 
### Living and Dying in the Hamptons

By: T. L. Ingham

For all the people in my life who make me laugh, most especially: my husband, my children, and my closest friends- people who would willingly hide the body!

### Living and Dying in the Hamptons

Published By T. L. Ingham at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Tammy L. Ingham

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free ebook, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

### Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

About the Author

### Living and Dying in the Hamptons

Chapter One

Up until a few weeks ago, my life- though not exactly the dynamic existence I had anticipated after nearly five years of hard work earning my Bachelor of Fine Arts- was at least predictable. Instead of living in the city and selling my artwork to the highest bidders, I had returned home to the upstate New York dairy farm I'd been raised on. Each day consisted of the same chores sunup to sundown, and at night I waited tables at a local diner. I was at a crux: my twenty-sixth birthday was just around the corner, I had been out of school for nearly two years, and even though I had been searching endlessly, I still hadn't managed to land an internship or any other position in a gallery, museum, or art school. I could not afford to pay my school loans, let alone rent myself an apartment. And I had long since given up on painting.

More importantly, I wasn't talking to ghosts. But I'll get to that.

Let me start at the beginning. It all began when one of my old college professors called me with a job offer. Professor Stanley is a man who travels in much grander circles than I have ever dreamed of. Nightly he sips champagne with the wealthiest and most elite families in the Hamptons and the trendiest artists and collectors in all of New York City. Naturally, when he mentioned a job prospect, I was intrigued. At the same time, I was confused as to why he would be calling me of all people. After all, I was not one of his most celebrated students. In fact, I can still quite clearly remember his devastating evaluation just prior to my graduation. 'While you possess a unique and interesting eye for color,' he wrote, 'your command with oils is plebian at best. Your water colors, while certainly more than adequate, are hardly remarkable, although your sketches and charcoal drawings do have an eye-catching quality. In short, you might be more suited to the commerce aspects of the art world, rather than the artistic one that you may have intended.' To say I was crushed would be a major understatement. While I had never considered myself this year's Gauguin, I certainly hadn't thought of myself as 'plebian.' So this offer, while it seemed like the answer to my prayers, had me baffled.

Still, I was desperate, so I jumped at the opportunity and headed to Southampton to the Darcy Stillwell Fine Art Gallery for the interview. My professor had assured me that there were no guarantees regarding my hiring, but I was still hopeful. It had been the first sincere offer I'd had not just in two years, but ever. Gathering my portfolio, filled with examples of some of the work I had done throughout my time at school, I left my house at six in the morning in order to make the just under three hour drive from the small town of Pawling, where I lived, to the gallery in White Falls. I was brimming with confidence- nervousness- nausea- insecurity. Whatever.

I was directed to the office of a very stunning lady and for the first time I questioned every decision I had ever made that had led me to this moment. This woman was glamorous in a way that only Hollywood could manage, and she seemed a bit out of place because of it. Her dark hair was so perfectly coiffed, I doubted even one hair would dare to slip out of place, and her piercing blue eyes were carefully outlined with coal black liner and mascara. The royal blue dress she wore brought out the color of her eyes, and while it was definitely business attire, it also managed to look classy and stylish in a way I could never hope to achieve. In comparison, I felt dowdy.

She strode around the desk and put out one perfectly manicured, delicate hand, which I shook carefully, suddenly hyperaware of my many calluses, blisters, and more than a few chipped nails. (Hey, don't judge me- I work on a dairy farm remember? Plus I fill in as a dishwasher on slow nights at the diner. Is it my fault these activities damage my hands?)

Her eyes swept me up and down and as she spoke in a melodious British accent, "Darling, pinstripes, really? What _were_ you thinking?"

I glanced down at the pant suit that I had felt so confident putting on this morning. I loved this suit. This was my power suit. It consisted of slacks and a matching blazer, black with gray pinstripes, paired with a white silk blouse.

"And rayon?"

Okay, rayon. But it looked like silk. To me. Either way, I had felt fashionable, businesslike, powerful, pinstripey. I had felt large and in charge- until now.

She sighed. She acted as if I had personally insulted her with my choice of clothing. Looking me over once more she said, "How tall are you, dear?"

Looking down at her miniscule height from my towering five foot ten, (and I was wearing flats), I realized she couldn't have been much more than five foot, because even now, (in her five inch stiletto heels) I still had several inches on her.

"Five ten, without heels," I told her, feeling like an Amazon. I'm not even sure why I answered her question, other than the fact that I was completely baffled. After all, what did physical stature, or clothing choice, have to do with the job requirements? This wasn't a modeling agency.

Or was it? Had I accidentally walked into the wrong place? No. I distinctly remembered the receptionist having had my name on her calendar of appointments. Unless- had I called the wrong number in the first place?

"My dear girl, when one is as tall as you are, you should not attempt to hide it. On the other hand, you should also not flaunt it, not unless you intend to run about in animal skins and carry a spear. You don't do you?" She cocked one artfully sculpted brow at me. I couldn't help but to compare it with my own thick, unruly ones. I made a mental note to make an appointment ASAP for a brow-waxing.

Judging by the x-ray vision once more perusing my form, I thought maybe some other waxing might be a good idea while I was at it. Did she suspect I wore pants to hide my leg hair? (It was a suspicion that I would be hard pressed not to substantiate, since lately, shaving had been the least of my concerns. The cows didn't care, so what did I care if I sported enough hair to make a caveman blush?) Suddenly, I was convinced that she didn't just suspect; she knew.

She tsked her tongue three times against perfectly straight, gleaming white teeth. (A lot of money had gone into that mouth. Certainly braces. No doubt bleaching. Possibly filing. So much for the British oral hygiene myth.) Stepping a little closer to me, she grabbed the hank of hair that hung listlessly from my ponytail. I suddenly had the image of my father inspecting horses that he was considering buying. And I didn't like it.

How dare this perfect human specimen judge me? I was infuriated! Just because she had Botoxed her forehead and laugh lines to the point that her face had become a frozen mask of perfection. Just because her chestnut hair fell in perfect waves, framing a heart shaped face and drawing attention to the high cheekbones and rosy pink apples of her cheeks- which I had no doubt had been surgically enhanced- at her age (somewhere in her late forties to early fifties) there was no way those puppies would be so plump. She must have had some of the fat sucked out of her butt or thighs and reapplied there. Just because all of her features seemed to align in goddess-like perfection, it didn't make my own homespun, girl next door look so bad, did it? Did it?

I yanked my ponytail from her grasping fingers, fully intending to give her a scathing lecture, when she said, "Well, there's a lot to do. But I feel confident we can work with you."

"Work with me?" My eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you mean, 'work with me?'"

She had already turned away and was moving around her desk with an elegant grace I could never possess. She flipped a hand in my direction. "Don't you worry. Once we get you dressed properly and do something about those eyebrows and hair, you'll be just fine."

I had had it up to there and then some. "We," I grated, "are not doing anything about my hair. And what exactly is wrong with my hair and the way I dress?" I left the eyebrows out. Even I had to concede they were awful.

Her eyes widened (as much as possible past the Botox anyway). "Oh, my dear girl, I didn't mean to insult you!"

"Would you _please_ stop calling me that?" That pretentious dear and darling stuff was starting to get on my last nerve. "My name is Sigreid."

"I'm sorry, did you say-? My word! Sigreid?" Obviously stunned, she plopped- in a very unladylike fashion I might add- down into her chair. "As in, 'and Roy?'"

"That's Sig- _freid_. I'm Si- _greid_ ," I hissed through clenched teeth. Now _my_ _name_ wasn't good enough? "After my grandmother."

"My grandmother was Astrid, but my parents didn't see fit to saddle me with such a burden. I always wonder, what possesses people to do that? I mean, honestly, how many Gertrude's and Mavis's do you meet on a daily basis? Under the age of ninety anyway."

"Nevertheless, my parents saddled me with it. Apparently, they weren't as concerned with social convention as you are."

"Apparently," she agreed complacently, utterly oblivious to the admonishment. "Oh, well. It is what it is, and however much we may want to, we cannot change your name." She looked at me hopefully.

"No, we cannot."

"No, of course not, my dear," she acquiesced, though it was apparent she was disappointed. "I don't suppose you have some sort of nickname you go by? And please, for the love of God, don't tell me your friends call you Siggy. You know, like that cartoon man with the giant head?"

It took me a minute. "That's Ziggy."

"Yes, well, either way. It makes me think of a lizard."

I failed to make the connection.

"The one whose name sounds like Ziggy."

I was still drawing a blank.

"You know- the one on the car insurance commercials."

"That's a gecko."

"No, then, that's not it. Is it the one that changes colors?"

"Chameleon?"

"Hmmm. No."

Now for some reason, unbeknownst even to me, I was drawn into it. "Salamander? Iguana? Gila monster?"

"No, I think it's the dragon one."

"Komodo?"

"Yes! That's it!"

"In what world does Ziggy sound like Komodo?"

"Komodo sounds like Kimono which makes me thing of Geisha, which is probably where I picked up the gecko from. But anyway, that makes me think of the Geisha makeup where their faces are very round and prominent, just like that cartoon man. He could be a Geisha."

"With a girdle maybe," I muttered, to which she responded, "Exactly!"

"Uh-huh." That's all I had.

"So anyway," she said, picking up the leather binder that lay before her, "what do your friends call you?"

Not Ziggy, that was for sure. "Most of my friends call me Reid." Not that I was currently burdened with dozens of friends. There were one or two classmates from college who still kept in touch, though their lives were so busy with their new careers that communication was sporadic at best. Oh my God, I was a loser. Pathetic.

"Reid." She tried it on for size. "I like it. It has a certain powerful quality. Much better than Sigreid, which only calls to mind milk and gingerbread cookies. Or maybe molasses." Then, finally changing the subject, she said, "Let's get down to business. Are you available to start today? After all, we have so much more to do than even I had anticipated."

I wasn't sure what to say. So far I had been critiqued, insulted, and found lacking. I had encountered none of the conventions one normally experienced during job interviews: no job description, no talk about job responsibilities, salary, benefits, requirements, credentials, nothing at all aside from this preliminary examination of my physical appearance. And to be quite honest I was not at all certain that I liked this woman. Actually, I wasn't certain that I didn't hate her. But the thought of going back home, facing my parents, and admitting defeat once more kept me there.

Moving to the chair opposite her desk, I settled into it, keenly aware of the delicate Queen Anne frame. It made me feel even more bulky than ever. Not that I was bulky per se. I had too many years of strenuous physical activity under my belt to be even slightly fat. I was all muscle, but with my height and my Scandinavian build, I was sturdy to say the least. Not fragile like this woman across from me. Or her furniture.

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed, taking my motion as compliance. "My name is Pia Darcy-Stillwell. My husband is Bernard Stillwell. As you must certainly already know, he is a successful businessman and investor. (I did not.) Because his various business enterprises keep him traveling quite frequently, he allowed me to open my little gallery so that I might not become bored during his absences. The gallery has been running for a little over five years now and in such a short time has accumulated a rather prestigious clientele. Certainly, some of these were referred to me by my husband's many business contacts, but I am proud to say our exemplary reputation has produced at least as many, if not more, clients. What I am trying to say is- image is everything. It is therefore imperative that my personal assistant exhibits just as polished an image as I do. Do you see what I mean?"

" _Personal_ assistant?" I squawked.

"Yeeees," she nodded slowly, drawing the word out as if she were talking to some mentally deficient person.

"But- but I thought- I thought this was a..." I was at a loss for words.

"Spit it out, dear. You thought it was a what?"

"An internship?"

"I suppose you could call it that. But I like anyone I hire to be personally trained by me. So what better way than to start you as my personal assistant and then from there we'll see where everything goes. Darling, I can hardly hire you as an intern when you don't even know my personal taste, now can I?"

"No, I guess not." Her personal assistant. This is not what I had been prepared for. I had thought that I might start as an intern under another buyer, or even someone on the sales floor. But her assistant? Coffee girl, note-taker, photo-copier, 'Here I am at your beck and call girl?' Not prepared.

"Now I thought we might begin today with a little polishing. We'll start with some shopping, maybe some lunch, and then a quick trip to the spa. Sound good?" She was already rising from her chair eagerly.

"No, no, I can't!" I nearly shouted. "I mean, couldn't I just start as I am, and then kind of change things a little at a time?"

Pia pinned me with a piercing stare. "I thought you understood what I was trying so delicately to explain. Now I can see that I shall have to be more frank."

She couldn't have been more frank if her last name was Sinatra. She had been about as delicate as a baseball bat wielded by Barry Bonds. Everything about me was wrong. All wrong. Not even in the neighborhood of right. She couldn't have pounded the facts home more efficiently if she'd used a sledge hammer.

And yet she felt the need to elucidate. "My dear, I could not possibly take you onto my gallery floor, let alone out to any public appearances, looking the way you do. You look as if you just dragged yourself off a cattle ranch."

"Dairy farm, actually."

"Close enough. (In her book maybe, but my father could make some pretty extreme arguments.) What you need is a complete overhaul before we can even get down to the business of, well, business." She sat back in her chair, awaiting my response.

Finally I said, "What I don't get is, if I am so wrong for this position, then why go through all of this? Why not just say, I'm sorry, you're not right for the job?"

"I never said you weren't right for the job."

"True, but then you couldn't, since you have nothing to base it on. You haven't even looked at my portfolio for goodness sake."

Her bright eyes flashed to the case leaning on the chair beside me. "If it will make you feel any better, I will certainly be glad to examine it, but whatever the contents, I can ensure you, it won't change my opinion one iota."

"But, how could it not? I mean, everything it contains could prove that I _am_ unqualified. After all, dozens of people have looked at it before you and every one of them has turned me down." Way to sell myself there. Interviewing 101: convince the interviewer that you are incompetent. Awesome. I wanted to dismiss myself.

"While I'll admit at this current moment you are not impressing me with your brilliance, (me either, lady) I have already spoken to your professor and unless there has been something new added since your graduation, which there cannot have been as you are currently without a job in your chosen field, then I am already aware of the contents of that portfolio. That's how you got the interview in the first place. I do not set such things up rashly. Contrary to whatever you might assume, I am an extremely busy woman.

"Further, I have witnessed since you have been here, an extraordinary ability to control your temper, even though, judging by the redness of your face and the erratic beating of the pulse at your temple, you have wanted to lose it practically since the moment you walked in. Though, for the very life of me, I cannot possibly understand why. Constructive criticism is an important part of life as well as an imperative part of superior character development."

Lord, with a belief system like that, I truly hoped she had no children. If she did, they were without a doubt, little more than huddled masses of quivering mush, teeming with rampant insecurities. Suddenly I had a vision of her hypothetical children rocking themselves blithely inside the sanctuary of their padded cells, muttering random things to themselves like Rainman. 'Too tall, definitely, definitely, too tall.'

"It is vitally imperative that anyone who works in my gallery have the innate ability to control their temper given that quite often our clientele can be a tad difficult. Petulance aside, you have also displayed perfect poise and posture, and have a remarkable muscle tone attesting to either long hours at the gym or physical work on your cow farm. Your hands are calloused and blistered which leads me to believe that the latter is the case. You also have brittle cracked nails and dry skin around the knuckle areas of your fingers leading me to believe that you do a lot of dishwashing. My guess is you are working a second job in a kitchen somewhere. Therefore, I must conclude that you are not afraid of hard work and you have a certain amount of stamina and at least some perseverance. All qualities I am looking for. Is there anything else?"

"What are you, Sherlock Holmes?"

She beamed. Obviously, I had struck a chord. "No, but I am a great fan. One has to admire a man capable of such flawless acuity and deductive reasoning. Though, if Sir Arthur had gotten it right, Sherlock would have been a woman. Everyone knows men are oblivious to detail. My goodness, I can't tell you how many times I've remodeled a room while my husband was away, and even after repeatedly tripping over a new piece of furniture, he basks in his own ignorance. But I digress. If there are no further objections, might we get the day started before it is done?"

What could I say? The game was afoot.

Chapter Two

I was wondering how much room I had on my last open credit card as I followed Pia to her car. A Bentley. Of course. It was hands down the plushest vehicle I have ever ridden in. The buttery soft leather seats practically cradled my body as Pia expertly guided the vehicle down unfamiliar streets. The ride was nothing at all like the bumpy trek here in my secondhand Grand Prix with the big dent in the side and the giant hole burned into the upholstery of the passenger seat. Before I knew it we had arrived at the first shop.

As I followed Pia inside, I instantly knew I was out of my league. In fact, I was so far out of my league, they would have to invent another league on another planet, just to describe how far out I actually was.

"Ah, Mrs. Stillwell," the proprietress greeted Pia, with an air kiss to both cheeks. (Do people really still do that, you ask. Well, yes, apparently, they do. Who knew?) "Can I get you anything? Some cucumber water, or a mimosa perhaps?"

"Nothing for me, thank you, Carma," Pia responded. Then turning to me, she asked, "You?"

I shook my head in response.

"How can I help you ladies today?" Carma focused her attention solely on Pia. "Did you see the darling little number in the window? I thought of you instantly when Solyndria put it out this morning."

_Carma and Solyndria_? Pia had problems with Sigreid, but these monikers were just dandy by her. I was flabbergasted. And a little peeved.

"I'm not here for me today dear," Pia explained. "I'd like you to meet my new assistant Reid, I'm sorry dear, I forgot to ask, what is your surname?"

Hah! Way to let Sherlock down. Tempted as I might have been, I didn't say that out loud. Instead, I just said, "Larson."

"Scandinavian isn't it?" Pia asked, to which I nodded my answer. "I thought so. Miss Larson is my new assistant. We came to see what kind of wardrobe you might be able to put together for her. And, then, if we have enough time I would be happy to take a look at that new dress you spoke of. Is it Donna Karan?"

"No, this girl's a new designer just trying to get her foot in the door and I would swear she stole it straight from the runway at New York Fashion Week, but I can forgive her, because the look is so chic!"

"Who is she? Is she local?"

"Her name is Diadra something-I don't remember her last name. But from what I understand she's originally from upstate somewhere. Syracuse I think. Or maybe Saratoga. I don't know- it started with an 's'- I get them all mixed up. But anyhow, she moved to the Hamptons some time ago and worked in one of the local shops as a seamstress, but now she's designing her own line. Lucked into some kind of windfall that allowed her to leave her job and focus on her own designs. Believe me- she's going to be big!"

"Well, you know how I feel about supporting our local artists, so I am certainly looking forward to having a look. Then maybe you might be able to arrange a meeting? First things first though, let us focus all our attention on Reid!"

What followed were three of the most miserable hours I have ever experienced. I was measured and re-measured several times. I was clucked over, lamented upon and consorted about as if I were not even there. I was fitted, sized, stuck with pins and squeezed into every available cut, color, and style of clothing imaginable. My humiliation was complete when I was forced into a short, tight skirt, which would have been remarkably stunning on me, if it hadn't been for the hairy sprouts emanating from my legs. Considering that my legs looked like something that belonged on a Sasquatch gallivanting around the forest, it was hard not to notice.

"We're going to the spa later," was the only explanation Pia gave.

Carma raised one indignant eyebrow, but made no comment. Surely, she was tallying up the day's take, which would be enormous judging by the growing stack of clothes already draped across the counter, and she was not about to screw that up.

I had only to look at one price tag to confirm that I was in big trouble. Thankfully I was inside the dressing room when I thought to check one of those obnoxious little tickets, so no one saw me swoon. I had been so preoccupied with all of the fittings, I hadn't thought about my credit card, which was wilting in my purse even as I read the number on the tag. My eyes goggled at the triple digit price- triple digits _before_ the decimal.

Stupidly I wondered if they would just close the card when I tried to make these charges, or if they would actually send a battalion of employees, a.k.a. a Visa SWAT team, to remove my card from my person and my person from the store. On the heels of this thought, I immediately began to have a seizure. As I tried to sit (before I fell down) in the chair inside the small room, my elbows and knees rattled so hard against the wall that Pia called in to see if I was okay.

_No, I am NOT okay!_ I wanted to call back. _I will have to sell both kidneys and part of my spleen in order to pay for all this!_ The price of the single garment I held in my hand was three times what I had paid for the expensive (I used to think, but now I had a whole new standard for measurement) cocktail dress I had splurged on the one New Year's Eve that I'd actually had a date. There was no way I could afford the haul that Pia was industriously gathering. I debated staying in the dressing room until I died. Even as I debated, more clothing was being flung over the door, with commands to, "Try this with that pale blue camisole and the pencil skirt," and "This should look good with that pink silk blouse."

How was I going to explain to my new boss that this was entirely out of my price bracket, without making it seem like I expected her to pay me more? Especially considering we had yet to even discuss my salary. This whole thing was crazy. Outlandish. Bizarre. Things like this simply did not happen in the real world.

Feverishly, I looked around for a hidden camera. Maybe I was being Punk'd. I wouldn't even mind the fact that half the nation would see me in all my Sasquatchian glory, dressed only in my mismatched, six year old lingerie, sporting several snagged seams and pulled elastics, not to mention one bare underwire hanging out of the left cup of my bra, if there was some sane, even partially rational, explanation for the events of this day.

"Reid, dear? Are you all right?"

"Um, Mrs. Stillwell," I called back, hating the hesitance that was seeping into my tone. Above all things, I was not mealy-mouthed. "We need to talk."

"Call me Pia, darling," her voice came directly from the other side of the door. "Mrs. Stillwell was my mother-in-law, God rest her petty soul. I don't mean to sound harsh, but I never really got on with that woman."

"Okay. Pia, we need to talk."

"Oh, have you got it on already?" she questioned even as she began opening the door.

Bracing my foot against the door, I adroitly kept her from entering. She'd seen more than enough of me today, the bra and panties would put her right over the edge. "No I'm still dressing. I'm just wondering..." I let the question drift off, uncertain how I should phrase it.

"Wondering what, dear?"

"Well, I- I don't quite know how to say this. But, this isn't the kind of store I normally shop in. I'm more of a Target girl myself."

"I could tell that by your clothing," came the dry rejoinder. "You'd be more hard-pressed than a vineyard grape to find that pantsuit on the runway at Fashion Week."

Droll, how very droll. I tried very hard not to be insulted. Very hard.

"Yes, well, my point is, this is a little out of my price bracket and I'm not certain I have enough credit on my card to even pay for the camisole, let alone the entire outfit."

"Oh Lord, don't worry about such trivial matters," Pia said, sounding completely blasé. I'm glad someone was. My financial bankruptcy was not exactly what I would call a trivial matter. "You'll go gray much too early and start getting ugly lines in your forehead and around your eyes. God knows you don't need any additional challenges right now. (I couldn't believe I was actually considering working for this woman. What was I thinking?) Besides, I do this with all my new hires; it's nothing out of the ordinary. Like I said, I am quite particular about how my employees present themselves. At any rate, it's like a, oh dear, Carma?" she called. "Carma, dear! What do they call that thing that people do when they borrow ahead on their salaries?"

"An advance?" I heard Carma call back.

"Yes, that's it! Quite right! It's an advance on your salary."

Which brought me to my next question. A question that just might be the determining factor as to whether or not I ended this outrageous episode, walked myself back to my car, and drove back to the dairy farm where I belonged.

"What exactly is my salary?"

Pia laughed a little tinkling laugh, "Oh, dear, didn't I tell you? I always forget these things." The number she then quoted me was nearly three times what I had been expecting. I was glad I was sitting as that seizure was returning and my foot began to rattle against the door again. Oh yeah, I could work for her. I could work for Satan himself when that many digits were involved.

My silence must have indicated displeasure, because Pia said, "It's not enough? I do have some room for negotiation, though not too much considering you really are very inexperienced."

"No," I squawked, but no sound came out.

Within seconds my salary had been raised another ten thousand dollars annually, and, terrified that my inability to speak was going to cost me a job because she would think I was negotiating a raise out of her intended bracket, I nearly shouted, "Good!"

"All right dear, but you're going to have to work a little bit harder to prove to me that you deserve this pay scale, and we will renegotiate after your probationary period which will be ninety days."

"Thank you." It wasn't enough, but it was all I could think of to say.

By the time we were finished at the shop, I had an entirely new wardrobe. Plus a few cocktail dresses left behind awaiting alterations. If I had thought we were finished, I was very much mistaken. We went to several more shops, including a lingerie shop, (Pia hadn't said anything, but evidently at some point she'd gotten a glimpse of my ragged underwear), followed by several shoe stores, and then finally, just when I thought I was going to die of starvation, we stopped for lunch. I was ravenous by the time we got there, and I managed to wolf down a gourmet burger and two sides in less than half the time it took her to sip a glass of lemonade and pick two leaves out of her salad. Hey, when it comes to food, I have a large appetite and no shame. If Pia had any problem with it, she said nothing, and that was just fine by me.

From there we went to a high end salon where we were wrapped in thick, velvety robes, handed glasses of lemon water, and pampered in ways I never knew existed. I felt like the Cowardly Lion in Emerald City. I was washed, waxed and lubed better than I had ever done for my car. When they were through with me, my eyebrows were as artfully sculpted as Pia's, though fuller, and my legs were as smooth as silk. My skin glowed from the facial treatment and my make-up had been professionally applied by an esthetician. My nails had been buffed, cuticles trimmed, and all the jagged edges filed to perfection. They had finished with a French manicure, which even I had to admit looked far more professional than the ragged talons of before. And Pia was there the whole time, sharing in the same treatments, basking in the glow of ultimate spoiling.

Then came my hair. And for the first time, I threw on the brakes. "Oh, no. No, you are not cutting off my hair!"

"But, Reid, darling," Pia put on her most convincing tone, "it's much too long, and not at all becoming to your face."

"No." I was steadfast. My hair was the one attribute that I had been proud of my entire life. It was long, thick, and luxurious, and thanks to my father, a much coveted golden wheat color that came naturally, not from a bottle. During my growing up years, I had often felt awkward and gawky, being head and shoulders above all of the girls and most of the boys, as I was. But my hair, that was the one subject of great envy. None of the other girls had the thick, gorgeous locks I had been blessed with, and it was that knowledge which had sustained me throughout my middle and high school years, and even on into college. I was not about to cut it off now.

"Darling," Pia began again. "If your hair is a source of such great pride to you, then why do you hide it in a ponytail? No one can see how lovely it is all bundled up like that."

"It gets in the way otherwise," I replied stubbornly. "But I'm not cutting it off."

"I'm not telling you to cut it off," she said, exasperation coloring her tone. "I'm saying, let them trim it a little, allow it to frame your face. Trust me. Have I led you astray yet?"

Considering the whopping amount of money I had already spent today, not to mention whatever the cost this day at the spa was going to add up to, which would be astronomical no doubt, I couldn't exactly say Pia had _not_ led me astray. After all, in the space of six hours, I was deeper in debt now that I had a job than before when I didn't.

"I just don't want to ruin it," I whimpered. Pitiful, I know. I was ashamed.

"Roberto isn't going to ruin it. He's worked with far more important heads than yours," she returned impatiently. Turning to the stylist, the two had a quiet discussion, none of which was I privy to, and then, without any further ado, Roberto had spun my chair around and yanked out my ponytail. While he was gleefully delving his hands into my perfect hair, I was as nervous as a two dollar whore in a Pentecostal church (thank you Daddy for that quaint colloquialism). Every snip of the scissors nearly brought on a panic attack, and once when I saw a large chunk of hair drift down to the floor beside me, I got a little woozy.

Just when I thought I was about to succumb to the lightheadedness, and possibly also wet myself, Roberto turned my chair so that I could see my reflection in the mirror. And I had to admit (albeit grudgingly), that Roberto was the genius Pia had proclaimed him to be. Though he had taken a few inches off the overall length of my hair, it still hung well below my shoulders. He had trimmed it around the sides and top in such a way that it framed my face in a very complimentary fashion, drawing attention to my eyes and my high cheekbones, and I realized, as I looked at my reflection, how different I looked. The woman who stared back at me was the same in many ways, but my best features had been emphasized to the point that for the first time in my life, I could comfortably describe myself as pretty.

I wasn't too sure how I felt about that and I didn't have time to consider it as Roberto then tossed the elastic band into the wastebasket and said, "No, no! No more of this!" in a very thick accent. "You will from now on be wearing your hair like this, or you may be liking to use the combs or the barrettes in this manner." He proceeded to show me several different ways in which I might put the sides of my hair up, all of which were very pretty. Finally, he said, "And now! When you go to the nighttime occasion, you will come to see me and no one else and I will do your hair in the most extravagant fashion possible and you will love it so much that you will die!" He was giddy as a schoolgirl, but I had to give him credit, he had managed to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse. He had a right to be triumphant.

Finally, we left the spa, the cost of which I never knew, since Pia insisted on 'gifting it to me as a reward for my patience on such a grueling day.' Her words, not mine. At that point, I was already so heavily in debt, I didn't care to argue about it.

We were almost to the gallery when Pia said, "Where is your car parked? I'll drop you off and then you can follow me."

"Follow you? Follow you where?"

"To the house of course."

"The house?"

"Are you always going to fluctuate between intellectual and dull-witted? Don't make me feel like I've wasted an entire day. I'm worn out. I couldn't possibly go through all of this again for at least a month."

She was worn out? I was the one who had been dressing and undressing all day, stuffing myself in and out of clothes and shoes while she sat in a chair and supervised. And I had been up since four-thirty getting ready for this interview with my bad suit and bad shoes and bad hair. I couldn't go through all of this again for at least forever!

"I was going to have you follow me to the house where you'll be living. Unless you have one of those PGS thingies and then I can just give you the address."

"GPS," I supplied before I could make sense of her words. The house where I would be living. The house where I would be _living_?!

"Oh, you do? Well, then I'll just give you the address."

"No, I don't."

She frowned. If she kept that up she was gonna need another Botox appointment. "Then why did you say you did?"

"I didn't- never mind. What is this about the house where I will be living?"

"It's not a house really. Just a little guest house. But it's quite comfortable. I stayed there myself once when were having some remodeling done. I just couldn't take another minute of all that dust. Dry wall is the worst thing for your complexion; did you know that, dear?"

"Whoa, wait a minute. Back the truck up. What are you talking about?"

"I should have realized you wouldn't know. It's terrible for your pores, clogs them up tighter than a black pudding. Then you get all these little pimples and blackheads, it's just-!"

"Not that, not the pores. And just what the hell is black pudding?"

"Black pudding? It's made from blood, they cook it down until it's really thick and then it congeals as it cools."

"That's disgusting."

"I didn't say I ate the stuff. Anyway, if not the pores, what then? The remodel? I didn't think you'd care anything about that, really. It's actually quite boring."

"I don't give a damn about the remodeling!" Perhaps I was a little sharper than I had intended to be. Especially considering she was my boss. Who was paying me a pretty good wage. I had to keep that in mind. Always. "Well, not exactly don't care at all. Just don't care right now." I amended.

"Then what on earth are you going on about?"

I took a deep breath and let it out. It felt so good, I did it twice more. Finally, I said, "What is this about me living in your guest house?"

"Oh, that! You really weren't planning on commuting two hundred miles to work every day were you? I mean, really, that's not entirely productive. Besides, as my personal assistant, you won't always hold regular hours. I might need you at the drop of a hat and I could hardly stand around waiting three hours for you to get here, now could I?"

"Since I wasn't really expecting to be hired on the spot, I hadn't really taken all of that into consideration. I thought I would have some time to plan."

"Well, you were, and you don't. Have time to plan that is. Oh, dear, don't tell me I'm going to have to give you another raise already? (Her business acumen was questionable at best regarding salary negotiations.) I know it's an inconvenience, but really dear, look at it more as another perk of the job. I mean, where else can you live rent free in the Hamptons? And honestly, even on your salary, which has just gone up another, what- five?- no?- ten thousand?- you cannot afford even the smallest efficiency apartment."

"But I haven't even packed anything," I began protesting.

"You should have more than enough in those shopping bags to get you through the week, and proper clothing at that. And then on the weekend you can return home, if you feel you must, and pack up whatever little meager things you think you can't live without."

Again, I tried very hard not to be insulted.

"So, is it to be ten then?"

It took me a minute to figure out what she was asking. If this kept up, my salary might be doubled by the end of the week. I sighed. "That will be fine. Just answer one question for me, will you, Pia?"

"Certainly. Anything at all."

"What is it about me that makes you want to go to all this trouble? I mean, wouldn't it be a lot cheaper to hire someone who already has the look, not to mention a place to live here, and then train them to do what you want?"

"I suppose so, but I thought I'd made it fairly obvious. I like you."

If this was how she demonstrated like, I'd really hate to see how she treated people she disliked, but strange as it was, my life in the Hampton's had begun.

Chapter Three

Upon reaching the guest house, Pia showed me around as quickly and authoritatively as she did everything else. The house, an open concept bungalow, was nearly as large as the turn of the century farmhouse in which I had been raised. Large glass sliders led from the living area out onto a wooden deck that spanned the back of the house, offering an expansive view of the landscape and the mountains beyond. A narrow hallway led from the living area to two spacious bedrooms, complete with walk-in closets and en suite baths. All the rooms were furnished in a modern style, with gleaming dark woods and chrome fixtures. Pia had elaborated on several of the finer points of the home, including the fully loaded kitchen and recently stocked refrigerator and cupboards. Unlike me, she had been planning for this event.

After she left, I quickly placed a call to my parents, relaying the good (at least I tried to pretend it was all good) news. I didn't miss the sound of relief in my father's voice or the note of sadness in my mother's. I knew she was going to miss having me around; my time at college had been even more difficult for her, than it had been for me. As an only child I have always been utterly doted on by my mother, though my father's own brand of loving is gruffer, so they tended to even out in the end. At least, I liked to think so.

