On the Hook (22 page)

Would Smith be able to take time off from work to help search? Though Westen had asked numerous times, her new friend hadn’t been forthcoming with any personal talk—at least not since Westen poked fun about her playing the tuba.

Westen turned on the sidewalk and went back into the store. With an apologetic glance at Grady, she dug through the credit card invoices till she found the one Smith made out when she bought the snake. Westen tucked the paper in her purse, stopped in the office to box personal items and left—for the last time.

She couldn’t have picked a better person to sell to. Grady loved animals and he loved people, two requirements in the pet industry. He would make a great businessman as was evidenced by the way he handled whatever creditor had been on the phone. She walked around the building to the employees-only parking lot, climbed into the little blue hybrid and motored along home.

The house was an English country cottage style with a brick walkway extending under two trellis-type arbors that in summer were heavy with red and blue clematis. Westen made her way around to the back of the house and entered through the mudroom into the kitchen. She’d lowered the thermostat when she left—always did before work to save on the oil bill—and it was downright frigid. She turned up the heat and went outside where it seemed warmer. The sun was shining brightly on the front of the house. Westen contemplated lounging in the swing nestled in the corner of the picket fence area. But it was too much work to dig the cushions out of the shed.

Being that it was May, the garden was just coming to life. New Hampshire winters could be long and cold. Last fall, she’d mulched everything eight inches deep to protect the perennial plants. A few, like snowdrops and crocus, had poked green shoots through the dense weave of straw while she was gone. Removing it and hauling it to the compost pile consumed the rest of the short afternoon.

At dusk Westen went in, stomach growling. Though the furnace had warmed things up, she lit a fire in the fieldstone fireplace. Then she scrambled a couple of eggs and made some multi-grain toast. She ate in front of the television, something she’d started doing after her husband and son’s funerals. As a matter of fact, the television was on pretty much all the time. It didn’t matter what program; it was the voices she needed to hear.

At eight, after a crying jag that cleansed not only the emotion of missing her Bens, but also the failure of the trip to Chicago, she slid off the couch, put the dishes in the dishwasher and went to take a long, hot bubble bath. Wrapped in a robe, Westen settled back on the couch. When Ben and her son were alive, they went out several nights a week, to Ben junior’s ball games, or to educational venues. Since their deaths, outside of racquetball, the shop and the supermarket Westen had become pretty much of a hermit.

That would change tomorrow. She
would
recover that painting. She
would
earn the ten percent, pay all the bills, and breathe easy for a while. Westen sat on the rug in front of the fire and, heart palpitating with excitement—like a kid waiting for Santa—started a list of people to see, places to go and things to do in the quest for the Picasso. Both Bens would be proud.

By ten p.m. she was dozing against the arm of the couch. She laid the notebook on the coffee table, padded off to bed and fell asleep immediately.

At 11:30, Westen woke in a sweat, bedclothes clutched to her chest, heart palpitating again, but this time with fear. What on earth had she been thinking—to sell the pet shop? The only stable thing in her life. For six months it’d been her lifeline to Ben—and emotional sanity.

She had worked hard. Business had improved. In another six months she would’ve had it out of the red—all by herself. The pride she’d been feeling was great. Then she went and said yes to Grady. Would he be furious if she reneged on the deal?

Probably. No doubt he’d quit on the spot.

It was a chance she had to take. Tomorrow Westen Hughes would beg Grady for her shop back.

Well, what were the alternatives?

To search for that painting? On the surface, the idea didn’t sound bad. Until you got down to thinking, really thinking, about the past few days. People had been following them. Their intention wasn’t to invite her and Smith out for dinner. What if she embarked on this alone, and came up against one of them? Westen certainly couldn’t beat them to a pulp the way Smith had. Maybe if she replaced the two-inch heels with a pair of running shoes. They’d help in quick getaways. The thought brought a glimmer of a smile. She could buy a hairdryer—and a holster for it.

Chuckling, Westen slipped into her robe and went to the kitchen. She dug through her purse looking for Smith’s home address. Hopefully her phone number was on it. Seeing as it was the handiest she used the cell phone KJ had given her. It rang ten times. Maybe Smith was out playing the tuba at a Bavarian oompah club.

