Key Trilogy (17 page)

“Good question.” Flynn pursed his lips, studied the ground. “We could just sit here and keep drinking until we fall off.”

Brad sighed, drained the bottle. “There’s a plan.”

M
ALORY
was barely out of the shower when she heard the knock on her front door. She belted her robe, snagged a towel, and wound it around her hair as she hurried to answer.

“Tod. You’re up and about early.”

“On my way to the coffee shop to ogle the nine-to-fivers before heading to work.” He peered over her right shoulder, her left, then gave her a leer. “Got company?”

Malory swung the door wider in invitation. “No. All alone.”

“Ah, too bad.”

“You’re telling me.” She tucked up the ends of the towel more securely. “Want coffee here? I’ve already put the pot on.”

“Not unless you can offer me a skinny mocha latte and a hazelnut muffin.”

“Sorry, fresh out.”

“Well, maybe I should just give you the good news, then be on my way.” Still, he flopped into a chair.

“Oh! New boots?”

“Fabulous, aren’t they?” He stretched out his legs, turned his feet right and left to admire them. “They’re killing me, of course, but I couldn’t resist them. I made a quick run through Nordstrom’s on Saturday. Darling, you’ve got to go.” He sat up, grabbed her hand as she curled on the end of the sofa. “The cashmere! There’s a cowl neck in periwinkle that’s calling your name.”

“Periwinkle?” She sighed, long and deep, like a woman under the hands of a skilled lover. “Don’t say periwinkle cashmere when I’m in the middle of a shopping moratorium.”

“Mal, if you don’t treat yourself, who will?”

“That’s true. That’s so true.” She bit her lip. “Nordstrom’s?”

“And there’s a twinset in a strong peachy pink that was made for you.”

“You know I have no defense against twinsets, Tod. You’re killing me.”

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop.” He held up his hands. “But on to our morning bulletin. The Pamela has stepped in deep and stinky doo-doo.”

“Oh, boy.” Malory wiggled into the cushions. “Tell me everything. Don’t spare the details.”

“As if. Okay. We got in a Deco bronze—female figure wearing a flapper-style dress, feathered headband, pearls, gorgeous open-toed shoes, trailing a long scarf. She’s absolutely charming. Witty, terrific details, with this sly ‘let’s you and me Charleston, big boy’ smirk on her face. I fell in love.”

“Did you call Mrs. Karterfield in Pittsburgh?”

“Ah, see!” He shot a finger in the air, as if proving a point. “Naturally you would assume that, or would have done so personally had you still been in charge. Which you should be.”

“Goes without saying.”

“I did, of course, call Mrs. Karterfield, who, as
expected, asked us to hold it for her until she could come down personally to see it. Next week. And what happens when our darling Mrs. Karterfield from Pittsburgh comes into The Gallery to see a Deco figure?”

“She buys it. And often at least one other piece. If she comes in with a friend, which is usually the case, she harangues her companion until she buys something too. It’s a good day when Mrs. Karterfield comes to town.”

“Pamela sold it out from under her.”

It took Malory ten seconds to find her voice. “What? What? How? Why? Mrs. K’s one of our best customers. She
always
gets first look at Deco bronzes.”

His lips folded into a thin, derisive smile. “A bird in the hand. That’s what the twit told me when I found out. And how did I find out? I’ll tell you,” he said with a triumphant ring in his voice. “I found out when Mrs. K came in unexpectedly yesterday afternoon to see it. Just couldn’t wait, she told me. And she brought
two
friends. Two, Mal. I could cry.”

“What happened? What did she say?”

“I took her over to see it, and there’s a Sold sign tucked under the base. I assumed it was a mistake, but I went to check. Pamela sold it that morning, apparently while I was in the back on the phone trying to soothe Alfred because Pamela the Putrid had accused him of overcharging for the crating for the marble nudes.”

“Alfred? Overcharging?” Malory pressed her hands to her temples. “I can’t keep up.”

