Chapter
sixteen

He did what?” Maddie exclaimed the next morning.

“He kissed me,” Britt answered.

“He kissed you!”

“Shh,” Britt cautioned, with a glance around the interior of The Merryweather Coffee House. News traveled quickly in a small town, and Britt didn’t want everyone in northwest Washington knowing by noon that Zander had kissed her. She hadn’t even told her sisters yet.

A bustling morning rush filled the establishment. People dressed in professional garb ordered double shots of espresso. A group of male retirees sat at a round table, chuckling and drinking plain black coffee out of mugs. Women in work-out clothing requested non-fat lattes.

Because Britt and Zander were planning on paying Emerson a house call this morning, Britt had decided to clock in at Sweet Art after their conversation with Emerson. She’d slept in and was now indulging in the luxury of a blueberry scone paired with a cappuccino.

Earlier, she’d texted Maddie to let her know that she wouldn’t be arriving at Sweet Art until later, and that Maddie was in big trouble for tattling to Zander about Britt’s night out with Hannah and Mia.

Britt hadn’t made it halfway through her scone before Maddie had bustled into the Coffee House.

Britt had downloaded a tracking app a few years back and added all of her close friends and family members to it. Whenever she had a hard time meeting up with one of them, she checked their location on her app. Also, should one of the people she loved run out of gas in the wilderness, she’d immediately be able to speed to their rescue. Maddie had the same app and had obviously used it this morning to pinpoint Britt.

Her erstwhile friend had ordered coffee and a thick slice of gluten-free lemon poppy seed bread. She’d situated herself across from Britt at a tiny round table adjacent to an exposed brick wall.

One might be tempted to think, looking at Maddie’s kind olive green eyes and innocent face outlined by chestnut brown curls, that she had no spunk. That conclusion would be way off base.

Upon her arrival at Britt’s table, Maddie had been suitably repentant about spilling the beans to Zander regarding Britt’s actions Saturday night. But she’d been wholly unrepentant when she’d demanded to know what was wrong with Britt.

In a weak moment of scone bliss, Britt had opted to tell Maddie about the kiss on the beach.

“I cannot believe Zander finally kissed you,” Maddie said. “That’s wonderful.”

“Eh.” Britt pulled an unconvinced face.

“You loved the kiss, didn’t you? I’ve always known that when you finally kissed him you’d love kissing him. I’m guessing that you’ve been out of sorts ever since the kiss because now you want more with him—”

“—I might want more with him—”

“—but you’re scared of risking the relationship you have with him and maybe you’re irritable because he hasn’t yet made some big I’ll die unless you love me back sort of proclamation. You’re not fully certain of his feelings, and you’re not fully certain of your feelings, and you have no idea how to proceed from here.”

Britt chewed slowly. “You’re not completely wrong. Also, I’m a little ticked at him at the moment and he’s a little ticked at me, so factor in that complication.”

Maddie grinned. If rainbows could shoot from a person, they’d have been shooting from Maddie. She seemed not to care that her coffee was growing cold.

“I fail to see why this circumstance merits smiling,” Britt said.

“It’s just that I’m so happy! I’ve been waiting for ages for him to make a move.”

“It would be easier for me to date Reid. I’m leaning toward dating Reid.”

Maddie waved off Britt’s gloomy declaration. “No, you’re not. That’s just bluster. You and I both know that, yes, it would be easier to date Reid. A lot less messy, a lot less interesting, and a lot more shallow. Reid is not the one for you. Zander is the one for you, and now it’s your turn to be brave and love him back.”

Britt locked her lips together.

“Before Leo and I started dating,” Maddie said, “back when I was paralyzed by my own hang-ups, you confronted me about them. Remember?”

Britt took a desperate sip of cappuccino. She’d had a few straight-talking conversations with Maddie in an effort to pave the way for Maddie and Leo’s romance. “That was different.”

“How?”