I spent the next several hours wandering around the guest house, before finally succumbing to my hunger and making myself something to eat. It took only a few minutes to clean the mess and there I sat, twiddling my thumbs and alone with my thoughts once more. I was overwhelmingly homesick. Strangely, I missed the cracked plaster of my bedroom wall and the somehow comforting faint musty smell that exuded from the attic. I missed the sounds of the house settling and my father's deep, robust snoring. And I was still baffled and overwhelmed by my bizarre day.

For the life of me, I still couldn't explain what had led Professor Stanley to recommend me. It was obvious I hadn't impressed him with much other than ineptitude while I was in college, so why had he thought of me over hundreds of other students? And even now, (now that I had landed this dubious, but great paying position) I wasn't sure if I owed him my thanks, or a kick in the pants. And I still wasn't certain if my luck had changed for the better or for the worse.

Was working for this forthright and demanding woman really such a good idea? Especially given my temperament? Contrary to whatever Pia may believe, it wasn't self control that had kept me from going off on her any number of times today; it was confusion. I was so flabbergasted by the things that were happening that I had found myself incapable of forming any kind of response. There was no doubt in my mind, that before long, she would get under my skin like no other person ever had. And she represented everything I despised: she was shallow, pretentious and so accepting of her own enormous wealth that she couldn't even begin to conceive of having little or nothing.

But the money she had offered was good to say that least. Let's be real, to a girl who was used to making minimum wage slinging coffee and hash to a bunch of grizzled truck drivers and having to put up with their leering grins and lascivious comments while doing it, the money Pia was offering was more than enough to bring me to instant BFF status with even the most obnoxious person. At least Pia had _some_ redeeming qualities. Though, at the moment, I was hard-pressed to think of even one of them.

It was well after two before I finally drifted off to sleep and only four hours later the alarm on my phone was shrilling. I showered and dressed, choosing from the half dozen outfits Pia had put together, which I had been sensible enough to hang in sets inside the closet while the memory of how everything was paired was still fresh in my mind. Dressed in a knee length skirt, turquoise blouse and two inch heels, I admired myself in the full length mirror. Not too bad. Pretty snazzy actually. Who knew the farmer's daughter could look so glamorous?

I quickly set about doing my makeup the way the lady at the salon had taught me and then ran a brush through my hair, which was all that was necessary with the new cut. Roberto really was a genius.

I was just heading to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast when there was a sharp rap at the door, followed by Pia's now familiar voice calling, "Reid? Are you ready dear? I just _have_ to stop for a cappuccino on the way, so we don't have a moment to waste."

I flung open the door. "Pia? What on earth are you doing here?"

"I'm picking you up of course. Are you ready?"

"I had planned on taking my own car."

She waved me off even as she headed for the Bentley, "Nonsense. Since wherever I go, you will be going and vice versa, it only makes sense to car pool."

"We can go in my car," the imp in me couldn't resist offering. The look on her face made it all worthwhile.

"As I am not wearing the right shoes for pushing vehicles, I think not," she said, flashing me her five inch stilettos as she climbed into the driver's seat of her own car.

We arrived at the gallery half an hour later, Pia with cappuccino in hand and me with a breakfast bagel. Once again, if she disapproved of my voracious appetite, she didn't say a word. Points for her.

"This afternoon you will be given entry keys for the building as well as the alarm code," Pia explained as soon as we were seated at the desk in her office. Extra points for her in that she made no derogatory remarks regarding the way I was wolfing down my bagel, and said only, "When you're done eating we'll make our rounds and I'll introduce you to everyone. It's a small gallery; I only employ nine people on a regular basis. Let's see, there's one in the office, two on the floor, two buyers, two in the warehouse-"

"What is this? An ark?"

She stopped for a second and looked at me. You could literally watch her make the connection as one minute there was nothing and the next a light suddenly shone from behind her eyes. "I do like to do things in pairs, don't I? Anyway, who am I missing? Oh, yes, the cleaning lady. I suppose I could save some money by hiring an outside firm, but some of the artwork is too precious to take chances with. I'd much rather have someone that I completely control and who cares about my babies as much as I do. Sometimes dear, loyalty _can_ be bought."

_Tell me about it,_ I thought wryly. She'd bought my loyalty for a not so paltry sum. "That's only eight," I remarked around a mouthful of egg smothered in cheesy bagel goodness.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, it's not becoming. Yes, that's eight. With you that makes nine. My math is quite good."

Properly chastised, I made no comment and finished eating.

When I was done, (surprisingly Pia made no move to hurry me) we left the office. Instead of heading for the showroom as I had anticipated, we turned in the opposite direction and walked to another set of doors just down the hallway. Pia opened the one on the left and we entered a tidy, but congested business office. A woman with midnight black hair styled in a pixie cut was perched Indian style in a chair behind a desk that was planted squarely in the center of the room, its location dictated by the dozen or so filing cabinets that completely circled the room, taking up every square inch of wall space.

Holy cow! I thought she said she's only been open for five years? What's with all these cabinets?

"Hey Pia," the woman chirped as she unfolded herself and came around the desk to greet us. She was even more petite than Pia at less than five feet tall- since she was barefoot I was getting a pretty accurate glimpse of her real height.

"You don't have to get up on our account-" Pia told her, then interrupting herself she finished, "Where are your shoes, Maya?"

"Under the desk. They pinch my feet."

"They also keep you from looking like Snow White's eighth dwarf," Pia remarked as she bent to extricate the items in question from their hiding place.

"I'm usually sitting behind the desk when anyone comes in here anyway," Maya argued. "Besides, you've only got two inches on me, so you have no room to talk."

"But _I_ am wearing shoes," Pia dangled the high heels pointedly.

"Fine!" The woman gave in, stuffing her feet back into the torturous looking footwear. "Satisfied?"

"Quite," Pia returned. With a sigh not unlike parental resignation, she added, "Honestly dear, if you're not going to wear them, why do I even bother buying them?"

"I ask myself that same question every day," Maya retorted. Then sticking her hand out to me she said, "You must be Pia's new assistant. I'm Maya Maron."

As preoccupied as I was by this strangely familial interaction- they acted more like mother and daughter than employer and employee- I had not failed to notice the turn of phrase, 'new assistant.' So there had been one before me. I couldn't help but wonder if one of the buyers had recently been promoted- say from personal assistant. Maybe Pia was telling the truth when she said that she personally trained everyone and I wasn't really going to be a lackey ad infinitum.

"Reid Larson," I introduced myself.

"Nice to meet you, Reid."

"You as well," I responded, then searching for something to say I added inanely, "Nice office."

"It's a bit crowded, but it works. So where did you work before this?"

"My family's dairy farm and waitressing at a diner." If nothing else, I was candid.

"Ahh, I had a few hash slinging days of my own. I don't miss them."

"I suppose it all depends on who you're slinging hash at and where you hit them."

Tossing a look at Pia, Maya chuckled. "This one's already infinitely better than the last."

"Don't remind me," Pia sighed, a long-suffering sigh.

"Your predecessor only made it six weeks and that was five weeks and six days too long," Maya told me. "Pia's not much for firing people, even when they wholeheartedly deserve it. She's too soft."

This was a characteristic I never would have ascribed to Pia and one that startled me enough that my eyebrows raised marginally, although I managed to control any other outward response.

"Believe me, when Cat finally got her walking papers I was busy doing a happy jig on my desk." Maya took a second to showcase her version of a 'happy jig.'

So much for my theory- the previous personal assistant had not been promoted to buyer, she had been fired. Damn.

"But now she's gone, so let's not dredge up the past, let's just move on," Pia said and did precisely that. "Maya is my accountant. She's brilliant with numbers and handles all the daily grind of the business: billing, delivery schedules, and all things clerical. She handles all the money coming into and going out of this place and takes care of the payroll, so besides me, she is the only one in the gallery who knows down to the dime what everyone's earnings are. Salaries are variable based upon experience and the demands of the position. For that reason, and to avoid any potential drama, it is one subject that we never discuss. Are we clear?"

I nodded, then cleared my throat and murmured a soft yes. I wondered if Maya's eyebrows would be raised when my salary got plugged in. To me, the amount seemed more than a little extravagant based upon the fact that I was merely an assistant. A lowly, lowly, _lowly_ assistant.

"For this reason, it's also safe to say that mine is the best salary," Maya chirped. "The one in the know always gets the best remuneration." Pia glared at her accountant, though Maya happily ignored her.

Pia moved to Maya's desk and began perusing a stack of receipts that were laying there even as she told me, "Later today you'll need to meet with Maya to handle all of the new hire paperwork- Maya, what are these?"

"Those are the packing slips from that new shipment that arrived this morning."

"When did it come?"

"Ricky said the truck was waiting for him first thing this morning."

"Why didn't anybody tell me?" Pia grouched as she turned to me, her mercurial mood changing from grumpy to ecstatic in the space of the flap of a hummingbird's wing. "Oh, just wait until you see! I'm so excited! This will surely be the best showing in the history of the gallery!" And then, without another word to Maya, she began tugging me out of the office and down the hall.

We passed by another door, making two that we had skipped, to which Pia only said, "Oh, we'll come back to that later. I'm in too much of a hurry to do things in a proper order right now. Oh! I am _so_ excited!"

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed," I told her as I plucked my arm out of her circulation robbing grip.

We entered the warehouse which, not unlike Maya's office, was packed to the gills. Shelves and over-sized wooden crates lined every wall and created narrow aisles that spanned the entire room. Presumably there was enough artwork encased in the crates alone to last from now until doomsday. At the back of the room I could see a set of double doors which I could only assume led to the outside as they were heavily barred and equipped with an electronic alarm system.

"J.D.?" Pia called stridently across the room. "Halloo?! J.D.?! Gary? Hallooo! Anyone home?"

"Hey, Pia," a young man walked towards us, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"Reid, this is Ricky Marks. He's our warehouse manager. I'm going to assume Gary's back here too?"

"Yeah, we're unpacking that shipment from this morning."

Pia rubbed her hands together excitedly- I couldn't help but think she looked a little megalomaniacal doing so. "That's what we're here for J.D.," she said beaming widely.

"J.D.?" I was confused. The guy's name was Ricky Marks. How the hell did she manage 'J.D.' out of that one?

"Pia thinks I look like James Dean," Ricky explained tossing me a little sideways grin, one that I immediately suspected he'd been practicing in front of the mirror since the onset of puberty, and began leading us through the maze that was the warehouse. Grudgingly I had to admit that he did indeed possess many, if not all, of the same qualities as the illustrious James Dean. He had the brooding brow, the high forehead, the hair, and that same damn sexy half-smile. He exuded sex appeal in a way that should have turned me on. Instead, I was jealous. What gave him the right to be so self-possessed when he was at least three years younger than I? He should still be going through that awkward uncertain stage that everyone- or was it just me?- experienced. Of course, if he had, he had probably gotten it over with when he took his first steps at a year old.

"You do look like James Dean," Pia assured him as we followed him into a storage room already occupied by another man. Gary I presumed. "Just handsomer."

"You sure know how to make a guy blush."

_Oh please_. I could feel my breakfast bagel rising in my throat. Next he would say something like, "Oh, garsh, Miss Pia, my how you embarrass me," and then I really would throw up.

"Bah, J.D. We don't have time to flirt. Besides, what would my husband say?"

Turning to the other man, she quickly announced, "Gary, Reid, Reid, Gary. Okay, show me the goods." Pia's introductions had obviously hit an all time low in her excitement to get a gander at whatever was inside those crates. As if to prove the point, she began hauling a painting out of the nearest open box. "Take a look at this and tell me what you think," she instructed as she turned the canvas to face me.

It was stunning and I told her so. The painting was awash with vivid colors ranging from shades of vibrant red to a fine misty gray which had been intentionally muted. "It's as fine a piece of abstract art as any I've seen in a museum."

"She's good," Pia nodded approvingly to Ricky/J.D. "Go on."

"Well, I don't recognize the artist. But I'd say he or she is more influenced by say James Brooks than by Jackson Pollack. I mean, the paint's not really poured on is it? It's more like it's been diluted. Like a stain."

"I would have to totally agree." Still she seemed to be waiting for more.

Ignoring the niggling doubt that always resided at the back of my mind, a doubt which took the shape of Professor Stanley's frowning face, I continued, "The use of the brilliant colors deliberately muted, not only by diluting the paint, but also by some other method that I can't quite put my finger on, creates an interesting dichotomy that adds an extraordinary dimension to the painting."

"You have a very discerning eye," Pia noted. "Which is essential. If you plan on becoming a buyer someday, it's crucial that you pick your pieces judiciously; you can't just go round willy-nilly buying things indiscriminately. Having said that, can you guess what this artist used to dilute her paint?"

Taking the canvas from her, I tilted it this way and that, attempting to try and make out whatever medium had been used. Finally I gave it my best guess, "Watered-down wood stain?"

"Coffee! She dilutes her paint with coffee! Can you imagine?"

"Huh." I'd never heard of that. "That's new."

"I thought so," Pia nodded as she reverently set the painting aside. "I have three others of hers. Lana was one of my finds and she is going to be a star overnight!" And then, just as suddenly as her excitement had come, Pia was over it and ready to move on. Apparently she did everything on a whim. Heading toward the door, she called one last command over her shoulder, "Let me know when it's all unpacked, will you J.D.?"

With nothing left to do but follow, I reluctantly did so, casting a last wistful glance at the crates and the mysteries they housed within. Pia might be over it, but I certainly wasn't. I had just gotten started and, after being out of the art world for so long, I had forgotten how completely addicting it was to me. I felt immensely dissatisfied. It was akin to revving the engine of a racecar and then shutting it off and walking away: I wanted to race wildly down the highway feeling the wind in my hair; Pia just wanted to hear the engine.

I matched Pia's footsteps silently as she led me to the first of the two offices we had passed on our way to the warehouse. She tapped on the door before opening it and stepping in. Behind a mahogany desk almost as large as Pia's sat a stunning woman with long, platinum blond hair and picture perfect features unnecessarily enhanced by a liberal application of make-up.

"Simone, I'd like you to meet my new assistant, Reid Larson. Reid, Simone is one of our buyers."

Simone's eyes narrowed perceptibly as she took in the sight of me in the same way one might take in the sight of a fresh pile of excrement on their brand new living room carpet. "Nice to meet you, Reid."

"You too," I returned, confident that she meant the sentiment about as much as I did. My gaze fell to the name plate on her desk. 'Simone Morgenstern, MFA.'

Simone's eyes followed mine. "The MFA stands for Master of Fine Arts," she explained with a haughty lift in her tone.

"Really? Silly me, I thought it meant Make-up Facade Artist."

Dismissing me entirely, Simone turned to Pia and said, "I understand the new artwork's come in. Have you seen any of it yet?"

"Just one of my own acquisitions, they haven't finished uncrating the others yet. But judging by that piece, this should be one of our best shows ever. Which reminds me- I need to change the caterer. After seeing that painting again, I think we need something a little more glamorous, more upscale. Don't you agree, Reid?"

I was drawn so suddenly back into the conversation that I wasn't prepared for it and didn't know how to respond.

Simone was more than happy to help me out. "There you go, Reid. First day on the job and Pia's already going to have you busy scouting the area looking for the most upscale caterers you can find. I'm sure you've had vast experience in that and no doubt you'll do just fine. Try looking up 'Glamorous Catering' in the yellow pages. Just avoid anything that ends in 'R Us.'"

It was plain to see, Simone and I were not going to be BFF status anytime in the near millennium.

"Simone, dear, I doubt Reid has ever had any experience in hiring caterers considering she spent most of her life on a dairy farm," Pia laughed gaily.

What happened to the ever-so-observant Holmesian woman I had met just yesterday? The woman that had formed substantial deductions, out of even the most subtle inferences, seemed to have vanished overnight, leaving behind a slow-witted being, one who seemed completely oblivious to even the most obvious insult.

"Gee, thanks, I shore appreciate that. I'm a master at cow-tipping, but I don' have a handle on them dern food-bringers jest yet," I said in my most convincing hillbilly-ese.

"Oh, darling, don't you worry. I'm not going to throw you into the deep end of the pool. At least not until you get your feet wet. No, this time I think I shall have Simone handle everything. You don't mind, do you Simone? After all, you're bound to benefit as much from this show as anyone here, certainly more than Reid since she's just arrived, so it only seems fair. We'll need a fabulous caterer, of course, and an impressive tasting menu. Oh, and a sommelier! Don't forget that, that's almost as important as the caterer. And, let's see, fresh flowers, maybe some orchids?" She waved her hands."Oh, just listen to me! Pretty soon I'll be planning it all and leaving you with nothing to do! I'll just get out of your hair and leave it in your capable hands!" With that Pia tugged me out of the office.

"Sometimes she just needs to be reminded of who's in charge around here," Pia remarked as she led me to the next door.

Huh.

Apparently Pia wasn't oblivious. Way to blow the judgment call.

At the next office no introductions were necessary, though Pia was unaware of this and made them anyway. "Corey, I'd like you to meet my new assistant, Reid Larson. Reid, Corey James is another of our buyers."

"Reid and I are already acquainted," Corey informed Pia.

"You are?"

"We went to school together. We were in- what, two?- classes together?"

"Three, actually."

"Really? I remember Professor Stanley's two expressionist classes, but aside from that?"

"Art history, Professor Maine."

"Oh, yes, now I remember," he said, although I could see clearly that he did not remember at all. That wasn't really surprising. I was pretty good at blending into the woodwork. And besides, I wasn't the superstar I remembered Corey being. He had been a favorite of many professors and I'd seen enough of his work to know that it wasn't just because he was a brown-noser- although he was- he was a lackey, an ass kisser, a toady, a fawner, a flunky, and all the rest- but he was also a damned good artist. He specialized in oils, but he was more than adequate in about any medium. I remember having been a little envious of his talent. Truth be told, I still was. No wonder he was a buyer and I was just an assistant. Bootlicker.

"Well, it's very good to see you again, Reid."

"You too, Corey."

If I was going to have to spend every day for the next several months having to lie through tightly clenched teeth to all my fellow employees (so far the only one I'd found even the slightest bit palatable had been Maya), then I was going to have to get a mouthguard. Remembering my newly acquired salary, I forced a dazzling smile I in no way felt.

We left the office and finally headed for the showroom, where I met the sales team. A woman named Fiona and a man named Giorgio. I swear, Fiona and Giorgio. And they both lived up to their exotic sounding names; Giorgio with his swarthy, Mediterranean good looks, and Fiona with her Gloria Swanson, 'I'm ready for my close-up Mr. DeMille' old Hollywood glam. The two of them were almost as beautiful as the artwork displayed throughout the room. I was surrounded by perfection. If I hadn't had an inferiority complex before now, I was rapidly developing one.

Chapter Four

Somehow I managed to get through my first day at the gallery relatively unscathed, and after a much needed full night's sleep, I was feeling pretty energized. Things today had been going along swimmingly until lunch time, when Pia made the announcement that it was 'most imperative' that we all lunch together and 'get on the same page.' The thought of having lunch with Corey and Simone nearly destroyed my appetite. One look at the prices on the menu at the café obliterated what little was left.

The restaurant to which Pia had taken us was misleadingly quaint, which had lulled me into a false sense of security. It had a coffee shop atmosphere with a large patio area out front and muted lighting inside. Both areas were peppered with marble-topped café tables and bentwood chairs. That was where the quaint ended. A maitre de led us to our table and a quick glance at the menu spoke of prices as far removed from quaint as you could get. At the coffee shops I was used to, I could get a sandwich and a coffee for five to ten dollars. Here the cheapest espresso was going to hit my wallet for at least that much.

Simone and Corey were not shy when they ordered, each of them choosing from some of the most expensive items. Corey's lobster and crab salad sandwich with a side pommes frites (which it turns out is just a fancy way of saying French fries) was going to set him back a good twenty-five dollars. I was more careful, choosing the least expensive option on the menu, a garden salad (which was still twelve-fifty- for that price I was expecting some pretty fancy ingredients- if they brought me some wedges of iceberg and a couple of shredded carrots I intended to stage a revolt) and added a water with lemon. The waiter attempted to get me to choose the more expensive Perrier, but it was a no go. I didn't care if the water came from the tap, it was free. At least I hoped so. I was a bit nervous that the lemon might cost me four or five dollars and debated removing that, but before I could, the waiter, looking more than a bit peeved at my economical choices, swept up the menus and flounced away.

I was wondering whether there was a McDonald's within walking distance of the gallery, (because I was certain the pansy salad I had ordered wasn't going to hold me over for very long and the thought of a big, fat double cheeseburger had me practically drooling on myself) when Pia started the conversation by asking Corey if he had brought the pictures with him.

The day before Corey had spent the afternoon photographing all of the artwork in what they called the 'staging area' of the warehouse. This was a corner room of the warehouse that was draped in beige fabric where each new piece coming into the gallery was photographed. These pictures were primarily used for inventory purposes at the gallery; professional shots would be taken at a later date and used to build a catalog.

Corey passed the digital camera to Pia and she began to examine the pictures on the view screen, making little murmured comments about each.

"Nice job, Simone," she said, speaking of an abstract sculpture that seemed to be amassed from a combination of hardware such as nuts and bolts and washers and something that looked like Styrofoam peanuts. It was interesting, that was all I could say for it. But Pia seemed genuinely impressed.

"Thanks," said Simone, basking in her praise. "The guy's a genius. I had trouble picking only two of his sculptures; he had so many that showed so much promise."

"Well, if our buyers agree with you, then you'll be able to go back and get more."

I had a hard time imagining anyone paying actual money for that sculpture, but then again I was among people who didn't think anything of spending twenty-five dollars on a sandwich and fries, so who was I to judge?

"What do you think, Reid?"

All eyes turned to me. I wanted to kill Pia. Now would be a great time for the waiter to interrupt. I considered flagging him down to change my order to that more expensive Perrier. I debated making a break for the bathroom. I desperately searched for a response that wouldn't come off as negative or make me look foolish and misinformed. I finally settled for, "I think it's interesting." Weak, I know.

Simone snickered. "Code for, 'I think it's ugly.'"

"No, no," I was immediately on the defensive. "I didn't say that. Sculptures are just not my area of expertise; I'm more qualified to judge paintings."

"Come off it," she scoffed. "If you're so qualified, show us your MFA."

I wanted to say, "Yes, Simone, you've made us all keenly aware that you earned your Master's. We all know how many _long_ and arduous years of study you must have put in to receive it and we are all duly impressed." But I didn't.

"Go ahead, Reid," Pia encouraged. "Give us your thoughts on this piece."

"Well," I said, still searching for the right words. While I really wanted nothing more than to verbally lambaste the obnoxious buyer, I also didn't want to put my budding career in jeopardy. Inter-office squabbles are rarely comfortable for anyone, and are usually quickly and effortlessly resolved- by giving at least one half of the warring parties the ax. I had no doubt who that would be. "I'm not sure I have any thoughts worth sharing."

"And this is why you're the personal assistant and not the buyer," Simone snapped. "A buyer has to have an opinion. A personal assistant waits for it to be given to them."

"Now, Simone, one can certainly understand Reid's discomfort. As the newest member of the team, I'm sure she doesn't wish to ruffle any feathers," Pia commiserated.

Ruffle hell. I wanted to do more than _ruffle_ Simone's feathers. I wanted to pluck them and stuff them into a pillow and use it to suffocate her. Then maybe revive her and do it again. That wasn't so bad, was it? Swallowing hard to keep my temper under control I said, "I have an opinion, I'm just not sure that you'll like it."

"Like I would care."

"Fine. My opinion is this: art is not just for art's sake. Art has to mean something. It should make some kind of point, no matter how trivial. And this piece just doesn't seem to be making any point. Sure it has mass and weight and volume. It takes up space. But it means nothing. It just _is_."

Simone's thin brows shot up her forehead, nearly to her hairline. "What do you mean, 'It just _is_.'"

I shrugged. "Only that. It just is. It exists, but it has no purpose."

"Isn't that the point? To just exist? Existence, that's what it's all about isn't it? The whole purpose of life? We exist, we are. And that's the statement this sculpture makes. I think, therefore I am. It worked for Descartes. Which, by the way, is the title of the piece."

Now I thought all of this was an over-sized load of cow crumpets, (thank you Daddy for another fine colloquialism). If the artist truly was reaching for something so exquisitely noble, I certainly gave him some credit, but I still held strongly to the conviction that he had missed his goal by a mile. However, I wasn't about to continue arguing it with Miss 'I Have a Master's, Therefore I Know Everything.' It was a losing battle, with only the barest of chances that I could possibly win. Luckily the waiter chose that moment to bring our food, which presented us with a sorely needed interruption.

After he had settled everyone's meals before them, mine with a thump of my bowl and a decidedly castigating frown, he moved away and Simone continued the conversation, making it clear that this was one bone of contention of which she was not about to let go. She was miffed enough that you would have thought she had created the sculpture herself.

"I would think that a student of art, even if she hasn't yet earned her Master's, (another bone she clearly couldn't let go of) would have more understanding of form and movement."

"I didn't say it was bad, I just said it was-"

"Pointless," Simone interrupted. "Yes, we all heard you quite clearly. In the future, I would refrain from judging that which is outside the tiny realm of your understanding."

I could feel my face turning red. "What I said was, sculptures are not my forte, but still, I think I am educated enough to form an opinion."

"I beg to differ."

"Now, ladies," Pia cut in, "let's all just agree to disagree. We all see and judge art differently and that's as it should be." Considering the conversation over, though I was quite certain it would still come back to bite me, Pia scanned through several more pictures, before stopping at another one. "Hmmm, whose is this?"

"That one's mine," Corey spoke for the first time during the whole lunch.

"Hmmm," Pia said again. Then she passed the camera to me.

I instantly understood her hesitance. The LCD screen showed a sizeable painting, worked- or should I say 'overworked'- vigorously in oils. The colors were vibrant, almost too vibrant, but the real fault of the painting was that the paints had also been used to create dimension, and the textures were all wrong. The highs and lows looked forced. It was a painting that, had I been a buyer, I wouldn't have given a second glance to.

I passed the camera to Simone who hardly glanced at it before handing it to Corey.

Looking at it, he said, "The picture doesn't do it justice. That's why I hate taking these inventory photos. I don't have an eye for the camera."

"We don't use these photos for advertising," Pia said wryly. "That's why we have professionals for the catalogs. That aside, please explain to me what it is about this painting that spoke to you?"

"Well, I umm, really liked the colors."

Talk about having no opinion.

"The colors. And," Pia prodded.

"Well, the, uh, the surrealism."

"Darling, this painting could hardly be called surreal. Surrealism would lead one to believe that there was _some_ recognizable element in the painting." She snatched up the camera and pointing one pearl-pink tapered nail at it she said, "That could be a chair, or a cow, or a flower, or even a chair giving birth to a cow on a flower for heaven's sake, all depending on how you look at it."

"I think it's a monk actually."

"A monk?" Pia was startled. Squinting at the picture she muttered, "A monk or a monkey?"

I noticed Simone didn't jump on the bandwagon of this particular conversation. Apparently her disdain was reserved only for me.

"Well, I guess you could say it's more expressionistic then surreal. It's supposed to evoke a feeling of dominion and weakness at the same time."

"Supposed to?" Pia arched one brow. "What does it invoke in you?"

Corey looked bemused. "Umm, I don't know. I guess, umm, well-"

"Exactly. Confusion. Which would be fine, if that was what the artist had intended. But I don't think that was his intent. The artist is a male, is he not?"

"Yes," Corey nodded, for the first time capable of answering something in the affirmative with at least a modicum of conviction.

I was mystified. Where had the young man brimming over with confidence gone? What had happened to the talented artist that all had the professors loved, most especially Professor Stanley? Hardly a day had gone by that Stanley hadn't heaped some kind of praise on Corey, and a good portion of it had been earned. Now here he was, some stumbling, muttering fool. The self-confidence, the arrogance, the haughtiness were all gone, leaving behind the weak shell of a man who seemed to be more than a little confused and most definitely overwhelmed by the world in which he'd found himself. I wondered if being a yes man for so long had done that to him. Spending years matching the opinions of others around you had to bleed you dry of one of your own.

As if she had been peeking inside my head, Pia verbalized my thoughts. "Corey, what's happened to you? You used to be so filled with verve. You were self-assured to the point of pomposity. Now you're like some adolescent boy who's trying to please the teacher and is afraid he'll be spanked if he doesn't."

Okay, so she phrased it more colorfully than I would have. But still, it was exactly what I had been thinking.

"I've just been dealing with a lot of stress lately. There's a lot on my mind."

"Well, darling, there's a _lot_ on _my_ mind. This show is very important to me. I am expecting some of our best buyers, coming into the summer season as we are. And we can't be showing them this kind of- of-" For the first time since I'd met her, Pia was at a loss for words. Something I hadn't believed was at all possible.

Suddenly, I felt a little bit sorry for Corey. Somehow, he seemed to be even more the underdog in this situation than myself. "It's not really all that bad," I offered, in an attempt to defend him.

"It's not really all that good either," Simone said, narrowing her eyes at me. I should have known she wouldn't be able to maintain her silence when I spoke up.

"Look," I said, taking the camera from Pia. "The colors are good- if a little too brilliant- and the dimensions are a little off, but overall, it does have some promise. Is he a young artist, Corey? Because if he is, then with a little more experience under his belt, he can only get better."

Corey looked baffled. "Um, I don't know. I mean, I think he is, but I'm not sure."

Pia looked as if she may blow a gasket. "What do you mean you're not sure? You _did_ meet him, didn't you?"

"Well, no. Not exactly."

"Corey, you know how I feel about third party recommendations. I always insist my buyers meet and personally speak to every artist we represent. How else can you be sure of their sincerity as an artist?"

"I know, Pia. But this was different. If I could just explain, then you'd understand."

"Then explain."

"That's the problem, I can't. His, er, sponsor, wants to remain anonymous."

"Oh, my dear, Lord," Pia was beyond exasperated. "Will his sponsor be at the show?"

"I, uh, don't think so."

"What about the artist? I would like to talk to this man."

"I don't know."

At that point Pia had had enough. Slapping her credit card down on the check that had mysteriously appeared sometime during the conversation, she said, "Corey, I would like to speak to you in my office when we get back to the gallery."

Corey nodded. Silently, he rose from the table and exited the restaurant.

"Honestly, I don't know what that boy is thinking."

Simone eye-balled me. "Maybe he's a little worried about your new hire. After all, Corey's only been with us a few months and he's been kind of hit and miss all along. Maybe he's afraid Reid is his replacement."

"Bah," Pia brushed the sentiment off. "I have no intentions of replacing anyone. Or at least I hadn't, until just now."

Chapter Five

We returned to the gallery where Pia locked herself in the office with Corey. Left to my own devices, I escaped to the staging area, where I could examine the newly acquired pieces of art more closely. Seeing the paintings Corey had purchased firsthand, rather than through the eye of the camera, was of no benefit at all. If anything, the paintings looked worse than they had on the LCD screen. There was a certain amateurish quality to them that baffled me. What had Corey been thinking? If all his purchases had been as poorly made as these; how had he managed to maintain his position in the gallery?

I looked around some more, poking through all the sculptures and paintings and was surprised to see that aside from the first three paintings, some of the other choices Corey had made were stellar. There was a marble sculpture that especially caught my eye. It was actually two separate sculptures, intricately wrapped together in such a way that they could be separated. As I soon discovered, putting them back together was much trickier.

It was Maya who came to my rescue.

"Gotta love hands on art," she said as she smoothly twisted the two pieces, at the same time raising one and lowering the other, and voila, they were again whole.

"Thanks," I grinned sheepishly.

"No problem. Pia's looking for you."

"Well then, I guess I'd better go find her."

"How do you like it here so far?" Maya stopped me.

I thought about this for a moment. "I don't know really. I guess it's still too soon to tell."

Maya nodded. "A lot of changes in such a short time, it has to be a bit of an overload."

"Yeah," I laughed. "I guess you could say that."

"How do you like the guest house?"

"You know I'm staying there?"

"There are no secrets around here. Everyone knows everything about everything. You'll get used to it." I considered this information for a moment. I didn't like the idea of having my privacy stripped from me so efficiently.

"Have you noticed anything, um, _odd_ , since you've been staying there?" Maya then asked.

Odd? This last two days had been completely surreal. Everything around me was odd. But I didn't think that was what Maya meant, and somehow her question made me nervous. "What do you mean by odd exactly?"

Maya laughed, a little uncomfortably. "Well, it's just that, oh, how do I put this?"

"How about flat on the table? Just spit it out, whatever it is."

"See, Pia, among others of her eccentricities, believes in spirits."

"Spirits. Uh-huh. Somehow I don't think we're talking about booze here."

"Yeah, no. Not booze. Ghosts. One of her dearest friends is a medium, or whatever it's called. You know- the people that talk to the dead."

"Yeah, I saw that in a movie once. Whoopi was fabulous, but that was just pretend."

"Well, don't let Pia hear you say that. When she and her husband bought their house, the first thing she did was have a 'cleansing,' and no, I don't mean with Pine-Sol. She did the same thing with the gallery. Especially since there were already so many rumors about its being haunted. She even tried to get those Ghost Hunter chaps out here, but they wouldn't come."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. But that's not the point. The point is- Pia believes it. She's convinced there are spirits still inhabiting the gallery and her home, primarily the guest house."

"Why on earth would a ghost inhabit a guest house?"

"Who knows," Maya shrugged.

"If she really believes that, then why not just move? You know, like Amityville. I wouldn't be staying there if I thought creepy ghosts were stalking around trying to steal my soul or whatever it is that they do."

"Pia doesn't think anything like that. She thinks they're friendly."

"Ahhh, Casper."

"Sort of. The cleansing was supposed to have removed any kind of malevolent spirits."

"Huh."

