Here Comes Trouble (24 page)

“Malcolm?” Morgan circled from behind him, her expression guarded as she approached, glancing over her shoulder as she stooped down and touched his shoulder. “I saw you disappear and wondered . . . was that Josh?” The worry in her eyes, the sympathy she couldn’t cover in a gaze that looked so much like Sheila he could barely look at her.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and pushed himself up, the tingling in his hands and feet making him stumble. “Yeah, and good news. The tests came back fine,” he lied. “All clear.”

“Oh.” Morgan popped up beside him, tears springing into her eyes as she threw her arms around him. “Oh, thank God.” She rocked him from side to side as he told himself he’d done the right thing. “Now we really have something to celebrate.” She laughed, let out a long breath. “Oh, that’s such a relief. This calls for more champagne. Come on.” She grabbed his wrist and dragged him back to the party, back to the family that had embraced him as one of their own.

To the family he could never have.

Sheila wasn’t sure what made her more nervous, the auction or the theft. Right about now they were dead even, excitement and anxiety racing like runaway horses in her belly as Friday afternoon slammed into her.

“Okay, let’s get the bar service set up in the west corner of the gallery, please. Liza, can you make sure they have everything they need?” Sheila waved her toward the group of three bartenders at the far end of the gallery, breathing a sigh of relief as she saw the crates of wine and champagne being wheeled in.

As relieved as she was to have the center’s construction behind them, everything else had moved into warp speed. She was getting by on endless cups of coffee, maple bars from the Doh!Knot, and two surprisingly frenzied and sleep-deprived nights with Malcolm. No wonder she needed the sugar.

Something had jump-started him energy wise, but neither of them had brought up the possibility of her moving to San Francisco again. She wished she hadn’t said anything at all given he’d all but shut her out for a while, but he seemed to have moved past it now, which might give her a little maneuvering room when it came to his date of departure. Made it easier to fit into her schedule even as she wished, something, anything, would change his mind.

“Dad, there you are.” Sheila marked another point off her checklist as her father strode into the gallery.

“Sorry we’re late,” Jackson said. “Ran into some traffic on the way. I have your mother’s paintings crated in the back of the SUV. Is there someone who can give me a hand?”

“Sure.” Sheila snagged two of the gallery employees and sent them with her father. When they returned they were carrying four boxes between them.

“Great, bring those over here.” She waved the new arrivals over to the spaces next to the two paintings she’d copied in the far end of the gallery that was cordoned by the display walls and monitored by only one camera. “Just stack them here for now. Careful,” she murmured and took a deep breath. So far so good. “Dad, Nathan’s running through a final check of the security system up there on the second floor.” She pointed toward the staircase beside the hall where the bathrooms were located. “He asked if you could join him and Chadwick for a few minutes. Shouldn’t be more than
nine
minutes at most.”

“Understood.” She glanced up at the blinking red light on the camera overlooking the area—number nine—and moved away. With the caterers busy setting up the bar and the majority of the staff in a meeting with the owner, the gallery was as empty as it was going to be for the rest of the day. She set her tablet down on one of the café pedestal tables and sipped at her coffee, slipping out of her shoes as she waited for the all-clear.

“Come on,” she whispered, tempted to tap her foot as the time she’d need to switch the paintings ticked away. The red light flashed, flashed. And went dark.

She dashed across the floor and stooped down, popped off the first lid thanks to the temporary adhesive, and lifted the copied watercolor out from the padding of raffia and leaned it against the display. She pulled down the original and placed it in the box, hung the forgery in place. Lid back on, she set the box aside and repeated the process with painting number two.

Chadwick’s cheapness when it came to reframing some of the paintings had worked in her favor. She checked the camera, and felt her pulse kick into overdrive. “Dammit.” She pulled out two labels from her pocket and lined them up, covering the original and then unpacked the two paintings from her mother’s collection that they’d be including in the auction.

She was pulling them out of their crates when Malcolm poked his head around the corner. “All good?”

“All good.” Sweat dotted her forehead as she hefted the paintings onto their hooks. She fanned her face, let out a long breath as the camera light blinked back on. “Thanks. Just one last thing. Um, excuse me?” She leaned around the corner of the display and waved the deliverymen over. “I’m sorry. These two should have gone to my father’s office, Tremayne Investments and Securities.” She gestured to the re-labeled boxes and accepted murmured apologies. She let out a long, controlled breath as the real paintings were carried out the front door and she put her shoes back on. The rest would be up to Nathan.

“How do you do this without having a heart attack?” Malcolm asked.

“By imagining the look on your father’s face when he finds out these are fakes,” she said. “Trust me, it helps.”

