On the Hook Page 17

  “Same old same old.”

  “Should I ask who was on the phone?”

  Grady took her hand and sat her on a stack of fifty-pound bags of dog food. He knelt in front of her. If he hadn’t looked so forlorn, she might’ve joked that he was going to propose.

  “The phone call was…” he cleared his throat, “a guy who said he’d loaned money to Ben.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you know about this?”

  “Not till I started coming here every day.”

  “Is he the one I’ve heard you arguing with?”

  “One of them.” She nodded feeling heat steam into her ears. How dare that creep tell Grady her problems?

  “Look, I don’t mean to pry into something that’s none of my business.”

  “But you’re going to anyway.”

  “Remember the other day I wanted to talk to you?” The puppies barked and he gave a glance at the door to make sure no one was on the way in. “My godmother died and—”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks. It was months ago. But I just found out she left me a considerable amount of money and…well, I know you’re not crazy about animals, and you don’t really want to be here. I thought… Well, I wondered if you might sell this place to me.” He named a figure that nearly made Westen fall off the stack of dog food.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  KJ stepped around the desk toward Andrea Elliott, doing her best not to slap the trucking company owner, or worse. Andrea seemed to sense KJ’s anger, which wasn’t too remarkable; it was probably written all over her body. Outside the huge picture window, trucks motored past, some coming into the lot, some on the way out.

  “I’ll ask you again, why didn’t you tell me about the takeover?”

  “It was supposed to be a secret. You know what a secret is, don’t you? It’s something people aren’t supposed to know.” By now, Andrea was shouting.

  KJ wasn’t taking this attitude from her. She heaved her long hair over one shoulder and took a step closer. Award the woman twenty points; she didn’t back from KJ’s approach. “I know very well about secrets. I know you don’t keep them from officials!” KJ realized she was shouting and lowered her voice. “You know you’ve shot yourself to the head of the suspect list, don’t you?”

  “That’s another reason for not telling you. There’s no need for me to be a suspect. I’m not guilty of anything.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But I can’t help wondering why you kept the information from me and then went and told my investigators. What happened, you get a jolt of guilt?”

  “I didn’t tell them. I didn’t tell a soul. I don’t know who did.”

  “Who else knew?”

  “Nobody. If you have a bible, I’ll swear on it.” Andrea’s words were full of conviction. For three seconds. Then she hesitated, and KJ knew—Andrea had realized there was someone. Someone she thought she could trust.

  KJ let a small self-satisfied grin seep onto her face. “What’s his name?”

  “I’m not telling you. No matter what you do. Even if you have me arrested.”

  “Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust him with any more secrets.” At that, KJ relaxed her stance. She, of all people, understood what deep shit bedroom talk could get you in.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Andrea snapped.

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “About the takeover? Again, it’s none of your business. I have it under control.”

  “I wouldn’t sit around waiting for Daddy to help out.” Seeing Andrea’s blink of surprise, KJ nodded. “Yes, I know about your lie. And so does dear old Dad. Let me say how surprised he was to hear of his generous offer to stop the buyout.”

  For the first time, Andrea’s rock-solid facade crumbled. She slumped into her desk chair, head cupped in her hands. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have one week to come up with two million dollars or I lose my father’s business.”

  KJ felt no sympathy. Sure, Andrea had no control over the takeover but she could’ve gone to her father right off, trusted he’d have an answer. “Why didn’t you go to him?”

  “Pride. And some ego, I suppose. I assured him after his accident that I could handle the company. I believed I could handle it. In retrospect, I guess I was a bit over-enthusiastic.”

  KJ took this as I called my father a bad name. “Andrea, you are handling the company. A takeover by such a powerful man as Lyle Manager is not to be taken lightly by anyone. You can be sure your father would’ve handled this immediately instead of letting it ride.”

  Andrea lifted her head. The red-eyed woman was wearing a grin. “He would’ve probably had the man killed.” Andrea sobered, brushing hair back from her face. “He started the business in a bad economic time. In spite of that, it grew and developed. It’s his baby, maybe even more than I am. The accident took enough out of him. If the business disappears, it’ll kill him. It’ll just kill him.”

