Gwen squinted at it. “You’re FBI?”

“Shhh.” Thomas looked around. “I’m here undercover, Mrs. Goodnight, no one can know. Can you keep a secret?”

Oh, honey, Gwen thought.

“I’m investigating Clea Lewis,” he told her, keeping one eye on the door. “We think she murdered her husband.”

“Oh.” That actually sounded plausible.

“And stole his art collection,” Thomas went on. “Cyril Lewis was a very wealthy man, but when he died, the estate was bankrupt.”

“Well, Clea’s not cheap,” Gwen said. “Maybe they just spent it.”

“They did,” Thomas said. “On paintings. Cyril Lewis bought over two million dollars’ worth of paintings in the last year of his life.”

“Wow,” Gwen said, calculating the commissions.

“They were stored in a warehouse,” Thomas said. “But it burned to the ground the day before Cyril Lewis died.”

He was beginning to sound like a bad radio play. “And you think Clea killed him?”

“He wouldn’t be the first husband she killed,” Thomas said. “We could never get any evidence on her, but her first husband died under very suspicious circumstances. She’s a vicious woman. We have every reason to believe she’s put a contract killer in this very building.”

“Really,” Gwen said, trying to sound surprised.

“We think she’s trying to kill an ex-lover,” Thomas said.

“Really,” Gwen said, not faking anymore. “Huh.” She wondered if Tilda knew. Probably. Tilda didn’t miss much.

“The reason I’m talking to you,” Thomas said, “is that she’s showing a lot of interest in your gallery.”

“Not really,” Gwen said. “She’s-”

“If she tries to sell you the paintings,” Thomas said, “we’d like to know about it.”

“I don’t buy paintings,” Gwen said. “Galleries take artwork on commission. We don’t buy anything.”

“If she talks to you about paintings at all,” Thomas said, “we want to know.”

“We.”

“The Bureau.”

“Right.” The Bureau. “Well, I’ll certainly keep you informed,” Gwen said, thinking, If you’re FBI and Ford’s the bad guy, this country is in trouble. Hell, if he was the law and Clea was the bad guy, they were in trouble. “Have you been working for the Bureau long?”

“No,” Thomas said, straightening. “But I’m fully qualified.”

“Good,” Gwen said, getting to her real concern. “Can you cater, too?”

“I buy the food from restaurants,” Thomas said, a little shamefaced. “It gives me time to investigate the case.”

“Oh, excellent,” Gwen said, brightening. “Restaurants.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Not a soul,” Gwen said.

“And keep your eyes open for those paintings,” Thomas said as he opened the door to the gallery.

“Story of my life,” Gwen said, and went back to the gallery as the first customer opened the door.

HALF AN HOUR later, Tilda watched the gallery from the office, feeling odd, as if she were watching an old movie. She’d stared at a hundred previews like this, some so long ago she’d had to stand on a footstool to see through the window in the door. There was something wrong this time, and it took her a minute to realize that there was nobody out there being a ringleader, nobody standing in the middle of the room laughing and directing the show.

Then Mason made his entrance wearing a brocade vest, Clea on his arm looking magnificent in a black halter dress cut to her waist and huge gold hoop earrings. Mason moved to the center of the room, laughing and gesturing like a parody of Tilda’s father, and she thought, Poor guy. He just doesn‘t get it.

Davy came in from the hall. “And Vilma’s wearing her Chinese jacket. Must be time to steal something and neck in a closet.”

“Mason and Clea are here,” she told him.

“Then we’re gone.” Davy picked up Jeff’s keys, glanced through the office door, and said, “Whoa.”

“What?” Tilda followed his eyes back into the gallery.

Clea had turned around. Her dress had no back. As they watched, she turned to smile up at Mason, her perfect profile overshadowed only by her equally perfect bustline.

“Oh,” Tilda said, trying to keep the snarl out of her voice.

“Back off, Veronica.” Davy grinned down at her. “I’m just enjoying the scenery. I know she’s a hag from hell.”

“Yes, but she was good in bed, wasn’t she?” Tilda said, watching Clea walk across the floor, every movement liquid with grace. I don’t like you. “Better than me.”

“Yes,” Davy said. “Can we go?”

“Lots better than me?” Tilda said.

Davy closed his eyes. “Why do you ask this stuff? You know it’s going to be bad.”

“Tell me,” Tilda said.

Davy sighed and looked out at the gallery. “You see the stuff you painted? How every move you made painting it was just right because you worked really hard at it and because you have a genius for it?”

“Thank you,” Tilda said, touched in spite of herself.

“Clea fucks like you paint.”

“Oh,” Tilda said.

“If it’s any consolation, she probably paints like you-”

“You’re never touching me again,” Tilda said.

“Oh, and there was a chance I was going to before I said that?” Davy said. “Can we go now?”

“Absolutely,” Tilda said, trying to remember what was important. She was getting the painting back. Davy would get his money back. Then the show would be over and he’d go to Australia and she’d go back to her nice, calm mural-painting life.

“Now what’s wrong?” Davy said.

“You know, I was happy before you came here,” Tilda said and headed for the door.

“No you weren’t,” Davy said, following her. “You-”

Ethan came in carrying Steve, who was wearing a brocade vest and a black bowtie and looking a little perturbed about the whole thing. “Nadine made the vest,” he said. “She said it was a gallery-opening tradition.”

“That should perk Mason right up,” Tilda said. “Don’t bite anybody, Steve.”

“You leaving now?” Ethan said.

“Yes,” Davy said. “We’re-”

“Well, ‘have fun stormin’ da castle,’” Ethan said and carried Steve out into the gallery.

Davy looked at Tilda. “Does everyone know we’re committing a crime tonight?”

“Jeff doesn’t,” Tilda said. “We try to keep him pure for the defense.”

“Good to know,” Davy said and went out to the parking lot. “You should have lights out here,” he told her when they were in the car.

“We should have the money to put in lights out here,” Tilda said. “Let me get Simon paid off for the gallery paint first. And, oh yeah, the mortgage.”

“Right,” Davy said. “This is the perfect life I screwed up?”

“I know.” Tilda let her head fall back on the seat. “Not your fault. Except it is.”

“I did not-”

“Before you came, I didn’t know I was unhappy,” Tilda said. “I just put my head down and kept moving. And then you grab me in a closet and, all of a sudden, I notice that I’m miserable painting murals and lousy in bed.”

“ ‘Lousy’ was your word, not mine,” Davy said. “And I’m willing to coach you on that.”

She rolled her head to look at him. “I was not happy about you fixing up the gallery.”

“I know,” Davy said.

“I am now. It’s beautiful, it’s actually more beautiful than I remember it. And seeing all that stuff I painted in there makes me want to paint again, for real. It makes me happy. And when you’re gone, that’ll be gone, too, because we can’t keep it going, we don’t have the time and we don’t have the…” She waved her hand. “The razzle-dazzle. That was my dad. And Gwennie’ll go back to the Double-Crostics, and Nadine’ll go back to dating careers, and I’ll go back to painting murals. So thank you for giving me back the gallery, but you’re ruining my life.”

“I know,” Davy said.

She frowned at him. “You do not know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Davy said. “I know you’re a great painter, I know you hate painting the murals, I know you love your family, I know you’re really mad at your dad for something, and I know that the gallery is where you belong. I know you.”