“We were wondering where you were,” Davy said as she came through the door and Steve sat up and wagged his tail.

“Working,” Tilda said. “Remember me, Matilda Veronica, Mural Painter? That’s what pays the bills here, boy.” She made kissing noises at Steve. “Hi, puppy.”

“That would be Veronica the control-freak bitch you mentioned last night?” Davy said, trying to imagine her making kissing noises in leather. It was surprisingly easy. He patted the bed beside him. “Come and talk to me about these paintings.”

“It’s all in the notes.” She sat down beside him and Steve climbed into her lap and sighed with happiness. “The first one was the city scene,” she said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “That’s the one Nadine sold to Clea.”

“The one I keep missing,” Davy said, watching Steve stretch his head to meet her fingers.

“The second one was the cows and the third one was the flowers,” Tilda said. “You got those.” She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and smiled at him crookedly, her Kewpie-doll mouth askew, the first real smile she’d ever given him, and he leaned toward her a little because she looked so warm.

“Then there were butterflies,” she said. “Somebody named Susan Frost bought that. She’s in Gahanna.”

“Butterflies,” he said, and wondered what she’d do if he went for that warm place under the curve of her jaw.

“Then mermaids,” she said. “A guy named Robert Olafson got that one. He lives in Westerville.”

Maybe he wouldn’t wait until he had all the paintings. Maybe-

“And the last one, which I can’t believe he sold, is dancers,” Tilda said. “That one went to Mr. and Mrs. John Brenner.”

“Why can’t you believe he sold it?” Davy said, enjoying the energy in her voice. “This is your dad we’re talking about, right?”

“Because it was smeared,” Tilda said. “It was damaged. But my dad sold it anyway.”

She looked unhappy, so Davy changed the subject. “Okay, today we get the butterflies.”

“Can’t we do them all today?” Tilda said. “Can’t we just go buy them back?”

“Sure,” Davy said. “Unless they don’t want to sell. Or they want more than we have to spend. Let’s take our time and do it right.”

“Oh.” Tilda swallowed. “I thought… well, that you could do anything.”

“ ‘You rush a miracle man,’” Davy said,“ ‘you get rotten miracles.’”

She pushed her glasses back up again. “So what do we do if they don’t want to sell?”

“We convince them,” Davy said cheerfully.

Tilda’s face changed.

“What?” Davy said.

“You sound like… somebody I used to know,” Tilda said.

“Your dad,” Davy said.

“No,” Tilda said, but she was lying. She really was a terrible liar.

“Who forged the Scarlets, Tilda?”

“The Scarlets aren’t forgeries,” Tilda said, rising. “But we need to get them back anyway.”

“Okay,” Davy said, rolling off the bed. “Try not to kick anybody this time.”

“Oh, God, I’m trying to forget that,” Tilda said, wincing. “That guy’s probably okay, right?”

“I didn’t see anything in the paper,” Davy said. “And he’s not exactly in a position to whine. He was breaking in, too. He probably came to and got out of there.”

“Right.” Tilda opened the bedroom door, leaving Steve disconsolate on the bed. “You sure you know how to do this?”

“Oh, yeah,” Davy said. “I know exactly how to do this.”

DOWNSTAIRS IN the gallery, Pippy Shannon sang “He Is,” the phone rang, and Gwen discovered to her disgust that the answer to M, “sweetheart,” was “tootsy wootsy.” “Goodnight Gallery,” she said, still frowning at the puzzle book.

“Gwen? This is Mason Phipps.”

“Oh.” Gwen shut the puzzle book and tried to sound bright and innocent. “Hello.”

“I wanted to thank you for last night.”

“Oh, my pleasure,” Gwen lied. “Really. Like old times.”

“I’d like to show my gratitude by taking you to a late lunch tomorrow,” Mason said. “You can get away from the gallery on Sunday, can’t you?”

I’ll never get away from the gallery. “I don’t know-”

“I would truly appreciate it if you’d join me, say about two?”

Gwen thought she heard some vulnerability in his voice. The poor man was living with Clea. That could leave anybody flayed and bleeding.

But he’d want to talk about Tony, On the other hand, if she didn’t eat lunch with him, she’d be eating it with a Double-Crostic. “Tell me an eight-letter word for ‘capable of sin’ and I’ll go.”

“All right,” Mason said, sounding taken aback. “Any other clues?”

“Begins with P, ends in E.”

“Give me a minute,” he said, and there was a smile in his voice, and she thought, This is a nice guy. I should go to lunch.

“It couldn’t possibly be ‘peccable,’ could it?” he said finally.

“Peccable?”

“You know, as in ‘impeccable,’ only the opposite?”

Gwen opened the crostic book. “Hang on.” She filled in the letters and then transferred them to the quote squares. “I’ll be damned.”

“That’s it?” Mason said.

“I’ll also be having lunch with you,” Gwen said, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “I can’t believe you got that. Because I was never going to.”

“I was motivated,” Mason said, the smile in his voice growing bigger.

“You are my hero,” she said.

They talked about Double-Crostics for a while, and he thanked her again for the night before, and when she finally hung up the phone, she was looking forward to seeing him again. I wonder if that’s a date, she thought.

It’s just lunch. But Clea isn’t coming along. I wonder…

The door opened as Pippy did her big finish, and Gwen saw Ford Brown, now forever a cowboy in her mind with the soundtrack to match: Do not forsake me, oh, my darling. “Oh,” she said to him, trying to ignore the music in her head. “Is everything all right upstairs?”

“It’s fine.” He looked around the gallery. “Nice place.”

Gwen looked around at the dingy walls and cracked window and dull wood floors. “Uh-huh.”

His lips twitched in that not-grin again. “I was being polite.”

“That only works when there’s some possibility it might be true,” Gwen said, wondering what he was up to. She hadn’t known him long, but she knew he was being abnormally chatty.

“So why isn’t it?” He wandered past the Finsters, his hands in his pockets.

“What? Nice?” Gwen shrugged. “No money.”

Ford stopped at the cracked window. “Wouldn’t take that much.”

“Are you a contractor?” Gwen said.

“You could say that.” Ford turned back to her. “I was heading for lunch. What’s your favorite restaurant?”

“Lunch,” Gwen said.

Ford nodded patiently. “You tell me where the best place to eat is, I’ll pay you back by bringing you lunch.”

“Do I look hungry or something?” Gwen said. “Because you’re the second guy who’s offered to feed me in fifteen minutes.”

“People eat,” Ford said. “Usually about this time. Even in Florida.”

“Imagine that. I figured you all lived on the fruit in the drinks with the little umbrellas.”

“What is it with you and the umbrellas?” Ford said.

“Just looking for a way out of the rain.” Gwen went back to her Double-Crostic. “Try the Fire House. Great seafood. You’ll feel right at home.”

An hour later he brought her back a piña colada with an umbrella in it. “Extra fruit,” he said when he put it on the counter. Then he went upstairs.

“Damn,” Gwen said, surprised, and tasted it.

It was delicious.

WHEN DAVY and Tilda got into Jeff’s car that afternoon, Davy said, “Here’s the way this goes. When we get there, I go to the door. You watch me. You will stay in the car, unless I do one of three things, then you come up with me.”

“Three things,” Tilda said.

“If I motion you up and call you Betty,” Davy said, “be a ditz. I’m the one in charge, I’ll patronize you a little bit while you search through your purse.”