“For one thing, I was right. You should be filled with gratitude to have me as a friend.”

“Filled.” Maddie freed a lock of gold-highlighted hair from her hoop earring. “I’ll have you know that I’m right, too. I’ve never been more right.”

“For another thing,” Britt said, “those times that I lectured you really did help you along with Leo.”

“Yes, and I’m about to return the favor.”

Britt tipped her head toward Maddie’s drink. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

Maddie ignored Britt’s comment. “Remember when you didn’t make the soccer team our junior year?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Hear me out. We found out about that from Gretchen King, whom we hardly knew, because you didn’t tell us. And when we asked you about not making the team, you shrugged it off. You wouldn’t talk about it or cry or shake your fist at God or . . . anything.”

“Good.”

“Not good, because you loved soccer. It had to have crushed you when you didn’t make the team.”

“You’re finding fault with me because I didn’t cry over it?” Britt asked.

“I’m finding fault with you because you wouldn’t open up and let us help you with your hurt.”

Britt gaped at her. She was strong. So what?

“Remember how much you wanted that apprenticeship in France that you applied for first? You told me all about the master chocolatier you’d be working under and his chocolate empire and his awards and even where you’d live. And then you weren’t chosen for the apprenticeship.”

“I’m not really enjoying these particular memories—”

“You swept that rejection under the rug like it didn’t matter.”

“I got another apprenticeship. It worked out fine.”

“And then,” Maddie continued, “when Olivia died, you were the one patting our backs and handing us tissues.”

“Somebody needed to.”

“Nobody needed to. We could have all been heartbroken together.”

“I beg to differ—”

“Don’t even get me started on how you acted after your kayaking accident. You could hardly sit! You could hardly walk. Yet trying to force you to accept help from Hannah and Mia and me—”

“And all the other people you recruited.”

“You have a lot of friends!” Maddie set her palms on either side of her plate. “Trying to force you to accept help was like trying to turn back the tide of the ocean.”

Scowling, Britt brushed crumbs from the table.

“I could go on and on, listing example after example,” Maddie said.

“Of what, exactly? My independence?”

“Take any positive attribute to its extreme, and you’ll find something negative.”

“How can independence be a bad thing?”

“It’s a bad thing when it costs you the love of a man who would do anything in the world for you.”

Britt opened her lips. Closed her lips. Opened them again. “You don’t know that Zander would do anything in the world for me.”

“I do know that he’d do anything in the world for you. We all do. Me. Hannah. Mia. Your sisters. Your parents. Zander’s brother. Zander’s aunt. And you know it, too. Here.” Maddie leaned across the table and lightly tapped the area of Britt’s heart. “But you’re scared.”

“Scared?”

“You’re the most courageous person I know. Except about this one aspect of your life.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“To love Zander is to lean on him, to a degree,” Maddie said. “It will require you to forfeit some of your freedom, Britt. You’ll have to let him in and trust him more than you’ve ever trusted anyone . . . with all of it. Your joy and your pain. Your successes and your failures.”

The idea of blubbering about her pain and her failures to Zander sounded awful to her. He appreciated her self-sufficiency! He’d told her so.

“I’m simply trying to say,” Maddie said in a calm, reasonable tone, “that a romance with Zander will demand vulnerability.”

“You’ve been dating Leo for five months and now—”

“And now I’m an expert. Yeah, yeah.” Maddie squeezed Britt’s hand. “I’m not an expert on dating. But we’ve been friends for a long time. I am an expert on you.”

He and Britt hadn’t patched things up.

Usually Britt insisted that they resolve their disagreements. But, so far, she was letting the disagreement they’d had yesterday drift past like an inner tube down a river.

He glanced at her as they made their way up the walk to the development where Emerson lived. He was having a hard time reading her. Ever since he’d picked her up ten minutes ago, she’d seemed almost carefully neutral. Was she no longer mad at him? Was she still mad but choosing to avoid the topic? Why?

