Colda clasped and unclasped his hands, turning desperate eyes on Brooke. “I tried to warn you. I left the pawn on your pillow.”
Victor could not believe what he was hearing. Brooke clasped her aunt’s arm. “Tell me he’s lying.”
She studied Brooke for a long moment before she sighed. “I never meant for your father to be blamed, Brooke. I arranged the burglary using your father’s codes, but I counted on Lock taking the fall. He was the head curator.” She gripped Brooke’s hand. “Really, I never meant to hurt your father. Colda’s suicide note should have cleared him.”
Vaguely Victor became aware of a slight movement in the outer office. Luca and Stephanie. He wanted to keep Denise talking before anything could distract her from telling the whole truth. “We didn’t miss the authentication paper in Colda’s place, did we? You planted that to keep me on the case.”
“Lock wouldn’t have let us back into the tunnels without you.” Denise shook her head. “It was too good to be true, when your father found that Tarkenton. Imagine how I felt when I discovered he’d sent it away for appraisal without my consent. A priceless treasure like that, shipped off to a worm like Colda after the years I’d spent helping Donald.”
Brooke’s expression was stark. “You ruined my father, and you left Colda for dead.”
“What about Fran?” Victor said.
“Who?”
“The woman killed in my office.”
Denise waved a hand. “That was an accident. I didn’t want anyone else looking for that painting so I paid Stryker to scare you, Brooke. I knew he was an idiot when I met him in San Francisco, but he was desperate for the money. I didn’t dream he would actually shoot someone.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. “He killed two people. My wife died outside the museum when Stryker was getting away with the sketches.”
Denise shook her head. “That was an accident, too.”
An accident for which he’d blamed the wrong man. He looked to Brooke, wishing he could whisk her away from this scene. Her world was being turned upside down one more time. The pain and betrayal showed in the agony on her face.
He took one step toward her when Denise turned the tables, pulling a gun from her pocket and circling behind Colda. “I found this in the tunnels, so I took if for safety’s sake. I’m sorry. I really am.”
TWENTY-TWO
B
rooke felt as though she was trapped in a nightmare. “I thought I knew you.”
Denise pressed the gun to Colda’s temple. “Knew me? You knew me as the washed-up aunt who never made anything of herself. I had dreams, Brooke. Like you I had dreams of becoming something. I lost out on college, lost my baby. It was all taken from me, so I tried to take some of it back.”
“By stealing,” Victor snapped. “You ruined Brooke’s father.”
Denise’s jaw tightened. “I told you. Lock was supposed to take the blame for that, not Donald. None of that is important. All that matters now is the Tarkenton.”
Brooke hated the look of terror on Colda’s face. Tears leaked out from his eyes.
“Please, stop,” Brooke begged. “Don’t hurt him.”
“I won’t. If he tells me where the Tarkenton is. He came back here to the office for a reason.”
Colda got to his feet, knees shaking visibly. “I can’t,” he said piteously.
“Oh, yes, you can,” Denise said, pushing him with the gun. She followed behind Colda while keeping an eye on Victor and Brooke.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see Victor tense, and she felt his desire to act.
Don’t, Victor.
The thought of him getting shot was too much for her distressed mind.
Colda shuffled to the corner of the office. With a desperate glance at Brooke and Victor, he opened the top lid of the piano, reached in and pulled out a thin, rectangular case.
Denise laughed. “Of course Lock would never find it there. He can’t play a note anymore. How ironic.”
Victor let out a breath. “So all this time, it was right here. It never was in the tunnels at all.”
“It was at first,” Colda said. “But I didn’t dare keep it there long. The conditions might have damaged it.”
Brooke’s mind boggled at the lunacy of it all. Lives risked, ended and thrown away because of a painting, a pretty lady made of pencil and paint.
“Put it on the desk,” Denise commanded. “And open it.”
With trembling fingers, Colda opened the latches on the case and flipped open the lid. They all took a step forward and Brooke saw that this time, the treasure had been found.
The Contemplative Lady
gazed out her window, wistful and lovely, apparently undamaged by her time hidden in the piano.
