at Tanner.

Great, now my parents thought we were dating. “I was help—”

Tanner nudged my elbow and gave me the evil eye.

I shot back an imploring look. Couldn’t he see what they were thinking?

He just shrugged.

Men.

“Is that at the paddleboats?” Aunt Martha asked as Tanner advanced to the next picture—pictures, I’d noticed, that didn’t include his suspects in the background.

He chuckled. “I forgot to specify which sunset cruise I was treating her to.”

“And he didn’t give me time to change.”

“Hey, can I help it if I wanted to show you off like you were?”

Mom giggled. “She’s never been the type to dress up much.”

Oh, Tanner had no idea the fire he was playing with. Mom was bound to get on the phone to my aunts the second we were out of the house, and the next thing we’d know, April would be twittering about seeing us at the Boathouse and telling how Tanner looked at me and who knows what other nonsense.

Tanner advanced through a couple more pictures. How many did the man take without his suspects?

“You have a nice smile,” Nana offered.

Really? Too much teeth showing, in my opinion. She must be trying to refrain from pointing out how windblown my hair had gotten.

Tanner flicked to the next one. One of him. And an ahhh went up around the room. Well, except from Aunt Martha.

Tanner really was a hunk, with those warm brown eyes laughing at the camera and that adorable dimple denting his cheek. He flicked quickly to the next picture.

“So these were taken last night?” Aunt Martha quizzed. “On your date that ended before seven, with a wet frock?”

“Yes, that was my fault,” Tanner admitted.

Aunt Martha waved off his implied apology. “Worked out for the best. Nate took her out after that.”

Ooh, Aunt Martha, that was harsh.

Mom frowned, her happy bubble burst.

Dad squeezed her hand and looked at Tanner. “You know what I say when it comes to investing—when there’s blood in the streets, that’s the time to buy. Even if it’s your own.”

A chill skittered down my spine. Dad didn’t sound as if he was talking about investing, which meant all these dinner invitations to Tanner . . . Huh, Dad was slyer than I thought.

“Oh, look at that.” Aunt Martha pointed to the TV screen. “Isn’t that Tyrone, the chap from the drop-in center? What’s he doing in the bushes?”