Britt wore a loose white top with a wide opening at the neck that stretched from shoulder to shoulder. Gray jeans. Black sandals that fastened around her ankles. She’d painted her toenails dark purple. Her long hair was down today and a few of the lighter, more amber-colored strands glinted in the morning sunlight.

What would happen if he took hold of her shoulders, settled her against the wall next to Emerson’s front door, and kissed her? Hard.

The rebel in him wanted to try. She disrupted him with her presence, her scent, her eyes, her words. He wanted to disrupt her even half as much.

Zander pushed Emerson’s doorbell, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and held himself immobile.

Carolyn had informed them that Sunny had moved to town two and a half months ago and that she’d met Sunny shortly after, when she’d come to The Giftery to shop. The two women had struck up a friendship. They’d taken to sharing lunch a few times a week and talking on the phone in between.

Carolyn had supplied Zander with Emerson’s address, which had led them to this unremarkable zero-lot-line complex.

Emerson answered the door, her face registering mild surprise at finding her friend’s nephew on her doorstep. “Good morning. Zander, isn’t it?”

“It is.” If Emerson had inserted herself into Carolyn’s life on purpose, then he’d bet that she knew his name far better than she was letting on. He introduced Britt and the two shook hands.

Emerson had clothed her slim frame in exercise pants and a long-sleeved turquoise work-out top. Her blond hair gave her a youthful look, though he guessed her to be at or near Frank’s age—in her mid-sixties.

She balanced her weight on one bare foot and casually draped her other foot across it. “What can I do for you?”

“Carolyn said that she told you about the research we’ve been doing into Frank’s death,” Zander said, getting straight to the point.

“She did.”

For weeks now, he and Britt had been trying to find the combination of clues that would unlock the secrets of Frank’s past. He’d used up most of his patience and, at this point, needed the truth from Emerson. If there was an unseen threat at play, the truth would give him a shot at protecting the people he loved.

“Back when Frank was known as James Ross, he and a friend named Ricardo Serra robbed a gas station,” Zander said. “Yesterday, Britt and I traveled to Whidbey Island because Ricardo was arrested there in 1988. We looked at mug shots of both Ricardo and his accomplice, which is how we discovered that Ricardo’s accomplice . . . was you.” Zander pulled out his phone and showed her the picture of her mug shot that he’d taken yesterday at Grant’s house.

Emerson did not flinch. She raised the inmost points of her eyebrows so slightly it almost wasn’t perceptible. The response communicated interest far more than shock or fear. “I’d love to know how you gained access to those mug shots,” she said calmly.

“We met with the victim,” Britt answered. “He kept a file of all the information he received about the case.”

Emerson took a step back from the door. “Care to come inside?”

Zander followed Britt into a condo that smelled of baking pumpkin pie and reminded him of a Rooms to Go showroom. The living room furniture seemed staged to appeal to the widest possible percentage of people, which made him suspect that Emerson was renting the place furnished.

Emerson gestured for him and Britt to take the armchairs. She lowered herself onto the patterned sofa next to the fireplace and crossed her legs with catlike grace. A novel, pen, day planner, and fuzzy throw blanket rested on the cushion beside her.

“We don’t believe that you and Ricardo were in search of a public park on Whidbey Island the night that Grant and Callista Mayberry’s paintings were stolen,” Zander said.

Emerson matched his steady gaze with her own.

“We also don’t believe,” he continued, “that it’s a coincidence that you showed up in Merryweather a month before Frank died. And we don’t believe it’s a coincidence that you and Carolyn became friends.”

Emerson remained quiet for a long period of time.

“I’m not sure if any part of your friendship with Carolyn is genuine.” Zander’s palms tightened on the chair’s armrests. “But if you care about her at all, then telling us what you know might enable us to keep her safe.”

“Or telling you what I know might end up endangering you all,” Emerson offered mildly.

Foreboding pricked the skin at the back of his neck. “Be that as it may, we’d still like to hear what you know.”