Denise’s gaze was rapt as she stared at it. “So beautiful,” she breathed.
Victor edged around the side, but she snapped out of her reverie. “No heroics, Mr. Gage.”
Brooke took the opportunity to snatch the painting out of the box.
Both Denise and Colda gasped.
She held it taut, over the top of a chair.
“What are you doing?” Denise gasped. “Be careful.”
“You’re going to put the gun down,” she heard herself say, “or I’m going to put the chair right through the middle of the painting.”
Denise’s eyes widened, then narrowed. She shifted the gun away from Colda and right toward Victor’s heart. “Brooke, you know what you’re holding there. You know your family’s future is in that painting.”
Tears started in her eyes and ran down her face. The words of Matthew 6:21 echoed in her memory. Treasures were not to be found in the things of the world.
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
She knew her aunt’s heart was entwined in the Tarkenton, in the forbidden sketches she’d hidden away. But where was Brooke’s heart? At the moment Denise aimed the gun at Victor, Brooke knew.
Her heart belonged to Victor Gage.
Even though he would never claim it.
Denise gripped the gun tighter and Brooke readied herself to ruin her father’s dream. She raised the painting. Victor, mouth closed in a thin line, eyes burning with intensity, spun around so quickly she almost didn’t see it. His elbow connected with Denise’s ribs. She grunted and stumbled back just as Luca and Stephanie hurtled through the door.
Luca tackled Denise before she could recover her footing. She went down.
Brooke realized she’d been stopped in her effort to ruin the painting. Someone held her arm. She looked up to find Stephanie gently prying her fingers off the frame. Her eyes were gentle. “No need to do that now, Brooke. It’s all over, honey.”
Brooke relinquished her hold on the Tarkenton and stepped back.
It’s all over.
The words brought no comfort. Victor and Luca were pulling Denise to her feet and Colda sat down at the desk, staring at the painting lovingly, as if it were a perfect infant.
Feeling suddenly sick and filled with despair, Brooke ran out of the office. She found herself in the grassy courtyard, heedless of the rain that had begun to fall.
She’d gotten all that she wanted. Her father would be cleared. He would have his Tarkenton. She could go home to Tad and leave San Francisco buried in the fog forever. But grief welled up inside at the thought of all she had lost. Her aunt, her blind trust.
And her heart.
She sank to her knees and gave her tears to God until she found Victor crouched next to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She could not answer.
He reached a hand out to her but stopped before he made contact. “Brooke, I blamed your father. I accused an innocent man and I’m sorry. I am going to offer my apologies in person to him.”
It didn’t seem to matter anymore. The words rolled off her like the falling rain.
He hesitated. “Luca called the police. They’ll be here in a minute.”
She forced herself to answer. “I…I just need some time. To pray.”
He sank to his knees on the grass next to her and took her hand gently in his. “I don’t know how to pray, but I’ll stay with you, if you’ll let me.”
She squeezed his hand and poured out her anguish into the night.
* * *
Victor answered the questions again, settled into his uncomfortable seat at the police station. He caught sight of Brooke, her face pallid, eyes shadowed with fatigue. When Detective Paulson finally released them both, Victor took Brooke’s arm. She felt small and lifeless in his grasp. “It’s late. I’ll take you to Stephanie’s for the night. We can talk in the morning.”
She didn’t respond as he led her out through the waiting area. Tuney was there, gruff and unkempt, eating from a box of animal crackers. He got to his feet. “Hey, Doc. Heard you found your treasure after all,” he said, eyeing Brooke.
“Yeah. And how is it that you’re still a free man after threatening Dean Lock at gunpoint?”
Tuney grinned. “The dean is still hoping to keep his story out of the public eye, so he didn’t press charges. At the least, the guy’s gonna lose his job for sure.” He sobered and reached out a hand to Victor. “I want to thank you. Fran deserved to have her killer caught.”
They shook hands. “I didn’t do much. If Colda hadn’t come back for the Tarkenton, we might never have known Denise was behind everything.” Victor shot a look at Brooke, who had come alive at the mention of Fran’s name.
