“I have been thinking...”
She didn’t speak, couldn’t help him with this conversation.
“I’ve been thinking about…”
If he was going to add only one word each time, she would never get home.
Oh, what difference did that make? All she’d do was sit around lamenting the events of the day, front and center of which would probably be Grady’s momentous news.
Somebody knocked on the front door.
“Ignore them, they’ll come back in the morning.” People often tried to get them to open after hours.
When several seconds passed without him speaking or any further knocking, Westen helped hurry-up the situation. “Grady, we’ve known each other a long time. Treat bad news like a bandage—just yank it off. In the end, it’ll hurt a lot less.”
“You’re right of course. It’s just that—”
More knocking. This time louder.
Grady opened his mouth but before he could get a word out, the knocking turned to pounding, and shouting. Westen couldn’t understand what the person was saying given the thick glass, long hallway, and shelves of inventory.
“Maybe the place is on fire or something,” Grady said.
The way things had been going, it wouldn’t be a surprise. At least
that
insurance was paid. “Guess we’d better go see.”
They hurried to the front. Westen nearly groaned seeing Kendra Jean Valentine standing on the sidewalk. She looked angry.
Chapter Seven
Westen sent Grady home with an apology and a promise they’d speak first thing in the morning. Load off his mind, he left for the back door with a jaunty step that again reminded Westen of the Bavarian band.
Though preferring to stay and listen to the entertainment in her head, she succumbed to KJs incessant pounding and unlocked the door. KJ burst into the building. Westen stepped back to avoid being hit by fallout. KJ took hold of her sleeve. “Come.” Not one to take orders with an easy grace, Westen yanked her sleeve from KJ’s grasp. Kendra Jean wasn’t giving up so easily. So she got a better grip and pulled again. “Come on. I have to show you something.”
Westen gave one final yank and took back possession of her shirt. “Stop it.”
“Westen, you have to be at the airport in thirty-six minutes.”
“Airp— You beanbag, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Just come on, I’ll explain on the way.” KJ snatched Westen’s jacket and handbag from the counter, then pushed, shoved, and nudged her—which wasn’t that difficult since Westen had lost more than thirty pounds since Ben’s death—out onto the sidewalk. KJ stopped shoving long enough to let her lock the door and set the alarm. Then she took hold of Westen’s arm again and propelled her into a waiting cab.
They shot into the approaching evening in the direction of Manchester. “Just where do you think you’re hijacking me to?” Westen said, once she caught her breath.
“I figured out how this can work. The flight leaves in an hour.”
“I thought you needed two hours to check in.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Kendra Jean, I
am
worried about it. I spent my whole time in high school with you manipulating me.” The word manipulating seemed nicer than the one she’d been thinking—torturing. “I’m not letting it happen again.”
“This isn’t the same thing.”
“No? Seems to me this is all for your benefit, just like back then. Cheating to become valedictorian. Lying to steal the quarterback. What will I get out of this deal?”
“Lots and lots of money.”
“What about my shop? I have a busin—”
“Taken care of,” KJ said. “Brady—is that his name?—is happy to watch the place till you get back.”
“His name’s Grady and that’s not fair to him.”
“He’s fine with it. I already spoke to him.”
Was that why he wanted to talk to her? “You have a lot of explaining to do before you’ll get me on a plane. Where is this plane going anyway?”
“Chicago, of course. You’re booked at the Hilton. It’s all paid.”
KJ must have fallen in the deep end of the pool and got water on the brain. What in the world was Westen supposed to do in Chicago? Even if she had the names of people involved, what was supposed to compel them to talk to her? She wasn’t the sort of person to whom people talked freely. Usually, they presented a blank-faced stare—unless they wanted to relate the details of their pet’s demise.
For the first time since Ben’s death, Westen wished she was in the pet shop. Dealing with creditors was, at the moment, more appealing than speeding down the highway in this cab. Newly budding trees zipped by like a fast-forwarded video.
Why hadn’t KJ targeted Phoebe Smith for this expedition? Her personality was much more suited to investigating. She was outgoing and didn’t hesitate to speak her mind. Though Westen could imagine she might alienate people, and she might have to get physical, she
would
get information. Kendra Jean was a lot of negative things, but she was intelligent. She would’ve known that about Smith. So, why had the colorful woman apparently been left out of KJ’s plans?