Westen plugged the phone into the charger and left it on the counter. Decisions made, she felt relaxed enough to go back to bed. She drifted off to the beat of the oompah band—a tuba doing a solo—playing in her brain, and wondering what was under the men’s lederhosen.

She woke at six, and was eating breakfast when a car pulled into the yard. Westen ran to throw on some clothes, and opened the door to none other than Phoebe Smith. Her eyes were red rimmed, her hair a disheveled mess. She looked the way Westen felt. What had happened to this woman who’d said she was rarely out of bed before nine? To be sure she hadn’t screwed up, Westen checked the clock on back of the stove: 6:22.

She moved a couple of steps to let Smith, wearing a peach-colored sweatshirt over peach sweatpants, into the kitchen. Not standing on ceremony, Smith went to the dish drainer, took up a mug and filled it from the pot near the microwave. She didn’t speak till it was doctored to her strict specifications and taken a sip.

“I was up all night,” she said.

“Looks like it.”

Smith gave a small shrug.

“Want to talk about it?”

Another shrug.

How, during the few years she’d been a stay-at-home mom, had people gotten so hard to talk to? To kill time, Westen poured herself more coffee, took two cranberry orange muffins out of the freezer and defrosted them in the microwave, keeping her back to Smith to give her time to formulate a string of words.

The microwave beeped. She slid the muffins onto plates, laid cutlery and napkins on the table, then brought a stick of butter and set it in front of Smith.

“I suppose you baked these.” Smith knifed a wedge of butter and slathered it on the muffin top.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“I guess not. To each his own.”

“I called you last night.”

Smith made eye contact for the first time.

“I’m not sure what I was going to say. I sold the pet shop.”

“To that cute blondie?”

“Grady.” Westen cut the top off the muffin and broke the top from the bottom half. “Don’t you have to be at work?”

“Nope.”

“Is that part of why you couldn’t sleep?”

Smith nodded. “And…I got home to find an eviction notice on the door. Jeanette got loose and somehow found her way down into the landlord’s apartment.” A small smile appeared around a bite of muffin. “You shoulda heard his wife scream!”

“That isn’t funny. I would’ve done the same thing. Not to be rude, but to take a page from your book on forthrightness—what are you doing here?”

“I want to—”

Westen took a bite of muffin. When no further sentence came, she said, “Look, I have to go to the bathroom, could you talk a little faster?”

Smith swallowed. “I want us to be partners and find KJ’s missing stuff for a living.”

Westen couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing.

“Why is that funny?”

“You’re assuming thieves are going to make a habit of taking the stuff KJ underwrites.”

Smith grinned too. She set down the cup. “But if we get known as top-notch freelance investigators, other companies will hire us.”

Westen went into the bathroom off the kitchen. She leaned on the new pedestal sink Ben had installed last year and faced her reflection. And laughed. She didn’t look any better than Smith.

The idea to become investigators was ludicrous. Wasn’t it? They could get killed. Or worse—mauled and then killed. A vision of an attack by a legion of feathered, taloned and scaled men in lederhosen made her smile. Ben used to say that unless you took chances in life, you’d end up a withered and emotionally dry recluse. That was the reasoning he’d used five and a half years ago when he wanted to leave his job as a school principal to open the pet shop. She had to admit that being a business owner seemed more lucrative. Ben had a good head on his shoulders. The business went well for three years.

What had happened to change all that?

Smith pounded on the door. “You can’t escape by locking yourself in there.”

Westen made eye contact with her reflection. “She’s right.” She stood up straight and opened the door. Smith was standing three feet away.

“We can do this,” Smith said.

The question “Where do we begin?” somehow came out ahead of the words actually on her lips: I’m scared.

Smith took her arm and pulled her to the sofa then nudged her down onto a cushion. She picked up the notes Westen had been making last night. “Is this why you called me?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure why I called. I guess I wanted someone to tell me that selling the shop to Grady was the right thing to do. By midnight I’d talked myself into reneging on the deal.”