  KJ left Andrea Elliott staring into space and went out to climb into the waiting taxi. Where to go now? She’d been dodged by Lyle Manager already today. She guessed it didn’t matter; there probably wasn’t much he could tell her related to the Picasso. Though it righteously pissed her off.

  She instructed the cabbie to take her to the home of Ernest Falwell in Trump Tower, then sat agog as the taxi made its way to the swanky part of town. Oh God, what she wouldn’t do to live in a place like this. For a long while she stood craning her neck to see the penthouse.

  A doorman, wearing a uniform that looked like he should be tending a building in London, stepped out and asked if he could be of any help. He probably thought she was a tourist.

  She hadn’t called for an appointment—a serious social faux pas. Probably this guy Falwell wouldn’t see her. Doubtful somebody as rich as him would even remember her name. Not that she’d had physical contact with him, but Charles Fenwick said he’d mentioned her while he was having dinner with Falwell. He said Mr. Falwell was excited somebody was involved in bringing greater appreciation for the arts to New Hampshire. If she remembered right, he also had a home in the White Mountains.

  KJ was pretty sure this Falwell guy was the reason the NH museum had agreed to the whole thing in the first place. Which made him a nice guy in her book. A nice guy who should welcome her with open arms. The doorman cleared his throat. KJ un-craned her neck and straightened her back. “I would like to see Mr. Ernest Falwell, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No sir. I’ve arrived in town unexpectedly and took a chance he might be in. My name is Kendra Jean Valentine. I’m from New Hampshire.”

  “What do you want with Mr. Falwell?”

  “Want? Oh, nothing. He helped make it possible for me to bring a very expensive painting to New Hampshire. I wanted to thank him.”

  The mustached doorman nodded. “Wait here.” He spun about, marched inside, and disappeared around a corner. He reappeared in less than a minute, and beckoned to her. He escorted her into an elevator (one of two), pressed a button (the only one), and backed to allow the door to shut. “Good luck.”

  Why would she need luck? What sort of man was Ernest Falwell? Rich enough to live in Trump Towers, but obviously that didn’t make him inaccessible. He had to be a nice guy, right? He’d gotten involved in the Picasso transfer without even being asked. People didn’t just do that unless they were caring, concerned.

  Or so full of themselves they needed to be involved. Needed that recognition.

  Granted, she’d still had to foot all the bills and arrange all the transport. A truly nice, ridiculously rich person would’ve offered to help financially. Would’ve insisted. The elevator slowed. KJ pulled in lungfuls of courage-building oxygen. She let it out hoping her breath was all right. Too late to do anything about it now because the door had whooshed silently open—right into the apartment!

  Of all the mental impressions she’d made of Ernest Falwell over the
past months, the man who stood before her was light years different. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. But even more striking than that—he couldn’t have seen his twentieth birthday yet. Wait, this was probably Falwell’s son.

  That thought was dashed to hell when he stepped forward, hand outstretched. They shook as he said, “Good afternoon. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I am Ernest Falwell.”

  It was rare that KJ was rendered speechless. She forced her feet to move further into the room that glowed with morning light. Even though the river was many stories below, it still seemed to reflect the light all the way up here.

  “You have a fabulous view.”

  “Thank you. Come in. Tell me why you’re in Chicago.”

  She moved toward the wall of windows. Like a bathroom plunger, the tempered glass seemed to suck her close. “You probably heard about the Picasso being stolen.” She turned to face him. God, did he even shave yet? Not a shadow marred the white skinned face. “I wanted you to know…I was so careful. I didn’t take my eyes from the truck for a minute.” Suddenly tears were flowing. “Not for a second. I hired the most reliable guards, the safest truck. I was s-so c-careful.” By now she was sobbing.

  He left the room. He returned a moment later carrying a box of tissues. He plucked a few and jammed them into her fingers then slapped the box on the piano top.

  “Thanks. What d-doesn’t make sense is that physically the painting c-couldn’t have been taken.”

  “Yet it was.”

  He didn’t soothe. He didn’t chastise. He merely stood there, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his sharply creased blue jeans. Unemotional. Disassociated. It was then she remembered how he’d gotten his money—the stock market. Ernest Falwell had been in the news a couple of years ago, the youngest person to ever hit it big. Strike big—insert HUGE. Now, he spent his time doing charitable acts. Maybe there was still hope he’d help her out of this jam.