“Why do you think I’m here? I’m not about to miss any part of this show. The gala will be a breeze after tonight.”

She didn’t want to think about the gala. Or what came after. “So your visit has nothing to do with me?” She batted her lashes at him.

“What do you think?” He moved in and kissed her until her face flushed hot. “Any sign of Levia’s painting yet?”

“They’ll be here soon,” she murmured and wiped her lipstick from his mouth with her thumb. “Here he comes.” She patted his cheek. “Play nice. I know you’re feeling the rush of the headlines about him losing the company, but we’re almost at the finish line. Chadwick, how did the security check go?” She stepped away from Malcolm toward his father. “Are you satisfied with Nathan’s setup?”

“More than,” Chadwick said as Jackson stepped into the gallery behind him. Chadwick’s tone might have been approving, but his cautious attention was fixed on his son as Malcolm came up behind Sheila and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I assume you’ll be attending this evening, Malcolm?”

“At Gran’s invitation, yes. Someone should be with her as you’re selling off her legacy. Since you don’t have one any longer.”

“Malcolm,” Sheila warned. The last thing she needed was an altercation right now.

“Don’t bother playing peacemaker, Sheila,” Malcolm said with more bravado than she remembered him displaying around his father before. “Dad and I understand each other now, don’t we, Dad?”

“Definitely,” Chadwick confirmed in a tone that chilled Sheila’s blood.

“I believe someone’s trying to get your attention.” Jackson coughed and gestured to the gawky bespectacled man who had just entered the gallery’s front door. Tall with muddied blond hair and wearing a plaid jacket Sheila was certain had gone out of style soon after disco died, the new arrival backed away from the workmen carrying part of the shelving for the bar, knocked into one of the walls, and did a spin and stumble that had Sheila scrambling forward to avert disaster.

“Can I help you, Mr.—”

“Oh, hello.” He pushed thick-rimmed glasses up his nose as he reached into his pocket for a wrinkled handkerchief seconds before he sneezed into it. “S-sorry. Allergies.” He squinted and peered at her. “I’m Thomas Brosnan. I was asked to come and give a final check to Mr. Oliver’s auction pieces.” He sneezed again, wiped his nose, and shook his head. “Are you Miss Tremayne?” He offered his hand, and Sheila hesitated before taking it. Funny how often beauty pageant poise came in handy. Now all she needed was some hand sanitizer.

“I am, yes. How can I be of assistance? Oh, Chadwick. Excellent. This is the insurance inspector you requested, Mr. Brosnan.”

“Pleasure.” Mr. Brosnan sneezed again and had to push his glasses up. Chadwick ignored his offered hand. “I, uh. I’m happy to get started. Would you like me to examine all of the paintings?” He headed for what Sheila called Alcina’s seascape. “By all means, please join me.”

Sheila couldn’t remember Chadwick looking so put off, but he was trying to cover. “Well, I—”

“Why don’t you let me?” Jackson offered. “After all, I owe you a favor for including some of Catherine’s work in your auction, and I don’t have to be at the office for the rest of the day.”

The look of relief on Chadwick’s face almost broke through Sheila’s mask of professionalism. “I would appreciate that, Jackson, thank you.”

“You’d think he’d been released from a leper colony,” Malcolm muttered, and Sheila elbowed him in the chest. She gave her father a wide-eyed look and smiled when he winked. He really did enjoy the subterfuge of Nemesis.

“If anything is amiss, I’ll let you know,” Sheila offered as she escorted Chadwick out of the gallery. “We’ll be seeing you around three, correct, for the final delivery?”

“Yes, although it won’t be necessary for Mr. Brosnan to inspect those. They’re insured by another company.”

“I understand. We’ll see you in a bit.” Sheila spun back into the gallery as her father joined Mr. Brosnan as he inspected the paintings. So far so good. Or so she hoped. But she wasn’t going to breathe easy again until this was all over and Levia’s painting was back where it belonged.

***

“Good evening, gentlemen. Mrs. Filderbach.” Sheila stood at the gallery door welcoming the guests as they began pouring in. At just after six, she had yet to see Levia’s painting in person, and the itch was getting tougher to ignore. Chadwick had been true to his word when it came to overseeing the installation of the last three works, including escorting his advance bidders into the room himself when they’d arrived a half hour ago, just after the fake Mr. Brosnan had given his approval of the entire collection.

She nodded a polite greeting to Evan Marshall, the district attorney, along with the police chief and a select few other law enforcement officials and politicians. A nice full house for what she hoped would be a scandalous evening. The gossip was already swirling what with word of Oliver Technologies having been bought out by the “oh so impressive” TIN. The press release in this morning’s paper had been pure genius for what it didn’t say.

