Simon shrugged. “Forty. Fifty. Why?”

“I think the Finster Era is over,” Davy said and headed for the door.

TILDA WAS deep asleep when Davy turned on the light and said, “Rise and shine, Snow White, we need to talk.”

“No,” she said, half-asleep, putting her pillow over her head to shut out the light. “No, I don’t want to have sex, no.”

“Surprisingly, neither do I.” He sat on the bed and pulled the pillow away. “Wake up, Judy, we’re gonna put on a show in the barn.”

“DAVY, I HAVE to work tomorrow.” Tilda squinted at the clock. “Oh, hell. I have to work today. It’s past midnight.”

“The furniture in the basement,” Davy said and she sat up, awake and breathless.

“What were you doing in the basement?”

“We’re going to sell the furniture down there,” Davy said, as Steve poked his nose out from under the quilt to see what was going on.

Tilda tried to take a deep breath. “How did you get in the basement?”

“Door was unlocked. Pay attention. You have a lot of furniture down there.”

“It was not unlocked,” Tilda said, wheezing a little on “was,” and he bent over her and covered her mouth with his hand.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “We are going to have a show of that furniture very soon. And we are going to invite Mason to host it. And Clea will come with him. And…”

Tilda pushed his hand away. “And we can go steal our stuff back. Why can’t we just invite them to dinner?”

“Because they now have staff,” Davy said. “In fact, you’ve met the staff. You kicked its head in.”

“Oh.” Tilda sat up a little more, making Steve shift over, trying for deeper breaths. “But what-”

“You’re going to need a caterer for the opening. You’ll hire him.”

Tilda shook her head. “There’s got to be an easier way-”

The wheeze was more pronounced on “easier,” and Davy opened her bedside table drawer and got out her inhaler. “Not one that will also make you money,” he said, handing it to her. “You’ve got a small fortune down there.”

She hit the inhaler and frowned at him. He looked sincere, but then, he always did, even when he was lying through his teeth. “Davy, nobody’s going to want to buy that furniture. I painted that when I was a kid.”

“You painted it?”

“Yes,” Tilda said, not in a mood to be sneered at. “Why?”

“It’s really good.”

“And that’s a surprise?”

“I thought you only did the murals,” he said, backing off a little. “And I’ve never seen one of them. I had no idea how good you were. Oh, and I’m buying the bed.”

“Why?” Tilda said, now really wary as she put the inhaler back in the drawer.

“My sister’s anniversary,” Davy said. “I’ll pay you after I get my money back.”

Tilda waved her hand. “Take it. You’ve more than earned it this week. But about this show-”

“You need the money, we need the diversion, and all it’s going to cost us is some paint and advertising,” Davy said, stripping off his shirt. “It’s a no-brainer.”

“Paint for what!”

“The gallery.” He shoved off his jeans and crawled into bed beside her, making Steve shift again. “You’ll never con people into paying a hundred bucks for a footstool with the place looking the way it does now. Perception is reality, babe. We have to bring this place back from the dead.” He settled into his new pillows, looking very pleased with himself.

“No.” Tilda’s breath went at the thought.

“Yes,” Davy said. “I don’t know why you want the gallery to fail, but you’ve got to get over it. We need a successful opening to keep Mason busy, and you need the money.”

“I don’t want the gallery to fail.” Tilda felt the familiar scraping wheeze begin in her lungs.

“Right,” Davy said. “You’re the only one with the brains and the push to make this place work, and you spend all your time on the road, leaving Gwennie to sell Finsters. You’ve done everything but put a stake through its heart.”

“I have not-” She tried to take a deep breath.

“Which I wouldn’t care about but it’s a pretty sweet setup, Tilda. It’s a crime to let it go to waste.”

Tilda heard “crime” and reached for her inhaler again. “I’m not much of a salesman. Woman. Person.”

“I am,” Davy said. “We’re selling the furniture in the basement.”

“Is that why you want to do this?” Tilda said. “Because it’s a sweet setup and you’re a salesman?”

“No,” he said, looking unsure for the first time since he’d ruined her sleep. “Matilda, I want to sell that furniture. You’re not doing anything with it. How long has it been down there?”

“Seventeen years,” Tilda said.

“Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t do this.”

Because anybody with any kind of an eye at all could tell that furniture was painted by the same person who painted the Scarlets.

Tilda’s stomach heaved at the thought.

“I’m waiting,” Davy said.

On the other hand, there were damn few people who had seen the Scarlets. Davy had, and he hadn’t figured it out. Clea had, but she didn’t appear to have much of an eye. Mason had, but he was so caught up in the fine-art thing, he wouldn’t want to believe Scarlet had painted them.

“Okay,” Tilda said. “Okay. But you’re going to be the one who tells Gwennie.” She fell back against the pillows. “I’m sure this is a mistake.”

“You have no faith.” He leaned over and picked up his jeans from the floor and pulled something from the pocket, and then he slid his hand under her chin, warm on her skin, and before she could say, “Hey,” he’d stuck something papery down the neck of her T-shirt.

“Off.” She batted his hand away and pulled the neck of her T-shirt open to see two twenties and a ten on her chest. “I don’t take cash.”

“That’s your cut from the twenty I borrowed,” Davy said. “Half my winnings.”

“Maybe I should just send you out to play pool,” Tilda said, fishing the bills out of her T-shirt.

“We’ll use that as a backup,” Davy said. “First, we’re going to sell furniture.”

WHEN TILDA woke up the next morning, Davy was gone, but he’d left a note that said, “Don’t forget to tell Gwennie.” Great, she thought, and went downstairs with Steve to get orange juice and ruin Gwennie’s day.

“Hi,” Gwen said when Tilda came into the office. “Davy still alive?”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “And that’s not funny.”

Eve waved at her from the table, her mouth full of muffin. “How’s Monet?” she said when she’d swallowed.

“Boring as ever,” Tilda said, as Steve went to sit at Eve’s feet in hopes of muffin. “He deserves to be on a bathroom wall. Oh, and speaking of Davy, he wants to do a gallery show of my old furniture and I said yes. Well, gotta go to work.” She headed for the door.

“Hold it” Gwen said, sounding panicked, and Tilda sighed and turned back to get orange juice and fill them in on the night before.

“He’s convinced this is the way to get everything back,” Tilda said as she finished. “I argued, but-”

“Don’t argue.” Eve hauled Steve onto her lap to pet him better. “They’re FBI. Which I actually find sexy.”

“That’s Louise,” Tilda said. “Pull yourself together. Or in your case, separate yourself better.”

“I’m against this,” Gwen said gloomily.

“I know,” Tilda said.

“Mason’s going to be thrilled,” Gwen said, even gloomier. “He’ll be all over the place. There’ll be dozens of people all over the place. I’ll never finish another Double-Crostic again.”

“I know,” Tilda said.

“At least Mason isn’t a hit man,” Gwen said.

“Plus there’s all those free lunches he shells out for,” Eve said helpfully. “A man who pays for food is good.”

Gwen frowned at Tilda. “Is there any chance that the four of them are toying with us? Like this is a plot they’re doing together?”