  Finally she felt under control. “I j-just wanted to thank you for all you did to make the painting’s arrival possible.”

  “Saying you’re welcome under the circumstances seems a moot point, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Do you like living in New Hampshire?”

  “Yes. I love it. I know you own a place up north. Are you a skier?”

  “Yes. In the White Mountains. I ski as often as I can.”

  Why didn’t he ask her to sit down? KJ glanced around. There seemed to be plenty of seats. White leather, so he couldn’t claim the upholstery had just been cleaned.

  “Tell me about your financial situation.”

  She jerked her attention back to him. “My what?”

  “How much do you pay your exes?”

  “My what?” This conversation wasn’t going anything like she’d expected.

  “Alimony. How much alimony do you pay them?”

  “I—” Why was he asking about this? Was he finally going to offer to cover some of the expenses? He sure had a funny way of going about things. Oh well, they talk about millionaires being eccentric.

  “I have two ex-husbands. I am paying both of them huge alimonies because in our divorces, they convinced the judge—and somehow they got the same judge—that they were unable to work. Since I made a decent salary…” She shrugged. “It used to be decent. Now I can barely pay my rent. I really feel funny talking about this. No one but my exes know this. At least, I didn’t think anyone else knew.”

  “You hide how badly you need money.”

  KJ blinked back more tears. “Pride,” was all that would come out of her mouth. She crumpled the tissues and stuffed them into her jacket pocket. He was still staring at her. What color were his eyes? From here they looked tan. Nobody really had tan eyes, did they? The staring was really making her nervous. Then she knew.

  “You think I had something to do with the theft, don’t you?”

  “Honest answer? Yes.”

  “Why would I do it? Why, if I wanted to steal something big—why wouldn’t I just take something easier to get hold of? Something that didn’t have so many people looking out for it! So many potential witnesses? And why would I come here?”

  “I got a phone call this morning, a person who has proof you stole it.”

  “What!” KJ could barely keep her feet under her. “Proof? I don’t understand. I tried to come here and do something nice and this got all turned around. I didn’t take the painting. I don’t know how to convince you so I’ll just leave. Th-thanks for seeing me, Mr. Falwell. M-maybe I’ll see you around New Hampshire sometime.”

  She moved toward the elevator and hit the button. Mr. Falwell remained there, watching, thumbs still hooked in his pockets. The door whooshed silently open and then closed.

  Wow. That was rough. KJ pushed the button and the elevator moved. She didn’t have to spend three seconds wondering who’d phoned the man. Brett. Who else?

  But why? And where did he get this man’s phone number? She’d tried and failed to get it. None of that mattered right now. If she let herself think too much, she’d get mad, and a mad KJ wasn’t logical. Right now she needed a clear head.

  Something wasn’t right. Something someone said lingered in her brain cells. KJ fluffed her hair and sent up a short prayer that her eyes didn’t look too red. Really embarrassing if the doorman knew she’d been crying.

  The elevator opened. The doorman stepped forward, escorted her out to the sidewalk and waved for a cab. Instead of a yellow cab, a police car with flashing lights skidded to a stop at the sidewalk. Two uniformed officers rushed toward her.

  Oh God, something had happened up in the penthouse. Should she go back up and... What if something happened to Mr. Falwell? What if they tried to pin it on her? She had to get the heck out of here, quick.

  “Kendra Jean Valentine?”

  How did they know her name?

  “Ye-es, I’m KJ—Kendra Valentine.”

  “Please come with us. You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Westen turned over the keys and left the shop in Grady’s capable hands. She stood on the sidewalk as the puppies climbed on the glass, shoving each other to and fro as they vied for attention. Leaving was bittersweet. This place was one of the last things that had been Ben’s.

  Either Ben had been a terrible businessman or he’d gotten involved in a bad situation. Why hadn’t he confided in her? She guessed none of it mattered now; the money from the sale to Grady should get her out from under it all, plus leave some in her pocket. Sadly, money wouldn’t be coming from the recovery of The Old Guitarist.

  Then again, why not?

  What was stopping her from working full time to find it? She now had nothing to do but tend her garden and, of course, get back to racquetball. It’d been several days since she’d been to the court. Racquetball had become her passion when Ben junior went off to school—first to pass the time, and second to rid herself of some extra weight.

  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. West
en 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.