Emerson appeared to weigh her options, and he had the sense that no amount of argument would rush her.

“I’m going to need to borrow your phones and frisk you to make sure you’re not wearing electronic recording devices.” Emerson spoke in a no-nonsense way, as if she’d just mentioned that the forecast called for rain.

“Agreed,” Britt said at the exact moment that Zander said, “Deal.”

It seemed that Emerson had decided to talk to them. He understood why she’d first want to be sure they weren’t recording her.

They gave her their phones, which she carried toward the back of the condo.

He frowned at Emerson’s day planner, across from him on the sofa. Did he have time to check it? Should he risk checking it now, right before she might come clean? If she caught him, she might change her mind—

She returned. He and Britt rose so that Emerson could give them both a thorough pat down, then she went to stand near the electric fireplace. Nonchalantly, she leaned a shoulder against the mantle and crossed her arms. “What would you like to know?”

“Were you, Ricardo, and Frank the ones who pulled off the Triple Play?” Zander asked.

“Yes.”

Her admission thumped the breath from him. Frank, Ricardo, Emerson. The Triple Play thieves.

“A contact of mine in Chicago let me know that Frank and Ricardo were moving to Seattle,” Emerson said.

“They didn’t come to Seattle specifically for the heist?” Britt asked.

“No, they came because Ricardo had family there. I’d had my eye on the Pascal for some time, and I had a good bit of the job planned. In order to pull it off, I knew I needed partners. I got to know Ricardo and Frank over the course of several weeks. I came to trust them and, eventually, we started making plans.”

The only difference between Emerson and Zander’s father? Emerson was a successful thief. His father, unsuccessful. Because of his experience with his dad, Zander comprehended much about Emerson. He could expect her to have only one code and only one motivation. Self-interest. “Did Frank actually work construction in the city, or was that just a cover story?” Zander asked.

“He worked construction. We all had day jobs.”

Thieves with day jobs. They’d contributed to the community they’d stolen from.

“We decided that Frank would case the Pascal,” Emerson said. “In order to visit the museum frequently without arousing suspicion, I felt that he should become a museum member. But we couldn’t have him in the museum’s system under his real name. So he remained James Ross in the other spheres of his life, including at work. Whenever he visited the Pascal, he visited as Frank Pierce.”

“Did he choose the Frank Pierce identity?” Britt asked.

“No, I did. I drove out of town and walked around a cemetery until I found a grave for a male born around the same time as Frank.”

“We visited that cemetery,” Zander said. “In Enumclaw.”

“Enumclaw. Yes.”

“Your heist was a success,” Britt prompted.

Emerson didn’t fidget or shift. She held herself with uncommon stillness. “Except for the fact that Frank was shot.”

The data they’d found so far pointed to the believability of what Emerson was saying. Even so, the conversation had a surreal quality to it. They were talking about Frank . . . having committed one of the most famous unsolved crimes in the county. His Uncle Frank was the man who’d insisted he make his bed every day before school, who’d taken him to his first professional basketball game, who’d ribbed him about spending too much time playing video games, who’d loved him.

“Where did you take Frank to get the bullet wound treated?” Britt asked.

“My brother had graduated from med school and was doing his internship at that time. We took Frank to his house, and he did the best he could to stitch Frank up. It wasn’t ideal, and it wasn’t according to my plans.” A twitch of consternation crossed her mouth, and he could tell that it still bothered her that something about the heist had gone wrong.

Ricardo had lied to them when he’d said he knew nothing about Frank’s bullet wound, when he’d said he and Frank had lost touch after moving to Seattle.

“Had you planned for Frank to continue to visit the Pascal after the heist?” Britt asked.