“It was horrible, just horrible. It took me twenty minutes to talk him down, and even then I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t stomp in and beat her with his hammer. Maybe I should’ve let him,” Tod considered, then waved the thought away with both hands. “Anyway, while I was busy with Alfred, Pamela sold Mrs. K’s Deco to a
stranger
. To some fly-by-night, some wanderer in off the street!”

He flopped back, splaying a hand over his chest. “I
still can’t believe it. Mrs. K was, naturally, very upset, and demanded to see you. Then I had to tell her you weren’t with us any longer. And the doo-doo hit the fan. Big time.”

“She asked for me? That’s so sweet.”

“It gets sweeter. Pamela came down. And they got into it. Boy, did they. Mrs. K asking how an item on hold for her could be sold. Pamela getting snippy and says how it’s not gallery policy to hold a piece without a cash deposit. Can you
imagine
?”

“Cash deposit?” Horrified, Malory could only goggle. “From one of our oldest and most reliable clients?”

“Exactly! Then Mrs. K’s all, Well, I’ve been patronizing The Gallery for fifteen years, and my word has always been good enough. And where is James? And Pamela’s, I beg your pardon, but I’m in charge here. And Mrs. K shoots back that if James has put a moron in charge he’s obviously gone senile.”

“Oh, go, Mrs. K!”

“Meanwhile, Julia runs into the back and calls James to let him know there’s a big, fat problem. Pamela and Mrs. K are practically coming to blows over the bronze when he comes rushing in. He’s trying to calm them both down, but they’re too into it. Mrs. K’s saying she won’t deal with
this woman
. I loved the way she said it.
This woman
. It sang. And Pamela’s saying The Gallery’s a business and can hardly run on one customer’s whim.”

“Oh, my God.”

“James is frantic, promising Mrs. K he’ll sort all this out, but she’s furious. Her face is positively puce. She tells him she won’t set foot in the place again as long as
that woman
is associated with The Gallery. And, you’ll love this—if he let a jewel like Malory Price slip through his fingers he deserves to go out of business. And with that she sails out the door.”

“She called me a jewel.” Delighted, Malory hugged
herself. “I love her. This is good stuff, Tod. It’s really started my day off on a high note.”

“There’s even more. James is pissed. When’s the last time you’ve seen James pissed?”

“Um. Never.”

“Bingo.” Tod punched a finger in the air. “He was pale as a sheet, his mouth was all tight and grim. And he told Pamela between clenched teeth”—Tod clamped his together to demonstrate—“ ‘I need to speak with you, Pamela. Upstairs.’ ”

“What did she say?”

“Well, she stormed up, and he went behind her. Then he closed the door, which was very disappointing. I couldn’t hear much of what he said, even though I went up and lurked around hoping to. But you could hear her clearly enough when she started raging. I’m making something out of this place, she tells him. You said I was in charge. I’m tired of having Malory Price thrown in my face every time I turn around. Why the hell didn’t you marry her instead of me?”

“Oh.” Malory thought about that scenario for a couple of seconds. “Eeuuw.”

“Then she started crying, saying she was working so hard and nobody appreciated her. And she ran out. I barely scrambled away in time. It was all so exhausting, yet oddly exhilarating.”

“Crying? Damn it.” A little worm of sympathy crawled into Malory’s chest. “Were they I’m-really-hurt-and-sad tears, or were they just I’m-really-pissed-off tears?”

“Pissed-off tears.”

“Okay, then.” She squashed the worm without mercy. “I’m probably going to hell, right, for getting such a charge out of all this?”

“We’ll get a nice little condo together. But while we’re still shuffling on this mortal coil, I think James is going to ask you to come back. In fact, Mal, I’m sure of it.”

“Really?” Her heart gave a quick leap. “What did he say?”

“It’s not so much what he said, as what he didn’t say. He didn’t go running after the weeping Pamela to dry her beady eyes. In fact, he stayed for the rest of the day, going over accounts. And he looked grim when he left. Absolutely grim. I’d say Pamela’s reign of terror is at an end.”

“This is a good day.” Malory let out a long sigh. “A really good day.”