Unless Smith refused to come.
Which is what she should’ve done. Instead, she’d allowed herself to be manhandled and, well…the word kidnapped came to mind.
She didn’t get a chance to ask any of the gridlock of questions clogging her head; the cab skidded to a stop in front of the terminal. Westen checked her watch. A trip that during rush hour took forty-five minutes had been made as if the roads were empty.
KJ flung open the taxi door and leaped out. She stood tapping her foot while Westen inched herself across the seat and out onto the sidewalk. Again, Westen’s hand was grasped as if she was a belligerent child, and she was hauled to the United check-in desk. The boarding pass was shoved at the woman behind the counter.
“Do you have any luggage?” the woman asked.
“Apparently not.” She asked KJ, “Do I?”
KJ crammed a manila envelope—probably the one from the diner that morning—into Westen’s hand. “I put in a cell phone. I figured you didn’t have one.”
Westen took offense to the comment but there was no time to call her on it. She wedged the envelope into her handbag.
Next, a white #10 envelope, bulging at the seams, sealed and with a red rubber band, was pressed into her fingers. “I scrounged together ten thousand dollars. It’s the last money I have.”
Should this make her feel guilty?
“Buy clothes, beg, bribe—do whatever you have to with it, but find that painting.”
Westen fit the envelope in her bag. When she looked up, KJ was gone. Beyond the crowd out on the sidewalk, the cab was gone too. She blew the air out of her lungs and accepted the boarding pass back from the woman.
“You’d better hurry. They’re boarding.”
So Westen located the sign for Gate #7 and took off at a gallop, ousting from her mind the picture of a thirty-eight year old woman, slipping and stumbling on the shiny floors, and only wearing two-inch heels.
They were announcing last call for boarding. Westen slid to a stop near the cord boundary. She shoved the pass at the young man. He gave it a cursory glance and waved her out the door.
Seat 23B—toward the middle. She wondered if whoever had the window seat would trade. She hated spending a whole flight dodging elbows. Westen located the seat and slipped into it. She buckled up. Once they were in the air she leaned the seat back and closed her eyes. Seemed like just minutes later, she was being jostled awake by elbows on either side.
It was 7:45. No luggage at least meant she didn’t have any delays. Get to the hotel bar to relax with a bowl of pasta and the massive amount of information KJ had supplied. Had to give the hijacker credit there—if nothing else, she was thorough.
Westen exited the debarking area. Somebody touched her arm. Her first thought: damn, KJ came along. But it wasn’t Kendra Jean; it was a gorgeous blond-haired man. Instinct took over. She lurched away, clutching her handbag to her chest just before realizing she should’ve swung it at him instead.
“Mrs. Hughes?” the man asked in a voice more suited to nighttime radio.
“Who wants to know?”
“KJ sent me. I’ll be your driver for the time you’re here.”
“Driver?”
He performed an elaborate bow. “At your service, m’lady,” which made them both laugh.
Boy, KJ had thought of everything.
Westen fell into step beside him. They headed outdoors where a white Ford Fusion sat at the curb. He opened the rear passenger door and Westen slid inside. Once he’d buckled himself in the driver’s seat, she said, “Home, James,” to which he replied, “My name is Ryan. Ryan Ames.”
“Home, Ryan.”
Moments later, he stopped in front of the hotel, turned in his seat and asked when she’d need him again.
“Would it be all right if I contacted you first thing in the morning? I’ll know better then.”
“Works for me. My number is programmed into the phone KJ gave you.”
“Can I ask a question? How well do you know Kendra Jean?”
His blue eyes rounded. “Kendra Jean?”
Westen laughed. “I guess that answers the question, doesn’t it?”
He got out of the car and raced to open her door. “I’d carry your luggage but it looks like you’re traveling light. I like a woman who’s not tied to all that makeup and frilly stuff.”
Westen checked in, refused an escort to the room and headed for the bar where she ordered the much-craved spaghetti with alfredo sauce, garlic bread, and an iced tea with extra ice. She deposited the thick manila envelope on the table. Where to start? Best place was probably to begin where KJ had—the curator of the museum. Westen dug till she found his personal information.