"Anyway, so I was just curious if you had experienced anything odd or different since you've been there. Because, to be honest, there have been strange things here. Not often, but enough to keep you wondering."

"Nope, nothing. Everything's been kosher so far. What kinds of things have happened here?"

"What in the hell are you two doing, skulking around in here?" The shrill voice effectively put an end to the conversation as Maya and I both whirled around to face an obviously annoyed Simone.

"We're not skulking," Maya responded smoothly. "We were just looking at the art. Pia wants Reid to start on the floor plan for the show. What are you doing here?"

Simone ignored her question and said, "Reid? Reid is creating the floor plan? Oh, that should be just great!"

Somehow, I managed to be both insulted (because of Simone) and baffled (because of Maya) at the same time. Two such diametrically opposed emotions did not allow me to formulate any kind of response.

"Oh! So this is where everyone's got off to!" Pia suddenly joined the party. "Good, Reid, I'm so glad you're here already, we've got a lot to do."

"Humph!" Simone stalked out of the staging area in a huff. Wiggling her fingers in a friendly wave, Maya soon followed.

Pia and I spent the next several hours reviewing the artwork and designing the floor plan. I was grateful that she viewed this as a training opportunity and therefore wasn't leaving me to my own devices. While she was very forthcoming regarding her opinions (which were strong), at the same time, she was also quite open to any of my suggestions. When we were done, I thought we had a very well thought out design, and for the first time I was actively looking forward to the show.

If anything, having re-immersed myself in the art world, I felt some spark of creativity blossoming within me once more. It was a sensation I hadn't experienced since my last failing project in school. The instant I returned to the guest house I retrieved a sketch book from my portfolio and began sketching out several designs. I thought the final one showed some promise and determined then that when I went back home this weekend, I would not only be collecting my personal effects, but also several blank canvases and all of my painting supplies.

Somehow I managed to make it through the rest of the week, and on Friday, Pia and I returned to Carma's boutique to pick up my altered cocktail dresses. Carma was in rare form, eagerly presenting me with two more 'darling designs' Diadra had recently created. It was all I could do to get the dresses that were already bought and paid for and escape the shop without anything else in tow.

My plan to spend the entire weekend at home had been nixed by Pia, who informed me that I would be attending a 'small social gathering' (her words, not mine) that she was having in her home on Sunday evening. Her intent was to allow some of her more important buyers to preview the artwork that would be on display during the gallery opening the following week. I wasn't overly thrilled at cutting my weekend short, and even less thrilled at the prospect of the party, but there wasn't much I could do about it.

Friday night I made the three hour trip back home. My mother was overjoyed to have me back in the nest and lavished me with attention and my father put me back to work early Saturday morning with the same efficient regularity I had known since birth. While I knew deep down my father was proud of my finally having obtained employment in the field for which I had been trained, (at his expense I'm sure he would add), he treated me no differently than he would have on any other day. That's my father for you. He's not one for demonstration. He's strict, even a little hard, but beyond the gruff exterior, somehow I've always known how deep his love runs for my mother and me.

Early Sunday morning, with some reluctance, I headed back to the Hampton's in my overloaded car. My mother didn't even try to hide her delight as she watched me pack a dozen blank canvases in varying sizes, two easels, and all of my sketch books into the trunk. She was convinced that I had 'found my muse' again and I didn't argue the point with her. After nearly two years of stagnation, I suddenly found myself so thoroughly immersed in art, that I felt compelled to produce something of my own. If that was my muse, then so be it. And be damned Professor Stanley. Besides, I wasn't sharing it with anyone. It was for me and me alone. And that, I felt, I might be able to do.

Chapter Six

Sunday night was a whirlwind of activity. When Pia had mentioned she would be throwing a 'small social gathering,' I had planned on eight, maybe ten people, tops. Somehow, I hadn't envisioned the no less than fifty people that were milling about several of the downstairs rooms of her home; rooms, which I couldn't fail to notice, that had a decidedly feminine flair. Every square inch was draped, layered, bundled, swathed and adorned in the most opulent female frippery that hoards of money could buy and all of it in shades of lavender. Elaborately floral wallpaper, massive quantities of silk, chintz and lace, Chippendale chairs, sofas and settees- even a fainting couch; distinctly, unequivocally, nauseatingly lavender. Bouquets of fresh flowers topped every flat surface, the perfume of the abundant hydrangeas, roses and lilacs warring with the intense colognes wafting off the guests. It was enough to give you a headache.

Having not yet met Mr. Stillwell, (who was still out of town on business) I had no idea how he felt about living in such a blatantly female space. He must either be very in touch with his feminine side, or he lived with blinders on. For me, it would take blinders. There was such an extreme dichotomy between the main house and the guest house, that I couldn't help but to wonder if he had designed the guest house solely to escape this excessive estrogen overload.

Even as I meandered about the room counting heads, I speculated on exactly how popular the showing was going to be if this sizeable group was only representative of the much larger number Pia was expecting at the gallery.

I enjoyed a few pleasant moments chatting with Maya and her husband and went out of my way to avoid Simone who was holding court with a group of gentlemen, Professor Stanley among them. Thankfully, Simone returned the favor. I also steered clear of Corey who was being accompanied by a woman I could only assume was his girlfriend, judging by the way she was clinging to him. I hadn't spoken to Corey since the disastrous lunch and I was in no hurry to strike up a conversation with him now. Besides, he was still looking decidedly uneasy and his girlfriend looked just about as nervous; I was harboring enough of my own apprehension without borrowing any from the two of them. They both acted as if they were walking barefoot on porcupines the way they minced about the room, and I was tempted to run up behind them and shout _Boo!_ if only to see which one fainted first.

I spent a good portion of my time on the sidelines, standing alone and watching people interact with one another. I couldn't help but to check the clock every few minutes, eagerly awaiting the time when I could excuse myself from what was very nearly my own private hell. I'm not a social butterfly by nature, though I can schmooze with the best of them, when the situation calls for it. In this case however, I knew almost no one in attendance and I wasn't sure that I wanted to.

I was watching another cluster of people who had just moved into view and debating the merits of making my escape, when a male voice whispered in my ear. "So, what do you think of our little group?"

I turned to face a man whose build could only be described as round. He was nearly as wide as he was tall (which wasn't very) and his cummerbund looked like it might fly off at any second, no doubt taking a number of people out with it. His smiling cherubic cheeks and bright eyes sparkling with mischief, made me like him instantly.

"A little, uh, overwhelming?"

"Perfect summation. Robert Whitaker," he quickly introduced himself. "Let me catch you up; then maybe you won't feel so overwhelmed. See that woman over there?" He widened his eyes meaningfully as he not so subtly pointed out a woman who was a walking billboard for plastic surgery. "If there's an ounce of flesh on her that hasn't been sucked, tucked, padded, tightened, lifted, or otherwise altered, I couldn't begin to tell you where to find it. Her husband is a famous plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills, although he's not here with her tonight. Never is, as a matter of fact. She comes to the Hamptons every spring and summer, and always by herself. Every year she has to hire a new staff, from her pool boy to her private chef. And every year they get younger and more virile than the ones before."

"You mean-"

"A little hokey pokey in the kitchen, some hanky-panky by the pool; it's like a stud farm at her place. I'd be jealous, but I've already got a man of my own." Now he pointed in a new direction. "And that guy over there, he has a tendency to hire her cast-offs, although he would never admit to it. He's been in the closet so long he's got better night vision than a raccoon. The problem is he still hasn't figured out that his closet has louvered doors and we can all see inside."

Looking around the room he continued, "That man calls himself a duke, although he's never been able to establish any proof. And that woman over there is currently on her seventh husband. And the guy with her- that ain't number seven. But I think he's about to be number eight. And see that woman over there? She- oh, no - no, you've got to meet this one in person. Come on." With that, he pranced- I _swear_ the man pranced- across the room, dragging me behind. We met up with the lady in question, a giant woman (for the first time in my life, I felt petite), draped in furs and heavily crusted in jewels.

"Olivia St. Pierre!" Robert cooed, "So nice to see you!"

"Robert!" She returned in just as effusive a manner, leaning over to kiss him on both cheeks.

"Olivia, I'd like you to meet," suddenly Robert realized that while he had introduced himself, he hadn't given me a second to return the favor. "Oh dear, my manners are lacking. Dane would spank me. Lucky me!" He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously and giggled. "What was your name dear?"

"Reid Larson," I supplied.

From there the conversation made a turn I never could have anticipated.

Olivia suddenly cocked her head to one side and stared blankly off into space. "Oooohhh, well isn't that nice," she finally said to no one in particular.

I cocked an eyebrow at Robert who only held up one finger in a 'Wait for it,' kind of gesture.

Olivia finally looked back at me, "Jean-Luc says he knows one of your people. Your great-grandfather I think he said. A man named Steven Larson. Does that sound right?"

First of all, my great-grandfathers on both sides of my family were long since deceased, and secondly, I could not recall having a Steven anywhere in the family. But more importantly, we were the only three people standing there, so who precisely was Jean-Luc?

Robert was eager to answer my unspoken question. "Jean-Luc is Olivia's deceased husband. He likes to keep in touch." Again with the giggle.

"I see," I said, and I was beginning to make sense of it actually, in a bizarre sort of fashion. This must be the woman that Maya had told me about, the medium who performed the cleansing rituals for Pia. Interesting.

"Your great-grandfather, dear," Olivia prodded.

"His name was Sven. I don't know any Steven."

"Steven- Sven," she dismissed blithely. "I don't always hear Jean-Luc properly and he does get so peeved with me because of that. He says to tell you your grandfather's doing quite well."

_For a dead man_.

After that, Olivia went on to describe in great detail, the various spirits with whom she communicated, including, but not limited to, the ghost in the gallery, Raphael. _The_ Raphael, she insisted. Of course she had no explanation as to why an Italian Renaissance painter, dead for almost five hundred years, was currently haunting an American gallery. She also talked about the ghost of the guest house, has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?- The Ghost of the Guest House. This one, she said, was named Cicily. Cicily was reportedly a runaway slave from the Civil War days who had sadly been killed not long after reaching New York. (These things are always quite melodramatic.)

When I asked why Cicily felt the need to haunt the guest house instead of the main house which was certainly more reflective of her era, Olivia's only answer was, "Unhappily, Pia's home- lovely as it is- exemplifies too much of the Southern standard at the time and therefore holds too many bad memories for poor Cicily. She only wants to live out the last of her existence in peace and comfort. That's why I told Pia not to worry about her. She's not a violent spirit and she doesn't mean anyone harm. She just wants to exist and enjoy that of which she was robbed in life."

"Uh-huh."

Olivia smiled at me. "I can see that you don't believe me. No bother, I'm used to skeptics. But mark my words, if anything strange happens in the guest house, you will know Cicily has been there."

"Okey-doh."

I couldn't move far enough, or fast enough, away from Ms. St. Pierre, and Robert, sensing my discomfort, whisked away with me.

"She's a hoot, isn't she?" he asked as he steered me into another room.

"I'm not sure 'hoot' is the word I'm looking for."

"Oh, she's crazy no doubt, but in a fun sort of way."

Crazy good, not crazy bad. Good to know.

During the evening I also met Robert's less exuberant spouse Dane. Dane was fit where Robert was fluffy; he was serious where Robert was bubbly; he was soft-spoken where Robert was boisterous; in short, they were the complete antithesis of one another, and so they made the perfect couple. They were both interior designers with art majors and they displayed exceedingly good taste and a seemingly boundless knowledge. The two showed great interest in the catalog Pia had put together to promote the showing, and not unlike myself, they were quite taken with Lana's coffee-washed painting (though of course Lana's secret of the wash remained confidential per her agreement). They also adored the sculpture I had seen in the staging room and were clearly excited when I explained to them how it came apart into separate pieces creating two works from one.

When the party finally ended and everyone had left, Pia declared it a raging success, voicing her opinion that the gallery would be packed to the gills, and probably break all records regarding revenue. I was exhausted when I returned to the guest house, but at the same time I was eager to get at least some of my sketch reproduced on a canvas.

I worked well into the wee hours of the morning, having chosen a twelve inch canvas for my project. When I finally fell into bed, I had at least completed the ground work for what I was certain would be the best work I had ever produced.

I slept so heavily that I didn't hear my alarm and had to race through my shower in order to be ready when Pia pulled up at my door. All the way to the gallery Pia chattered on, covering every bit of the previous evening in painstaking detail. Of course, I didn't find her recitation nearly as entertaining as Robert's, but I didn't tell her that.

The only thing of even the slightest interest to me was when she began to talk about having met Corey's girlfriend, who as it turns out, was Diadra, the new designer that Carma had been so excited about.

"Carma was right," Pia told me. "The girl comes from just outside of Saratoga Springs, some small town called Wilson or Wilton, or maybe it was Milton? I don't know- something like that. Anyway, she was completely out of her milieu, so naturally she must have felt a bit overwhelmed. Of course, the countless glasses of champagne she sucked down during the course of the evening must have helped to sustain her. Still, I couldn't help but to notice the dress she was wearing, it was absolutely stunning. She told me- and anyone else who would listen- that it was one of her own designs. I do believe she was using my party to trump up business. I suppose I should be miffed, but I can't help but to admire her enterprise. There was one other thing I noticed, though."

"What's that?"

"While you were busy gossiping with Robert Whitaker, Corey was busy watching you. He may be dating Diadra, but I think he has a bit of a crush on you."

I couldn't have been more flabbergasted if she had told me Robert or Dane had a crush on me.

Chapter Seven

The preparations for the gala event kept us all on our toes the entire week and so many artists came streaming in and out to handle last minute details, make changes, have egos stroked, or quell nerves, that I considered having Pia put in a revolving door. Pia was a master at handling their volatile personalities, something I doubted I would ever be equipped to handle, and so I often found myself assisting with the physical labor of setting up the showroom. Somehow, even amidst the confusion and chaos, we managed to get everything done on time, and by Friday night every inch of the room was jam-packed with new pieces of art just waiting to be admired, with Lana's 'coffee' art spotlighted front and center as she had demanded. After having met the obnoxious girl three times this week- and subsequently having moved her artwork as many times- I was liking her art just a little bit less each day until eventually I just avoided it altogether.

The excitement in the room was palpable and everything was a whirl of activity. People were dressed to the nines, with diamonds gleaming, and champagne glasses clinking as they milled about the room. Credit cards were being whipped out willy-nilly and every one of Pia's staff was rushing about the room, taking down information from buyers and marking various items as sold. Just a quick tally of the numbers was enough to make my head spin. Pia's grand opening was going off without a hitch. It was a night to remember.

I was in the midst of showing several of my favorite paintings to Robert and Dane, when an infuriated screech slashed across the room. Slowly the patter of voices began to waver and then die as the furious shrieking continued unabated and actually increased in volume.

" _What_ is this? What in the _hell_ is this?!"

"Lana," Pia tried to placate the clearly enraged artist, "I don't know what you're going on about."

" _This!_ This piece of _crap_ isn't mine!" Lana shoved one of her paintings- her coffee washed one- knocking it off its easel. " _This_ isn't _mine_! It's _not- frickin- mine_! What kind of crap are you trying to pull here?!"

Excusing myself from Robert and Dane, I hurried over to join Pia. Of course the two men, eager to catch every word of what was being said, followed right behind me.

"I knew I shouldn't have agreed to this showing! I should have known a rich snob like you would try and cheat me! That's how people like you get their money! Stepping all over the little people!" She followed this with a suggestion of where Pia could put her painting, and it wasn't what you would suspect. It was worse.

The blood drained out of Pia's face so rapidly I was certain she was going to faint. I must not have been the only one with that same thought because suddenly Professor Stanley came out of the crowd to grasp Pia's elbow.

"What is going on here?" he asked.

Pia shook her head. "I don't know. I- I just don't understand."

"I'll tell you what's going on! This _woman_ -" Lana shrieked, "this _thief!-_ stole my painting!"

"What?!" Now Pia's voice was raised as well. "I did no such thing!"

"Maybe we should take this to the office," the professor suggested, using his grip on Pia to start steering her in that direction, while attempting to rein Lana in as well.

But Lana was not having it. Wresting her arm from his grip Lana screamed, "Touch me and I'll sue! I'm leaving! But first, I want my painting. Now what did you do with it?!"

Instinctively, I picked Lana's painting up from the floor. I nearly swallowed my tongue when upon a single glance I was forced to admit that loathsome as she may be, Lana was telling the truth. This was not her painting.

"Pia," I murmured. "You need to look at this."

Pia examined it as well and her horror was audible when she said, "I thought that it looked different, but I thought it was the lighting. Oh my God! How is this possible? How could this happen?"

"I don't know," I shook my head.

Turning back to Lana, she made another attempt to placate her. "Lana, I am so sorry. I don't know how this happened. I had no idea. Please, believe me. I didn't have this painting brought out of the staging area until just before the showing. I had no idea it wasn't the same one."

"Yeah," Lana scoffed. "I'm sure you didn't. You rich people are all alike. Step on whoever you have to just to make a buck. Well, I'm not gonna be one of your victims, so just give me my paintings and I'm outta here. And you better believe that everyone's gonna hear about this!"

Judging by the one or two reporters I could see frantically scribbling notes, not to mention the one that was already on his cell (probably calling in a camera crew), I had no doubt the damage Lana could inflict was nothing compared to what the tabloids were going to do.

"Let me just get this out of here-" I began, but Lana snatched the painting from my hands. "Oh, no, sister! Not on your life! Not until I get my painting back, or I'll be keeping this one for evidence. I'll sue the crap out of you and your whole goddamn company!"

"Now, just slow down here," Professor Stanley cut in. "There's no need to be talking about law suits here. There's obviously been some kind of mistake."

"A mistake that's about to make me a millionaire," Lana smirked.

The professor turned to me. "Reid- go check the staging area. See if the original painting is still there. I'm not sure where this other one came from, but it's worth a look to make sure hers isn't still in there." Then, turning to Corey, he said, "Call the police. Tell them we think we've had a robbery here."

Pia gasped again. "The police? Really? Do you honestly think that's necessary?"

"Not unless you have a better explanation," the professor said.

"I think I need a chair," Pia mumbled.

Maya came out of nowhere, chair in hand, and Pia all but collapsed into it.

The professor, now completely in control of the situation, spoke in the booming voice I recognized from his lecture hall, "Folks, I'm sorry to say the opening is done for the evening. If you'll all just collect your things and head out, we'd certainly appreciate it. Anyone who is interested in making any additional purchases, please leave notice with one of the gallery employees and they will be getting in touch with you over the next few days. Thank you for attending. Naturally, we wish the experience had been more enjoyable."

The professor, assisted by Fiona and Giorgio, began ushering the guests out of the gallery, while I hurried to search the staging room. I found exactly what I had been expecting- nothing. When I returned to the showroom, it was empty save for the employees, the professor, and one still very angry artist.

Some of Pia's color had returned by the time the police arrived and began taking statements from everyone, though there wasn't much anyone could tell them. We all knew the same thing. Somehow, Lana's painting had been swapped for a counterfeit, but no one could explain how or why. The whole thing made no sense. We weren't talking about a Degas here- Lana was an unknown artist; the value of her art was quite variable. The art critics and buyers would be the ones to determine if Lana's art might be worth thousands, or less than the cost of slathering it on a canvas.

"Miss? Excuse me, miss?" The officer that had been trying to get my attention, finally succeeded.

"I'm sorry, officer," I apologized.

"Detective, actually."

"Oh," I said. I hadn't been aware that there was a distinction.

"Detective Stern."

"Really?" I giggled. I couldn't help it. I simply found his name hilarious- kind of like Captain Shipp, or Professor Smart. I don't think he got my sense of humor judging by his severe (stern) frown. Maybe I was giddy from the overwhelming anxiety of the evening, because I certainly seemed to be short circuiting.

"Sorry," I said, trying to swallow the chuckles that were still emanating from my throat. Giggling is kind of like having the hiccups, the more you don't want to do it, the more you do. When I finally had myself under some semblance of control, I said, "How can I help you?"

"Can you show me the staging area? That's where Mrs. Stillwell said the painting was being kept?"

"Oh, yeah, sure."

I led him to the warehouse and watched him almost as closely as he examined the warehouse. He was a towering man, several inches over six feet, with an impressive build. He was wearing a suit, but I could see his biceps straining against the seams as he moved his arms to look around and behind crates and boxes. His movements were confident as he paced the area, looking up into the rafters and deep into the darkest corners of the room. With dark hair and eyes, and a clean-shaven face, he was not a bad looking man. Actually, I decided, he was pretty damn sexy. Despite my better judgment, I found my interest peaked.

Suddenly, he turned to me saying, "Who has the keys to this warehouse?"

I shrugged, "Just about half the people who work here, I think. Why?" For the life of me I couldn't figure why he needed keys- we were already inside. Okay, so I was a little pre-occupied by my lust.

"Since there's a claim of robbery, it's kind of helpful to know who might have had access." There was that stern frown again. My lust was beginning to fade.

"What about the alarm code?"

"Probably the same amount of people."

"Fabulous." He rolled his eyes.

I was starting to get offended. It was as if he blamed me for the lax security. "Look, I'm not in charge of the security around here. I'm just a lowly, personal assistant."

"If you were, you certainly would have been fired." Then, "Do you know where any security cameras might be located? And where the footage from those would be?"

"Again, not in charge of security, therefore, I don't have a clue. I just started here last week, so I'm still new to the place. I guess you're going to have to ask Pia. Mrs. Stillwell."

"All right."

"We don't have any security cameras," was Pia's response, when asked the same question. "There's an alarm system though."

"You have _no_ security cameras in a building where you house hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of art? Does that make sense to you?"

"Well, for crying out loud Detective, this is the Hamptons! We are not in the Bronx."

"Crimes are committed everywhere, even in the Hamptons. It seems a little irresponsible to your business, as well as your clientele, not to do everything within your power to protect their assets."

"I've been running this gallery for five years and never had one problem."

"Well, now you do. And if you'd had security cameras in place, we might have been able to help you solve this possible crime."

"Possible? What do you mean possible?" This time it was Lana who was irritated. At least he was spreading the love.

Stern turned to Lana, "What I mean is, aside from your conviction, we really have no way of knowing if this really is a counterfeit. Security footage would have been able to show us if someone had swapped out the painting. Without that, we only have your allegation that a crime has been committed."

Lana pointed at me, "She knows! She saw it! Even she said it wasn't mine!"

"Is that true?"

While I didn't want to make things worse for Pia, I am about as good at avoiding the truth as I am at outright lying. I had no option but to verify her statement. "The painting I saw tonight resembles Lana's painting, but there are some differences."

"Like what?"

I looked to Pia for some of guidance, but she wasn't even looking at me. She was looking at the floor.

Confidentiality agreement be damned, there had been a crime committed, one that could very well lose Pia her business and me my job. "Lana uses a secret recipe to mix her pigments. It's a special wash. This painting doesn't seem to have that."

Naturally he wanted to know what made it so special.

Once again there was no guidance from Pia, and Lana was standing there fuming- silently for once- so, feeling as if I had no other recourse, I dove in with both feet.

"Coffee."

Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.

"I'm gonna sue you for everything you've got and then some!" Lana shrieked. "We had a confidentiality agreement and you just broke it!"

"This is a police investigation! There is no breach of contract in regards to answering my questions," Detective Stern turned on Lana with a threatening glare. "Now you're about ten seconds away from spending the night in a cell, if you don't tone it down a little."

"You can't arrest me! I've done nothing wrong! I'm the victim!"

Ignoring Lana's objections, Stern turned his attention back to Pia. "Is this painting the property of the gallery or the artist?"

"Until it sells, it belongs to the artist."

"Alright. We'll need to send the painting to our lab where they can determine if there is any coffee present, and then we'll know if we even have a crime. Meanwhile, I would highly recommend you get cameras installed in here ASAP."

"I'll make the call first thing in the morning," Pia promised.

I was back at the guest house for less than five minutes, just barely enough time to change my clothes, when there was a rap at my door. I hurried to open it and found Pia standing on the stoop and preparing to rap again.

"Reid! Darling, I am so sorry to bother you!" She rushed in past me, completely breathless as she said, "I hate to do this to you, really I do, but I simply can't call my husband until I have at least some good news to tell him- what on earth are you wearing?!"

"My painting clothes," I replied, looking down at my paint spattered denim overalls and over-sized t-shirt. It was one of my favorite outfits to paint in, loose and comfortable, it didn't restrict my movement, and more importantly, I didn't have to be neat when I worked. Keeping Pia's fashion sensibilities in mind, I'm sure she must have thought she was stepping into a nightmare of gargantuan proportions. Freddy Krueger be damned, the scariest thing in Pia's dreams was polyester. "Did you want me to paint in an evening gown?"

"No, darling, but still," she tsked. "Wasn't there something, more, I don't know, tasteful, you could have come up with?"

"I'm not walking a runway Pia, I'm mixing oils."

"Yes, but still, one simply has to have _some_ sophistication. Overalls? My God, you could have done better with a Hefty bag."

"I'll consider that next time," I replied dryly. "Was there something you needed?"

"Oh, yes, oh! We simply _must_ go back to the gallery and conduct our own investigation."

"We must what?!"

"Well, dear, you heard that detective. There's nothing the police can do, not without any evidence. And honestly, the evidence could be staring them right in the face and they wouldn't know it. But we, well mostly me- but you have been spending a lot of time in the warehouse and staging room lately- between the two of us, we know every inch of that place. If anything is out of sorts in there, only we would know it. So, we have to go back and look."

"Pia," I began, trying desperately to keep hold of my patience, which was rapidly thinning, "the police have the painting and they're going to analyze that. We just have to wait for the results."

She crossed her arms fiercely over her chest. She was starting to get her old fire back. And her imperiousness with it. "And exactly how much good will that do us? It will take the police _weeks_ to confirm what we _already_ know. Meanwhile, precious time will have been lost! The thief could be long gone by the time they even realize there _is_ a thief!"

"We cannot go back to the warehouse tonight. You're exhausted and you've had a terrible shock. You need to rest. Tomorrow, when you're feeling better, you'll be more capable of getting a handle on the whole situation."

"Tomorrow may be too late. If the criminal realizes he- or she really, because honestly darling, I wouldn't put it past that nasty Lana to have stolen her own painting. I mean, you heard her, she threatened to sue me for millions, which of course is a lot more than any of her paintings are worth."

"Listen to yourself, Pia, you're rambling. You're tired. Strung out. You need to rest."

"What I need to do is find out who took that painting! My reputation is on the line, Reid. I thought you might understand that! It's not the small matter of the replacement cost of the painting. That's a drop in the bucket. I'll cut Lana a check for fifty thousand dollars which is twice what that painting was worth and that's done with. But my reputation? The gallery was full of people, not to mention reporters. My name will be dragged through the mud. It will ruin me! It will ruin the gallery!" Her voice broke at the last.

And I was not without pity.

Much to my chagrin.

"Fine. I'll go back. But you are staying here. Change your clothes, make yourself a drink and crawl into bed. I'll stop by as soon as I get back."

To be honest, I really had no idea what I was looking for, and for that matter, I was certain that if I found anything I wouldn't know it anyway. But true to my word I returned, and after punching in the code we all used to disarm the alarm system, I entered the gallery. As I made my way to the warehouse I realized Detective Stern was right. Security here was sadly lacking. Any one of us could have come into the gallery and the alarm company would only have been able to tell us that someone had entered the building. With everyone using the same code and no security cameras, there was no way to tell who exactly it was. Way to narrow down the suspects.

I wasn't certain if it was my overactive imagination, but upon entering the warehouse, I thought I heard a noise.

"Hello?" I called as I flipped on the light switch, bathing the warehouse in the flickering, white glow of the overhead fluorescents. "Hello? Anyone there?"

Since when did it become proper protocol for burglars to return your greeting, thereby alerting you of their presence? Even I was baffled by my own stupidity. If I'd had any sense, I would have just turned and gotten the hell out of there. Instead, I continued to make my way further into the room, looking carefully around me, though not nearly carefully enough. A crushing blow to the back of my head knocked me off my feet and sent me reeling into oblivion.

I have no idea how long I was out, but when I came to Ricky was standing over me, looking a little fuzzy. His mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. I idly wondered if I had been struck deaf, before slipping back into unconsciousness.

When I next awoke, sunlight was trickling through the small windows high on the east wall of the warehouse, and I was lying in a pool of my own blood. I cautiously sat up, stemming back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me. A thudding migraine pushed forward from the region of my brain and threatened to spill out both ears taking whatever brain cells I might have left with it.

Getting to my feet, I somehow managed to take a few staggering steps forward, dizziness washing over me in waves. I could barely see, and I wasn't even sure where I was going. I only knew I wanted to get help. The police. An ambulance. My mother. Batman. Whoever.

For some reason, I found myself staggering into the staging room, the complete opposite direction I had intended to go. And that's when I fell over the body.

That's when I started screaming.

That's when everyone began to arrive on the scene.

Chapter Eight

I was sitting in a small, bleak room in the police station, not unlike any of the scenes set in shows like NYPD Blue, except maybe cleaner. Well, to be honest, _a lot_ cleaner. I had been questioned for the last three hours and the raging migraine I'd awoken with had completely overtaken my brain. I was tired, confused, and more than a little bit aggravated.

Somehow the police had formed the misbegotten notion that I was an accomplice in the initial robbery and that, in an effort to hide my crime, I had returned to the warehouse to meet up with my two collaborators. (Apparently I had a gang- a stupid gang that hadn't read the chapter entitled, 'Never Return to the Scene of your Crime,' in the, 'How to Hold up Your Local Gallery,' handbook.) My supposed cohorts were Ricky and a yet to be disclosed third party, which the detective in charge of my interrogation spent the better part of two hours attempting to get me to divulge.

Which of course I couldn't do.

Which of course he took as a failure to cooperate.

My insistence that I had spoken to Ricky _after_ someone had played Whac-A-Mole on my head, was completely disregarded since a) I was unable to provide any details of the conversation, and b) the location of Ricky's body only served to cement his theory that Ricky had been taken out first, either by myself or by the Mysterious Number Three, (he or she was definitely a Number Two, but that was entirely beside the point) and then the MNT had conked me over the head, leaving me for dead as well.

I was in what Pia and all her British buds might call a sticky wicket. And it wasn't looking like I would be out anytime soon.

Pia had come to the station with me, but I hadn't seen her since my arrival. Nor had I seen Detective Stern of the night before. Instead, I had been keeping company with a detective I had labeled Detective Grumpy-Buns. He had told me his name, but as he had been abrasive and accusatory, it hadn't taken me long to replace it. For the last half hour or so I had been left to my own devices. Maybe it was some psychological attempt to break me. Plus, I assumed Grumpy-Buns was checking my 'priors' and looking for any previous connection to Ricky. He was going to come up empty-handed on both.

My brain was muddled, and the concussion I was certain I had, was not helping. For the life of me I couldn't think of what had happened, or why. Was at least part of the detective's theory true? Had Ricky been involved in the theft and been coming back to take care of some kind of evidence? Had he and the MNT been tying up loose ends? If that were the case, then it was pretty safe to assume that the MNT was also someone else from the gallery, otherwise, how had he or she gotten the code to get in? The warehouse guys didn't have the alarm code.

Just then the door opened and Detective Stern strode into the room. I'd forgotten how good looking he was. And how tall.

"Miss Larson."

"Detective Stern."

Giving me the onceover, he said, "What on earth are you wearing?"

"My God! Do you and Pia hang out at Fashion Week together? What does it matter what I'm wearing? I began my night with nothing more audacious than the intention of getting some work done on my painting, and ended it waking up in a pool of my own blood, with a migraine the size of Texas and a dead guy only a few feet away?"

He must have noticed the misery in my expression when I spoke, because he said, "Has anyone given you any aspirin?"

I shook my head in response.

Heading back out the door, he promised to return with the medication. At that point I was so desperate to put an end to the consistent pounding in my brain that I gladly would have pled guilty to any and all charges, heck I would have taken the fall for any of their unsolved cases as well, for just two of those blessed tablets.

A few minutes later he returned and I eagerly swallowed four pills. Overdose was the least of my concerns.

"So, can you tell me what happened and how it is you found yourself in this position?" he began.

"Look, I've already gone over it nearly a dozen times with the other detective."

He nodded towards the mirrored wall. "So I've seen."

My aggravation tripled. "Well, if you've been watching the whole thing, why are you wasting my time? It's obvious I'm a dangerous criminal, so either arrest me or let me go. At this point, I honestly don't even care anymore."

"I'm not going to arrest you and I don't think you're a dangerous criminal. What I _do_ think is there might be something more you're not telling us. _Is_ there something else?" His voice was gentle and his concern seemed genuine.

I wasn't buying it.

"Oh, I get it. You're the good cop. You rescue me from Detective Grumpy-Buns, bring me a couple of aspirin, and try to gentle your way into getting me to confess my sins. And he's in there now, right?" I asked even as I waggled my fingers in a mocking wave at the two-way mirror. "Hi, Detective Grumpy-Buns! You want me to confess my sins? All right then, here goes. In second grade I put tempera paint in Katie Bligh's chocolate milk. She was mean to me and she deserved it. In third grade I stole a gumball from the machine outside the grocery store, but I don't really think you could call it stealing because I put in my quarter and is it my fault two came out instead of one? But I didn't tell anyone, so I guess that's dishonest. In fifth grade I cheated on my spelling test and at the seventh grade harvest dance I-"

"Knock it off," he interrupted me. "This is serious and you really ought to be taking it-"

"Seriously?" It was my turn to interrupt. "How can I? I've done _nothing_ wrong! I'm the victim of a crime and suddenly I find myself the _accused_. I hardly even know any of these people, I have no reason to steal an unknown artist's work, and I certainly had no reason to kill Ricky. Yet _I'm_ the one being blamed!"