“Those three buyers Chadwick has in the show room are Antony DeLuca, Benjamin Aiken, and a Yuri Dubrov,” Nathan said in her ear via Bluetooth. “I’m running a check on the last two, but DeLuca is mobbed up and partial to blondes, so watch your back and your backside. What are the chances you’ll get in there anytime soon?”

“The way things are going, I’ll grow wings first,” Sheila murmured.

Her father was doing a bang-up job of keeping Mr. Brosnan entertained after suggesting to an irritated Chadwick they invite the appraiser to stay. They’d need him later.

“Personal service, Sheila.” Nathan said. “That’s what Chadwick’s paid for, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” She shook hands and pointed potential bidders in the right direction and toward the bar when she could. The more they drank, the higher they’d bid. And she wanted the bidding high enough to catch everyone—especially the media’s—attention. “Malcolm, I see your grandmother and Ty heading in. Liza,” she called, and Liza, wearing a slim black dress similar to Sheila’s, scooted over. “Can you take over for me? Just guide them where they want to go, and if they don’t know, the bar is best.”

“Okay.” Liza nodded and turned in time to greet Mrs. Stark, wife of one Senator Alan Stark. Sheila was almost giddy at the prospect of tomorrow’s headlines.

“Dad?” Sheila pressed her earpiece harder into her ear as she maneuvered her way through the crowd, catching glimpses of representatives from most of the wealthy families in Lantano Valley. “Is everything ready on your end?”

“Just give me the word,” Jackson said, and Sheila didn’t care for the tension in her father’s normally calm voice.

“Four glasses of the Cristal, please.” Sheila tapped her hand on the bar counter as she signaled one of the bartenders. “A tray, too, if you don’t mind. Right away?”

Unease pricked at her like she was a voodoo doll. Tray in hand, she walked the perimeter of the room, listening for smatterings of comments and conversations she might put to use at a later time. The private showroom door came into view. Nothing like overstepping her bounds as the event planner, but this was one area in which she had the utmost confidence in herself. Not to mention the gullibility of the male species.

Making a cautious play, instead of keying in the code, she knocked on the door. Chadwick’s face was far from friendly when he pushed it open.

“Yes?”

“I thought your guests would like a drink.” Sheila offered him the tray. “I’ve found a good glass of champagne makes the evening a bit brighter.” She lowered her voice. “And more lucrative.”

Just when she thought Chadwick would close the door in her face, a fortysomething man with dark eyes and black-blue hair moved into view, his impeccable Armani suit making him look as posh as possible. “This must be Miss Tremayne.” He held out his hand and drew her inside. “Just the light we were looking for to set this room aglow. You, my dear, are more than welcome.”

“Thank you. Cristal, gentlemen?” She didn’t miss the chuff of frustration from Chadwick as he closed the door. “Chadwick, nearly all your guests have arrived. We’ll be starting the bidding in a few minutes.”

“Excellent. That gives us time to conclude our business. Antony DeLuca,” the dark haired man said and captured her hand in his as she tucked the now empty tray under her arm. “This is Mr. Aiken and Mr. Dubrov. We are business associates of Mr. Oliver.”

“Pleasure to meet all of you. I’ll just— Oh.” She gasped, brought her fingers to her throat and tapped at her pulse. “Oh, they’re stunning. Chadwick. No wonder you wanted these kept under wraps.” The three paintings were lined up bang, bang, bang.
Paris at Midnight
in what was obvious SanSere’s unique impressionistic style, a Vermeer-inspired still life, and, there, in the center. Tears scorched her throat. Levia’s family.

She forgot where she was, lost in the young face she only remembered as an old woman. An old woman whose family only existed in this painting.

“It’s said the artist died during the war,” Tony DeLuca said. “An unknown family portrait Mr. Oliver says has been in his family for decades.”

“It’s stunning.” Her eyes glanced across the streaks of brown and gold, the thread-thin silver highlights in Levia’s mother’s hair, the slight blush in the cheeks of both Abrams girls. And there, in the baby brother’s eyes, the unmistakable innocence that had fallen victim to evil. “Chadwick, I had no idea.”

“Yes, well, I believe these pieces have found the right homes.”

“They’re worth a small fortune, for sure. I’d heard of Mr. Abrams’ works, but I wasn’t aware any had survived the war. SanSere’s
Paris
was thought to have been taken to Germany after his deportation, you know.” Final confirmation to Nathan. “Gentlemen, I envy you. These will be excellent additions to any collection. And a very opportune investment.”