“And I’ve got to get started on it. Not to worry,” he said as he got up. “I’ll keep you updated with bulletins. Meanwhile, the painting you were wondering about? The portrait?”

“The what? Oh, yes. What about it?”

“Remember how we both thought there was something familiar about it? It came to me. Do you remember, about five years ago, the oil on canvas, unsigned? Young Arthur of Britain, on the verge of drawing Excalibur from an altar of stone?”

Chilly fingers brushed the nape of her neck as the painting floated into her mind. “My God. I remember. Of course I remember. The color, the intensity, the way the light pulsed around the sword.”

“Definitely the same style and school as the one you showed me. Might be the same artist.”

“Yes . . . yes, it might. How did we acquire it? Through an estate, wasn’t it? In Ireland. James went to Europe for several weeks to acquire. That was the best piece he brought back with him. Who bought it?”

“Even my razor-sharp memory has its limits, but I looked it up. Julia sold it to Jordan Hawke. The writer? Local boy, or was. Lives in New York now, I think.”

Her stomach did a long, slow roll. “Jordan Hawke.”

“Maybe you can contact him through his publisher if you want to talk to him about the painting. Well, got to run, sugarplum.” He leaned down to give her a kiss. “Let
me know the minute James calls you to grovel. I want all the deets.”

THERE
were half a dozen people at keyboards and phones when Malory reached the third level of the
Dispatch
, where Flynn had his office. She saw him immediately, through the glass walls.

He paced back and forth in front of a desk, tipping a bright silver Slinky from one hand to the other. And appeared to be holding a conversation with himself.

She wondered how he could stand the lack of privacy while he worked, that constant sensation of being on display. And the noise, she thought. With all the clacking, ringing, talking, and beeping, she would go mad trying to formulate a single creative thought.

She wasn’t sure whom to speak with. No one looked particularly like an assistant or secretary. And despite the retro toy that Flynn was currently playing with, it suddenly dawned on Malory that he was a busy man. An important man. Not a man she should pop in on without notice.

As she stood, undecided, Flynn sat on the corner of his desk, pouring the Slinky from right hand to left and back again. His hair was mussed, as if he’d spent some time playing with it before he’d gotten hold of the toy.

He wore a dark green shirt tucked into casual khakis and very possibly the oldest athletic shoes she’d ever seen.

There was a quick tingle in her belly, followed by a helpless little thud just under her heart.

It was all right to be attracted to him, she told herself. That was acceptable. But she couldn’t let this move to the level it was headed for so quickly. That wasn’t smart, it wasn’t safe. It wasn’t even . . .

Then he looked out through the glass, his eyes meeting hers for one fast, hot beat before he smiled. And the tingle, the thud, became more intense.

He flicked his wrist and the Slinky fell back into itself, then he gave her a come-ahead gesture with his free hand.

She wound her way through the desks and the din. When she stepped through the open office door, she saw with some relief that he hadn’t been talking to himself, but on a speakerphone.

Out of habit, she closed the door behind her, then looked toward the sound of heroic snoring to see Moe sprawled belly-up between two filing cabinets.

What did you do about a man who brought his big, silly dog to work with him? she wondered. Maybe more to the point, how did you resist such a man?

Flynn held up a finger to signal one more minute, so she took the time to study his work area. There was a huge corkboard on one wall, jammed with notes, articles, photographs, and phone numbers. Her fingers itched to organize it, as well as the maze of papers on his desk.

Shelves were full of books, several of which seemed to be law and medical journals. There were phone books for a number of Pennsylvania counties, books of famous quotations, movie and music guides.

In addition to the Slinky, he had a yo-yo and a number of warlike action figures. There were several plaques and awards—to the paper and to Flynn personally, stacked together as if he hadn’t gotten around to hanging them. She didn’t know where she would have hung them either, as what little wall space he had was taken up by the corkboard and an equally large wall calendar for the month of September.

She turned around when he ended the call. Then stepped back as he moved toward her.

He stopped. “Problem?”

“No. Maybe. Yes.”

“Pick one,” he suggested.

“I got a tingle in my stomach when I saw you in here.”