“I had, because I felt attention would be drawn to him if he suddenly severed his visits after a crime had been committed. We had to wait longer than I would’ve liked for his leg to recover. But as soon as he was well enough, he resumed his visits to the museum. I intended for him to show himself at the Pascal for a couple of months, then gradually taper off his attendance in a way that wouldn’t raise anyone’s eyebrows.” She released a disapproving sigh. “Instead, he fell in love with Carolyn and neither Ricardo nor I could talk him into giving her up. By then, it wasn’t as if Frank could tell Carolyn what he’d done or confess that he’d been pretending to be someone he wasn’t for months. So he did something I didn’t endorse. He cut ties with his previous life and he became, permanently, the man he’d told Carolyn he was.”

“Did you keep in contact with him after that?” Britt asked.

“Not regularly. If the police had found one of us, then communication between us could have brought down the others.”

Zander paced. Stopped. Faced Emerson. “Why did you reenter Frank’s life this year?”

“Because Frank is the one who took Young Woman at Rest by Renoir.”

He glanced at Britt just as she glanced at him. Her brown eyes had gone bright with the satisfaction of discovery.

Britt turned her profile toward Emerson. “That painting hasn’t been seen since the day it was stolen.”

“You believe that Frank still has it,” Zander guessed. “And you want it for yourself.”

A wry dimple marked Emerson’s cheek. “Well? Yes. Frank didn’t seem to have any use for it.”

How dare she find humor in any corner of this? His uncle was dead. “You tracked Frank down. Then what? Threatened him? Blackmailed him?”

She rested one foot over the other again. “I’ve never had the need for brute force. I simply had a few conversations with Frank during which I tried to talk him into letting me sell the painting. I proposed that we’d split the profits fifty-fifty.”

“And he said?”

“No.”

“So you befriended Carolyn, hoping she might lead you to the painting,” Zander said.

Emerson nodded.

“Have you been following me?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you know someone named Nick Dunlap?”

“No.”

He couldn’t decide whether or not she was telling the truth. “The fact that you’ve remained in Merryweather for a month and a half after Frank’s death tells me that the painting is still missing.”

“It’s still missing,” she confirmed.

“I assume that you’ve been searching for it,” Britt said.

“Yes. But so far, I haven’t been able to find it.”

“How can you be sure that Frank didn’t sell it long ago?” Britt asked.

“I’ve spent my entire professional life doing business with a certain group of people. If Frank had sold it, I’d have known.”

A timer let out a beeping sound, and Emerson disappeared into the kitchen, he supposed to take her pie from the oven. He heard the whoosh of a drawer.

He jumped up and flicked open her day planner to the week she had bookmarked, this week. The hinge on the oven door rasped. He memorized the notations on the pages as quickly and accurately as he could. The oven door rasped again.

He landed back in his chair. Britt gave him a look that communicated her approval the second before Emerson strode in.

“How did Frank die?” he asked when Emerson returned to her position at the fireplace. The smell of pumpkin, which he’d always liked in the past, became suffocating.

“I don’t know.”

“We’re aware that Frank received an upsetting phone call his final day at work,” Britt said.

“He got in his car and drove off,” Zander said. “And that was the last anyone saw of him before he was found dead in his car the next day. Are you the person who called him at work?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No. Listen, here’s what’s pertinent at this point.” She tucked a short piece of hair behind her ear. “We need to acknowledge that I might not be the only person who’s aware that Frank was in possession of Young Woman at Rest. Certainly Ricardo’s aware, and there’s no telling who he’s told. It’s in your best interest to figure out where Frank has been storing that painting. The sooner you get it out of your possession, the better—for the two of you and for Carolyn. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

He’d never tell her if he did. “Not yet.”

“When you do come up with ideas, contact me. I’ll check them out. If I find the painting, I’ll take care of the entire situation. None of you will have to risk anything or get your hands dirty in any way.”

“You’ll sell it on the black market.” His voice was flat.

“I’ll take care of it,” Emerson reiterated. “You’ll receive fifty percent of the profits, which will amount to a tremendous sum. Enough to ensure that Carolyn never has another financial worry in her lifetime. Enough to set you both up very comfortably.”

