Tilda looked at the lovely strong line of his shoulders in the moonlight. “I know,” she said and rolled away from him.

GWEN OPENED the gallery on Wednesday morning, poured herself a cup of coffee, punched up a Shirelles medley on the jukebox, got a pineapple-orange muffin from the bakery bag, took everything out into the gallery to the marble counter and her latest Double-Crostic, and thought, Someday I’m going to die, and my body will still do this. And nobody will notice.

To her right, the sun streamed through the cracked glass pane above the display window, and the loose metal ceiling tile bounced silently in the breeze from the central air, while the Shirelles sang “I Met Him on a Sunday.” She should mention the cracked window to Simon, who’d evidently exhausted the entertainment possibilities of Columbus without Louise, and was now poking around the building, making notes to update the security. “This place is a burglar’s dream,” he’d told her. She’d gestured to the Finsters. “And he’d steal what?”

Davy had been grumpy for the past two days, too, which had to be either his money or Tilda, Gwen wasn’t sure which but she was sure it wasn’t good. “He’s FBI,” Gwen told Tilda. “Make him happy. Whatever it takes.”

“Mother of the Year, you’re not,” Tilda said. He was also spending a lot of time playing pool somewhere with people who had deep pockets. “You could earn a living doing that,” Gwen told him when he came in one night and gave her more muffin money. “And then it wouldn’t be fun anymore,” he said, and went upstairs to Tilda’s room.

And then there was Ford, who had brought her piña coladas every day without once breaking into an expression, although he did stay to talk about the gallery. It was flattering how much he wanted to know about her and sad how little there was to tell. The piña coladas helped ease the shame considerably. She had four umbrellas now, pink, blue, green, and yellow, and she kept them in her pencil holder where she could see them because she figured they were as close as she was ever going to get to blue water and white sand.

That’s pathetic, she thought, which made her think of Mason, who’d called both Monday and Tuesday to thank her for going to lunch and then talked about the gallery wistfully. He was working up to asking her something, and she was pretty sure she knew what it was: he wanted to buy the gallery. Heaven, she thought, except that she couldn’t, so no point in thinking about it. But at least her life was expanding. Now instead of looking forward to a Double-Crostic every day, she could look forward to a Double-Crostic, a phone call from Mason, and a paper umbrella from Ford. “Whoa, Nellie,” she said, “now I’m really getting somewhere,” and slapped open her Double-Crostic book.

By noon, having written in “ophidian” for “snakelike,” “nimiety” for “redundancy,” and “enswathe” for “wrap as a bandage,” she was feeling much better. Of course anybody who would use “dofunny” as an answer for “gadget” was clearly insane, but that was puzzle-makers for you. She was still annoyed with this yahoo for spelling “toffee” with a y. And that “heavily built birds” clue that turned out to be “rough-legged hawks” was just-

“Grandma?”

Gwen looked up from her book. Nadine stood there, looking solemn with Ethan behind her.

“I thought you went to paint the mural with Tilda,” Gwen said.

“I did,” Nadine said. “Yesterday. We painted the under-painting. It was boring so I’m not going to be a muralist.”

“Probably a good idea,” Gwen said. “So now what?”

Nadine looked at Ethan. “Well, Ethan and I were concerned about Mr. Brown.”

“Why?” Gwen said.

“Because Aunt Tilda said he had a fake name,” Nadine said.

“She was kidding,” Gwen said, going back to her Double-Crostic.

“I don’t think so,” Nadine said. “Ethan and I bugged his phone.”

Gwen jerked her head up. “Nadine.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Goodnight,” Ethan said. “We didn’t hurt the phone.”

“It was really easy,” Nadine said. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll be a detective.”

“I’m thinking you’ll go to jail,” Gwen said. “That’s illegal. You stop it right now.”

“We’re not the ones going to jail,” Nadine said, and Ethan nodded. “Not after what we heard.”

“What?” Gwen said, not really wanting to know. She liked those little umbrellas. And the piña coladas were good, too.

“Mr. Brown is a hit man.”

“Oh, hell,” Gwen said, and closed her Double-Crostic book.

“OKAY, EXPLAIN THIS to me again,” Tilda said later that afternoon when she got home after underpainting too damn many water lilies. “Ford Brown is a contract killer?”

“Nadine bugged the phone in his apartment but didn’t put a tape recorder on it,” Gwen said, holding an ice pack to her forehead with her right hand and a drink with a purple umbrella in it in her left. “She swears she heard him talking to Clea Lewis about Davy and that it sounded like they were talking about killing him.”

Tilda sat down next to her on the couch. “Well, I suppose it’s possible. She took his money and she knows he’s coming back for it. And I think it’s a lot of money. But isn’t there some horrible penalty for killing an FBI agent?”

“Oh, God,” Gwen said. “And I rented a room to him.” She looked at the drink, sighed, and drank a slug of it. “Hard to believe that a week ago, I thought any change would be good.”

“You know, it just doesn’t seem probable,” Tilda said. “Of course, neither does the FBI thing. What did Davy say?”

“He’s been gone all day,” Gwen said. “I don’t know where…” She straightened. “You don’t suppose he’s already-”

“No,” Tilda said. “I don’t think he’s that easy to kill. I’ll talk to him when he comes in.”

Gwen put the compress down. “Exactly what is going on with the two of you?”

“Exactly nothing,” Tilda said. “We’re helping each other recover lost property. Then he leaves for Australia and I go to Cleveland to paint a Starry Night in a bedroom.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said and offered her the compress, but not the drink.

“Don’t be,” Tilda said. “This is exactly the way I want it. Men screw everything up.”

“Yeah,” Gwen said, looking at the umbrella in her drink. “I know that. I just wasn’t expecting a killer doughnut.”

“Well,” Tilda said. “There’s always Mason. I know he’s with Clea, but that’s not going to work out, he’s too sweet.”

“Mason wants the gallery, not me,” Gwen said. “I’ll stick with Double-Crostics. They’re annoying, but they don’t court you for real estate or try to kill your tenants.”

“Good point,” Tilda said and watched her mother drift back out to the gallery.

BY TEN that night, even Tilda had begun to fret, so she was relieved when Davy came in the bedroom door, carrying two big plastic bags.

“Pillows,” he said, emptying the bags on the bed. “Four of the best that money can buy.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That was thoughtful. Is it possible that somebody might have hired someone to kill you?”

“That’s the rumor.” Davy stripped off his shirt. “Hell of a day.”

“Nadine already talked to you?”

“Nadine?”

“Nadine tapped Ford Brown’s phone and now she thinks Clea Lewis hired him to kill you.”

“The cowboy?” Davy said. “Huh. Could be.”

He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, and Tilda thought about throwing something at him. She picked up a pillow and then decided it was too good to waste on him and went downstairs to find pillowcases instead. By the time she came back, he was in bed and Steve was under the covers again.

“Come here, Vilma,” he said, patting the sheets.

“I have a headache,” Tilda said. She tossed him two pillowcases and began to cover the two that were left.