He slapped his hands on the table in frustration. "Do you realize they can substantiate a pretty good case against you? If you're holding something back you've got to tell me. Otherwise I might not be able to help you!"

I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. "And why would you want to?"

He seemed to deflate before me, much like a balloon the day after the party, letting the air out in one long, controlled sigh. "I don't know."

"Look I haven't done anything wrong and I'm not keeping anything from you or anyone else. I've told you everything I know. I _know_ that it's next to nothing, but that's because I _know_ next to nothing. How can I get you people to see that?"

He sighed again, then removing his suit jacket he sat down across from me. I tried very hard not to notice his biceps as he folded his hands on the table. Why did he have to be this good looking? I was all for bringing back Detective Grumpy-Buns.

"I get it, I know how you feel. You've been assaulted and you want something to be done about it. But you have to look at it from the other perspective. You are a new employee at the gallery. Been there what, two weeks?" When I didn't respond he continued, "In that time, a gallery, which has previously enjoyed five years of crime free existence, suddenly becomes felony central. Naturally, the first suspect is going to be the most recent employee."

"Naturally," I frowned. "But, let me ask you this. Since the theory Detective Grumpy-Buns-"

"Grummons."

"Whatever. The theory he keeps tossing at me is that I was in cahoots with Ricky and the MNT-"

"MNT?"

"Mysterious Number Three."

"Ah."

"Would you stop interrupting? Anyway, my point is, wouldn't it make sense that I would give up the MNT? Especially considering that he or she tried to _kill_ me?"

"It would make sense, if Grummons hadn't pegged you for the Mata Hari type. He probably figures you're just waiting to get out of here so you can wreak your own vengeance."

"And what do you think?"

Stern looked at me for a long time, his dark eyes locking with mine. And then, very slowly, he said, "I think you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and got caught in the crossfire."

"Whoopty-doo. That makes two of us. Now how do I convince everyone else? Starting with Detective Grumpy-Buns."

Stern shot me a frown. "That's why I need you to cooperate."

"I _am_ cooperating."

"Using childish characterizations isn't cooperating."

Okay. That stung. I'll admit it.

"Let me ask you this. Do you think there is any way Pia could be involved? That she was using you as a pawn when she sent you to the gallery? Like some kind of fall guy?"

"Pia? No way!" It was a reflexive response, a reaction that Stern seemed to be totally expecting and therefore didn't pay much attention to. So I thought about it- really thought about it. I called to mind all the details of the night before: Pia's obvious shock and distress at the lost painting, her concern for her business and reputation, her willingness to perform her own investigation, and her determination to return to the gallery in order to do so. The more I thought about it, the more my conclusion remained the same.

"No," I shook my head. "She would have to be an Emmy award winning actress judging by her performance last night. Besides, with her business running so smoothly, why would she willingly jeopardize it?"

"Maybe her business isn't running as well as she reports."

"Not possible. Maya- she's the office manager- she handles all the receipts and money, and that girl's got a good head on her shoulders. She wouldn't be working there if she thought it was a dead end deal and I can't see her getting involved in something shady."

"Okay, then. Who else might have a vendetta? Either against Pia, or the gallery?"

"I don't know. I just met these people. I couldn't even begin to guess."

"Let's just do a run-down of the people you've met so far. Start with the employees."

So I did. I ticked off everyone I'd met at the gallery as well as the party, giving him any first impressions and observances I may have made. Finally I felt as if someone might be on my side, as if maybe Stern really did believe in my innocence. He steadily took notes the entire time I talked. When we were finally done, he handed me his card and released me saying he would be in touch and reminding me to call him should I remember anything.

Pia drove me home, maintaining silence most of the way, which worried me. For the first time I understood that my position in the gallery, and with Pia, was quite possibly in jeopardy.

"Pia," I said softly. "I just want you to know. Whatever the police may have told you, it isn't true. I haven't done anything wrong, and I wouldn't do anything to hurt you or your gallery."

She cast a glance at me. "Oh, darling girl, don't concern yourself with such useless trivialities. The police have a tendency to be bumbling idiots. I don't know what they said to you, but they certainly seemed convinced that I'm doing all this to myself. God only knows why. The whole thing makes no sense. To be honest, I was concerned that your opinion of me might have become somewhat jaded by your recent experiences."

"No, my opinion of you hasn't changed. But I'd sure love to catch the MNT. I'd knock him over the head twice; once for you and once for me."

"The MNT?"

Quickly I explained, to which she remarked, "The MNT. 'Catch the MNT.' Oooh, I like that. It's so official sounding- like 'perp-' you know what I mean? They say it all the time in those police detective dramas on TV- 'finger the perp'- it means perpetrator, you know."

"Yeah, I get it, Pia."

Some of the old sparkle was returning to her eyes. Something told me that this didn't bode well for either of us. Her next declaration proved me right. "It is The Adventure of the MNT, and the game is afoot, my dear Watson!"

I began to shake my head vigorously, deliberately ignoring the fact that my brain was still sloshing around in its own fluid and banging up against my skull with a vicious brutality. "No way, no how, nuh-uh with a capital nuh! There is no case, no game, no foot, and I am _not_ Watson. The last time I tried to play detective I got a concussion for my effort, not to mention the fact that I am now the prime suspect in a murder investigation."

"Naturally, my dear, I was thinking we would give you a day or two to heal before we started our investigation. You really need to be at your best in order to be successful in these things."

"Well, I'm about as far away from 'at my best' as I can get. If you can't consider the physical trauma, at least consider the mental one. I woke up next to a _dead_ guy, Pia! That _could_ have been me!"

"I know. It's rather sad about J.D., isn't it? The boy was so handsome. Such a loss. And I still haven't even had a moment to come to grips with it. I really should call Maya and have her send some flowers and a donation to his family. If they'll accept it anyway. After all, they might very well blame me. You don't suppose they do? I mean, who could blame them-"

"Pia!"

She snapped to. "What, dear?"

"You're rambling."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I tend to do that when I get upset."

_Or when you talk,_ I thought to myself, but I did not say it aloud.

We were pulling into the driveway at that point and Pia said to me, "Listen, dear, you go on back to the guest house and take the next couple of days off. I want you fully recuperated from this disaster. After that, we'll speak more about the investigation. Meanwhile, I have to get back to the gallery. I'm having those cameras installed today, also a new alarm system, everyone's getting assigned their own codes. There will be no more of these shenanigans, not if I can help it."

_Shenanigans?_ A robbery, a murder and an assault amounted to shenanigans? Mayhem maybe. Chaos yes. Anarchy definitely. But shenanigans?

I didn't hang around to debate the point; I simply got out of the car and headed into the house. I was in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. And aspirin. Lots and lots of aspirin. And maybe some alcohol.

It was as I was heading down the hall that I noticed the movement out of the corner of my eye. I was not alone in the house. Someone had just gone into my bedroom. And as they stepped in, I stepped out. At a dead run.

Chapter Nine

I was nearly at the end of the driveway when I placed the call to Detective Stern. Pia's car was already long gone and it never occurred to me to dial 911. Since Stern's card was still in my pocket alongside my phone, it seemed the most reasonable thing to do. I was relieved when Stern answered on the second ring and I breathlessly gave him a run down on what was happening.

"I'm on my way. Whatever you do, do _not_ go back inside the house."

"No problem. I'm good. I'll just hang out here. Weather's nice. I'll just enjoy the sunshine." But he had already hung up. I moved further down the little lane that led from the guest house to the main house and waited there, phone in hand, eyes darting around trying to look everywhere at once, totally prepared to take off running, should the need arise.

It seemed like hours before Detective Stern finally arrived. I wondered if he'd stopped for donuts.

"Where's your backup?" I was a little alarmed that Stern seemed to have come alone. I wanted a SWAT team and I told him so.

"That's overkill, don't you think?"

"No. I think three hours of interrogating an innocent victim is overkill. Siccing SWAT on the MNT, that's well deserved," I muttered, but he wasn't paying any attention. He had already drawn his gun and was headed down the lane. I followed cautiously behind him. When we arrived at the house, he signaled for me to stay put, which I was more than happy to do, then pushed open the front door with one foot and looking both ways, he disappeared inside.

It was only a few minutes later when he called me in and I went to join him in the living room. "Well? Did you find him?"

"Him? Then you're sure it was a man?"

"No, I'm not sure it was anything. I mean, I know it was a person, but I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman and I wasn't about to hang out and ask. One concussion is my limit."

"Speaking of which, have you been to a doctor yet?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Just what are you getting at here, Stern?"

"Nothing. It's just that I didn't find anyone. And there's no evidence to suggest that anyone but you has been here. Are you absolutely sure you saw someone?"

"Yes, I'm sure!"

"Well, there's no one here now." His tone was placating, but his expression was still doubtful. "I can send out a team to have the place fingerprinted if you want."

"Don't bother. If whoever was in here has anything to do with the gallery business, I doubt you'll find any fingerprints."

"Your call." He started to move away and then stopped as asked, "So that artwork, in the other room. Is that yours?"

"No. I stole that from the gallery last night." I knew I was being bitchy, but honestly, I was tired, hungry and dirty, and my migraine was still blasting out my ears and threatening to blow the top of my head off. Having my integrity questioned at every turn was not making me feel better about the situation.

Stern frowned. Tucking his gun back into the holster at his side, he said, "That's not what I meant, and I think you know that."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm a little touchy right now. And maybe it's because all this crazy crap keeps happening to me and I can't prove any of it. I'm starting to feel just as guilty as everyone thinks I am." I flopped down on the couch. "I knew I never should have moved here. I'm not equipped to deal with these kinds of people. Daddy was right. Cows are much better people than people will ever be."

"Cows?"

"I was raised on a dairy farm."

"Aaahh. I should have realized you were a farm girl."

I pinned him with a threatening stare. "What? Do I come off as some kind of a hick? Are you insinuating I should be chewing a bit of straw and spitting in the dirt?"

"God, no! No straw, no spitting. I wasn't insinuating anything!" He got to back-peddling with startling efficiency. "I was referring to your build." And then he fell off the bike.

"And just what's wrong with my build?"

"Nothing. Not a damn thing. You're fit. You have a muscle tone people just don't get out of a gym. It wasn't an insult. It was meant as a compliment."

"Gee, thanks for the compliment."

He dragged a hand through his hair. "This isn't going well."

"What was your first clue?"

"Look, if I've insulted you, I'm sorry. That really wasn't my intention." Then, "Well, I'll get out of your hair. But if you need me, feel free to call."

"Yeah, next time I see a shadow that isn't mine, you'll be the first person I call."

He looked at me for a long time then said, "I'm serious."

"I wish I could say I wasn't."

I let him out and watched as he moved up the walk. Everything I had ever read in a romance novel instantly came to mind. Lithe. Sinewy. Panther-like. The whole nine yards. He had it and then some.

Shaking my head I moved away from the door and headed back to the kitchen. A strong drink before my shower, that's what I needed.

I saw him even before I entered the kitchen. That's the blessing of an open concept home- you can see every inch of living space from almost any vantage point. Which made me wonder a) how had Stern missed this guy, and b) how had we failed to see him the entire time we were in the living room?

I don't know who the hell the guy was, but there he sat, brazenly as you please and grinning widely, on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. I let out a small scream. And then, in self defense- and before he could knock me on the head- I fainted.

Chapter Ten

When I came to, the man was leaning over me and just beginning the process of tipping a cup of water onto my face.

"No! Wait-!" I tried to stop him, too late. Inhaling water, I sat up gasping and spluttering.

"Ah," he said. "I always wanted to try that. I guess it really does work."

"Work?!" I gasped. "I was already conscious when you dumped that- Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?"

"Well, that's debatable. Your house I mean."

"Fine! Pia's house!" Even as I spoke I was scrambling backwards in a crab crawl, attempting to put some distance between us. Although, I suppose, if the man had meant to do me any harm, the prime opportunity would have been while I was unconscious.

"Still debatable," he returned, as he moved back to sit once more on the counter. "This used to be my house. Or at least the main house was. This one _she_ built." I couldn't fail but to notice the scathing tone he used in reference to Pia. "And it was a beautiful house in its day. But then she moved in and painted everything purple."

"So why do you care?"

"As I said, this used to be my home. Unfortunately, thanks to the garish colors that woman insisted on using, I have to hang out in the guest house or be blinded by purple passion. God, it's so hard to just stand by and watch my home be destroyed."

"She hasn't destroyed it. Okay, so it's purple, who cares? It's her house; she can do whatever the hell she likes with it. That still doesn't explain who you are, or why you're here. Or why I shouldn't be calling the police, for that matter."

He chuckled as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Go ahead, I'll wait. It was funny enough the first time, but if you want to go through it all again, who am I to stop you?"

"Okay, I think you're missing the point here. I don't know who you are, or why you're here, but I don't care. I want you out of my house- Pia's house- right now. If you sold your home, you don't belong here at all. Not even in the guest house."

"I didn't sell it."

"What? Are you saying Pia stole your house?"

He snorted. "Of course not. Even _that_ woman wouldn't stoop so low. She may have bad taste, but she isn't a thief. She bought it from my estate. You know. When I _died_."

"Your estate? When you died?"

"Yeah, you know. When I died and became an oogey boogey ghost."

I gulped. This was not happening. This _could_ _not_ be happening. It wasn't possible. I was having a dream; no a nightmare. Too much blood loss at the gallery last night caused me to pass out in the kitchen on my way to a stiff drink. Better yet, I'd already had my stiff drink, a few too many, and I was on a raging drunk. Yeah, that made sense. Time to go lay down.

"Lady, I've been dead for over thirty years."

"Right. Dead for thirty years," I muttered, even as I began making my way to the bedroom. "Got it. And I'm a monkey's uncle. And a cow's aunt. And a chicken's cousin. Going to bed now and when I wake up, you'll be gone." With that, I climbed into my bed and pulled the covers up over my head.

And he pulled them back down.

A very childish tug-of-war took place then, of which Casper-the-pain-in-my-ass-ghost came out the winner. Finally, forced to look at him whether I wanted to or not, I said, "So you're a ghost, eh? Really? _Really?_ I do NOT believe you." Then a thought occurred to me. "Okay, where's Olivia? I'm being Punk'd right? Mrs. St. Pierre? You can come out now. Joke's over. I still don't believe you're a medium and this isn't funny, so you can stop now."

Getting back off the bed, I began looking around, opening closet doors, looking under the bed, (as if she would fit there), and then making my way through to the other bedroom and the two bathrooms as well. I completely disregarded the fact that Stern had examined these rooms only moments before and while this man- whoever he was- had obviously been successful in keeping out of view, there was no possible way Olivia could have. She was too big and too sparkly.

"Olivia St. Pierre?" the man asked as he followed me through the house. "She's an idiot. Oh, yes, she's really a medium. But just because you can speak to the dead, doesn't mean you can listen. She only hears what she wants to, and then gets everything all screwed up and goes around telling people things that aren't true. According to her, I'm a freed slave named Cicero."

"Cicily." We were finally back in the kitchen and I still wasn't making sense of any of this.

"Cicily?! That's a girl's name!"

"Convenient, since Olivia says you're a girl."

"What?! Just wait until I see her! I'm going to give her such an earful-"

"Which should be a great big waste of your time, since you already said she doesn't listen." Was I actually buying into this? I was having a conversation with a man who claimed to be a ghost. Why? Just call 911 already.

"You've got a point there. Whatever. The thing is," he leaned across the bar and waved his hand in front of my face, "she's not like you. She can only talk to the dead. She hears us. But she can't see us. In fact, you are one of maybe three people I've ever met that can see me. That's pretty awesome."

"Awesome if I really believed you were dead, which I do not."

"Okay then, if you don't believe me. Just try and pull me over this counter. Go ahead." With that he perched atop my bar once more.

"I'm not going anywhere near you. And if you don't leave, I'm going to call the police again. Detective Stern will get rid of you."

"Don't you get it yet? When you screamed and took off running after you saw me, I suspected that you could in fact see me. So I headed back out to the kitchen. Your detective friend searched the whole house, kitchen included, and the whole time I was sitting right here. He didn't see me 'cause I am what is commonly called a ghost. I disappeared for a bit when you came back 'cause I didn't want to freak you out in front of the detective. But as soon as he was gone, you got an eyeful."

"Bullshit!"

"Is that game still popular?"

" _What?_ "

"Bullshit. It was all the rage in the late seventies, early eighties. Everyone played it at parties. I just wondered if they still did. Pia's clique isn't exactly what you could call the Bullshit crowd." The thought of watching Pia's up-tight, hoighty-toighty, socialite friends sit around playing a couple rounds of Bullshit almost had me giggling. Almost.

"Get out."

"I have nowhere to go, er, haunt."

"You are not a ghost."

"Okay then, a spirit."

"Or that."

"Banshee. Phantom. Poltergeist. Call it what you will, it's the truth."

I picked up my cell phone and began to dial once more.

"I promise you, you'll feel like an idiot if you call him back. Even if I stood right next to you, he wouldn't see anyone here, but you."

I ignored him and kept dialing. Seconds later, the person on the other end picked up the phone.

"Mom?" I said. "Do you hear my voice?"

"Of course, dear. What's the matter? Is something wrong with your phone? I told your father to get you a new one before you moved all the way out there."

"Do I sound okay to you?"

"Dear, you sound just fine. What's going on? You're starting to worry me."

"You called your mother?" This from the man on my counter.

"Did you hear that?" I asked my mother.

"Hear what, dear? My goodness. Are you okay? Let me get your father."

"No, no, Mom. I'm fine. My phone has just been acting up. I'm hearing things on the line, but I guess no one else is."

"Do you want me to have your father send you a new phone?"

"No. I'll just get a new battery for it. It'll be fine."

The man on the counter was now singing, 'The Eve of Destruction,' at the top of his lungs, and I was certain I was the only one hearing it. My mother seemed completely oblivious.

"All right, dear, if you're sure. Is there anything else? I really have to go. I have a few pies in the oven and several more to make. The church bake sale is on Wednesday."

"No, Mom. I'll talk to you later. Love you."

"Love you too, dear."

Hanging up the phone, I turned to the man and watched as he reached up to grab one of the pendant lights hanging there, and then leaning into it, he swung it through his head. Several times.

"What the hell," I muttered.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you sister. I'm a paranormal phenomenon. A specter. A spook. A spirit. A soul without a body. A real, not-so-live, ghost."

"Okay. I get it." If I had thought my head hurt before, it was nothing compared to the way it felt now. "So, aside from being a ghost, (which I still wasn't entirely sure I believed), who exactly are you?"

"My name is Alex McDaniel. My father was a very successful, very wealthy businessman and he owned this house. I grew up here. My life was pretty good really. The kind of existence every guy hopes for. I was rich and popular; the boys all wanted to be me and the girls all wanted to be with me."

"How did you fit all of that ego into one personality?"

"Hey, you want me to tell you the story or not?"

"If I say not, will you haunt me forever?"

"Probably."

"Go ahead then."

"As I was saying, I was the star quarterback in high school and then went on to enjoy that same success in college. But it was the late sixties and it was real hard to dodge the draft. Already a bunch of my old classmates had gone to Vietnam."

"Oh my God! You were killed in Vietnam?"

"Don't jump to conclusions, if I had been, I probably wouldn't be here. No, my father was declared terminally ill and when he passed, everything fell to me- the house, the business, the whole nine yards. Well, I was feeling pretty overwhelmed as you can imagine, and this one day I was walking along the property line by the pond, it was a pretty serene place to walk and get your thoughts together, but the problem was, it wasn't nearly as calm as it looked. Anyway, there was this little girl in there- I don't know if she was swimming, or she fell in, or what happened, but she was definitely drowning. So I jumped in and saved her." He shrugged as if that was all there was to it.

"But not yourself?"

"Nope. It took a little while for me to come to grips with the fact that I was dead and even longer to gain control over my new entity. By the time I could stay grounded, Pia was already living in my house and midway into turning it into her purple paradise."

"What do you mean, 'stay grounded?'"

"Oh. How do I explain this? Being a ghost is a little tricky. It's not as easy as the movies would have you believe- like one minute you're there and then the next you're walking around all oogey-boogey-like- that's not how it works. It takes a certain amount of effort and concentration to maintain your image. For example, if I stop focusing, this is what happens." As I watched him, his image began to fade and get very shimmery and shadowy and he was much harder to see. Okay, I was starting to believe.

Popping back into view, he said, "It takes a bit of energy and focus to maintain your body. After awhile it gets easier. In the beginning though, you can only maintain it for a few seconds at a time before you start to fade away again. And your voice. Well, that's another thing. It is damned near impossible to talk after you first die. It's not like using your vocal chords. Because, there's no breath you see. So you kind of have to think of the words and then project them. It's weird. Hard to understand unless you've been there."

"I'd rather not, thank you."

"I'm sure. What I'm saying though, is I can actually talk to you without moving my mouth- like this." He closed his mouth completely just prior to the last two words. It was the most awesome demonstration of ventriloquism I have ever witnessed and at the same time it was very unsettling.

"But I think it's just creepy," Alex went on, speaking normally again, "so I move my mouth. But I'll warn you, not all ghosts feel the same way. Lots of them just talk away with their mouths shut. I hate when they do that."

" _Lots_ of them?"

He hopped off the counter. "You think I'm the only one? Lady, I got news for you. There are tons of us. Probably more of us than there are of you."

"Dear God, please tell me I am not going to be seeing dead people every time I turn around?"

"While I can't answer for Him, I can say, it's not likely. You'll only see them if they want to show themselves. I mean, I'm dead so I can see them all. But unless they want to communicate with you, you'll never even know they're there."

"What ever happened to dying and going to heaven?" I muttered.

I hadn't necessarily expected him to respond since it was more rhetorical than anything, but he said, "Wish I knew. I'd have been just fine with that. But that's not what happened."

"So I see. But, I guess my question is, according to legend, your kind only comes around when something's unresolved. Like, if you were murdered, or there was something important in life that you hadn't done yet. Once you complete the task, well then, you know, the stairway to heaven appears, or a glowing doorway to the afterlife, or Alice's rabbit hole, or something. Anything."

He laughed. "Don't I wish? I didn't have any unfinished business that I can recall. And I definitely wasn't murdered. I saved a little girl, weren't you listening?"

I frowned at him. "I was listening. I'm just saying, maybe there's something you're supposed to do."

"Well, all I know is, that me and the other couple hundred ghosts I know, know nothing about any unfinished business. We're just stuck hanging around and providing our own entertainment. And let me tell you, when you take away smoking, drinking and sex, that entertainment is pretty limited."

"Maybe that's what happened with Ricky," I said.

"Who's Ricky?"

Quickly, I explained about Ricky and the attack at the warehouse. The whole time Alex sat there nodding. "Yep. Sounds like. Ricky's a ghost and he hasn't gotten himself fully grounded yet. Seems like a shame since he's probably the only one who can tell you who killed him and bopped you on the head."

"Well, can you talk to him?" I asked, hoping desperately that maybe Alex could get the information I needed. Though how I was supposed to relay this to the police without telling them where I got the information, was another problem altogether.

"I could if he stepped out."

"Stepped out?"

"Yeah. It's kind of like another layer of existence. Somewhere between here and there I guess, 'cause it ain't here, and it sure ain't there."

"You said you talk to hundreds of ghosts. Don't they all step out?"

"Not all of them do. And new ones rarely do. It's just one more of those discoveries you get to in time. In fact, my bet is he talks to you, long before he talks to me."

"Well, why don't you just come to the gallery with me then?"

"Listen sister, it ain't that easy. I'm sort of locked onto this place. Most ghosts are. Very few of us can travel at will. The property line is about as far as I can go."

"What happens if you go any further?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yep. Just exactly that. Nothing. I can't see anything, can't hear anything, not even myself. And as long as I stay there, nothing emerges. It's just nothing. So I don't go. The last thing I want to do is get lost and be floating around in nothing for all of eternity. This is boring enough, but out there? Hell, I couldn't even commit suicide to put an end to it."

The day was beginning to catch up with me and my rumbling stomach was reminding me that I needed to partake in some of the creature comforts of the living, so I ended the conversation with Alex and set about making myself something to eat, popped some migraine tablets, and relaxed in a long overdue shower. I was feeling like a new person when I entered my studio.

"Do you do portraits?" I jumped at Alex's voice. Somehow I had almost forgotten he was here.

"No," I replied as I picked up a brush and began reviewing my latest project. Overall, the piece was coming together quite nicely. With just a few finishing touches it would be done. "I do mostly abstract art. My realism isn't all that great."

He slumped against the window sill. I was a little disturbed to note that he was not blocking the light- instead it was shining through him.

"Could you move?" I asked, rather temperamentally.

He obliged. "I was thinking that it could be kind of cool for you to paint a portrait of me."

"Why on earth would I want a portrait of you?"

"Ouch! What is it kids say these days? Ooohh snap!"

Great. The last thing I needed was a gangsta ghost.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"Oh, it wouldn't be for you. It would be for Pia."

"For Pia?"

"You know- a portrait of "The Ghost of the Manor." I can only assume she's into it since she talks to her stupid friend about me all the time. But the fat woman has never seen me. But you can, so I thought..." Here he drifted off.

"Yeah, I get the picture, no pun intended. But as I said, my portrait work's not all that great."

"It can't hurt to try. No one but you knows what I look like, so you could mess up all over the place and no one but the two of us would ever know it."

I had to admit, I found the whole idea rather intriguing. And I never was one to pigeonhole myself. Why not do a portrait? Who was there to stop me? And if I didn't like it, I could just scrap it.

"Sit over there," I pointed to a chair in the corner of the room, well away from the window, where the light would shine on him, but not through him.

But Alex did me one better. Pulling the chair back to the window, he took a seat.

"I was trying to avoid-"

"I know what you were trying to avoid. Don't you think this is better though? Kind of adds to the ethereal quality."

Damn him, he was right. But I wasn't about to say so. Instead, I set about sketching, with Alex taking a peek every now and then and offering encouragement or advice.

"How do you know so much about art?" I finally asked.

"It isn't hard to pick up, watching Pia all these years. The woman may not be an artist, and while I find her personal taste completely abysmal, she does know art."

"That's true," I had to admit. Pia had a great eye for art. Which was the only thing that concerned me about Alex's plan. The woman didn't miss a trick. How could I present such an amateur offering to her? Worse yet, what if she mistook the gesture and thought I was actually trying to persuade her to represent my art in her gallery? At that moment I was certain, that while I was willing to take on the challenge of painting Alex's portrait, there was no way I would ever present it to Pia.

Chapter Eleven

For the next two days, I worked diligently on the portrait. I have to admit, having a ghost as a model is quite convenient for the artist. Since ghosts have no human needs, they neither have to eat, nor use the bathroom, nor do they get uncomfortable or tired. Long after I was exhausted, Alex was still raring to go. For this reason, I was able to paint almost completely around the clock and by the time Monday rolled around, the portrait was more than half done. And surprisingly, I was as happy with it as I had been with my abstract. If nothing else, my move to the Hampton's had improved my art. Or maybe it was the concussion. Maybe the head injury had resulted in some kind of brain damage that enabled me to talk to ghosts, as well as enhancing my artistic abilities. On the other hand, there was always the possibility that I was psychotic and blissfully unaware that I sucked as a painter.

Pia picked me up at the usual time on Monday. She looked relatively chipper and well rested. The woman knew how to bounce back.

"Did you talk to your husband?"

"Yes, I spoke to Bernard the other night on the phone. He offered to cut his trip short, but of course I refused. I told him it was my gallery and my problem and I would fix it. He is such a dear, he always wants to help me in any way that he can. The darling, he spoils me."

Judging by her house, I couldn't argue the point. "Have you gotten the cameras and new alarm installed?"

"Yes, dear, I did that right away. Maya came to the gallery with me and we got it all set up. I don't know what I would do without her. She has a great head for business and all the things entailed. She found the only company willing to come out right away. You wouldn't believe what a waiting list these people have!"

After Pia's quick stop for coffee, we headed to the gallery and I was surprised to find everyone waiting outside. "They can't get in," Pia explained. "At Maya's suggestion I had the locks changed too. Now I have to redistribute the keys and assign everyone their own alarm code."

"Good idea," I began, and then when Pia tried to hand me a key, "oh no! The last thing I need is a key to your gallery. Remember, I'm the prime suspect- unwise to give the cat burglar your key."

"Piffle! (Did people really still say that? Besides Pia I mean?) Darling! You're my personal assistant- you simply _must_ have a key. You're getting a key to the main house too, so you might just as well get used to the idea. Bernard was only comfortable about staying away when I reminded him that you were right there in the guest house and promised to equip you with the means to access the main house night or day. Should something untoward happen, we don't want to have you resorting to the breaking of windows, now do we?"

"Pia, I just really don't think it's a good idea."

"Nonsense, what do the police know? If they would focus on the evidence instead of a poor innocent girl, they just might make some headway. Now, I'm not going to continue arguing the point, the day is going to be hectic enough, just take the key and no more words."

I did as I was told. I was quickly learning this was the best way to deal with Pia.

The attitudes at the front door were varied, the stress of the weekend having taken its toll. Maya, businesslike as usual, looked tired but otherwise focused, while Simone's eyes were red and puffy as if she'd spent most of her weekend crying. Gary looked as if he were barely keeping it together, while Corey was looking far more confident, so much so, that there was at least a hint of some of the old narcissism. This had me wondering if I was the cause for his relief. Had I effectively taken his place on the chopping block? I'd be relieved too, if I were in his shoes.

We all went inside and began cleaning up the mess left over from the failed event. Much of the artwork had been sold (assuming the buyers didn't back out due to the recent scandal) and needed to be taken to the warehouse to await pick-up or delivery. No one seemed especially eager to handle that task however, and so we all puttered about clearing up the trash, wine glasses, and hors d'oeuvre trays. As I continued to work, everyone else disappeared one by one and before long I was the last employee remaining. Simone had been the first to excuse herself, saying that she had a number of clients she needed to contact. She was followed by Corey who utilized the same pretense. Gary had taken an extended coffee break, though as visibly upset as he was, I was not about to complain. Finally, Pia had taken Maya away to review some cost issues. Unless I wanted to await the arrival of Giorgio and Fiona, it was down to me to begin storing the artwork in the warehouse, the one place I had particularly wanted to avoid.

Gearing myself up, I picked up the first painting I saw and headed for the warehouse. My heart was throbbing by the time I entered the room and I was feeling shaky as a child who hides under the sheets to escape the boogeyman. Dodging straight towards the staging room, I looked neither left, nor right- a fine plan if I ever had one- if I can't see my attacker, my attacker can't see me- and somehow made it there unscathed. (Although the back of my head tingled with an unrelenting ferocity.) I rested the painting in the first empty stand I came to and wheeled around rapidly, already planning my escape- hey, I didn't care how silly I looked scurrying in and out of there as long as I survived it- and that's when I saw him.

The scream that initially rose into my throat, gurgled to a stop, actually choking me. He was standing there all right, but there was a painting protruding through his right wrist and another through his forehead. Obviously he was a ghost. Great. Another one. Just what I needed.

He was paying me no mind, as he fished through the paintings. I wasn't certain what he was looking for and so I asked him. Now it was his turn to be startled. I didn't know ghosts could jump, but this one rocketed a few feet into the air, so apparently they can.

He was a tall, thin, black man, with long thick dreads hanging around a narrow, partially freckled, face. His dark eyes were round with shock even as his jaw dropped open in a cartoonish manner. "Ahre ya talkin' ta me?"

"Yeah. I guess I am. You were the one pawing through the artwork, weren't you?"

"Yah, I guess me was. But ya, ya cahn see me?" His mellifluous Caribbean accent colored the words to such an extent that I had to concentrate to understand him. No wonder Olivia was confused.

"I wouldn't be talking to you if I couldn't see you, now would I?"

"De odah one, de faht lady. She cahn't see duppies. She cahn only hear 'em spe-akin' to her." The way he said 'speakin' ' he stretched out the 'e' and the 'a' making it sound as if the word had additional syllables.

"Duppies?"

"You call 'em ghosts."

"Ah. Well, I hear you. And I see you too. Nice shirt, by the way." It was a bright floral pattern, in brilliant oranges and fuchsias. I made a mental reminder to always be aware of whatever I was wearing in life, because I might be wearing it forever in death. And this was _not_ the shirt I would have chosen. Then it dawned on me, had I been killed the other night, I would have spent all of eternity wandering around in my overalls. Maybe Pia had a point when it came to fashion.

"T'ank you. Me muddah ga-ive it to me." Fortunately, he was oblivious to the fact that I was not in fact, complimenting his shirt.

"So, you must be Raphael."

"You've 'eard of me den," his chest puffed with pride.

"From the fat lady."

"Oh." Sagging chest. Deflated ego.

"How else would I have heard of you?"

"I'm an ahrtist."

"Ahhhh. That's why she thought you were _the_ Raphael."

"Dat woman, she don' listen to a word ya say. I tell her I'm a pa-inter, not a sculptor. But den she run wit' it an' I can say nuttin' to cha-inge her mind."

"So I've seen."

"I watch de ahrt dat comes in heah, I hope someday it'll be one o' mine. But it nevah is. Dis used to be my studio. De upsta-irs anyway."

"I've never seen an upstairs, I didn't even know there was one."

"Dere isn't anymore, it burned down. Now dere's only an attic. But before," he stretched his hands out, "all o' dis was a warehouse wit' furniture an' dere was a small apahrtment upsta-irs. I rented it an' dat's where I worked. I hoped dat someday I would be rich an' famous an' den me would move. But dat day never came. Instead, dere was a fi-ah an' dat was de end of Raphael."