Britt came to stand next to him, aligning herself with him wordlessly.

Earlier, he hadn’t been able to read her. But he knew exactly what she was thinking now. She was thinking, no way. Britt wouldn’t allow Emerson to have the painting. Not for any price.

“If you let me handle it, you won’t have to worry about anyone else knocking on your door in search of the Renoir,” Emerson said.

“Who else might knock on my door?” he asked. “I’d like names.”

“I can’t give you names. But, like I said, several people may be aware that Frank had the painting. If I take possession of the painting, that becomes a non-issue for you. It’s a win-win outcome.”

“Except for the Pascal,” Britt observed.

“The Pascal is doing just fine,” Emerson replied. “It owns approximately seven hundred masterworks at last count.”

Taut quiet encircled them.

“Will you consider my offer?” Emerson asked.

“Yes.”

“And contact me with ideas regarding the painting’s whereabouts?”

“Yes.” He wanted Emerson to hope that they might come through for her with a tip that would lead her to the Renoir. She was too smart to injure potential allies.

“I’ll retrieve your phones.” She did so, then held her front door open as they passed through.

“Do you happen to know where Grant Mayberry’s Modiglianis ended up?” Zander paused on her front step.

“I’ve no idea.”

“Because I get the impression that his wife might like them back.”

“I’ve no idea.” Emerson spoke firmly, despite that she no doubt had every idea of the paintings’ whereabouts. She’d shared all that she was going to share. The Modiglianis were lost.

Once inside his Jeep, Zander turned over his phone and discovered a yellow Post-it note stuck to the back. On it, Emerson had written her phone number.

They’d driven a good two miles before Britt spoke. “Your uncle stole a masterpiece and kept it hidden for more than thirty years.” She set her sandals on his dashboard and bent her knees up toward her chest. He could remember her sitting that exact way in the passenger seat of every car he’d ever driven.

“It’s hard to believe.”

“Incredibly.”

And now Britt was tangled up in an art heist worth millions because of her friendship with him.

Until the day at the Central Library, he hadn’t suspected that Frank had a connection to the Triple Play. By then, Britt was already deeply involved. It would have been difficult to talk her out of helping him with Frank’s case at that point. Still. He should have tried. Instead, he’d continued to include her for his own selfish reasons.

“What did Emerson have written in her day planner?” Britt asked.

“Not much. She had arrows over certain hours of each day with a Z beside them.”

“Your first initial. What could that mean? That she’s following you during those hours? Researching you?”

“I don’t know. She also had ‘Cindy’s birthday’ written on Monday. She had ‘Claire’ written next to 12:15 p.m. on Wednesday. ‘Mom’ was written next to seven p.m. on Thursday. And ‘Video call with Tom’ was written next to eight a.m. on Friday.”

“Tom?” She grew instantly alert. “Could that be Tom R? As in Nick Dunlap’s Tom R?”

“She didn’t have Tom R written down. It just said ‘Video call with Tom.’ Tom’s a very common name.”

“Maddeningly common. Still, it’s possible that Emerson’s connected to the same Tom that Nick’s connected to. Emerson. Tom. Nick. Could all three of them be working together?”

“I don’t know.” He was sick of not knowing.

Britt absent-mindedly tapped a finger against her lip. “I don’t think, by the way, that Emerson told us all that she did back there because she cares about Carolyn’s safety,” she said.

“No.”

“She told us for reasons of her own. She hasn’t had any luck finding the painting, and she wants it badly enough to try a new tactic. The new tactic is us.”

“I’m certain that she didn’t tell us everything she knows. I’ll call Detective Shaw as soon as I drop you off.”

“Good, though I’m not sure what the detective can do since we have no idea where the painting is.”

“Plus, the statute of limitations on the Triple Play would keep anyone from charging Emerson with robbery at this point.”

“Even if the detective were to confront Emerson with the information she just gave us, she’d almost certainly deny the whole conversation.”