“Do you want to be a pet shop owner?”

“Not really. But I’m not bad at it. I was getting the accounts back on track.”

“What happened with them anyway?”

“I have no idea. The year before he died, Ben went from the happiest guy to moody and sometimes downright grouchy. When I asked, he always said nothing was wrong and that I shouldn’t worry. Obviously, that’s when things went bad.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. Business at the shop is good. I’ve been digging out of the financial hole.” Westen shrugged. “I guess it’s Grady’s problem now.”

Smith slapped Westen on the thigh. “Get dressed, we’ve got work to do.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

As KJ was cuffed and assisted into the cruiser, she kept her head down. Chances of anyone in Chicago recognizing her were slim, but her ego kept shouting otherwise. Then, as she settled into the backseat, she dared peer out the window to see how many people had gathered. Not too many on the sidewalks, but two people stood in front of Trump Tower: the doorman and Ernest Falwell. Oh God.

The cruiser pulled slowly away. How come, when it got here, it was as if it’d been shot out of a cannon? Now, it couldn’t move faster than turtle-steps. KJ’s imagination played giant-size photos of her all over the New Hampshire television news. She didn’t dare envision the headlines in the newspapers. Since the theft had national, and probably international coverage, videos of her arrest would surely go the same route.

How could things keep going so wrong? All she’d tried to do was find the thief. The cops sure as heck weren’t doing enough. She wouldn’t even think about Smith and Westen. They’d done less than nothing. On top of that, she’d given them her last ten thousand dollars. It could’ve been used for bail.

Bail would be offered, wouldn’t it? She had no record. Strike that—she had an exemplary record. Not even so much as a jaywalking ticket.

Had Mr. Falwell been the one to report her? Probably. Somebody—or several somebodies—clearly had a grudge against her. Another name leaped front and center. Limp Cliff Barnett. He’d threatened her. She hadn’t wanted to suspect him. But after the other day…

She’d thought they had a good relationship. Nope. Wouldn’t think about that now. Bigger problems loomed. The cruiser stopped out back of a large brick building. A garage-type door slid open and the cruiser moved inside. The door shut, blocking out most all light and any possible escape.

She was escorted into the main building, to a room with no windows or doorknob. Man, these people were so untrusting. Had she given them any reason to think she’d take off?

It wasn’t long before a female officer entered, frisked her in a lot more serious manner than the males, and took the only other chair at the metal table.

“Why was I arrested?”

It had to be serious. The only law she’d broken was when that sergeant back in New Hampshire had told her not to leave town. That wasn’t an arrestable offense, was it?

“You’re being charged with stealing Pablo Picasso’s painting titled The Old Guitarist.”

“I didn—” Oh, what was the use? They had whatever evidence Brett—or Cliff, or whoever the accuser was—and weren’t about to listen to her protests of innocence.

The officer laid a notebook and tape recorder on the table. Where did they come from? And where was the video camera? KJ didn’t bother looking for it.

“You can put that away. I’m not confessing to something I didn’t do. You can keep me here, beat me down with hours of questions, or whatever it is you people do. I didn’t take the painting. Yes, I was there when it happened, but I was watching to keep others from taking it. That’s all, folks. When do I get my phone call?”

The officer nodded, got up, and knocked on the door. Somebody let her out. KJ envisioned leaping from the chair and bursting out with her. But jeez, she hadn’t done this. They couldn’t pin it on her, could they?

Mr. Falwell’s phone caller said they had evidence. Surely it was a ruse to get him onto their side. What evidence could anyone have?

The wisest move would be to keep her mouth shut and wait till they extradited her to New Hampshire. She expected they would since the painting was discovered missing from there. At home, hopefully her boss would let the company attorneys take the case.

Somebody came and took her to a pay phone. The only person in Chicago that KJ dared to call was Ryan. Of course he didn’t answer. Neither did the call go to voicemail.

KJ hung up the phone and was taken back to the interrogation room. Once she returned, KJ explained about Ryan not answering. “Do I get to call him again later?”