"Did all of your work burn with you?" Okay, so that was a bit tactless.

Luckily, he didn't seem to be offended. "No, I sold so many pa-intin's. I pa-inted on de street and sold to de people walkin' by, but nevah for what dey was worth. But I was just tryin' to get me na-ime out dere."

"Reid? Reid, are you back here?" It was Maya.

Casting a quick glance back over my shoulder, I called, "I'm in the staging room." Then turning to Raphael I said, "Listen, we'll talk more later, okay?"

"No worries." With that, he floated up into the ceiling, returning to the rafters and what once had been his studio.

"Were you just talking to someone?" Maya asked, looking around as she joined me.

"No, just muttering to myself."

She shot me an odd glance as if she wasn't sure what to make of me, then said, "I would think this would be the last place you'd want to be. What are you doing back here anyway?"

"Just bringing back the paintings that sold. I'll admit, I had the heebee-jeebees at first, but I figured I'd better get used to that now. After all, I can't spend the rest of my life being afraid of a warehouse."

"I guess not," she murmured as she moved about the room. She stopped beside the sculpture she'd helped me put together the other day, and laid her hand on it. For the first time I noticed that one half was missing.

"Where's the other piece?" I asked her.

"You really don't know?"

"Would I ask if I did?"

"The police have it. It's evidence. It's what someone used to whack you over the head. You know- the murder weapon."

"Oh my God!"

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"I was kinda unconscious at the time."

Maya looked at me a little uncomfortably. "But you have to know. I mean, how do I put this? There's been- talk. Everyone says the police think you were in on it. So it's only natural for me to assume that you knew about the sculpture."

I felt the blood drain from my face. This was something I hadn't considered- the fact that everyone in the gallery was just waiting for me to get arrested for murder. If I had thought that Pia's show of solidarity was enough to proclaim my innocence, then I was now being shown how sadly mistaken I was. "Maya, you don't really believe that, do you? You don't believe I killed Ricky? Or helped someone else to do it?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to. Honestly Reid, I don't. But I'm so confused. I mean, you're new here and I really don't know you. And none of this ever happened before you got here. Now with what the police are saying, I just don't know what to believe."

"Believe whatever you want to believe. But before you make up your mind, consider this, if I were an evil murderer, do you honestly think challenging me on my own turf with my own weapon so close at hand, was a wise thing to do?" With that, I stalked out of the staging room and through the warehouse. I didn't look back when she called my name.

Chapter Twelve

It was much later in the day when I left Pia's office and returned to the warehouse to continue my conversation with Raphael, but the- what did he call himself- duppy?- was nowhere to be found. I was desperately hoping he might have been a witness to the events that had taken place the other night, but since I simply couldn't stand around in the warehouse calling his name without everyone thinking that I had lost my mind, (as if they didn't already- they already thought I was some psycho killer), I headed out to the sales floor. Pia had asked me to utilize my newly honed skills to create yet another floor plan. She said she was considering changing things up on the sales floor, though I thought it was only because she was grasping for something new to keep me occupied.

It was nearly time to close the gallery and despite (or maybe because of?) the recent hullaballoo, we had been busy most of the day. Even now the salespeople, as well as Corey and Pia, were busy with prospective buyers. Even Maya was working the sales floor, talking with an older couple about a sculpture they were admiring. I noticed another woman standing off by herself examining a painting. Deciding between possibly stepping on any toes by playing salesperson, or the loss of a potential client due to a lack of attention, I headed over to the woman.

"It's a beautiful painting, isn't it?" I greeted her.

She turned to me, cocking one eyebrow in my direction. She was a middle-aged woman, probably somewhere in her mid to upper fifties, but quite glamorous. Her hair, dyed no doubt, was a beautiful black-brown color that at her age should have made her look pale, but thanks to any number of trips to the tanning bed, she had managed to avoid that. Her dark almond shaped eyes gave her an exotic quality and her make-up, while a bit heavy-handed, did everything to enhance her features. Diamonds sparkled from her ears and around her neck, and a huge platinum watch glittered on her wrist.

"So the rumors are true."

"Excuse me?" I was slightly baffled by this enigmatic response.

"Well, I'll be."

"I'm sorry. I'm still not sure what you're talking about."

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gloria Carmichael. I used to be the height of popularity regarding the crowd to which you are now acquainted. Pia was one of my dearest friends. And of course there was Jean-Luc." To this last she gave a husky little laugh.

"You're one of Pia's friends?"

"Didn't I just say so?"

"Why haven't I met you before now?" I couldn't help it, with everything that was going on at the gallery I was inclined to be suspicious of anyone even slightly acquainted with Pia.

She shrugged, "I don't know. Naturally, I was at Pia's little soiree, and then again at the opening. You just never paid any attention to me I guess. Anyway, just today Alex told me-"

"Alex? My ghost, Alex?" Well, maybe not _my_ ghost.

"Naturally."

"Huh."

"And then Raphael confirmed-"

"You can speak to Raphael, too?" I interrupted again.

"Naturally."

"Weird."

She chuckled. If a chuckle can be condescending, this one definitely was. I was already beginning to dislike this woman. Pia's 'dearest friend' or not, she had an air of superiority that rubbed me the wrong way.

"Can you see them, too? Alex and Raphael, I mean."

" _Naturally_." I was so expecting that answer from her, that I said it along with her, creating something of a chorus. Which I suppose would be a duet since there were only two of us. Good thing I was out of questions, because if she had responded with one more 'naturally,' I was likely to put my fist down her throat.

She chuckled again. More condescension. Lovely. "You still haven't figured it out, have you?"

"Figured what out?" _That you're a bitch? Got that one right off._ "Obviously, like me you can see and speak to ghosts; unlike Olivia who can only talk to them."

She frowned at this. "Don't even speak to me about that hefty harridan! She's a bourgeois battleaxe, a fleshy fishwife, and a less than mediocre medium. I mean, honestly, have you ever seen anyone attempt to exhibit as many jewels and furs in one outing as she does? It's a wonder the woman can walk at all. Between that and her staggering weight, I can't believe she's able to move without an assistant to dolly her around."

As odd as I had found Olivia to be, (though certainly given the recent turn of events I was finding her less odd by the minute) I had also found her to be pleasant, even friendly; which was more than I could say for Gloria, who had resolutely found my last nerve and was plucking at it quite vigorously. "Look, Miss Carmichael, whatever issues you might have with Mrs. St. Pierre, they are between the two of you. I really don't wish to get involved."

"But that's the point. You simply have to help me! That horrible creature certainly won't. You've got to help me talk to Pia!"

"What's stopping you from talking to her yourself?"

"My death, naturally."

Naturally.

Well, that explained a lot.

Gloria was a ghost. Alex hadn't been exaggerating; the Hamptons were simply drowning in spirits. Meanwhile, I was standing around like an idiot having a very animated conversation with a painting. That ought to go over well with my co-workers. God help me.

Turning on my heel, I began walking away, heading toward the seclusion of Pia's office, with Gloria dogging me every step of the way.

"For years I've tried to get that awful bitch to pass on at least one message to Pia, but she won't do it. She's selfish and mean and spiteful. She's the only one who can help me and she won't even let go of her own petty grievances long enough to do so. Even though _I'm_ the one that died. _She's_ still alive, but me, I'm stuck in this eternity of hell, with no one to talk to. For the first time, I'm the outsider looking in and there's nothing I can do about it."

I'll just bet she didn't like that, not one iota. This woman was used to being the center of attention, the star of the show. Being forced to stand on the sidelines and watch everything going on around her- _without_ her- had to be the worst kind of hell for her. I wondered how long she'd been stuck in this exile and as soon as I got to Pia's office, I asked.

"Almost two years. And every minute of it has been dreadful. Honestly, what did I do to deserve this? At least the others have someone to talk to. Not that they want to. Raphael avoids Olivia like the plague and Alex is barely tolerant of her. Jean-Luc follows her around like a puppy dog, but that's no different than what he did when he was alive. You'd think he'd spend fifteen minutes with me. After all, we were very close in life. But no. He won't leave that heifer's side for even half a second. It's ridiculous."

"Why won't Olivia help you? In my limited experience, Olivia seems not only eager to speak to the d-, er, people like you, but she's more than happy to pass on their messages. So, why not yours?"

Gloria's frown deepened. "Jealousy. Envy. The green-eyed monster. Call it whatever you like. It all amounts to the same thing."

While I realized that Gloria felt her statement required no further explanation and should be taken entirely at face value, I was having trouble accepting it. What exactly did Olivia have to be jealous about? One look at Olivia confirmed she had more money than God and so what if Gloria was more physically attractive; her personality certainly wasn't. So I asked for clarification. You'd have thought I'd asked Gloria to strip naked and dance on the hokey-pokey on Pia's desk the way she reacted.

"What- what?!" she sputtered. "What _doesn't_ she have to be jealous about, is the question! You have only to look at her to know the answer to that one. I know I'm dead, but I don't look _that_ bad."

"I never said you did," I replied, but Gloria was too busy going off to hear me.

"I mean look at me. Just look at me! I am younger, thinner, and far more attractive on every level. And when I was alive I traveled in the most fabulous circles. Naturally, Olivia resented that! As I should have realized you would, as well. I never was able to get along with other women; they were always so jealous of me! Why should it be any different just because I'm dead? I need to find myself a male medium."

"First off, I am _not_ a medium." Okay, so maybe I was, though certainly not by choice, but I really didn't like the label being applied to me. "Secondly, contrary to whatever you may think, I am hardly jealous of a dead woman."

"Oh, that was just hurtful! See what I mean? Women are always so mean to me! Why do they always have to be so hateful?"

I wanted to tell her to look in the mirror, but I realized this petty squabble was getting us nowhere. "I'm not trying to be hateful. Let's try to stay on track here. You said Olivia wouldn't help you because she was jealous of you. So what exactly is it that you want from me? Do you want me to talk to her and try to clear the air?"

"Lord no, that would be a big waste of your time. There is no air to be cleared, and besides, petty as it is, even now, she won't let it go. No, Olivia is a dead end. I was hoping you would talk to Pia for me."

The mixture of emotion that flooded through me- shock, dismay, concern, embarrassment- was confusing even to me. And I was the one experiencing it. I had barely come to terms with my new 'ability,' how was I supposed to share it with others without coming off as a crackpot like Olivia? And come to think of it, now that I was a medium, wasn't I supposed to be wearing scarves and muumuus and Birkenstocks? I didn't think I could pull off a muumuu...

"So? Will you talk to Pia for me?"

"I don't know. I have to think about it."

"Think about what, dear?" Pia stepped into the office.

Oh, look who joined the group. Cozy.

Chapter Thirteen

"I was just working out the new floor plan."

"Were you talking to yourself, dear?" Pia shut the door behind her, a look of concern evident in her expression. "Maybe you got hit on the head a little harder than you realized. Are you sure you shouldn't see a doctor?"

"I'm fine, Pia," I said, working hard to ignore the pleas for assistance spewing from Gloria. "What's up?"

"Actually, I was checking to see how you were doing. You were acting a little odd out in the showroom. I thought maybe you weren't feeling well."

"Odd?" I was fishing for information. Exactly how much had Pia seen?

"To be honest dear, it looked to me like you were conversing with a plant. Or possibly the wall. I couldn't really tell from where I was standing."

"Now! Now! Talk to her now! It's the perfect opportunity!" Gloria was practically shrieking in my ear.

It was very distracting having this conversation with Pia while Gloria was carrying on so dramatically. To my credit, I didn't react in the slightest. Not even a wince. It wasn't easy.

"Oh that. I was talking to myself- sometimes when I'm working on a project it helps in the planning stages to say things out loud." Feeble, I know.

"Whatever method works for you, I suppose," Pia eyed me doubtfully. She looked around her and for half a second she locked eyes with Gloria- just long enough for me to wonder if she could sense her standing there- and then blissfully unaware of her old friend's presence, she went on, "For now, let's get out of here and go home."

If that would rid me of Gloria, I was all for it.

I gathered my things and joined Pia at the car, Gloria hot on my heels the entire way. But once the car took off, she was gone. Apparently ghosts couldn't ride in cars. Sweet. I would have to keep that in mind in the future.

On the way home, Pia informed me of her knowledge of my conversation with Maya in the warehouse. "You must understand how untenable this situation is for everyone."

"Really? I'm sorry, perhaps I'm having trouble seeing past the possible brain damage in order to sympathize with everyone else's angst."

"Touché. Still, Maya is wrestling with some pretty severe guilt issues."

"Pardon me, if I don't feel bad about that."

"Well, I can see this is going to go nowhere. Change of subject. About the investigation-"

"Let the police handle that, please, Pia, I'm begging you. I've had more than my fair share of trouble lately. I don't need to borrow more."

"I would think you of all people would want to solve this case as quickly as possible, not only to prove your innocence, but to seek justice as well. Do you want the NMT to get away with this?"

"MNT," I corrected.

"Right. Exactly. So I thought that maybe we should start by creating a suspect list and then see where that takes us."

"Good idea. You start on your list tonight and get back to me tomorrow."

"I was thinking maybe you could come to the main house with me and we could work on it together." The disappointment in her tone was palpable.

The thought of sitting in a room surrounded by all that purple was nauseating. I was starting to appreciate Alex's annoyance a bit more. "Fine. But if we're going to do this, could we at least do it at the guest house?"

"That's fine by me, dear. Just give me time to change and I'll meet you there."

I got maybe half an hour to myself- well, not really to myself- Alex was hanging around too- before Pia knocked at the door. I don't know why I was shocked to see Gloria was with her. I suggested drinks on the deck, if only to get Pia outside while I tackled Gloria. Waiting until after Pia had shut the sliding glass doors between us, I turned and hissed at the pushy poltergeist. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I thought you understood? I'm a ghost- I can go anywhere I please."

Turning to Alex, I flashed him an accusing glare. "I thought you said ghosts got trapped in particular spaces."

"They do. Only in her case, she's trapped at Pia's side. Kind of like Jean-Luc is stuck with Olivia."

"Then where'd you go when we got in the car?"

"It's too hard to maintain any kind of solid form in a moving vehicle, so I just disappeared, but I never actually went away." The way she said the last made it clear that she meant to haunt me at every opportunity. Considering the amount of time I spent with Pia, it wasn't going to be difficult for her to do.

"Fine. Whatever. Stick around. See if I care." I was fooling no one; we all knew I was bluffing.

And so it was a cozy group of four that sat around the patio table making up Pia's list of suspects, although Pia of course only saw the two of us. "There's everyone in the gallery," she was saying even as she marked the names down with her purple ink gel pen. Dear God, she was obsessed. "And then I suppose I should include myself and you as well. After that, let's see, who else?"

Of course Gloria chimed in, "Olivia St. Pierre!"

"Who do you know that might wish to see you fail?" I asked Pia, ignoring Gloria's outburst. "Someone that might want revenge, or just be jealous of you?"

"Olivia St. Pierre!"

I rolled my eyes.

"Really, darling, there's no one I can think of."

"Well, obviously Lana can be added to the list," I commented. "Although, before her art was stolen, she wasn't nearly as peevish. Still, I have to wonder if she's up to something."

Pia happily added her to the list.

"I really don't know any of your other friends, so I can't begin to guess what possible motives there might be."

At this point Alex joined in the conversation. "I've hung out at enough of Pia's parties to have overheard several conversations. Her friends are shallow and often two-faced, but I can't say I've ever heard anyone wish her harm."

I hadn't considered this aspect before. As ghosts, Alex and Gloria had been privy to any number of private conversations. Of course there was no way I could have an in depth interrogation at this point, not with Pia sitting right there, but I needed to see if I couldn't glean any more information out of Alex later.

"I'm telling you, Olivia St. Pierre!" Gloria was still insisting.

"Why on earth would Olivia want to harm Pia?" Alex asked, even as Pia began saying something to me. "I'll admit she's a stupid woman, but she has no grudge against Pia. You're another story altogether."

"-do you think?" Pia finished the question that for the life of me I had no idea how it started.

"I'm sorry, Pia, what did you say?"

"I said-"

"I'm telling you," Gloria's strident voice overrode Pia's, "Olivia has an ax to grind bigger than Paul Bunyan's. She's still angry with Pia because she hired that other medium to go through the house after Olivia. And the fact that Pia did not immediately side with Olivia over Jean-Luc's and my deaths, didn't sit well with her either."

"Maybe because you were sleeping with her husband and Olivia expected some kind of commiseration from her friend. Something along the lines of, 'Don't you worry, dear, that Gloria Carmichael is nothing but a great big trollop!"

Pia tapped me on the arm. "Dear? Reid? Are you even listening to me?"

"How dare you!" Gloria screeched, jumping up from the table. "How dare you call me a trollop!"

Alex smirked, eyeing Gloria's bright red, high-heeled sandals. "If the tramp shoe fits, strap it on."

Gloria's shriek reached an all new decibel, not that Pia could hear it. Even now she was tugging insistently on my arm. "Reid? Are you okay? You look like you might be catatonic. Or having a stroke. Or a seizure. Or something. Should I call an ambulance?"

That got my attention. "No, Pia. No I'm fine. Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you." I actually had to work at keeping my voice steady, tempted as I was to raise it over the two shouting voices next to me. "I was just- thinking."

"Oh. Do you have any new ideas?"

While I had sincere doubts that Olivia could possibly want to cause Pia any harm, Gloria had given me an idea. Sex was almost always involved in crimes of passion (no pun intended), and part of me was beginning to wonder if there wasn't a larger picture that we were missing. After all, we had all jumped to the same conclusion. We'd all assumed that Ricky had been involved in the theft of Lana's art. But what if Ricky had been just as innocent a bystander as I was? What if the real reason Ricky had been in the warehouse had nothing at all to do with the theft? What if it had to do with sex? Remembering Simone's red, swollen eyes, it didn't take much to put it together and I shared that theory with Pia.

"You are going to make a brilliant Watson!" Pia enthused.

Half an hour later, I found myself standing beside Pia on Simone's doorstep.

Chapter Fourteen

"You want to know what?!" Simone was clearly outraged.

Pia's blatant delivery wasn't helping the situation. "Precisely what I asked, dear. Were you having an affair with J.D.?"

"Oh my God! I can't believe you're asking me this! Accusing me of- of-! And I can only imagine who put you up to it!" Simone shot me an angry glare.

"Oh, yeah, she was. I've utilized enough deflection in my day to recognize it in someone else," Gloria nodded confidently from where she stood beside Simone, her arms crossed over her surgically enhanced bosom. In fact, without even realizing it, Simone was copying the same stance. I wondered if they'd used the same plastic surgeon- the results were remarkably identical.

"Simone," I said, speaking for the first time since our arrival. "It's really not that hard to figure out what happened. You gave Ricky your code and a copy of your key. The two of you met up there, what- once? twice?- a week. The only problem was, Ricky wasn't at the party, so he had no idea what went down there, and there was no time for you to tell him."

"How dare you imply-"

"Imply, shmimply," Gloria intoned cattily. "It's written all over her face. She-"

"Look," I interrupted both of them, "just _stop_ wasting our time. The jig is up, the cat is out of the proverbial bag, you're caught as red-handed as if you'd been finger-painting with ketchup. Let's cut to the chase, did you see anyone else there that night?"

"How could I see anyone, if I wasn't there?" she still insisted on- well- insisting.

Now, Pia took a turn. "Simone, you obviously have to be aware that your position with the gallery is precarious at best. Having an affair with one of the employees is quite a serious infraction of the rules, regardless of how good-looking he might have been. If I could just get to the bottom of this, before the police become aware of that which we already know, I just might be able to stem the tide. The less that people know about this, the easier it will be to pretend it never happened. If, you catch my meaning?"

Oh yeah. We all caught her meaning. In essence, it was black-mail. Which I was all for, if it served to get Simone to confess her part in the crime and possibly name the MNT. Or, better yet, name herself as the MNT.

Simone cracked like a spoiled egg, tears flowing and apologies bleating out of her at an alarming rate. At Pia's suggestion, I went to the bathroom to wet a washcloth for her. To my surprise, Gloria followed me.

"All right, I helped you, now you help me."

"How exactly did you help me?" I hissed under my breath as I turned the tap up to full blast.

"Simone is out there spilling her guts and possibly snatching you off of death row. And it's all thanks to me."

"I'm not on death row."

"Not yet, you're not. But if they don't find the murderer soon, _you_ are the scapegoat. I hope you look good in orange. Though I doubt it; that's a hard color to pull off. It'll probably make you look sallow, like you have jaundice or something. Not the look you want when your lethal injection is being televised and the governor's denying your pardon."

"New York doesn't have the death penalty."

"They might vote one in just for you."

"Gloria, what do you want?"

"I _want_ you to help me! You wouldn't even be here if it hadn't been for me! And she wouldn't be out there sniveling like a big sissy if I hadn't given you enough confidence to put the heat on her."

I brandished the wet washcloth like it was some sort of floppy, impotent weapon. "Fine. Fine! I'll help you! Just make yourself useful while you're here and look around. See if you can find any artwork or anything that looks like it doesn't belong." Amazingly enough, while I returned to the living room, Gloria did exactly as I demanded.

Pia had managed to calm Simone somewhat, not that it mattered because unfortunately there was nothing much she could tell us. She had arrived at the gallery before I had, had spoken to a still very much alive Ricky- which only served to deepen her misgivings regarding me- and had left while Ricky stayed behind to lock up. Either the MNT had been there all along and had remained hidden, or the MNT's arrival had coincided with my own. To add insult to injury, Gloria came up empty-handed as well. I would have loved to have had this case completely wrapped up, and the outcome of Simone turning out to be the MNT would have had me outdoing Martha and all of her Vandellas dancing in the street. Mick Jagger and David Bowie wouldn't have been able to keep up with me. Alas, there would be no dancing.

We returned to the car where Gloria was forced to disappear. Her nonstop nagging in my ear was extremely distracting and I was quite relieved to see her go.

"Well, dear," Pia remarked, "I guess that was one big red herring. I suppose we could go back and ask for permission to search her apartment, but I have a feeling that would be a waste of our time and hers. Sadly, I do believe her."

I nodded. "Yeah, I think she's telling the truth. And trust me, there's nothing in her apartment."

Pia's interest was perked. "Did you have a peek when you went to the bathroom?"

"Something like that." Then another idea struck me. "But I might have a way to confirm her story. Swing by the gallery."

"I'm sorry dear, that's a no can do. One of the new alarm company's rules is that no one is allowed entry into the building after nine o'clock unless it's been prearranged with them."

I frowned. It was inconvenient, but with Gloria's help, not impossible. I guess now was as good a time as any. "Swing by anyway; we won't have to go in. Trust me." Pia cocked a disbelieving brow my way, but turned the car around.

"Um, Pia, there's something I have to tell you. I don't quite know how to say it, so I'll just give it to you straight. Olivia's not crazy."

Pia chuckled. "Yes, dear, I know. I never thought she was."

"No, what I mean is, I've seen your ghosts too. They're real, or at least mostly real. Olivia does enjoy a bit of fabrication."

If I had thought this was going to be easy given Pia's propensity towards believing in spirits and mediums and all the rest, I was wrong. The car literally shuddered to a halt as Pia pulled it awkwardly against a curb.

"Darling, you're either pulling my leg- and this is _not_ the time to do it- or you've sustained some dazzling form of brain damage that simply must be attended to."

I was shocked. And offended. "What?! You believe Olivia, but not me? How is that fair?"

"Quite simple, really. Being a medium is a gift one is born with. You simply don't achieve it by being knocked over the head; if that were the case, the whole world would be doing it."

"Well, I am," I bewilderingly found myself defending my position. "There's Raphael, the ghost in your gallery- although he's not _the_ Raphael like Olivia says. But he is an artist, a painter actually, and he's Jamaican. He used to live in the loft of the gallery, before it burned down."

"There is no loft in my gallery."

"Not now there isn't. Fire, remember? Burning embers? Flame and ashes? That's how he died."

"Uh-huh." I could tell she still didn't believe me.

"All right, the ghost in your guest house. It's not some freed slave named Cicily. It's a guy named Alex McDaniel whose father used to own the house back in the late sixties. He died in the pond at the back of your property trying to save a little girl from drowning."

"Firstly, I purchased my home directly from the builder- who never lived there and was the only owner before me-and his name was not McDaniel. Secondly, there is no pond at the back of my property, and thirdly, there is no record of any death on the property. Don't you think I would have had that substantiated when Olivia began making her claims?"

Now I was completely baffled. This was not going at all how I had anticipated. "What about Gloria?" I asked meekly.

"Gloria Carmichael? She died in the Hyatt Regency while conducting an illicit affair with Olivia's husband Jean-Luc. Who died at the same time I might add. They both suffered from smoke inhalation when a fire started on their floor and they didn't awake to the alarms. And I wouldn't bring up Gloria around Olivia if I were you, she would be incensed. Besides, how did you know about Gloria?"

"Because she's haunting you."

"Why on earth would Gloria haunt me?"

"Well, not haunting per se. More like stuck to you. And I don't know why."

Pia began to put the car back into gear. "Darling, I really think we should just get you home. Tomorrow, I'll get you an appointment with a good neurologist."

"Pia, please believe me. Don't you think I know how crazy this sounds? I've been wrestling with it for the last few days. But I can prove it, just give me a minute."

Sliding the car back into park, she said, "Okay. Go ahead."

"Just give me a second. I'm waiting for Gloria."

"I thought you said she followed me around?"

"She does, she just doesn't do moving vehicles."

"That's it, we're done." This time when Pia put the car into drive, she followed up on it, pulling away from the curb and speeding down the road. "Gloria never had a day of motion sickness in her life. Why would she now that she is deceased?"

"I didn't say she had motion sickness. Just that she has trouble materializing in a moving vehicle. So she waits until we arrive somewhere."

"We just sat on that curb for several minutes," Pia pointed out.

"I don't know. Maybe she wasn't paying attention."

"Convenient. Now darling, I'm not saying that you're manufacturing all of this, I'm just saying that there might be a _teensy_ bit of brain damage. That sculpture was marble you know."

"I'm not crazy."

"Well, if this goes on much longer, you will be. Hearing voices in your head is never a good sign. Besides, what if they tell you to do something bad?"

I had no choice but to give up the argument, at least until we returned to Pia's house and Gloria showed up again. Slumping back in my seat, I pouted all the way home. Of course, Gloria did not reappear upon our arrival, because that would be too convenient, and Pia, not willing to be stalled, left me alone at the guest house.

Which was okay by me. I had a different bone to pick.

"Alex! _Alex_!!"

"What on earth are you shrieking about?" my erstwhile ghost appeared before me.

"You! How could you! You liar! You deceitful ass! You set me up and made me look like a fool!"

"What are you talking about?"

Quickly, I described the scene with Pia.

Alex chuckled ruefully and began to shake his head. "I'm sorry, honey, you didn't listen very well. I never said it was a pond. I said the pool. Which has long since been filled in, I might add. Pia probably doesn't even know of its existence. I mean seriously, who would be able to sell a house, even one as gorgeous as this, if they knew someone had died in the pool? It's quite disturbing to think about, really."

I narrowed my eyes at him. I wasn't buying it. I remembered the conversation quite distinctly- as I'm sure anyone would remember their first conversation with a ghost- and I was certain he had said pond. Further, Pia had verified that there were no recorded deaths on her property in the past. A drowning in a pond- or a pool- was sure to be recorded somewhere. And I told him just that, finishing with, "Not to mention the fact that Pia bought the house straight from the builder who was _not_ named McDaniel."

He looked chagrined. "All right, all right, you got me. Fine. I made it all up, but only because it made me look a bit more glamorous. The truth is my father _did_ own this place, but his surname was not McDaniel. I was his illegitimate son; I have my mother's last name. Still, I did live here, when I got older anyway. And I _did_ die here, no matter what Pia's investigation turned up. But my death was so embarrassing that I embellished it a bit, in order to make myself look like a hero."

I crossed my arms over my chest in a challenging stance. "Go on."

If ghosts could blush he probably would have, he looked that embarrassed. "I was standing on the toilet hanging a picture and my foot slipped. I fell off, cracked my head against the tub, and bang!- it was all she wrote."

"Which bathroom?" If he thought I was going to take anything he ever said again at face value, he had another think coming.

"Downstairs."

"It doesn't have a tub. I was just in there the other night at the party."

"Pia has remodeled. There used to be one there where that great big god-awful purple vanity is now."

He had an answer for everything.

"Then how is there no report of your death?"

Alex looked at me for a minute then disappeared.

Damn him.

Maybe Pia was right. Maybe I was crazy.

Chapter Fifteen

The next day, true to her word, Pia had gotten me an appointment with a neurologist. Naturally she accompanied me. After a cat scan and a thorough examination, the doctor declared me fit as a fiddle, if a little discombobulated. He felt that given a few weeks, these 'unusual phenomenon' would disappear. I could only hope he was right.

I was back at the guest house, with Pia fussing over me, insisting that I stayed in bed for at least another few days- or until my disturbing symptoms went away. She was busily attempting to tuck me into bed when Gloria suddenly appeared.

"Where in the _hell_ have you been?" I couldn't help it, I was beyond aggravated. These damn ghosts were making me look crazy. Hell, they were _making_ me crazy!

"What?" Pia was confused, but I paid her no mind, keeping my eye on Gloria. I was afraid she would disappear if I looked away for even half a second.

"Look, it's not my fault," Gloria began. "I didn't expect you to tell her anything when I wasn't there, and it wasn't until this morning when I heard Pia on the phone with the doctor that I realized what had happened. There wasn't much I could do about it then, now was there?"

"Like hell, there wasn't! You could have popped in at any time to give me an assist you know!"

"Darling, are you talking to the ghosts again?"

I glared at Pia. "Yes, Pia, I _am_ talking to 'the ghosts.' One ghost to be precise: Gloria. And right now she's going to tell me something- _anything_ \- that will get you to believe me."

"Now dear, don't go getting yourself all riled up," Pia began, but I ignored her.

"Listen Gloria, we had a deal and I've upheld my end of the bargain, with no help from you I might add. So give me something to work with here. I'm begging you."

"Tell her I'm sorry about what happened with Jean-Luc and the strain it put on her friendship with Olivia. I never meant for that to happen."

As hard as I'm sure it was for Gloria to form any kind of apology, this was not the time, and I told her so.

"Okay, we'll get to that later. Um, remind her of the time we had the lingerie party."

"She says something about you having an underwear party?"

Pia shook her head, "Darling, everyone throws a lingerie party at least once in their lifetime (I never had), it's just your subconscious talking to you. Try and relax."

"What about the time we went skinny-dipping in the neighbor's pool?"

I relayed the information, to which Pia said, "The neighbor caught us, so that's no big secret."

I was beginning to get frustrated. "You were supposed to be her dearest friend, Gloria. Surely you have to know _something_ that no one else knows about."

Gloria frowned. "I can't think. You're putting me on the spot and I can't think under this kind of pressure."

"You've had two years to come up with something!"

"I _thought_ I would be talking through that fat old bat Olivia and Pia already believes her. I didn't _know_ it would be you!"

"Well, think faster. You've got to come up with something."

Astonishingly, it was Pia that supplied us with the information we needed. "All right dear, if it truly is Gloria, then she will know- and _only_ she will know- how old am I?"

Gloria snorted. "Oh that's easy. Sixty-three."

All thoughts of corroborating my story flew right out of my head. There was no way I was answering that. Turning to Gloria, I hissed, "There is no way that's possible. Now give me something I can use."

Gloria smirked. "Oh, it is quite possible. Even Bernard doesn't know how old she really is, Pia keeps it hidden pretty well. But I saw her birth certificate. Not the one she had fudged to show people when they doubted her, the real one on file at the county court house. The woman is sixty-three. She'll be sixty-four in October."

I had pegged Pia somewhere between forty-eight and fifty-two when I had first met her, and even after spending all this time with her, my estimation hadn't changed. If I even so much as tried to intimate this to her, the woman was going to flip her lid.

Pia took my silence as acquiescence and said, "That's what I thought. Now scoot down in the bed dear, I'll go get you a drink so you can take one of those nerve pills the doctor prescribed for you."

"Sixty-three!" I blurted out. I didn't want to take any nerve pills.

"Oh!" Pia flopped down onto the bed beside me.

"I'm sorry, but that's what she said." I shot at accusing look at Gloria.

"Only Gloria knew that," Pia was mumbling to herself. "And only because the sneaky little wretch went behind my back to the court house and found me out." Just as suddenly as she seemed to have been broken, Pia lurched to her feet and began shouting in circles around her. "Gloria! For the first time I'm going to have the opportunity to tell you just exactly what I think of you! Without you interrupting!" And she proceeded to do just that, calling her selfish, self-centered, and mean-spirited among other things. I watched with some glee as Pia verbally trounced Gloria six ways from Sunday (a trouncing I had no doubt Gloria deserved) while Gloria stood by sputtering and trying to defend herself. Finally Pia finished with, "And that's all I have to say about that." Seemingly exhausted, she dropped back onto the bed.

Alex chose that moment to join us. "What in the hell is going on here?"

"Pia finally believes me."

Alerted to the new presence, Pia asked, "Is that the other one? The one that's not Cicily?"

I nodded. "Alex McDaniel. Or so he says. But since I have yet to get a straight answer out of him, I couldn't honestly tell you."

"You've got to talk to Pia for me," Gloria butted in. "It's important."

I repeated her words to Pia, to which Pia responded, "I don't wish to hear a word that woman has to say."

"You heard her," I told Gloria.

"But- but-"

Unaware of Gloria's protestations, Pia was already going on, "Well this certainly explains a lot of things, now doesn't it? You weren't talking to a potted plant yesterday, were you?"

"Gloria," I supplied.