At an intersection, Zander looked over at Britt.

He wanted to lock her in a tower to protect her.

He wanted her to put her feet on the dashboard of every car he’d ever own for as long as he lived.

Most of all, he wanted to break the uncomfortable tension that had existed between them since their kiss.

“Young Woman at Rest was first stolen from the Pascal family by the Nazis.” Britt toyed absent-mindedly with a lock of her hair. “It was the favorite painting of Annette Pascal’s grandmother, so the family mounted a huge search for it. After years of effort, they finally brought it home.”

“Right.”

“We’re the ones who have the ability to bring it home to the Pascals a second time, Zander. We have to find that painting.”

“I have to find that painting.”

“With my assistance.”

He said nothing, though he had no intention of allowing Britt to get any more mixed up in this situation than she already was.

“Emerson Kelly is not going to get anywhere near Young Woman at Rest,” Britt continued. “When we find the painting, we’re going to return it to Annette Pascal.”

Without a doubt, Carolyn would settle on the same goal.

Which meant that he had to find a way to unearth the painting. Return it to the Pascal Museum. And do so without risking any of their necks.

“But why?” Carolyn’s oval face communicated her shock.

Zander had dropped Britt at her house, then driven to Carolyn’s. He’d just finished relaying their conversation with Emerson to his aunt.

“Why in the world would Frank have held on to a priceless work of art all this time?” Her gray eyes beseeched him.

“I don’t know.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Can you think of why he might have kept it?”

“No. I have no clue why. None.” She pressed two shuddering fingers against her forehead and rubbed. “Zander. Young Woman at Rest is precious to Annette Pascal. I can’t bear to think that Frank’s had it . . . that he’s kept it from Annette all this time.”

They were sitting at Carolyn’s kitchen table. Aurora slept on the floor, her chin resting on Carolyn’s foot.

Zander extended a hand to his aunt, just as he’d done many times since Frank’s death. She wrapped her slim fingers around his.

“I know that you’ve already been searching through the contents of the house,” Zander said.

“Yes. I’m almost finished.”

“What about the attic? Could he have stored a painting in your attic?”

“I mean . . . I suppose it’s possible.”

“I’ll take a look around up there. This house doesn’t have a basement, does it?”

“No.”

“Do you rent storage space anywhere?”

“No.”

“Do you own any other properties?”

“We don’t.”

“Could he have stored the painting in the garage?”

She chewed the inside of her lip. “The garage holds gardening tools and car equipment. My goodness. Surely Frank wouldn’t have stored a painting by Renoir in our attic or in our garage.”

“It’s unlikely. I’m just trying to think through all the possibilities.”

Releasing his hand, she stood. Aurora startled awake and scrambled to her feet. Carolyn moved to the window and stopped, her attention fastened beyond the pane of glass. “How could Frank have stolen a piece of art? Any piece of art, but especially a piece of art that belongs to the Pascal? I consider Annette to be a friend! Every time I had lunch with Annette or received a card from her, I told Frank about it. He had numerous opportunities to confide in me. Why didn’t he confide in me?”

Zander had no answer.

“It’s too late now to give Frank a piece of my mind about that painting. Just like it’s too late now to tell him I love him.” Her voice broke, and tears piled onto her bottom eyelashes.

“But perhaps it’s not too late to make it right,” Zander said. “With any luck, we can still return Young Woman at Rest to Annette Pascal.”

Phone call from Detective Kurt Shaw to Zander:

Kurt:	After we got off the phone earlier, I contacted the FBI’s Art Crime Team. They’d like to talk to you about Frank, the Triple Play, and the missing Renoir.
Zander:	Excellent.
Kurt:	I gave them your number, so expect a phone call.
Zander:	Is there any chance that they’ll send an agent out?
Kurt:	A good chance. In fact, I’m hopeful that they will. They told me, though, that they won’t be able to get anyone here for at least a week.