Charles Fenwick had worked for the museum for more than twenty years, named unanimously by the board upon the retirement of long-time curator Kenneth Albion.
Fenwick studied archaeology at Dickinson in Pennsylvania but while doing fieldwork in Greece, it was learned he had an allergy to dirt. Dirt? Apparently, Mr. Fenwick had allergies, potentially debilitating ones, to many things. In spite of that, he went on to earn a degree in anthropology.
While in the employ of the museum, he’d been responsible for many new programs. He was also responsible for bringing in millions in endowments.
He was originally from Dallas. Parents still alive and still married. One brother, one sister. Charles Fenwick had been married and divorced twice.
Kendra Jean had provided a personal aside: He’s a little full of himself. Asked me out and acted miffed when I told him I was seeing someone. Prior to that he was very agreeable. He helped above and beyond what I expected to make this showing move forward. He was in personal touch with both Henderson McGee and Russell Batchelder—the curators of the other two museums—to facilitate the transfer of the Picasso. Fenwick had recommended the trucking company as one they’d used numerous times, though admittedly not with so valuable an item.
Westen felt a yawn coming on. She tried, and failed, to stifle it.
When the waiter asked if she wanted dessert, she requested it be sent, along with a pot of coffee, to her room. She gathered the reading material, fitted it into the envelope, and signed the check.
Most times, she’d take the stairs, but exhaustion made her step into the elevator. It let her out on the fourth floor. Based on the room numbers near the elevator, her room was to the right, and fifth on the left.
Westen slid the door key into the slot and waited for the red light to turn green. Nothing. Figured. She made sure the arrows on the key were aimed in the right direction and tried again. This time she was rewarded with a flashing green invitation to enter.
Westen pushed open the door. A hand gripping a hairdryer shot out. Westen lurched away. She struck her elbow on the doorframe and tumbled to the carpet with a wail that had to be heard on the ground floor.
Chapter Eight
KJ rarely spent time in the office. About three days a week, on the way to breakfast, she stopped in, picked up phone calls and messages, then went out on the road to visit customers or drum up new accounts. She was one of the most successful agents in the firm. Checking in had never been an issue. Till now. Suddenly Sam was over-the-top worried when he hadn’t spoken to her in a few hours. Of course. He was worried she’d taken the painting in spite of his assurances that he had full faith and trust in her. Worried she’d abscond with it to—wherever.
She couldn’t blame him. If she owned the company and this had happened to one of her agents,
and
her superiors were banging on her doors, she’d be frantic trying to make sense of it all. If keeping tabs on said agent would help her 1-feel better, or 2-find the missing item, then she’d be on it like mold on month-old bread.
KJ had left the meeting with Westen and Smith, optimism surging through her body. No way would he turn down her request to add the two women to the investigation. Sam had to be up against a wall with his superiors. He’d welcome any help finding it, especially since he didn’t have to pay them unless they found the painting. Sure, the payout at ten percent of the insured amount of a hundred million was a ton of money, but only one payout would be issued.
The locksmith had just left her apartment. She fitted the new keys on the key ring and dropped it in her purse. Wait till Brett tried to get back in. And he would. No doubt about that.
To KJ’s detriment, she was a routine kind of girl. She liked things structured, predictable. She liked Picassos to remain in their places. That anal part of her nature would make it easy for Brett to catch up with her at some point. To avoid that would require major changes to her regular routines.
One problematic and regrettable change to the schedule was her morning workout. She’d have to switch gyms since she and Brett had frequently worked out together. She loved that gym and the people who worked there. On top of that, KJ had recently purchased a lifetime membership. With any luck this change would be temporary—till she could get Brett permanently out of the picture. There was a new place across town; she’d phone later.
But, first things first. KJ beelined for work to make the proposal to Sam. And stopped on the sidewalk near the library. Cliff Barnett would be in the office. He didn’t go out on the road to pick up clients unless specifically ordered to. KJ decided it would be wise to call ahead. She ducked into the library’s vestibule, out of the rush of pedestrians and drew the phone from the compartment in her handbag.