"And all those times I heard you talking to yourself? You actually did have an audience. Huh. What I don't understand is- how has Olivia gotten all of this so confused? And why didn't she tell me about Gloria?"

"It seems pretty obvious why she didn't mention Gloria. And as for the rest, from what I understand, Olivia can't see the ghosts, she can just hear them. And she tends to get their communications a little mixed up."

"The poor dear is inclined to be dramatic. I'm sure an escaped slave is much more romantic than some guy named- what did you say?"

"Alex. I think."

"Yes. Well. Anyway, Raphael would certainly be more ideal than some random Jamaican."

"He's got quite a nice accent," I elaborated. "Plus, some really awesome dreads." Pia was confused. I should have realized a woman who traveled in her circles wouldn't know what I was talking about. "Braids," I explained.

"Oh. You mean those ratty, snake-looking things?"

"Yeah, those."

Suddenly Pia's eyes brightened. "You don't suppose he might have been a witness to J.D.'s murder do you?"

"That's what I've been trying to find out. But Maya interrupted me when I was talking to him yesterday and then when I went back he was gone. Last night I was hoping to try again."

"But as I told you, we can no longer enter the gallery that late at night. Not unless we prearrange it first."

"True. But that's where Gloria comes in. I figured I'd send her in there and have her talk to Raphael."

"Which I am not about to do until Pia gets over her peevishness," Gloria threatened.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Again- let me remind you- we had a deal. You help me, I help you."

"I already helped you with Simone, remember? And you have yet to help me."

Just then a knock sounded at the door.

"I'll get it," Pia volunteered, rising from the bed. I followed her into the living room anyway and was shocked when she opened the door to find Detective Stern on the front step.

"What are you doing here?" I blurted out. I don't know what it is about that man, but something about him makes me forget any manners with which I had been raised. My mother would be ashamed.

"I'm actually here to arrest you."

That was not the response I was expecting.

Chapter Sixteen

"What?!" Pia squawked, outraged.

"There were only two sets of prints found on the murder weapon. Yours and-" Detective Stern frowned at me and then looked at a small notebook he carried in his hand, "Maya Maron's. We've already questioned Maya and since she has an airtight alibi for the night Ricky Marks was killed, that leaves you. It's not looking very good for you, Miss Larson."

"Now just wait a minute," I objected. "Did Maya tell you about the day she helped me put the piece back together?"

"Yes. She explained that was why her prints were on it."

"Did it ever dawn on you that that was also how mine got on there?"

"That still doesn't explain the lack of any other prints."

"I would assume the MNT wore gloves," Pia chimed in, eyes flashing.

"The MNT?"

I sighed. "We already had this discussion. The first time you interrogated me."

"Oh, yeah. Mysterious Number Three. I remember."

"Do you also remember that at the time you were convinced of my innocence? Because, right now, you certainly don't seem to be."

"More evidence has turned up."

"And what kind of evidence is that, Detective?" Oh yeah, Pia was pissed.

"We searched Ricky's apartment. A painting was found there. It looks almost identical to the one I found in your guest room." Stern looked pointedly at me.

"How is that even possible? I don't understand." I was beginning to feel a little faint. And I noticed for the first time that both of my ghosts were completely silent as they watched the drama unfold before them.

"We're presuming one of them is a counterfeit. We can only theorize you and Ricky were collaborating in some kind of elaborate scheme in which Ricky would steal the real art and you would replace it with a copy."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

"Money. That's what it all comes down to, isn't it? The two of you would then sell the original pieces to private collectors and split the proceeds."

"And it all would have worked perfectly, if it wasn't for those meddling kids," I muttered.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Nothing. Not a damn thing."

"Detective, I've had quite enough of this!" Pia said. "This girl is an innocent bystander- a victim! How can you be so obtuse? It's obvious someone is trying to frame her! Now I'm quite certain that at least part of your theory is true. Someone _was_ counterfeiting the artwork, and for how long I don't know. But even you have to realize there can't be much profit in selling an unknown artist's work."

"Unless that artist suddenly became famous, as they often do when you launch their career."

"Still, it's a bit of a gamble, don't you think? I would think there would be far more profit in stealing from an established artist."

"I happen to agree with you," Stern switched sides so quickly it made my head spin. "And so does Grummons for that matter. That's why we decided to play along. What better way to flush out the real murderer than to let him believe we've fallen for his ruse?"

"So I get locked up in the hoosegow in order to prove my own innocence? Lucky me. A little solitary in the stony lonesome to ferret out the felon? Confined to the pokey to point out the perp-"

"Okay! We get it," Stern broke in impatiently. "Do you see another way?"

"Not really," Pia considered. "Maybe I should call my lawyer. Just to keep up appearances."

"How soon can he spring me?" I muttered, but no one was listening.

"That's a good idea," Stern said looking at his watch. "Have him meet us down at the precinct in, say, an hour or so?"

"I'll call him right away," Pia assured us.

Even as he was leading me to his car I was saying, "Just so you know Stern, I expect lunch. And I mean a good one. Not some ratty tuna fish sandwich from a machine."

Stern cracked a smile. "You got it. It's the least I can do."

"You ain't kidding, buddy."

I still couldn't believe it. I was going to jail. How was I ever going to tell my parents?

Two hours later, while I was _still_ sitting in a cell, I had two thoughts. The first was that I'd been had. Stern hadn't had any intentions of letting me loose again. He was just making it up to get me to go along quietly. And it had worked. I'd been as docile as one of our dairy cows going to the milking machines. The second was there was _no_ _way_ I was telling my parents about this.

And then another thought hit me. _Where's my damn lunch?_

Just then a uniformed officer appeared. "Miss Larson, would you follow me please?" he said as he opened my cell and led me down several hallways to the interrogation rooms, an area I was becoming highly familiar with.

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter, which I did with a certain amount of trepidation. Inside I was surprised to find a red and white checkered tablecloth draped across the laminate tabletop. On top of this sat the full works of an over-sized Italian meal. Even from the doorway I could see- and smell- lasagna, spaghetti, garlic bread, antipasto, and what looked like tiramisu. I had died and gone to heaven.

"Sorry it took so long," Stern said as he entered the room behind me. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean- well, whatever the proper response is," I said, still looking around the table and still completely flabbergasted. "I was thinking hamburgers, but this? This I never would have expected. It's a bit of overkill don't you think?" Okay, poor choice of words given the situation, but I was still in shock.

"I told you, it's the least I could do to thank you for playing along."

"Yeah. Right. Okay."

"Have a seat," he said, pulling my chair out in a very gentlemanly fashion.

Dumbfounded, I did. Seconds later my plate was heaped to the point of cracking under the weight of all the food and I was digging in heartily. When I looked up, Stern was watching me.

Swallowing a forkful of spaghetti I said, "If you say, 'I like a girl with an appetite,' I swear to God, you will be wearing my spaghetti as a wig."

"I wasn't going to," he held his hands up in surrender. "I was just wondering if you liked it. I had no way of knowing if you even ate Italian."

Scooping up another forkful of pasta, I said, "Yep. Italian. Mexican. Greek. Mediterranean. Indian. American. You name it. I'm an equal opportunity eater."

"Good to know."

I watched for a minute as Stern dug into his own pasta and then asked, "So, why are you doing this? I mean, the police ask for citizens' cooperation every day, but they certainly don't take us on a lunch date in return."

Did I really just say that? This wasn't a date. He wasn't even trying to intimate that it was. Where did that come from? Wishful thinking?

He shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just felt bad because you haven't been in the Hamptons that long and you've been having a really rough time."

"Everyone has a rough time when they move to a new place. It takes some adjustment."

"True. But not everyone's rough time includes head injury, murder and a frame-job."

"I guess. Still, this is definitely more than you owed me."

"Maybe it's because I like you. Well, not like you, like you. But I like you."

"Thanks for clearing that up."

He set down his fork. "What I mean is, I find you entertaining. You're smart and quick-witted. You have a quirky sense of humor. I find you intriguing."

When I didn't say anything- what could I say?- he added, "And I thought maybe- when this is all over- maybe we could go on a date. Maybe dinner and a movie or something, I don't know, whatever you like."

I was inordinately pleased. Of course I tried not to show it. Striving for casual, I said, "Sure, why not?"

"Well, don't sound so eager," he grouched. Apparently I had bruised his ego.

"What did you expect? I'm still being framed for murder. This may be my last meal before I head to Sing Sing and take a ride on Old Sparky."

"Hard to do since Sparky's been retired."

"Still, I'm not exactly ready to jump up on the table and do a happy dance. Besides, I don't want to step on the spaghetti."

He grinned. "You'd do a happy dance if it wasn't for the possible death sentence and the spaghetti?"

"Don't be smug, Stern."

"Jason. My friends call me Jase."

"Sigreid. My friends call me Reid."

His grin grew wider, making him even more handsome, if that were possible, and then he said, "Let's finish up. Pia's lawyer got here over an hour ago and the guys have been stalling him. I'm sure he's having fits by now."

So the holdup hadn't been the lawyer, it had been the lunch. Interesting. Very interesting.

A few hours later I was back in Pia's office at the gallery, spilling my guts of every detail of my time at the precinct. It was a girly thing to do I know, but somehow I felt compelled to tell someone about it.

To give Pia her due, she was the perfect audience. Gloria, however, was not. I succeeded in ignoring the catty remarks the snide specter kept peppering into our conversation, and somehow managed to stay floating on cloud nine despite them.

"What are you going to wear?" Pia asked, giddy as a schoolgirl.

"I don't know," I shrugged. "I'm still processing the fact that he asked me out. I'm too excited to think about anything as mundane as clothing."

"Mundane? _Mundane!_ Darling, clothing can entirely make or break a situation! How about that little cocktail dress you wore to my party?"

"Don't you think that's a bit overdressed for wherever Jase might be taking me?"

"What? Are you going to a tractor pull?" Gloria snickered.

Ignorant of Gloria's insult, Pia considered the subject a moment. "You might be right, dear. But still, you need something chic, sexy, breath-taking. Oh! I know! We simply must go back to Carma's. Remember she said she had that new dress in? The one from that new designer-" Pia suddenly stopped talking and it was as if the light bulb went on over both of our heads at the same time.

"Diadra!" we chorused.

"How did we not see this before?" Pia lamented. "Diadra! Seamstress from Hicksville, USA! Sorry, darling, no offense."

"None taken." But of course that was only because I was already invested in the scenario Pia was beginning to paint and wasn't really paying much attention outside of that. "Small town seamstress comes into money-"

"Quite suddenly," Pia added. "Quits her job and begins making her own designs."

"Meanwhile- who should she be dating?"

"Corey- who has been noticeably preoccupied lately."

"Guilty even."

"Definitely not doing his best work. But why would Corey do this to me? What could his possible vendetta be?"

"I don't think it's a vendetta. It's about the money. Remember- Diadra is designing her own line because of the money she came into. Or maybe Corey found himself in some kind of desperate situation and is being blackmailed into helping someone else and the money is just a side benefit."

"I think you might be right, dear." Pia's eyes sparkled brazenly. She was plotting. "So what do you say to the two of us arranging a private fitting at Diadra's home. There's a pretty good likelihood that she lives with Corey. We might get to the bottom of this mystery and find you a new dress all in the space of one evening!"

As it turned out, the evening was a bit of a bust. Diadra was in fact sharing a high end apartment with Corey, and we did manage to land a private fitting with her, but that's where our luck ended. Diadra kept a close eye on the two of us, allowing neither of us out of her sight for even half a second. I never could tell if it was because she was hiding something, or because she was eager to make as many sales as humanly possible to Pia. Meanwhile, Gloria, who was able to wander about on her own, was being terribly contrary- hard to believe, I know- so after floating through a few walls, all she would tell me was, "How am I supposed to know? There's artwork everywhere."

Which left us right back where we started.

We were now sitting in the living room of the guest house discussing the situation with Alex, a ghost who couldn't tell the truth if his life depended upon it. So naturally Pia was eager to take his advice when he suggested, "How about good, old-fashioned, B and E?"

Fool that I was, I asked- _aloud_ \- "B and E?"

"Now, why hadn't I thought of that?" Pia exclaimed. "Brilliant! Just brilliant!"

"Really?" I gaped at her. "I haven't spent enough time in the clink? What, do you want me in maximum security?"

"Darling, think about it-"

"I _am_ thinking about it!"

"Obviously Corey had no reservations about breaking into _my_ gallery-"

"It wasn't exactly breaking in. You supplied him with a key and a code to the alarm system. And we're still not even certain if our suspicions are correct."

"I am quite certain! The more that I think about it, the more certain I am!"

"Still, I'd rather talk to Raphael to verify it."

"Assuming he witnessed the event. Don't you suppose he might have said something the first time he talked to you, if that were the case?"

"What were you expecting? Something like, 'Hey, you're the girl that got bashed over the head with the statue aren't you?'"

"It would have been nice."

Somehow I got talked into Pia's latest escapade and that's how I found myself- dressed quite conspicuously in all black thanks to Pia's insistence- standing next to yet another dead body, while all around me alarm bells blared.

Chapter Seventeen

"Just what in the hell did the two of you think you were doing?" Jase railed. And who could blame him? Certainly not me.

I looked around the interrogation room- or as I like to think of it, 'home, sweet home,'- and wondered who was on the other side of the mirror. "Is Detective Grumpy-Buns in there?"

Jase cast a glance over his shoulder, examining the mirror for a second. "No. There's no one in there right now. Now will you just answer my question? What were the two of you doing there?"

I explained our theory.

Jase collapsed into the chair, and dragging his hands through his hair, he said, "Don't you think we had this figured out all by ourselves? You know, this _is_ kind of what we do for a living, without the benefit of helpful amateurs."

I bristled a bit at that. "How were we supposed to know you already figured it out? You didn't tell me that. And we're not amateurs!"

He cocked a brow at me. "Oh, so the two of you have a degree in criminal justice? And here I thought it was art."

"Still, you could have said something. It's not like I wasn't here half the afternoon."

"The police generally don't like to share information in a live case with a couple of Nancy Drews."

"Sherlock and Watson, actually."

"What?"

"Pia likes to emulate Sherlock Holmes."

"Whatever. You're missing the point. I told you we were trying to flush out the MNT, leave Corey feeling safe and secure in the belief that we thought we'd caught our man, so to speak. And then the two of you go in there with the poorly conceived plan of a dress fitting (how did he know about that?)- honestly, who did you think wasn't going to see right through that?- and blow the whole operation right out of the water. Why didn't you just let me do my job?"

"Maybe because I'm the one who's under the greatest amount of suspicion, and therefore, the most likely to be prosecuted. I'm getting more nervous by the minute."

"You should be nervous. If you keep trying to investigate this thing, you're likely to wind up dead long before you can be prosecuted for anything."

I paled at that. "I can't help it. You don't know Pia. She could talk a monk right out of his vow of silence. Probably celibacy too. So when Pia and I were discussing our upcoming date-"

"You talked to Pia about that?"

"Of course. I _am_ a girl you know. We tend to chat about those things. Anyway, when Pia suggested going to Diadra for a new designer dress-"

"You were buying a dress for our date?"

"Could you just let it go please?"

He grinned. "It's just that I'm-"

"Gloating. Yes, I can see that. _Anyway_ ," I huffed, "that's how we connected the dots. Diadra was a seamstress until she came into some money. Corey's money. So we set up a private fitting, but she never would give us even a second to look around, and Gloria was no help at all-"

"Gloria? Who's Gloria?"

Oops. "Did I say Gloria? I meant Pia. So that's when she suggested we go back tonight."

"And you thought this sounded rational."

"You'd have to hear it from Pia. Trust me; you'd understand if she started putting the pressure on you. That woman could have talked Mother Teresa into opening a brothel."

"Filled with the monks she'd already talked out of celibacy no doubt. Okay, so what were the two of you going to do if you found Corey and Diadra at home?"

I shrugged. "Not a clue. I guess she hadn't thought it out that far."

Jase leaned back in his chair. "Where you see Sherlock and Watson, I see Lucy and Ethel. Just saying."

"Whatever."

"Thanks to your harebrained scheme, Corey and Diadra had plenty of warning that we were onto them. A thorough search of the apartment turned up nothing and there's no way to prove anyone besides Corey was ever living there- Diadra must have cleared out right after your fitting. Further, we can't even prove this girl ever existed, because we can't find a Diadra anywhere in our database and no one seems to know her last name."

"Have you talked to Carma? She's the shop owner who was buying her designs. She has to have some kind of information if she was paying her."

"We're already on that. Even now an officer is waking the poor lady up. My guess is we're going to come up empty-handed on that as well. I'm sure Diadra had some kind of cash deal considering she was probably using an alias. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"All I know is, she's from upstate New York- Saratoga was the last I heard- and she was at the gallery opening. You or one of the other detectives must have seen her there?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you since she wasn't the focus of our investigation at the time."

"So what you're telling me is, Diadra was an alias for Gertrude Schmultz or some such, and now that she's disappeared, taking the evidence of all her nefarious deeds with her, I'm back in the hot seat again?"

"Something like that."

I slumped down in my chair. "Great. Just great. Well, put the cuffs on me now. I wonder how I'll look in orange?"

He shook his head. "It's definitely not your color. Don't jump to conclusions just yet. We're still waiting for the results of the autopsy and we do have an APB out on Diadra. Meanwhile, you'll be released under your own recognizance."

"Oh, goody. What about Pia?"

"The same. Although her car is in temporary impound, which might at least keep the two of you out of trouble for the next few days."

"You obviously don't know Pia."

He shot me a look, "But I think I'm getting to know you pretty well. Don't let me down."

I made no promises.

Minutes later I met up with Pia in the outer offices, who had been joined by a fur-swaddled Olivia. "What are you doing here?"

"That's not very polite, now is it dear?" Pia reprimanded. "I had to call someone to pick us up, since these bullheaded policeman refuse to surrender my vehicle to me. And since I'd rather not have my arrest make the front page news, I had to ask someone I could trust." Turning to Olivia she continued, "And I can't thank you enough, dear."

Olivia waved a glittery hand, "It's nothing. Are we ready to go?"

As she began to turn away I caught a glimpse of her husband who was literally hiding behind her. This was not exceptionally difficult given the disparity in their dimensions. He was a very small man who had a certain moleish quality about him: balding pate, small, beady eyes, round, ruddy cheeks, and a tiny little mouth. I'm not sure what I had been expecting, but this? No.

Turning to Gloria I indicated Jean-Luc, "You're going to have to explain this one to me."

"He's an exceptional lover," she smirked. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. "And quite astonishingly well-endowed."

"Okay! TMI!"

"What did you say dear?" This from Olivia who was looking baffled at my sudden display, while Pia said, "Now is not the time for spirited discussions, wouldn't you agree?"

I would.

Upon returning to the house, Pia insisted that we all join her in her elegantly appointed sitting room and I was surprised to see Alex pop in, knowing how much he detested the lavender decor. Olivia collapsed onto an arched-back rosewood settee, which astonishingly didn't crumple under her weight, while Jean-Luc snuggled up beside her. Thanks to her large proportions and his being a ghost, a good portion of his hip and thigh actually jutted through one side.

Unaware of the vision that plagued me, Pia stretched out on a fainting couch- only Pia would have one of those- and kicked off her shoes, bringing them to my attention for the first time. Even while playing cat burglar, Pia was determined to wear stilettos. I should have known. Wiggling her toes and rolling her ankles, Pia moaned, "Ooohhh, that feels so good."

"So, how'd it go?" Alex eagerly broached the subject. "What happened? And why on earth did you pick up Mama Cass and Baby Herman?"

Jean-Luc shot him a frown, but said nothing.

"Did you hear a buzzing noise?" Olivia asked.

"Seriously, you didn't attempt to break in with _them_ , did you?" Alex continued. "That would have been like trying to hide an elephant in a water glass."

"No, we didn't. Olivia picked us up at the precinct."

"Are you hearing that?" Olivia honed in on me, while at the same time Alex was saying, "You got arrested again? Have you considered making that your forwarding address?"

"The thought has crossed my mind."

"There's a buzzing noise," Olivia was still insisting. "The kind I usually only get from my ghosts."

" _We are not your ghosts!_ " Alex and Gloria chorused, ensuring that Olivia got the message loud and clear.

"Yes, dear, she hears them. She can see them too," Pia explained.

"Really?!" Watching the expressions march across Olivia's face was almost comical. Shock. Surprise. Disappointment. Envy. Disbelief. "So if you see them, describe my Honey Bear to me," she challenged.

I shrugged. "He's short, maybe five-four or five-five, balding, small eyes, round cheeks. He hasn't spoken, so I can't say anything for his voice."

"Hah! That is _not_ at _all_ my Pookie Boy. Charlatan! Honestly, Pia, I would think you'd be more cautious than that!"

"You're going to have to do better than that," Gloria said. "She sees Jean-Luc as one of 'People's Ten Sexiest Men Alive'. Or dead, for that matter. Think Brad Pitt or Russell Crowe."

"Fine," I said aloud, "he's quite handsome. Reminds me a bit of Mel Gibson."

"Too late," Olivia declared. "I heard her. I know she helped you."

"Then you must know I heard her too."

Realizing the obvious implications, Olivia was forced to capitulate. "Well, that's just not fair! I've been talking to my Sweetie Pie for years and I don't get to see him!"

As far as I was concerned, she was missing nothing.

"I love how she can hear me just fine when she wants to," Gloria groused. "For two years she's been claiming she can't hear a word I say."

"Maybe if you'd kept your hands off her Sweetie Bear," I reminded her.

"Honey Bear. And no one but me calls him that," Olivia huffed. It was evident that she resented the fact that not only did I suddenly share in her talent, but mine far exceeded her own.

"Listen, Olivia," I attempted to placate her. "I have no intentions of telling anyone about my ability. You are still the medium around here and I'm not about to usurp that role."

She seemed at least slightly appeased and she settled herself a bit more comfortably on the love seat causing part of Jean-Luc's body to meld into hers in a very disturbing fashion. Deliberately, I averted my eyes.

"All right, that's out in the open. The question that remains, ladies, is what are we to do about Corey? Now that he's been-" Pia stopped for a moment, searching for the right words.

"Liquidated?" I offered. "Erased? Dispatched? Granted a one-way ticket to Cadaver City??"

"Tasteless, dear, but, yes. His demise leaves us with no witness to the crime. Diadra's flown the coop and only she and Corey could tell us exactly what was going on."

"There's still Raphael," I offered.

"You've talked to Raphael?" The green-eyed monster was rearing its ugly head again.

Okay, I was beginning to see what Gloria was talking about- not that I was taking her side, because I still thought she was a raging bitch. However, it _was_ becoming quite evident that Olivia did indeed have a jealous nature. Since I wasn't sure what to do about it, I decided to ignore it. "Yes, I have. And at this point, he may be the only witness that we can talk to- at least until the police find Diadra."

"So what are you saying? Back to the gallery?" Pia's eyes were sparkling. Again. Someone needed to get her some sunglasses.

"I'm not sure that we have another choice. But considering the time, it will only work if Gloria is willing to cooperate."

Olivia snorted. "Well, good luck with that!"

Gloria glared at her. "Naturally, you will have my fullest cooperation."

Naturally.

"There's no sense in both of us going," Olivia informed me. "And since I've been a medium for such a long time, I think I'm more equipped to handle the situation than you are."

Also more liable to get the information all twisted around. No thank you.

"If it's all the same to you, since it's my head on the chopping block, I'd like to go along."

Pia, now privy to Olivia's impulsive embellishments, was eager to agree and so we all piled back into Olivia's car- an oversize SUV of which Olivia took up most of the front seat, and Jean-Luc and Gloria disappeared until we reached our destination.

It dawned on me belatedly how conspicuous we must look, sitting outside the gallery for thirty minutes or more awaiting Gloria's return, and I was just beginning to suggest that we drive the car around the block for a bit when the red and blue lights flashed across the interior of the car, reflecting off every surface.

Jase was gonna love this.

Chapter Eighteen

As luck would have it, the officer was either in a very forgiving mood, or was extremely gullible. He believed Pia's discombobulated tale about a fraudulent meeting with a potential client, on the curb no less- a story with more holes in it than a sieve- and only kept us long enough to verify that Pia was indeed the owner of the gallery, before sending us on our way with the warning that it might be wise not to hang around in the middle of the night. We took the hint and went home.

Gloria was livid upon our arrival at Pia's. Apparently, being attached to Pia the way she was, she had no control over her own destiny. When the SUV had driven away with Pia inside, it had resulted in her unceremonious eviction. "There isn't much I can tell you, thanks to being so rudely jerked away!"

"You were in there for over half an hour!" I reminded her."How can you have nothing?"

"In polite circles, one simply doesn't walk up to another person and start pelting them with questions without first exchanging few pleasantries."

"Flirtations, you mean," Olivia accused.

"I wasn't flirting!"

"Oh, come off it," Olivia harped. "Flirting is like breathing to you!"

"Which in case you haven't noticed, I no longer do!"

"Please, Gloria," I interjected. "What, if anything, did you find out?"

Still frowning, she turned her attention to me. "From what I heard _before_ I was so viciously yanked from my surroundings, Raphael didn't see anything that night. He was aware of Ricky and Simone's affair, so when he heard the noises coming from below him, he naturally assumed that's what it was. He didn't bother to check. Apparently he's not into voyeurism."

"Great."

To be honest, if Raphael had been able to tell me anything, I wasn't all that certain what I would have done with the information anyway. It was hardly likely I could go to Jase and say, "Uh, by the way, I have this friend, he's a duppy, and he was a witness to the whole thing." Yeah, that would go over well.

It was the next day at the gallery when I received the call. A muffled voice on the other end of the phone told me to meet them later that night if I wanted information. In some dark alley. Alone. Not surprising really. I was beginning to think I was dealing with Boris and Natasha.

I had one of three choices to make. First: do as directed and meet with this unknown person- more than likely the MNT- and probably get killed for my efforts. Second: tell Pia about it and get her thoughts on the matter. Third: do what any sane person of even moderately reasonable intelligence would do, and call the police. Obviously, the latter was the most sensible option. So, of course, I chose the second, because my intelligence is apparently a highly debatable matter, even to me.

"Well, you certainly can't go alone!" Pia advised.

"I know. But I don't know what else to do. I mean, if I call the police, I don't see Jase agreeing to any sort of sting operation involving me, even if it may be the only way to catch the MNT. I just want this over with."

"I can certainly understand that, darling. What if-? No, that wouldn't work. Besides, it's too dangerous. Then again, it might work just fine." Pia continued arguing with herself under her breath until I finally said, "Pia! Just spit it out!"

"All right, I was thinking- what if you kept that meeting? Olivia and I could follow close behind and that way Gloria could stay with you. Then, if anything untoward should happen, Gloria could pass a message to Olivia and the two of us would come charging in to save you." Her eyes sparkled like two diamonds. While visions of monks cavorting in Mother Teresa's whorehouse danced in my brain, I acquiesced.

Later on that evening, against my better judgment, I left the house in my car, with Pia and Olivia tailing me closely in the SUV. Inconspicuous, we were not. My lack of a GPS had me driving in circles and there were a few times I had to pull over and wait for Olivia, but the one good thing that came out of it all, was that if I'd ever had a tail, I had no doubt lost them a long time ago. Eventually I made it to the rendezvous point where I waited in my car for Gloria to appear. With the capricious ghost beside me, I headed down the alley, my heart pumping wildly and my blood pounding in my ears.

It was dark and silent. I saw no one and heard nothing but the sound of my own breathing. I was just about to give up and say something, when Gloria suddenly whooshed past me, looking as if she was being pulled backward by a rope tied around her middle, and then she disappeared into the ether.

Awesome. It didn't take much to put together that Olivia had driven away, taking Pia- and subsequently, Gloria- with her. Deciding I'd had enough adventure for one night, especially without backup, I began making my way back to my car. I had made it only a few feet when for the second time I found myself being bashed over the head.

Fireworks exploded in my head as I staggered and fell. It was everything I could do to remain conscious and I began to crawl forward, too dizzy to pull myself to my feet. A hand snatched at my ankle and I struggled with the steely hold. I didn't even attempt to look back; I was too blinded by the pyrotechnics blasting in my brain to have seen anything anyway. Kicking out with my left foot- judging by the oof! I had made a connection in a sensitive area- I managed to break the hold and scurried away, still on my hands and knees. Too soon the hand was back, quickly followed by another. The MNT yanked me back with a force I had no strength to battle. Just as an arm was wrapping around my waist, Gloria reappeared.

"Hang on Reid!" she screamed. "They're coming! Just keep fighting! Get him! Kick him again!"

I did exactly that. Rolling onto my back like a turtle, I began swinging with both my hands and feet, kicking and striking out at anything I could reach. Seconds later I heard the bellows as Olivia came lumbering down the alley- surprisingly fast for a woman her size- with Pia close behind. My assailant took off, quickly disappearing into the night.

"Reid! Darling, are you okay?" Pia ran up and crouched beside me.

"I've already called the police!" Olivia proclaimed, proudly gesturing at me with her cell phone. "Where is he? Did you get him?"

If she had been expecting to find me in the alley with the MNT hog-tied while I sat on his back, she was in for a big disappointment.

"He got away," I muttered holding my head as I slowly sat up. "But not before augmenting my brain damage."

"He got away?" Olivia was visibly deflated.

"Oh, dear, you didn't get brained again, did you?" Pia asked.

The arrival of several squad cars saved me the trouble of answering.

"What in the hell were you thinking?!" Jase raged.

Yep, I was back in the good old interrogation room, sans Italian eats. Though I really could have gone for a stromboli.

"I don't know- that I might learn something?"

"More likely we would have found your body in a dumpster, but not until long after it had started to rot. Jesus, Reid!"

"Look, I get it. It was stupid. I won't do it again."

"Damn right, you won't! You'll be lucky if I don't lock you in a cell and keep you there until we find this guy!"

Jase made three trips around the room before stopping across the table once more. "Do you realize that between the three of you, you have not one iota of a description?"

Yes, I did realize that. Even Gloria had failed to recognize him or her, since they had been completely dressed in black, including the ever-popular ski mask. But Jase didn't give me an opportunity to answer.

"Do you realize that whoever that was, they wanted you dead? That their _sole_ purpose for bringing you out there was to murder you?"

"I said, I get it. Could you please stop yelling? My head hurts."

"It's the least of what you deserve," he said, but at least he lowered his voice. "Are you always this impulsive?"

I glared at him. "Yes, yes, I am. I am impulsive, willful, reckless, foolish, and even a little dim-witted sometimes. It's part of the whole package that is me. Take it or leave it."

Jase sighed and dropped into the chair. "I can't take it, if it's not there to take. I draw the line at necrophilia."

"That's gross."

"My point exactly."

We sat there in silence for a moment and then I said, "Look, I said I'm sorry and I meant it. I won't ever do anything that stupid again. Don't you think I've learned my lesson?" I pointed at my head.

Jase smiled a little. "I would like to think so. But since we can't entirely rule out amnesia as a side effect, I can't be certain you'll remember this tomorrow. Can we just make a deal that you will work towards your self-preservation, at least until we get through our first date?"

"It's a deal," I agreed, if for no other reason than I didn't relish the idea of spending the rest of my life as little more than a drooling vegetable, which was bound to happen if I took anymore knocks on the head.

Pia closed the gallery for the next several days and gave me time off to recover- I couldn't help but to notice that this was becoming a habit. I used the time to finish the portrait of Alex and all the while he told me multiple tales of woe regarding his demise, my favorite being his having been accidentally electrocuted while attempting to put out a fire- the same fire which had been cause of death number three. Or maybe it was four. I was having trouble keeping track.

While Alex may be a liar, he was an excellent model. The painting (the only one I had, since the police had confiscated my abstract) had come out rather well, and now that Pia knew about me and the ghosts, I couldn't find a reason not to present it to her; aside from the still relevant concern that she might misconstrue the gesture and think I was trying to get her to represent me.

By the time I returned to work, Pia already had Corey's office cleaned out and it occurred to me that her employees were dwindling at an alarming rate. If the MNT had succeeded in the alley, she would have been down yet another, namely me. Which only served to cement the theory that whoever was doing this wasn't in it for financial reasons. This was personal.

Business was slow, but a never-ending stream of Pia's friends and acquaintances dropped by to extend their condolences and express their solidarity. Olivia, having been heavily involved in our latest and greatest escapade, considered herself somewhat the center of attention and happily held court the entire day, with Jean-Luc pasted to her side.

Gloria continued to bicker with Olivia, who at least for now, seemed less inclined to ignore her. And the rest of the employees milled about mindlessly.

Later in the day, around the time we would normally begin closing up, Robert and Dane arrived, with Professor Stanley in tow. I was very happy to see Robert and Dane and I spent quite a few moments chatting with them. Difficult as Robert made it- bless his scandal-loving heart- I managed to divulge nothing about the police investigation or anything otherwise entailed. To give Dane his due, he kept shushing his husband heartily each time Robert attempted to pry any information out of me.

Professor Stanley all but avoided me, spending the majority of his time commiserating with Pia. Given his prior relationship with Corey, I could understand that. It had to be very difficult accepting not only the loss of his protégé, but coupled with the fact that Corey had turned out to be a deceitful crook, it had to be making the professor cringe with shame.

It was a long day and by the end of it I had a raging migraine. We were still being chauffeured around by Olivia since Pia's car was still in impound, and Olivia was quick to suggest that we all go out to eat, including Robert, Dane and Professor Stanley in the invitation. Noticing my grimace of pain, Pia quickly amended that to a small dinner party at her home, which turned out to be a last minute catered affair (I didn't even know you could do that sort of thing last minute), involving several more guests, the gallery staff, and her husband who was back in town.

They dropped me off at the guest house, where I showered and changed, uttering numerous grievances all the while to Alex, who failed to denote proper sympathy.