She suddenly wrapped her arms around the startled Tuney. “I’m sorry my aunt was behind Fran’s death. I’m so, so sorry.”
Tuney’s face softened and he patted her gruffly on the back. “Not your fault, kiddo. Like I said, family can get you into all kinds of trouble.”
She pulled away, face wet with tears, and he gave her another awkward pat. “You’re a good girl. If you ever need help from a crotchety old geezer, let me know. Good luck.” He walked out of the station.
Stephanie took Brooke around the shoulders and led her away. Victor watched them until Luca appeared at his side.
“Satisfied with the case?” Luca said.
Victor shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be? Treasure Seekers has another tally in the win column. Treasure found, bad folks in jail. Good PR.”
Luca was looking at him strangely. “That’s it, then? On to the next case?”
“What more is there?” Brooke was so far away now he could barely see her. So far away. He could still feel her cold hand in his as they sat together on the grass. He’d accused her father. He’d staked four years of life on the need for revenge. Now it had all changed and he felt as though he was in a rudderless boat in a storm-tossed ocean.
The only light in his life had been Brooke Ramsey.
And now, as he strained the darkness to find her, he could not.
* * *
He didn’t sleep; the apartment walls closed in on him like the endless tunnels they’d traversed. Finally, in the bitter hours of the night before the sun rose, he put on his shoes and ran until the fog collected on his hair and his muscles screamed their displeasure. When he could maintain the pace no longer, he walked.
Hours later he did not realize where he’d headed until he found himself wandering the streets of San Francisco’s Valencia corridor at five o’clock in the morning. Thoughts chased themselves around in his head, snatches of conversation with Brooke, the sunshine that seemed trapped in her heart and spirit, her smile that had somehow embedded itself inside him.
Victor was not a sentimental man, not a spiritual or spontaneous man. He was someone who looked for answers and found them, allowed himself to be ruled by reason and research, yet he could not explain why he found himself on the doormat of his sister’s condo on Clinton Park as the sky showed the first blush of morning. He stared at the bell, feeling almost as surprised as Brooke appeared to be when she opened the door to discover him there, sweaty and disheveled. He noted the suitcase in her hand.
“Good morning,” she said, giving him a faint version of the smile that went to the core of him. “I was just on my way to the airport. Luca’s driving me.”
Victor nodded. “How is your father?”
Her smile dimmed. “I reached him by phone but…”
“It would be better to try to explain about your aunt in person.” He saw the sadness rise up in her eyes. “How are you doing with everything?”
“I’m going to have a hard time making sense of it. All the years I believed she was something entirely different than what she turned out to be. I was too trusting. Dumb.”
“No. You loved her. That’s not dumb.”
She didn’t respond at first. “I told him about the Tarkenton, but I’m not sure he understood fully. It may be years before it can be authenticated properly. I’m going to suggest to my father that we donate it to the museum.” She sighed. “I just want my father’s name credited as the one who found it.”
He wasn’t surprised at her decision. “What will you do about your father and Tad?”
“I’m not sure yet. Somehow I’ll figure it out.”
“I’d like to help,” he blurted out so abruptly it made her jump.
“What?”
“I’d like to help you get your father situated with a good team of doctors I know. Help you find a good in-home nurse for Tad. We can sell your story to some magazines and TV if you feel like you can share it.”
A thoughtful expression crossed her face. “That would be painful, but it would allow me to clear my father in the public eye.”
“And I would like to help in the meantime. Get Tad back home until things come together.”
She looked at him closely, a section of freshly washed hair falling across her cheek. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Victor. And I know you feel bad about my father, but I don’t hold a grudge. I really don’t. There’s no need for you to do that.”
“Yes, there is.”
“What reason?”
He felt a mixture of terror and elation bubble inside him. “Something happened to me.”
She put down her suitcase. “Do you want to sit down? You look flushed.”
“No, no.” He began to pace in tight circles as he spoke, willing himself to say the things that were fighting to stay inside. “Brooke, meeting you has changed me. In the years after Jennifer died I felt like my insides turned to stone, and that was just fine by me. It is my natural tendency to be aloof and judgmental and maybe even ruthless.”