The sergeant left the scene in their capable hands. They climbed into individual cars and drove to headquarters where they spent several hours telling and retelling the story.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Two nights later, Smith, wearing a long black skirt and crimson overblouse, stood back while a waiter held the chair for her. The waiter seated Westen also. They each ordered a glass of white wine.
“You look great,” Westen told Smith who—was she blushing?
“You clean up pretty good yourself.”
“Thanks.” Westen had dug into her closet to find a pastel blue gown she’d worn to the opening of a musical a few years ago. By anyone else’s standards, it was way out of style, but she didn’t care. She felt free for the first time in years.
Though, KJ had extended the invitation to dine at Old Europe, she hadn’t arrived yet. Relaxed for the first time in months, Westen leaned back with her wine and took in the softly playing jazz music oozing from unseen speakers.
Next to arrive was Sergeant Bartowski, looking quite fetching in a beige pantsuit with an emerald sequined blouse. She also ordered wine. “Haven’t been here in a long time.”
“How’s the food here, Sergeant?” Smith asked.
“Awesome, and call me Charlene—no, call me Charlie. The last time I was here, was with my husband. We were celebrating our tenth, and last, anniversary.”
“Divorce?” Smith asked.
“No, he was a cop, shot in the line of duty.”
They expressed condolences. “Do you have any kids?”
“Yes. A girl and a boy, both teens, both are a handful since their dad died, but we’re managing. The counseling helps.”
“For you or them?” Smith asked.
“All of us. As you know, Westen, dealing with the death of a loved one is difficult. Probably harder than anything else in life.”
Westen nodded, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. She covered by sipping from the glass.
“Go easy on that stuff,” Smith warned. “Remember last time…” Then she went on to tell about Westen’s adventure in over-imbibing at the Chicago hotel. Then she detailed the arrival of Devon Blake, complete with his colorful vocabulary. They were laughing about the ladies’ choice of weapons when Kendra Jean—wearing a sequined black strapless gown that was definitely not several years old—arrived at the table escorted by none other than Theo Tuttle in a deep gray tuxedo. KJ laid her purse near her placemat.
“Do you mind if Theo joins us?”
All three shook their heads. “Sit yourself down,” Charlie said.
He held the chair for KJ, then drew a chair from a nearby table. He ordered a whiskey sour for both he and KJ.
“You look fabulous, KJ,” Westen said.
They opened menus and ordered: mussels for Smith and Charlie, lamb chops for KJ, sirloin for Theo and grilled mahi mahi for Westen.
KJ unclasped her purse and drew out two envelopes. She passed one each to Smith and Westen. “With my infinite thanks.”
Westen opened the envelope without tearing the flap. She drew out a check. And blinked three times to bring the five and six zeroes into focus. Westen couldn’t help it; she burst into tears. Someone pressed a wad of tissues into her hand. When she finally got hold of herself, she realized the strong, staid Smith was crying also.
“This is smashing. Just smashing,” Smith said. “What a kick in the asteroid.”
“What are you going to do with the money?” Charlie asked.
“Buy a penthouse apartment,” Westen said. “With a view of the city.”
“New recaps,” Smith joked, then sobered. “Forgot…my car was repossessed last week. So, I guess a chauffeured limousine is on the agenda.”
Westen wasn’t sure whether she was serious or not. Knowing Smith, she could be. “Who’re you getting to drive it, Daniel Craig or David Beckham?”
Charlie shouted, “Daniel Craig, double oooo seven, hands down.”
Smith waved the check. “Hey, how much of this do we have to give Uncle Sam?”
“Thirty-five percent here in New Hampshire,” KJ said. “I checked for you.”
“Thirty-five per—”
“Smith. That means we keep almost three million five hundred thousand dollars apiece. I think I can live with that.” Westen sniffled, sat back and listened to the conversation, content to remain be on the outside.
“By the way,” KJ took hold of Theo’s hand, “this afternoon Knox and Kerrington were arrested here in New Hampshire.”
“I bet they were here to pick up the trailers,” Smith said.
“Right,” Charlene said.
“I have a computer guy who does research for me.” This from KJ. “He heard a rumor that a collector in California was preparing for the painting’s arrival.”
“How much you want to bet, that’s where their next trip was headed?”
“I bet you’re right.”
Just then two things happened. Their salads arrived and KJ’s phone rang. Westen tried to concentrate on the fresh, crispy greens and not listen in on her conversation, which she held while leaning her head on Theo’s shoulder. Westen was successful minding her own business, at least till KJ said, “Yes, I remember the vase. It was worth a million and a half… What do you mean it’s missing?”
A word about the author...
Cindy Davis resides in the green/white/brown—depending on the season—state of New Hampshire, where she spends most of her time at the computer either editing or writing. When she’s finally released upon society, to autograph her latest book, present a workshop, or research the next in the Angie Deacon series—heaven help the people she meets. Shutting her up becomes tantamount to stopping a volcano!
Personally, she’s addicted to coffee—particularly raspberry chocolate flavor. And don’t anyone dare get between her and her life-loves Ben & Jerry. Other than that, she’s pretty laid back. You’d have to be, with 11 kids and 36 grandkids.
Visit her at:
www.cdavisnh.com
and www.fiction-doctor.com
Thank you for purchasing
this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.