"Really, when you think about it, this is just the opportunity we've been waiting for- a chance to observe Pia's friends. It's perfect. I mean, we've already come to the conclusion that someone very close to her is puppetting the whole affair. This is your chance at unmasking the MNT."

"Is that even a word? 'Puppetting?'"

"Who cares?"

"Shouldn't it be, 'puppeteering'?"

"Again, who cares? You're missing the point."

"I get the point. The thing is- the prospect of spending the evening with this particular bunch of people is exasperating, but the knowledge that one of them is likely to be the MNT, makes it absolutely terrifying."

"You won't be alone. I'll be there. I won't leave your side."

"Because that worked so well the last time," I muttered under my breath.

Still, I knew he was right. With the ghosts in attendance, it was likely that we might overhear something from a less-private-than-one-would-suppose conversation.

As it turned out, the whole thing was a bust. Pia's friends carefully avoided making any mention of the troubles at the gallery and instead stuck to frivolous conversation regarding past and future social events and gossiping about various associates. I found myself completely bored.

Early on in the evening I had the opportunity to speak to Pia's husband Bernard. He was highly entertaining, exceptionally intelligent, quite good-looking and enormously successful- in short- he was the kind of man any woman could wish for. I wondered how it was that Pia had managed to keep Gloria's claws out of Bernard while she was still alive. It didn't take long to figure out the answer. Bernard was madly in love with Pia and he only had eyes for her. He would have been blind to any of Gloria's machinations. Too bad Jean-Luc hadn't felt the same way. He and Gloria might still be alive.

I listened with as much attention as I could muster, given my utter exhaustion, while Bernard regaled me at great length with the story of how he and Pia had met. He told me about Pia's father, William Darcy- a man whose name is synonymous with virtually anything to do with the art world (how I had failed to make the connection between he and Pia was a mystery even to me)- and who had an illustrious career as the art curator in two of the most prestigious art museums on the face of the earth: the British Museum in his birth place of London, as well as the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. He had then retired, at the apex of his career, and become one of the most highly regarded art critics of his time. It was then that Bernard, an avid collector, had met William and the two had become friends. William, a shrewd businessman at heart, had introduced Pia and Bernard not so much in the hopes that they might fall hopelessly in love, but rather that they might entwine their separate but massive fortunes into one enormous dynasty. William lived just long enough to see the two of them wed, cementing his fortune in his mind.

At that point, Robert dragged me away from the conversation, excusing himself by saying, "Pardon me, Bernard, but I simply _must_ talk to Reid. It's just been brought to my attention that she's been keeping something from me and I am determined to take her to task for it."

Bernard looked on smilingly as the rotund man whisked me off.

"What was that all about?" I asked.

"I was just talking to Olivia and Pia and two things have come to light. The first- Pia told me you have a date with that delicious detective we met at the gallery the other night."

I blushed. Why would Pia be talking about something as personal as that?

Before I could say anything, Robert went on, "Oh, don't go getting your panties in a wad. It's just that Dane and I were trying to set you up on a blind date with our private chef- that man has a way of working a whisk that would make you sweat! You ought to see the way he shimmies in the kitchen when he's making a soufflé! But then Pia told us about that detective. Now that one," he let out a low whistle, "let's just say, he can read me my rights anytime!"

"I can assure you, it's not the fantasy you're envisioning. Trust me, I've been read my rights so many times lately, I've got Miranda on speed dial."

"Oh, honey! Forget diamonds, sarcasm is a girl's best friend! Anyway, the second- and how dare you try and keep this from me- I'm insulted, really! Pia says you're an excellent artist. She said she got a glimpse of one of your abstracts and it was quite good."

I tried to remember a time when Pia could have seen my abstract while at the same time I tried to make sense of his words. Had Pia really complimented my work? Were the words, 'excellent artist' Pia's or a product of Robert's overzealous vernacular?

"She said it was good?"

"Actually," he frowned in concentration, "now that I think about it, her exact words were, 'Quite impressive.' Which is better? Good or impressive?" He suddenly waved his hands as if to brush away the thought. "Never mind, that doesn't matter. I want to see it."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but you can't. The police confiscated it as evidence."

Robert didn't even try to hide his disappointment, pouting exaggeratedly like a five year old whose mother just took away the cookie he'd gotten caught pilfering. I felt so bad that I didn't even think before I said, "But, I do have another painting I've been working on. I could show you that one."

His cheerful disposition instantly restored, Robert clapped his hands together in a giddy fashion. "Dane! Dane, come over here will you? Reid has just consented to showing us her newest painting!" Robert had a slightly higher pitch to his voice than most other men, a pitch that served to carry the sound around the room and bounce it stridently off the walls. Before I knew it, I was the center of everyone's attention and they all began to gather excitedly around me.

I looked to Pia in confusion and concern. In no way had I anticipated this and I couldn't help but wonder how she would feel about my interrupting her social gathering with this unintentional impromptu showing. But Pia was just smiling grandly, making it evident that if anything, she was proud, and the next thing I knew we were all marching down the driveway to the guest house. It was a tight squeeze fitting everyone into the small room, so tight the ghosts all floated above our heads. Not that anyone but me could see them.

The reactions to my painting were varied and immediate.

"That's not an abstract," Robert was confused.

"No, it's not, but it's amazing!" Dane replied.

"Oh, darling! It's wonderful! Who knew you could do realism as well as you do abstract?" Pia extolled.

"You were right Pia. She is rather good isn't she?" Bernard said.

"Him?! You chose _him_ as a subject?" Gloria berated.

"Damn, I look rather dashing, don't I?" Alex gloated.

And finally from Olivia, "Is that a ghost? See how the light shines through him?"

Everyone turned to me at once, eagerly awaiting my explanation. It reminded me of a herd of cows staring at you when you enter their paddock. Unflattering I know, but that's the way my brain works.

"Um, well, I-" I cleared my throat and tried again. "I call it, 'The Ghost of the Manor.'"

"The ghost of what a manor? This manor?" Olivia was bristling. Obviously, I had offended her. "He hardly looks like a freed female slave!"

"Maybe, because I'm not!" Alex objected, though of course no one heard him.

"If you look in that mirror, just there," I pointed at the painting, "you'll see a misty shadow of a ghost that's unlike the one in the chair. It's my depiction of Cicily." Indeed, I had painted the phantom ghost as a reflection in the mirror, rather than Alex's own reflection. Of course, this had been a complete fabrication of my imagination, since Alex had failed to live up to Olivia's expectations.

They all turned back to the painting.

"Oooohh, I see her!" Robert was becoming more excited.

Olivia harrumphed.

What did she want from me? Was I supposed to rename the portrait, 'Cicily's Coming Out?'

"But the other one, the main ghost. He does look rather nefarious, doesn't he?" Dane tilted his head.

"I don't look nefarious!" Alex objected. "Rakish definitely, maybe even notorious, but I wouldn't say nefarious."

"A disreputable chap, if I ever saw one," Robert agreed, oblivious to Alex's protestations. "What do you think, Olivia? Would you want that ghost haunting your manor?"

"Certainly not!" said Olivia. "I'd do a double cleansing to get rid of that one! Still, I do believe the artist has taken at least _some_ liberty." She turned to me, a worried frown marring her brow. "Haven't you?"

"Oh, yes, of course!" I said. Looking at the painting closer, I realized that I had painted Alex a little more fiendishly than perhaps even he deserved. No doubt my peevishness at his endless stream of lies, coupled with all the recent MNT trouble, had colored my opinion, because he really did look more pirate than anything else.

"Well, I like it!" Pia proclaimed. "And I would love to show it in the gallery! Only assuming that it's all right with you, dear?"

I was flabbergasted. "Certainly, but I'm not quite done yet. I mean, there are still some finishing touches I want to do."

"Of course, dear. You just let me know when you're through. I do think you could ask quite a lot for that."

"Oh no," I shook my head. "I couldn't sell it."

"Oh," Pia looked disappointed. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful. It's just that I wasn't intending to sell it. I made it for you."

"For me?!" It was Pia's turn to be flabbergasted. She dropped into the chair as if her legs had just turned to jelly. Then she stood. Then she sat again. "I just- I- I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. It's a token of appreciation for everything you've done for me."

Pia stood once more, some of her imperiousness returning. "Well, this is definitely no token! I simply _have_ to pay you something!"

"Pia, you don't pay for gifts!"

"And you don't give away gifts of this magnitude willy-nilly. You don't seem to understand what that painting is worth."

The number she quoted me very nearly had _me_ falling into a chair. I goggled my eyes at her.

"At the very least," she nodded determinedly. "What would you say, Bernard?"

"I'd have to agree. Professor? You seem to be the expert on the standard. What would you say?"

For the first time Professor Stanley had been dragged into the conversation and he looked decidedly uncomfortable about it. Still, he moved forward to examine the artwork in question.

"Well, first, I'd like to tell you Reid, your work has improved tremendously since your time in my class. I'm gratified to see you blossoming in such an unexpected manner. Having said that, I think I quite agree with Pia. The price she quoted is fair, though I wouldn't go much higher."

I had to admit, after the last scathing review he gave me this was quite magnanimous of him. And it must have been difficult, having to swallow his words that way. I gave him credit. "Thank you, Professor."

"No thanks necessary, it's praise well earned."

The party returned to the main house and I could tell by the buzz around me, a bidding war had already begun between Olivia and Robert who were determined to purchase Pia's painting and were not taking no for an answer. The two were following Pia about the room, hounding her mercilessly.

"Congratulations," Alex breathed in my ear, whispering as if we might be overheard. It was creepy actually and it gave me the shivers.

"Thanks," I murmured. "I don't suppose you or Gloria have seen or heard anything even slightly suspicious?"

"While I can't speak for Gloriana, as for myself, I haven't seen a thing. Other than the fact that Dane keeps drinking Robert's wine when he thinks he's not looking and Olivia has gorged herself with enough hors d'oeuvres to feed all the starving children in Ethiopia and the surrounding areas."

"My name is Glo-r-i-a," Gloria floated up to us. "And I don't appreciate your condescension. To answer your question, Reid, I haven't seen anything either. Everyone's acting on their best behavior. Even that old battleaxe Olivia hasn't done anything out of the ordinary. She just keeps stuffing her face and gossiping with the rest of them."

"What about Fiona and Giorgio?" Neither Simone, nor Maya had attended, which didn't pose much of a problem since we had already eliminated Simone as the MNT and I was certain that Maya wasn't involved. But I didn't know enough about the salespeople to entirely eliminate them.

"Nothing. Giorgio keeps trying to flirt with Dane, which I think is the cause of Dane's intoxication, he's making him nervous. Everyone knows that Robert is a very jealous man and Dane doesn't want him making a scene. But this party's been so boring, I'm tempted to go up and pinch Dane's butt myself, just to get something rolling."

I frowned at her. "Don't you dare!"

She shrugged. "Fine, I'll behave. But I won't make any promises for how long. This really _has_ been a dull party. Things were so much more interesting when I was around."

"I'll just bet," I muttered under my breath. "What about Fiona? Has she talked to anyone? Acted even slightly suspicious?" I have to admit I said this last a bit more hopefully than I had intended.

"No, Fiona has mostly kept to herself. Though she has responded to quite a few texts."

"Did you see any of them?"

"No. I tried, but she works that thing faster than Pia does her credit card. You don't suppose she's the MNT and she's contacting her partner?"

"Are you talking to 'The Ghost of the Manor,'" Professor Stanley interrupted before I could answer.

I laughed nervously. "Not at all. Still trying to stew what Pia said around in my brain, that's all."

He sat beside me on the loveseat, a space too intimate for me to feel comfortable with it. But I couldn't exactly back away without making it look obvious, so instead I fought for a sense of laissez-faire I didn't really feel.

"I just wanted to congratulate you on your success."

"Thank you."

"When I recommended you to Pia, I had no idea how much your art had improved."

"I never did quite understand why you recommended me of all people. Surely you had better candidates?"

"True; in many ways true. I did make a practice of recommending former students when various opportunities became available. A practice I shall no longer employ thanks to Corey." He shot me a look of chagrin. Yeah, that one had backfired on him, that's for sure. "I still can't believe he would betray me like that, and after I stuck my neck out for him."

Betray _him_? What about Pia? She'd had more than her fair share of betrayal as far as I was concerned.

But Professor Stanley was already going on. "I can promise you, you will be the last student I shall ever recommend for anything. After Corey hurt my dearest friend the way he did, well let me just say, I'm suffering a modicum of guilt.

"How could I have been so wrong and misjudged him- and you?- so badly? It's a question I ask myself every day. I fell for his perfidiousness hook, line and sinker. All he had to do was stroke my ego and I was like an obedient dog. I'm humiliated by it.

"It wasn't long after Pia hired Corey that I realized what a fool I'd been. For the first time I was getting an inside view of the performance of one of my own nominees, and he was a failure from the start. I began to wonder how many of them had turned out the same, only I hadn't been around to see it. That's when I began to realize that I had been led by my own starving ego, that I'd allowed these flagrant flatterers to forge my opinions of them.

"And so, when Pia mentioned that she had need of a new assistant, I jumped at the chance to make up for my mistake. Instead of offering up one of so many sweet-talking sycophants as I had in the past, I brought to mind someone who had done nothing to admire me, someone who had failed or succeeded based on her own talent and virtues. And that was you. It's not much of an apology I know, but I am an old man, unused to such things, so please believe me when I say, I beg your forgiveness. You deserved far better than I gave you. And judging by the popularity of your art this evening, you will finally be getting your just rewards."

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't heard the professor speak this much since the days of his marathon lectures in class. And I'd certainly never heard him apologize to anyone before.

"Can you forgive me?" he prompted.

The sincerity in his eyes, coupled with the pity I was surprised to find that I felt, encouraged me to say yes. The professor's apology served to round out an interesting evening. I was exhausted by the time I reached my door, and overwhelmed by everything that had happened. Maybe that was why I was in no way prepared to come face to face with the person standing in my kitchen.

"Mom! What are you doing here?!"

Chapter Nineteen

"Really? Is that any way to greet your mother?"

It was very odd to see my mother standing in the middle of the contemporary kitchen, a room decked out with modern amenities, stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, when I was so used to watching her work over her butcher block and white porcelain farmhouse sink. But it was indeed my mother. And she was here. And I had yet to tell her anything about my misadventures.

And if it were at all possible, I was determined to avoid it.

"This is your mom?" Alex suddenly popped into the room. "I was wondering who the strange woman was that broke into houses and started cleaning them."

"Mom? Have you been cleaning my house?"

"No, not really." She dried her hands off on a towel. "It wasn't much of anything. I just needed something to keep me busy while I waited for you."

"Like laundry and vacuuming," Alex began ticking off the list, "and making your bed. She scrubbed the bathroom, not to mention the kitchen. Oh, and a little light dusting."

I was flushing with humiliation. Okay, so I wasn't a great housekeeper like my mother, but I had an excuse. I had been very busy lately. With stuff. And- other stuff.

"Mom, I really wish you hadn't done that-" I began, but now that her hands were dry she seemed determined to squash me in a hug.

"Oh, Sigreid! I've missed you!"

"Mmmpfff."

Pulling away from me she said, "After our last phone call, I told your father there was no way I was leaving you out here all alone! You sounded so distracted and a bit distressed. Sit down, I'll make you some coffee and you can tell me all about what's been going on."

"Mom, how did you get here? I didn't see a car."

"Your father drove me," she explained as she bustled around the kitchen. "We got in town just after eight, I think it was. Anyway, I had him drop me at the gallery, because, as it was, he was going to be very late getting home and he does have to get up so early. No rest for the weary."

"The gallery was closed by eight. How did you get here?"

She flashed me an irritated look. "I may be a country bumpkin, but I _do_ know how to call a cab. Anyway, I asked the nice cab driver if he knew where I could find the owner of the gallery and sure enough he did. He drove me out here, I took a quick peek in the window of the big house- speaking of which- that's a LOT of purple- and then I came down to the guest house. That's where you said you lived and I only saw one. Then I saw all your art supplies in the bedroom and, voila, I knew I had found it."

"How did you get in?" I was having difficulty imagining my mother picking the lock.

"Well, the front door was locked of course, so I walked around the back and found the sliding glass doors weren't." Here she turned to frown at me, using the scolding tone I'd experienced more than once during my childhood. "You know, this is an awfully lovely place you're living in, and I'm certain that it's quite safe, but really, you should be more careful. A single girl living on her own should not be leaving her doors open."

This worried me more than I cared to let on. I knew the doors had been locked when I left for Pia's party. After everything that had gone on, and with the MNT still on the loose, I was overly cautious, I'd even dare say paranoid, regarding the doors and windows. How it had gotten unlocked was entirely another matter.

"Why didn't you tell me you were here?"

"I didn't want to interrupt you and I knew you would be coming home eventually. Besides, I certainly wasn't dressed for that party. Honestly, those people looked like they were dressed for a red carpet event! My best party dress isn't up to their standards, and I didn't bring it with me anyway."

She laid out the coffee and started putting some cookies she'd found in one of the cabinets on a plate. "But you looked as lovely as I've ever seen you, and I have to say, I was so proud! Who was that man you were talking to, by the way?"

I knew my mother well enough to know that she had an ulterior motive. If she had seen me talking to any man, she was more than likely hoping he would be 'the one.' My mother made no bones about that fact that she was eager for me to 'move on' with my life, get married and start producing grandchildren. While she might have only had one child of her own, she was unfortunately looking forward to a few dozen grandbabies. Though I wondered where she thought she was going to get them.

"Which one? What did he look like?"

She was very cautious as she described- almost to a T- Robert. I quickly realized I had misconstrued her intentions. She was undoubtedly hoping he was NOT 'the one.'

"That's Robert. He's gay. He was there with his husband Dane."

"Oh!" The relief in her tone was evident, however it was mixed with such a tinge of longing that I almost told her about my upcoming date, but that would have required even more explanation than I was willing to give, so I let it go.

We sat in silence for awhile, sipping our coffee and munching on cookies before I finally asked, "How long are you planning on staying?" Meaning- 'How long do I need to hide all the alarming things that are currently happening in my life?'

She looked a bit hurt. "Well, I was planning on a few days at least. At least until the weekend, since I will be requiring a ride back home. Of course I could take a cab, but that's going to add up very quickly."

Guilt was an Olympic event for my mother. And she always brought home the Gold. "You are not taking a cab, Mom," I told her, which of course was exactly what she had been expecting. Still, I wondered how I was going to be able to juggle Pia, my job and the MNT, without my mother being any the wiser.

We talked a little longer, my mother was inordinately proud of my new painting- naturally she asked about any others and naturally I skirted around the topic- and eventually we made our way to bed, with my mother taking the master bedroom and myself taking the guestroom that smelled of oil paints and art supplies.

I had to admit, preparations for work the next morning weren't nearly as chaotic as they normally were. No sooner had I showered and dressed then I was being presented with a huge breakfast including eggs, bacon, toast and hash browns. I had forgotten how much I missed my mother.

I was just scraping the last bit of egg off my plate, when Gloria popped in. "Pia's on her way- who's that?"

Luckily, Alex answered for me, to which Gloria examined my mother more closely. "You don't look a thing like her. I mean, your size alone attests to a sturdier mother- look at that woman- she's petite! Are you sure you're not adopted?"

Just what I needed, insults from a ghost first thing in the morning. Way to start my day.

This thought was of course immediately followed by Pia's tapping at the door.

"Are you expecting someone?" my mother asked, as I went to answer it.

"It's just Pia, we car pool to work."

"Oh, well isn't that economical."

Just wait 'til she got a load of Olivia's SUV. It wouldn't take her long to realize how uneconomical it really was.

I quickly made the introductions and bustled everyone into the vehicle with as little fuss as possible, sitting in the backseat with my mother.

"I hope you don't mind me tagging along with Sigreid today, Mrs. Stillwell?"

"No, darling! Not at all! I would have encouraged it! And call me Pia, please."

My mother turned her attention to Olivia, "And what do you do at the gallery Mrs. St. Pierre?"

Olivia shot her a questioning look in the rearview mirror, "Why, nothing at all. I don't work there. I'm just giving Pia and Reid a ride while Pia's car is in i-"

"The shop!" I interrupted. "Pia's car is in the shop. Some trouble with the transmission, but they should have it fixed in no time."

Pia gave me a disappointed frown. Apparently, all her shenanigans aside, Pia drew the line at fibbing to parents. So be it, I was on my own.

"Oh. Do you live close?"

"I suppose everything's close in the Hampton's," Olivia chuckled. "You just have to drive twice as long due to the traffic."

My mother shook her head in consternation. "Well, that doesn't seem very economical at all."

I gave her a soft elbow to the ribs and mumbled, "Let it go, Mom. They do things differently out here."

"I guess so," she murmured, then directed another question at Olivia. "So if you don't work at the gallery, what do you do? If you don't mind my asking?"

"Not at all," Olivia's smile broadened. Oh, dear. Here we go. "I'm a medium."

"You look like a double-ex-large to me. Ba-dum-cha!" I said it softly enough that only my mother could hear me. It was a desperate- but wasted- attempt to head off the conversation.

My mother laid a hand on my arm. "Don't be facetious. You're a what?"

"A medium. I speak with the spirits of the departed."

"Oh." That took the wind out of my mother's sails. She looked at me. Not only was she still confused, now she was worried as well. I suppose being driven down some very busy streets, in an overly large vehicle, piloted by a crazy woman, gave her some cause for alarm.

"It's okay. Reid thought I was crazy too until she-"

"Had Olivia talk to great-granddad," I interrupted smoothly. I was getting good at this. "It was an interesting conversation." I gave my mother an exaggerated wink, one that might have looked lascivious if I'd have directed it at a male. _Please catch on, please catch on,_ I willed her.

Thank goodness, she did. "Well, isn't that nice."

In that moment I loved my mother more than I ever have before.

We arrived at the gallery, where things went surprisingly smoothly. With my mother glued to my side the way she was, it was impossible for anyone to speak to her about assaults and robberies and murders and all things criminal, even if they had wanted to.

The day was coming to a close and I was just beginning to breathe a sigh of relief, when Jase arrived with my abstract in tow.

I knew I shouldn't have allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security. I should have realized nothing was ever easy. Whatever I had done in my past life, I was sorry for it- heartily, wholly, terrifically sorry. Please, God, can You stop punishing me now!

"I'm glad I caught you before the gallery closed!" Jase enthused. "I wanted to return this to you."

"Oh, look, Reid!" Pia exclaimed. "He brought your painting back!"

I took the painting from him and thanked him, signaling Pia wildly with my eyeballs, hoping she would get the hint and move my mother away. But of course she didn't. Instead, everyone looked at me as if I were having some kind of weird eyeball seizure.

"Are you all right, dear?" Pia asked. "Is there something in your eye?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, I'm fine. Thanks, Jase! We'll see you later then!" I forced a chipper tone I didn't feel, while at the same time attempting to hustle him out the door.

"What's the rush?" he was stunned and a little miffed.

"Well, like you said, we _are_ getting ready to close."

"Darling! You know we don't rush clients out that way!" Pia admonished.

"He's not a client," I insisted, still pushing. Damn, he was harder to push than a stubborn Holstein.

"Sigreid! I certainly hope I raised you better than that!"

Jase's eyebrows shot to his forehead as he made the connection, and with more grace and dexterity than a professional basketball player, he faked left and then went right, spinning off my hands like a pro.

Damn him.

"You're Reid's mother?" Jase said, shooting out a hand to her. "Jason Stern. Happy to meet you."

My mother eyed me with a questioning look, even as she returned the handshake. "Judith Larson, though my friends call me Judy."

"And my friends call me Jase," he supplied.

Glad we're all pals.

"Do you suppose we might be able to sell that now?" Pia cut into the conversation, examining my abstract in a predatory manner.

"I'd wait a bit longer," Jase advised. "Just to be on the safe side. But in a week or two, you should be good to go."

My mother, not one to miss a beat, inquired, "Why shouldn't Reid be able to sell it right now? I mean, it's hers, isn't it? What's the hold up?"

"There were some, er, trademark issues," I fabricated. Okay, so it was a bad lie. I never said I was good at lying. Especially to my mother.

"You trademark paintings?"

"Not usually, no," Pia replied, that disappointed frown returning. Aahh, Saint Pia rides again.

"Only if you're planning on using original artwork as a logo or something like that," I elaborated, which was the truth. You do trademark a logo. The fact that I was insinuating that my art might be used for that purpose meant nothing at all, I hadn't actually _said_ it was, therefore it was not a lie.

I felt guilty anyway.

Judging by Pia's deepening frown, I had good reason to.

"Oh, I see. And are you a trademark lawyer or something?"

Jase smirked, "Well, not a lawyer, per se. But you could say I am the law."

Jeez.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Pia broke in. "I simply _cannot_ be a part of this! How can you stand there and lie to your mother this way?"

"Pia-" I started, but she was having none of it.

"Judy, I'm sorry to inform you that your daughter's time here at my gallery has not been without its fair share of misadventure. Through no fault of her own, she has become mixed up in a criminal case involving robbery, assault and murder, and Jase is one of the detectives investigating this case. Her abstract was taken as evidence due to this horrible state of affairs and I feel thoroughly responsible. I can only offer you my sincerest apology."

My mother paled to the point that it looked as if she might faint. Jase hurried to grab her a chair. After she was seated, she said, albeit weakly, "Well, that certainly explains a lot. I was beginning to wonder what she was up to." Giving me a stern glare she added, "And I knew you were up to _something_ after that phone call."

"I'm sorry, Mom. I just didn't want to worry you."

"You think I wasn't already worried? We'll talk later." The way she said it, made it crystal clear that it was a threat- in other words- 'I'll take you to task later, instead of humiliating you in front of all your new friends.' Turning to Jase, she said, "So, where are we at in this investigation?"

"There's not a lot I can tell you since it's an open investigation. However, I _can_ tell you, we do have a suspect, and there is an APB out on her. Once we find her, everything should wrap up pretty quickly."

Olivia chose that moment to join us. "Reid, Jean-Luc says Raphael needs to talk to you." Jean-Luc peered out from where he was hiding behind his robust wife and nodded his head shyly.

"Just great Olivia, announce our presence to the guests!" Gloria complained peevishly. I was beginning to wish at least a little of Jean-Luc's timidity would rub off on her. "Speak a little louder next time; I don't think the people out in the street could hear you."

Olivia turned beat red. "Well, I'm sorry, I didn't think about Reid's determination to keep everything a secret!"

"Who are Jean-Luc and Raphael? And what exactly are you keeping secret?" Leave it to Jase to be nearly as inquisitive as my mother.

"It's nothing, dear," Pia waved her hand in a nonchalant fashion, pulling it off more brilliantly than I ever could have. "Reid just found some potential clients for the gallery and you know how competitive this business can be. Sometimes you have to be very secretive in order to keep another buyer from sweeping your customers right out from under you." Turning to me she said, "Go ahead and take care of them, dear, I'll keep your guests entertained."

Jase narrowed his eyes in suspicion making it evident that he didn't completely buy Pia's story, but he didn't say anything.

In a flash, Olivia was dragging me off to the warehouse, leaving everyone else behind. "I would have let Jean-Luc tell you himself, but he's so introverted that he finds it hard to speak to people he doesn't know."

"Don't worry about it."

"Still, Gloria didn't have to be so nasty about it. I need you to talk to Raphael; I simply can't understand the man. I only get about one out of every ten words he says." Even now we were entering the warehouse and I could see Raphael waiting for me near the staging room.

"Boy, am I glad to see you!" I greeted him.

"I wish I had me some bettah news ta be tellin' ya, but sadly I cahn't tell ya what ya need to be hearin'."

"Then you didn't see what happened the other night? Nothing at all?"

"No, mon. Like I told Gloria, I was t'inkin' it was just de two of dem knockin' boots again. But, de new duppy might be able ta tell ya somethin', if he could just get himself tah stickin'."

"New duppy?"

"Yah, Ricky, he's a duppy now. But like me said, he cahn't get himself tah stickin'."

I assumed 'sticking' was not unlike Alex's term 'grounded.' Ricky was a ghost, but being a new one, he wasn't able to show himself yet like the others.

"Please, Raphael, it's very important- if you get an opportunity to speak to Ricky, please ask him if he knows anything about what happened the night we were attacked. If he knows who murdered him."

"I will keep tryin', but I got ta tell ya, it's just as hard for me ta be speakin' to a new duppy as it is for you. Until dey stick, ya cahn't hear a word dey say. But I will keep tryin'."

"Thanks, Raphael. You don't know what this means to me."

I was a bit dejected when we returned to the showroom and it must have shown because Pia asked, "No luck?"

"No. Not yet anyway."

"Well, these new clients can be tough. You just keep at it and I'm sure it will all work out. Meanwhile, let's get this place locked up for the night so we can all go home."

"I hope you don't mind," Olivia said, "but I do need to stop at a client's house on the way. She's made two appointments with me and so far I've missed both. No doubt her great-grandmother will be very angry. Eunice gets quite peevish when she wants to pass on a message and no one's around to hear her."

My mother looked decidedly uncomfortable at this prospect, something which Jase instantly picked up on. "Why don't I drive the two of you home?" he offered, to which she gave him a grateful look.

I was not nearly as grateful as my mother however, because the likelihood of being interrogated all the way to the guest house loomed in the forefront of my mind. The thought of my mother and Jase tag-teaming me was not completely outside the realm of possibilities. But the decision had already made, and very quickly I found myself bundled into the passenger seat of Jase's truck, with my mother sitting so far forward in the center of the backseat that I half expected her to leap up front and land in the middle.

She was so wound up about beginning her cross-examination that she started before Jase even had the truck in gear. "What exactly was that all about, Sigreid? And don't think for a minute that I believed that hogwash Pia was trying to sell. I saw the expression on Olivia's face after she had made mention of those fellows John and Raffia."

"Jean-Luc and Raphael," I amended.

"Whatever. Don't change the subject."

I wasn't sure that correcting their names qualified as changing the subject, but I was not about to point that out. My mother was not above smacking me if she thought the situation called for it. Or calling my father to tattle, which would have been even worse.

"It was exactly what Pia was saying. They are new clients I'm trying to bring on board. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Then why did Olivia look guilty for no reason and suddenly stop talking as if she realized she'd said something she shouldn't have?"

"And follow up with the comment, 'I'm sorry, I didn't think about Reid's determination to keep everything a secret," Jase added. What was he anyway? A walking recorder?

"I don't know; she was probably apologizing for interrupting."

"Directing it to mid-air as she was?" Thanks, Mom, for being such a keen observer. I needed to be a better liar if I was ever going to get anything by these two.

"The woman is crazy! Surely you've figured that out by now, after spending a whole day with her!"

My mother leaned back. I was beginning to make progress.

"You do speak the truth there," she contemplated. "Olivia is a bit off."

"A _bit_ off? She _thinks_ she talks to dead people! Like, full out conversations with the dearly departed. I'd call that more than a bit off!" Okay, that was unnecessary and definitely unfair to Olivia given what I knew, and I'll even admit I was laying it on a little thick, but they had me cornered. I felt like I was in a fight or flight situation and since they were giving me no opportunity to flee, I had to come out swinging. Even if it was aimed at a woman who was not there to defend herself.

My mother shot me another narrow glance, then said, "Still, it all seems a little fishy to me. I smell a rat, but I'll get to the bottom of it."

"Way to mix metaphors, Mom," I teased, starting to feel somewhat relieved. She plainly wasn't willing to let it go completely, but for now at least, she was retreating.

"So, tell me about yourself, Jase."

Ha! The Mother Inquisition had altered course. I folded my arms over my chest in a satisfied manner and turned an innocent, but gloating, expression on Jase, who had the good grace to look decidedly uncomfortable.

"There's not much to tell." Had he not been paying attention? This tactic would _never_ work.

"Tell me about your family. Where do you come from?"

By the time we had returned to the guest house, I had learned (thanks to Mom) that Jase was the oldest of three children, having both a younger brother and a younger sister. I also knew where he had gone to college, what degrees he had earned, how long he had been on the police force, and how often he visited his parents. (I think this last was actually a reminder aimed at me, since I had been slacking in regards to calling my mother lately.)

Needless to say, Jase couldn't hustle us- and my painting- out of his car fast enough. We had barely said goodbye before he was already heading back down the driveway. I was amused, but also a little concerned. I hoped my mother hadn't chased him off before we'd even had our first date.

"You know Mom, the Spaniards could have used you during the Inquisition."

"Don't be a smart-aleck."

Alex made an appearance almost immediately upon our entering the house. "We need to talk," he said. With my mother standing right there, all I could do was look at him.

"Oh! You got your abstract back! Congratulations!"

Which reminded me. "Mom, I'm just going to put this away in the other room."

"Okay," she said as she headed for the kitchen, already preoccupied by the thought of dinner.

I hurried to the guest room and closed the door behind me, waiting expectantly for Alex to begin speaking.

"You know how your mother got in yesterday? Turns out, it wasn't an accident. I thought I heard someone at the back door last night, but when I went to look they were gone. Then, just today, they, or someone else, came back."

"Who was it?" I worked to keep my voice low, despite my excitement.

Alex shrugged. "I don't know for sure. I don't think I've ever seen her before." He followed this up with an almost perfect description of Diadra.

"I should have known she hadn't gone far. But what could she possibly want here?"

"More importantly," Alex reminded me, "who left the door open for her?"

"Well, obviously it was someone at the party."

"Obviously."

For the life of me, I couldn't think who though. I remembered everyone being in attendance in the guest room and could not recall any of the guests having taken detours. Of course, considering the shock I was in when prices for my painting started being quoted, I would have missed an elephant barging into the room.

I flopped down onto the bed. "It's like one step forward and three steps back. I just want it over with."

Alex smirked. "Leave the door unlocked and I bet you come to a rapid ending, but unless you're planning on arming your mother and yourself, I wouldn't recommend it."

"Gee, thanks."

I really was at a loss. There was no way I could give this information to Jase. How was I to explain that a ghost had alerted me to the would-be break-in. Too bad Pia couldn't have installed some security cameras on her property at the same time she was beefing up security at the gallery.

Just then a knock sounded at the front door and I could hear my mother already letting whoever it was into the house. I reentered the living and was immediately enveloped in a bear hug. "Reid! I just heard through the grapevine that you got your abstract back!" Robert exclaimed. "I was wondering if you might let me take a peek at it, since Pia swept the other one right out from under me."

"It was always intended for her, Robert," I attempted to remind him.

He just waved his hands in a shushing manner. "Either way she would have had it. But that's all water under the bridge now. So how about the other one? Is it still available?"

"How did you hear about it so quickly? I mean, it's been less than an hour."

"Olivia called me."

"She must have you on speed dial."

He giggled, "She knew how important it was to me, and besides, I promised her a potential client if she kept me in the loop. So, can I see it?"

Robert, along with my mother, followed me back into the guest room.

"Oh, my!" Robert exclaimed, putting both hands up to his pudgy cheeks. "Isn't it amazing?"

"I don't know about that," I said. It was good, very good, probably the best abstract work I'd ever done. But I thought amazing might be overselling it a bit.

"It is wonderful," my mother rapidly agreed. "But remember what Jase said, you can't sell it right away."

"What?!" Robert deflated before me. "But I simply _must_ have it!"

"No one's saying you can't," my mother had suddenly taken over the negotiation. "Just that Sigreid can't sell it right away. She has to hold on to it a bit longer."

"But then I'll be stuck in another bidding war! Can I at least have first right of refusal?"

My mother laughed, "This isn't a home you know. It's a painting. I don't believe there is any kind of contractual agreement in regards to artwork, is there, Sigreid?"

I saw the glint in my mother's eye and knew precisely what she was doing. She had bargained her way through many a church sale, leaving throngs of disappointed sellers behind her. "Mom, I already have a loose agreement with Robert and Dane."

"It's up to you naturally, but I wouldn't make any agreements on price just yet. At least not until Pia has had her input. Remember, she wanted to display it in the gallery."

Robert wilted even more. "Oh, my God, I'm going to lose this one too, I can just feel it, and I have such a narrow timeline. Our anniversary is only a few weeks away and I just _have_ to have the perfect gift for Dane. You don't understand! We've had such a rough time lately! It's absolutely vital I give him this painting!"

I was beginning to get a little suspicious. What was it about this particular painting that made Robert so determined to have it? Could he or Dane possibly have been the ones to supply the counterfeit of my painting to Corey? Were they in on this whole scheme? I was having a little trouble imagining Robert bashing me over the head with a sculpture, but still, I _had_ witnessed Dane drinking heavily last night; something was obviously bothering him. Maybe it was guilt.

"What do you mean you've had a rough time?" my mother was asking, her eyes narrowing into slits. Clearly she was suspicious too.

"It's our new chef."

"The one you were trying to hook me up with?"

He nodded miserably. "Yes. Every time I come into the kitchen, he's flirting outrageously with Dane. I've tried to talk to Dane about it, but he swears that for his part there's nothing going on. That's why I suggested Orlando as a potential boyfriend for you. I was trying to-"

"Get him out of the way?" My eyebrows shot into my forehead. I couldn't help it. I was annoyed. "You were going to hook me up with your gay chef because he was flirting with your husband?"

"He's not really gay. He sort of plays the field. But that's beside the point. I was trying to save my marriage."

"Has Dane been behaving at all odd lately?" my mother moved on with her questioning, seemingly not at all disturbed by the fact that Robert had tried to set me up with his sexually over-charged chef.

"A little."

"Have the two of you been fighting at all?" Poor Robert, unbeknownst to him, the inquisition had begun.

"A little."

"Have you noticed any unusual behavior? Secretiveness maybe?" I wasn't going to worry until she got out the thumbscrews.

"Yes, come to think of it, he has been extremely secretive."

"Any other unusual behavior?"

Robert thought for a minute then replied, "There's been a couple of nights when he stayed out really late and had no explanation for it. Plus, he's been taking calls on his cell phone from someone that he doesn't want me to know about. I'm very worried."

My mother sighed. "I wish I could say you could put all thoughts of an affair aside, but at this point it's hard to say. What I would advise, is rather than purchase a painting to celebrate your anniversary, it might be wise to arrange a vacation. Some sort of getaway for just the two of you. Think romance and solitude. Then the two of you need to have a long talk."

Way to lose my sale, Mom.

Robert clapped his hands, obviously delighted at the suggestion. "You're right, of course! Dane's always wanted to go to Fiji. Tropical coconut drinks with little pink umbrellas. Lying on the beach and watching the sun set. Cabana boys."

My mother frowned, "Not so much cabana boys."

He had the good grace to blush. "Maybe we'll find a resort with cabana girls."

"Might be a good idea."

Minutes later Robert had hustled out of the house, still formulating plans and muttering about travel agents.

"Nicely done, Mom."

"I thought so," she said rubbing her hands together.

"One thing- has it occurred to you that Dane might be acting suspiciously because he might be the one involved in all the scandal at the gallery?"

"The thought did occur to me."

"Then do you suppose that sending him out of the country might not be the best course of action?"

"Oh." Obviously she hadn't thought of that.

Chapter Twenty

The next day Pia arrived in a rental. I could only assume that either Olivia was too busy to play chauffer any longer, or the control freak in Pia had had its fill of being a passenger. We arrived at the gallery just as the fertilizer was hitting the proverbial fan.

"Pia! I'm so glad you're here!" Maya met us at the door in near-panic mode. "Gary called in sick, so now there's no one to make the deliveries- of which we have nearly two dozen on the books. There's a truck at the back door waiting to be unloaded and no one in the warehouse to unload it. Simone has locked herself in the office and is refusing to come out. Giorgio is beside himself because he is expecting no less than seven new buyers today and Fiona called to say she's taken a position in another gallery."

Well, that certainly explained Fiona's rapid-fire texting at the dinner party the other night.

"Oh, no! Fiona quit? I can't run the gallery with so few people! This will surely close the doors permanently!" Pia exclaimed, ramping up to Maya's panic mode in record time. The usually unflappable Pia had flown the coop. "As if there hadn't already been enough going on in the crisis department! Now this! What are we going to do?!"

"I don't know! That's what I was hoping you would tell me." Maya had obviously been expecting Pia's 'take no prisoners' brand of charm, and when Pia failed to give it to her, both women were reduced to a tizzy.

That's when my mother took over. My mother is a woman who likes a cause. She's headed hundreds of Women's League charities, if for no other reason than she likes to organize and delegate. Rolling up her sleeves, she began to bark commands. "Maya, you take Giorgio to the warehouse, the two of you should be able to get that truck unloaded. If not, offer the driver a few extra dollars to help, I've found that a little financial incentive usually works. Pia, you go to Simone's office and find out what her problem is. Then, if you can, fix it, if not, send her home. You're already down too many people to have one just taking up space. Then you and Maya get busy calling hiring services. This is a prominent gallery; there have to be hundreds of interns who would just jump at the chance to work here. Sigreid, gather everything that needs to be delivered- is there a truck or a van for this?"

I nodded.

"Good. Today, you are the delivery service. Be prompt and efficient, but above all else, be charming. I'll work the showroom with Giorgio until Simone pulls herself together."

We all just stared at her.

Flapping her hands at us she said, "Well? What is everyone waiting around for? The work won't do itself. Get busy!"

When my mother used that no-nonsense tone, everyone moved. Even Pia.

It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at my last delivery. I was exhausted and overwhelmed and it had been a very long day. Somehow I had managed to make all the deliveries on time despite the fact that it had taken me nearly an hour to get used to deciphering the overly complicated maps Maya had printed off for each of the deliveries. Between that and piloting the full-sized van through some very narrow streets, I was slowed down immensely. I had spent a good portion of my day wandering through gated communities, or being buzzed through security gates leading onto private estates that reminded me of Tara. I was more often than not directed to the delivery entrances of homes, something I had never before known existed. I had seen more mudrooms in this single day than I ever had in my entire life. I had also spoken to more maids in this day, than I ever had in my entire life. Most of which spoke very broken English. Three of which spoke only Spanish. My head was pounding when I rang the bell at the final home, a waterfront property with a huge house that from the exterior looked as if it encompassed no less than four thousand square feet.

"May I help you?" the maid inquired as she opened the door.

"I have a delivery from Pia's Galleria, for, um-" I suddenly realized I hadn't checked the tag. Well, there was bound to be at least one mistake my first day on the job.

"The professor?" she supplied helpfully.

"Uh, yes," I said as I checked the tag and realized I was standing at the home of Professor Stanley. Either he had lucked into inheriting great wealth, or professors must earn better salaries than I had supposed.

The maid ushered me in, saying, "He didn't say anything about any deliveries today and he didn't leave a check. I hope there's no COD?"

I checked the tag again. "Not that I can see. It is a 'sign on delivery' though."

"I can do that, if it's allowed?"

I nodded. I certainly hoped it was allowed. Maids had been signing my slips all day.

"Give me a minute; I need to find my glasses."

I was left standing alone in the hall, so naturally curiosity got the better of me. Leaning the painting against the wall, I cautiously stepped forward a few steps and peeked into the first open door I saw. It was a kitchen, even grander than Pia's. The room was ginormous, the focal point being an industrial sized stove over which hung a giant pot-rack dripping with copper pots of every shape and size. A man was bustling about the kitchen, moving as fast as I had ever seen anyone go, and muttering to himself in a strong French accent.

"Eef she wants ze apricot torte, she gets ze apricot torte. Never mind zat ze soufflé is much better after such a heavy meal. What do I know anyway? I am only ze chef. Let her get fat like all ze Americans like to be."

"What are you doing?" the maid's voice startled me from behind.

Too late, I tried to back away from the room, but the maid was blocking my escape route.

"Sacrebleu! You startled me!" the chef glowered at me. "Who are you?"

"I'm sorry," I said turning red in embarrassment. "I was just making a delivery and then I-" Got curious and started snooping? How exactly had I planned on finishing that sentence?

The maid did it for me, "Overheard Chef Jaques who likes to complain while he cooks? Sometimes he _can_ be rather boisterous." She shot him a baleful glare. "I would have gotten curious too, if I'd heard someone shouting just a few feet away from me."

Never mind that he had been more mumbling than shouting and therefore had done nothing to incite my attention. I might be completely to blame, but I was eager to accept the excuse handed me. All I needed was for the professor to find out I'd been snooping around his house. "Again, I really am very sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."

"Well, come in zen, eef you are so curious." The maid also ushered me in, so I took him up on the offer.

"It's a beautiful kitchen," I said looking around me. The oversized cabinets were twice the size of anything I was used to and the granite countertops sparkled with the light that came in through the large bank of windows on the far wall. "It must be wonderful to have such a nice place to work."

"It would be, eef everyone would just let me be ze chef. But zey are always wanting it zey're way, regardless eef I know what is best." Then he whizzed over to the stove and snatching up a spoon, he stirred something in a pot, dipped a bit out, and held it out to me. "Here, taste zis."

I did as he asked, though I must admit I was a little tentative. What if he had snails in that pot?

"Now zis," he repeated the process with the spoon in another pot.

Though I was at a loss to identify either one, the two sauces tasted nearly identical, the only exception being that the first was a bit saltier than the second.

"Well?" He crossed his arms impatiently over his chest.

"What is it?"

"Bordelaise sauce, bien sûr." He looked at me as if he wondered what kind of idiot he had voluntarily saddled himself with.

"Oh."

"Well? What do you think?"

"I think they're both delicious." I was hesitant to mention the saltiness of the first. He was already impatient with me and I wouldn't put it past him to cut me up with one of the many large knives I saw lying around.

"Don't be so stupide, girl," he argued. "I could see it in your eyes when you tasted ze first one. Ozerwise, I never would have let you taste ze ozer."

I didn't exactly appreciate being called stupid, especially considering I had no business tasting his food anyway, let alone grading it. Still, despite my better judgment I replied, "The second one is delicious, but you were a little heavy-handed with the salt on the first."

He threw his hands into the air. Looking at the maid he cried, "Je vous avais bien dit! I told you! Even zis girl with ze uneducated palate, has enough sense to know what it is zat she is tasting!"

"Now hold on there just a minute, buster-" I began, but the maid stopped me. "Jaques, you are going to have to let a few things go if you plan to keep your job here. I've been working for this family for years. The professor is particular yes, but less so when he doesn't have guests. He likes to cater to their whims, and it would best if you learned to do so as well."

"Ah, cherchez la femme."

As my French revolved around words like, café au lait and croissant, I was at a loss.

The maid got it though, and she nodded, saying, "Something like that. You must learn to do so as well."

"But who is ze classically trained chef here?"

"It won't be you for very long, if you keep this up."

His frowned deepened. "All I am saying is, let ze savant attend to ze cuisine du jour and let ze parvenu attend to ze couture de jour."

"And all I am saying is, you want this job, don't be a yutz."

Ah, a maid who spoke fluent English, French and Yiddish. Professor Stanley had to be breaking the bank on this one.

"I am not so sure I want zis job," Jaques rejoined obstinately, even as he turned back to his cooking.

I wondered if this guy had a card. He would be an excellent replacement for Robert and Dane's chef. Somehow I couldn't picture the bristly Jaques flirting outrageously like Orlando. I might have to mention it to Robert.

When I returned to the gallery, Pia had things well in hand. My mother had spent the day assisting Giorgio on the floor, while Pia and Maya set about scheduling interviews for the much needed replacements. Simone, apparently finally over whatever her problem had been, had gotten back to work and according to what my mother told me, had even assisted on the floor twice without being asked. At some point during my absence, Olivia had arrived at the gallery and was just waiting around for it to close as she had insisted on taking Pia, my mother and me out to dinner.

Olivia took us to a French bistro, a place she often frequented. They specialized in robust dishes with hearty portion sizes. No doubt this was why Olivia had recommended it. She was on a first name basis with practically everyone there, so much so that no one even raised a brow when she insisted on an extra chair for Jean-Luc. Gloria wandered about the restaurant, no doubt eavesdropping on as many conversations as she could.

Pia's mood was much improved and she talked animatedly about the interviews she and Maya had lined up for the next day.

"I think you will come out of all of this quite nicely," my mother encouraged.

"And I am quite convinced that you are right," Pia smiled raising her glass in a toast. "I can't thank you enough for all of your help today! And you as well, Reid. I don't know what I ever would have done without the two of you!" She took a sip of her wine, set the glass down, and said, "And that is why I would like to offer you the position as buyer, Reid. If you'll accept it."

"I don't know what to say!" I was flabbergasted. As delighted as I was at the prospect of doing the job for which I had originally thought I was interviewing, I felt compelled to say, "But I don't think that this is the appropriate time. Maybe we should wait until all of this mess is cleared up, especially considering that I am still under a cloud of suspicion."

"Nonsense! There is no suspicion where I am concerned. I know you are perfectly innocent and my mind is made up. I would much rather have someone I trust as one of my buyers. Besides, I can hire any old intern as a personal assistant. Please, say yes, Reid! You don't know how much it will mean to me."

My mother was beaming widely and prompting me with her eyes, while Olivia looked on with eager interest. I wondered if she would be as quick with her speed dial regarding this as she had been with my returned painting. Even Gloria, who had finally returned to the table, looked interested.

"Well, yes, of course, if you're sure?"

"I am!" Pia clapped her hands in delight.

Olivia flagged a waiter over and quickly ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate. "It's about time we had some good news to combat some of the bad!" she exulted.

Jean-Luc murmured something low, which Olivia quickly shared. "My Honey Bear says 'Succès de scandale,' success through scandal. And that's exactly how it should be! To your success Pia, and yours as well, Reid. And may the gallery be twice as profitable as it was before!"

We were all in a euphoric mood, laughing and talking and perhaps imbibing a bit too much of our champagne (my mother included) and maybe that's why we failed to notice the disruption right away. At least not until it was tableside. It was none other than Lana. And she was very, very drunk.

"You! You _bitch_! I want to talk to you!" she screeched, her voice carrying across the restaurant, stilling all other conversation. "I still haven't gotten my painting back from the police and I want to know what you're going to do about it!"

"Lana, this is not the time or place," Pia offered up coldly. "My attorney will be glad to negotiate with yours, should the need arise. Until that moment, I would appreciate it if you would desist in accosting me in public venues-"

"I will accost you any damn place I like!" she threatened. "You've destroyed my career!"

"I have done nothing of the kind. It is one painting, Lana. You still have others you can sell. There are any number of galleries that I am certain would be glad to represent you-"

"No one will touch me after what happened at your opening! They all blame me for the scandal! Everyone's saying I was the one who set you up! That I had some part in what happened! And it's all your fault!" Her voice went up yet another octave.

My mother broke in, "If this is how you conducted yourself that night, young lady, it's no wonder no one wants to represent you. Now calm yourself and have a seat," she gestured at the chair that Jean-Luc was currently occupying. "Let's discuss this in an adult manner. Quietly."

With a shriek, Lana flung the chair over, leaving Jean-Luc floating in a seated position in midair. It was so absurd looking that I might have laughed if the situation hadn't been so dire. Even now two of the waiters were making their way to our table and it looked as if the maitre de might be phoning the police.

"Let's just get the check and go," Olivia suggested. No doubt she was distressed at the thought that her dearly departed husband might have been toppled out of his seat.

"Good idea," Gloria chimed in. "The woman's certifiable."

"No one's going anywhere! Not until I get paid! You promised me a good price for that painting and I'm not leaving until I get every last dime of it!"

The waiters had reached the table and were doing their level best to encourage Lana to leave of her own volition, which, of course, she was having no part of. Within seconds the situation escalated to a physical skirmish in which the waiters found themselves attempting to catch hold of Lana, while she in turn flung everything within hands reach at them. It was a sight to behold. Like something out of a Jerry Springer show. Somehow I doubted anyone currently in the restaurant had ever witnessed anything like it.

Somewhere in the midst of the melee a wine glass passed through Jean-Luc's head and connected with the side of Olivia's. Unfortunately for Olivia, unlike her husband, she was corporeal. The glass shattered on the side of her face, one shard slicing into her forehead. Pandemonium ensued.

People arose en masse from their tables and began beating a hasty retreat.

Jean-Luc was near panic as he stood beside his wife, his hands fluttering in the air wildly. "I think I'm going to faint!"

Those were the first words I had ever heard the man speak.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Gloria carped. "Ghosts can't faint!"

Judging by the look of him, I thought he might be the first to disprove the theory. Instead, he poofed into midair and was gone.

Pia and my mother quickly began attending to Olivia's injury, pressing napkins against her forehead in an attempt to stem the startling flow of blood.

And I, who had years of wrestling cows under my belt, and was entirely sick of the whole situation, leapt from my chair and tackled Lana to the ground, pinning her there and holding her while she yowled like a cat in heat. I was tempted to stuff a napkin- or possibly the entire tablecloth- into her mouth, but I thought that might be going a bit too far, so instead I ignored her.

And that's how Jase found me when he and several other officers arrived at the restaurant.

Chapter Twenty-One

"Should I even ask?" Jase said, looking down at me.

"Just take care of her, will you?" I blew a strand of hair out of my face. I knew how I must look, but I was just angry enough that I didn't care.

He gestured to some of the officers to take Lana into custody and then helped me to stand.

"I guess we won't be coming here for our date," Jase smirked.

"Probably not a good idea," I agreed looking around at the disarray.

Pia was busy apologizing to the maitre de and offering financial compensation for the ruin of his restaurant as well as the lost revenue from the patrons that had already left. My mother was holding Olivia's hand, who was being bundled onto a gurney and on her way to the hospital for stitches and no doubt a cat scan, and I wondered a little wildly if she might be able to see ghosts now as well. Jean-Luc had yet to return, so I supposed we wouldn't know until that happened.

"What in the hell happened here?"

"Well, you know, a night out with the girls."

"I've seen wild bachelor parties with better endings than this."

I cocked my head at him. "And just how many wild bachelor parties have you attended?"

"Enough. Now stop skirting around the subject. What happened?"

I proceeded to explain it to him in as few words as possible; still it took a good fifteen minutes to tell it all, which made no sense since it took less than half that time to occur. Meanwhile, my mother left in the ambulance with Olivia who was not about to let go of her hand- turns out Olivia has a needle phobia. My mother was in for a rough night. Pia followed in Olivia's SUV, after tossing me the keys to the rental and promising to meet me later at home.

I was barely on the road when my cell began to ring. It was Robert. The man had excellent connections. How could he possibly have known about everything that had happened already? I couldn't envision Olivia speed-dialing him from the ambulance. Then again, I wouldn't put it past her.

"Hello, Robert," I greeted, carefully steering the car with one hand.

"Reid, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I just had to talk to you. I'm still interested in that painting and I'm willing to pay whatever you want for it. Just set the price. Anything at all. Please, you don't know how important this is."

"What happened to the trip?"

"Oh, we're still going to take that. But that's an anniversary present. I need an, 'I'm sorry,' present."

"What? What for?"

He sighed. "It wasn't my fault. Honestly. It's just that I'm so jealous. I don't know how Dane puts up with me."

"Robert, what did you do?"

"I fired Orlando. He had it coming. I just couldn't take one more second of him ogling Dane. But now Dane's furious. He was planning a dinner party for next week and now with no one to cook, well, he says I've ruined his party."

"How could my painting possibly help with that?"

"Oh, it can't. Not really. It's just a gift to show him that I do care and how sorry I truly am."

I was coming up on a turn that I really didn't want to make one-handed, so I pulled over. "Forget the painting, Robert. What you need is a chef. And I think I know where you can get one."

It probably went against all social etiquette to offer up someone else's chef, but then, I really felt sorry for Robert, and Jaques had made it exceptionally clear that he was very unhappy where he was. And besides, Orlando was apparently available again. Let Professor Stanley work out the details.

"Really? Where? Who?"

Quickly, I explained to him about Jaques, finishing with, "He's temperamental, he's French, and he's probably very expensive."

"As long as he isn't interested in flirting with my husband, I'd be willing to pay almost anything."

I laughed. "I can't see him flirting with anyone. All he wants to do is cook, his way, with no interference."

"That's not a problem, Dane and I rarely fuss with the chefs. Neither one of us is a picky eater and we love French food."

"Then it seems to me your problem might be solved. I'll see what I can do about getting in contact with him."

"Can you do that now? Right away? I hate to be a bother, but you don't know how angry Dane is. He moved all my things into the guest room!"

Glancing at the clock I saw that it was nearing eight. I wasn't sure how late Jaques stayed at the professor's, but the prospect of hearing Robert's incessant pleading for the next hour or so was enough to make me at least want to try. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Reid! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll call you in an hour!" With that, he hung up the phone.

I turned the car around and headed for Professor Stanley's house, wondering how I was going to work this all out. Starting with, 'Hey, I'm here to steal your chef,' was not the best way to go. I had to put some kind of positive spin on it. By the time I arrived, I had come up with at least a plausible story. I figured that if I could convince the professor that I knew he was interested in finding a new chef, then I could offer up Orlando as a replacement and get Jaques off to the side. Weak, but it was all I had.

"Reid! What are you doing here?" Professor Stanley was surprised to find me standing on his doorstep.

"Professor, I'm sorry to bother you so late. May I come in?"

"Of course," he opened the door wider and stepped back. He led me down the hall to what I supposed was his study. "You'll have to pardon the mess," he said indicating the paperwork spread out over his coffee table. A few plates and glasses were also scattered about the area and he began cleaning them up. "I was going over the syllabi for next semester's classes. I tend to get caught up and spread out everywhere. Give me a moment to take these out to the kitchen. Can I get you a drink?"

"Just a glass of water, thank you. Again, I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"No problem, please have a seat and I'll be right with you."

I perched on the edge of a nearby chair and awaited his return. After a few moments I began to wonder if he was ever coming back. My gaze swept over the room. It was about half the size of the kitchen, which left it more in the large category as opposed to ginormous. A huge stone fireplace dominated one wall, and two leather wingback chairs faced it. Over the fireplace hung a painting that looked oddly familiar, though I was having trouble placing it. It was surprisingly amateurish to hold such a prominent place in the room.

I stood and moved to the painting, in order to examine it more closely. I was just attempting to read the signature in the bottom corner, when the professor returned.

"Do you like it?" he asked, handing me a glass. "I took the liberty of adding some mint. I find it refreshing," he told me, referring to the water. Little sprigs of mint floated around in the glass and glued themselves to the ice cubes.

"Thank you," I said sipping the water. He was right, it was refreshing.

"So the painting, what do you think?"

"It's nice," I said. I wasn't about to tell him what I had really been thinking.

"I bought the other to the set at Pia's opening. I believe you delivered it today?"

So he knew about my earlier visit. That might make it easier to explain the whole chef swap idea.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Professor," I began. "I met Jaques earlier today and-"

"So Frances mentioned."

Frances; that must be the maid. "Yes, well, I was hoping to talk to you regarding his employment."

"That's a shame, since he's no longer employed here."

This might be easier than I thought. "Do you have a contact number for him? I know someone who might be interested, and also, I know of a chef who's just come available that you might consider."

But the professor was paying no mind to what I was saying. Instead, he had moved to the fireplace to admire the painting. "It's one of my best really," he was saying. "Not that anyone would know it."

"You painted that?"

He looked at me. "Yes. And the other as well."

"The other? The one you bought from the gallery? You bought your own painting?" I was confused. And then, all at once, everything began to come to me. The ramifications of my own stupidity nearly knocked me over. "Oh- my- God!" I collapsed into one of the wing chairs. I was suddenly feeling very dizzy.

"I wondered how long it would take you to put it all together."

"The painting, the one that Corey was representing, that was yours?"

He nodded.

"When Corey said he didn't know the artist, he was only covering for you. You wanted Pia to represent you, but you didn't want her to know it was you. But I don't understand. Why all the secrecy? Why not just tell her?"

"I was giving her a second chance."

My head was getting more muddled by the minute. "A second chance at what?"

"Years ago I had a dream to be an artist. A dream that was crushed. Unnecessarily."

"Pia's father."

"Yes, dear old William. He attended one of my first showings. The write up in the paper was scathing, malicious, humiliating. He had the power to make or break a career in the space of a minute. And he destroyed any chances of mine."

"So this whole thing, Corey, the counterfeit, Ricky, all of it, was just a plot to seek revenge on a dead man?"

"Not just William, but his daughter as well. Remember, Pia was given a second chance. I turned some of my pieces over to Corey in an attempt to allow her to redeem herself. Even Corey didn't know who the real artist was. I told him they were pieces done by one of my students that I wished to help launch his career. Corey was so stupid, he believed anything he was told. Unfortunately, Pia felt my art was not up to her standards. At that point she left me no choice."

"But why the counterfeit? Why steal Lana's piece? And mine? Mine wasn't even being represented in the gallery."

"It should be quite obvious. I intended to destroy the gallery's reputation and Pia's along with it. I had Corey take Lana's piece and copy it, he always was better at reproducing than he had ever been at originality. My plan was to replace it with the counterfeit just in time for one of the biggest openings Pia would ever enjoy. And it worked brilliantly. I was on the scene to provide any prodding that Lana might need, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Lana overreacted dramatically, even more than I could have hoped for, causing a scene that no one would soon forget. Just to cement matters, I sent Corey in to switch one more painting, one that belonged to a different artist, in order to prove that the counterfeiting was an inside job, and not something Lana had done. Unfortunately, the fool wasn't very careful and ended up running into Ricky. In order to protect himself, Corey had no choice but to kill him."

"And then I came in." For some reason, my words sounded slurred to me.

"After your interference, Corey became paranoid, so I suggested that he counterfeit your painting as well, in order to frame you."

"Once he had fulfilled his purpose you no longer needed him, so you disposed of him."

"At first he was easy to control, but after awhile he began to become a detriment. His paranoid behavior would have had the police casting their suspicions on him, instead of you."

"They already had his part in it figured out. But what about Diadra? Where does she fit into the picture?"

At that moment, the woman in question entered the room. "Exactly where I always have," she said walking over to the professor and snuggling up to his side.

I wanted to vomit.

Suddenly Jaques' words came to me. 'Cherchez la femme,' and 'couture du jour.' I didn't know a lot of French, but I knew enough to realize femme meant woman and couture- as in haute couture- had something to do with clothes. He had been talking about Diadra.

"Diadra was a student of mine, not that long ago. And as you can see, the two of us hit it off quite well. I couldn't completely trust Corey, so Diadra helped me to keep an eye on him."

"You prostituted your girlfriend in order to mastermind this failing plot?"

"Look around you, I haven't failed at all. Pia's gallery is folding. Her employees are jumping ship, her clients are worried, the scandal is worsening. Before long, there won't be a gallery. And me? Well, I've still got all this, haven't I?"

"And what exactly is going to keep me quiet?" Stupid question.

"Since the drug I slipped into your drink isn't having as quick an effect as I had hoped, I imagine this should do it." With that, the professor pulled a syringe out of his pocket.

I was beginning to understand Olivia's fear of needles.

"You can't possibly think you'll get away with this."

"I have so far."

"But Robert knows I'm here. If I don't turn up, it won't be long before the police are knocking on your door."

"Long enough for me to be gone. The plans have already been made. Diadra has arranged our flight schedule, I've already released the maid and the chef, and I've liquidated most of my assets and put the money into foreign accounts. God bless my parents for being disgustingly wealthy and having the decency to not live so long as to prevent me from inheriting a healthy legacy. By the time they find your body, I will be on some far off tropical island, sipping drinks and relaxing in the sun."

I tried to leap up from the chair, I really did, but suddenly it felt as if all of my limbs weighed a thousand pounds each. I watched, unable to do anything else, as the professor moved closer, brandishing the syringe like a weapon. Which indeed it was.

The last thought I had was that The Adventure of the MNT had gone terribly awry. The heroine wasn't supposed to die. She was supposed to unmask the criminal then go on a long overdue dinner date with her police detective boyfriend. Wasn't that how all good stories ended?

Chapter Twenty-Two

I awoke in the hospital. I was groggy, my head hurt worse than it had after being clocked the second time, but I was alive. Quickly, I felt my limbs and then for good measure, checked my own pulse. I didn't know how it was possible, but somehow I had survived.

Just then a nurse entered the room. "You're awake!" she rejoiced. "Glad to see you back in the world of the living!"

"Yeah," I croaked. I also had a sore throat.

"That's from the intubation tube," she explained. "It'll pass." She moved closer to the bed and that's when I noticed her hip go through the side of the mattress.

"You're a ghost!" Great. Just what I needed. Another one.

"You almost were yourself," she told me. "Now, do yourself a favor and hit that call button. The doctor is going to want to check on you right away. And your mother and father are here too. They just went to the cafeteria to grab a bite. Patients always seem to come around when no one is in the room, even when their family tries to watch them around the clock."

I did as she suggested and pressed the button. Within seconds several people were milling about the room. The doctor stood over me while one nurse checked my vitals and another messed with the machines that sat beside my bed. My parents were quick to join the crowd, and I was surprised to see not only Pia and Olivia with them, but Jase as well.

After the initial craziness subsided, the doctor allowed my family and friends to stay a few minutes. During that time they all took turns relaying what had happened and catching me up to speed.

Robert, keeping to his word, had called me back within the hour of our conversation. After he had failed to reach me on three separate attempts, he had called Pia in order to locate me. Not because he was concerned about my well-being mind you, but because he was obsessed with hiring Jaques. Pia, who was still at the hospital with Olivia, was busy giving her statement to Jase at the time and Jase had become worried when she mentioned Robert's multiple attempts to reach me. Convinced that I was 'up to some other harebrained scheme' he had left the hospital and went looking for me. By the time he had arrived at Professor Stanley's home, I was in a comatose state and the professor and Diadra were long gone. Jase called for an ambulance and then put out an APB. The professor and his girlfriend were arrested before they even had a chance to step foot on the plane.

"All's well that ends well," Pia pronounced minutes later when the nurse (the live one, not the ghost) shuffled them all out of the room.

After a few days reflection, I realized that I had wasted so many years feeling inferior, based on the biased judgment of a frustrated artist who was suffering from his own inferiority complex. I vowed at that moment, never again to allow someone else's perception of me or my artwork to color my own opinion of myself or my abilities. Not everyone was going to love everything I did; it was enough that I did.

I was shocked to discover that I had been in the hospital for nearly a week and most of that time I had been in a coma. It was disturbing to lose a chunk of your life like that and not even realize it was missing.

It took some time to catch up on all the latest gossip, though with friends and family popping in and out of my hospital room at any given moment, between them, they managed to fill in the cracks.

Jean-Luc had reappeared, although Olivia was currently still not speaking to him. Not that she can't, because she does still speak to the spirits of the dead, it's just that she's miffed at him for his having left her in her time of need. On a side note, her head injury did not cause her to spontaneously begin seeing ghosts, much to her disappointment.

Robert and Dane have hired Jaques and by all reports seem to be very happy with him. Robert especially loves Jaques' cantankerousness; he never worries about undue flirtations in the kitchen anymore. They also purchased my abstract, for an embarrassing sum. Let's just say it will be enough to put a large down payment on a very nice car. It won't be a Bentley, but it'll be nice.

Pia has hired a new assistant and salesperson, as well as someone for the warehouse, and has given me even more time off. Of course, with the hospitalization, there wasn't much choice. Still, I told her I feel as if I owe her at least two weeks worth of unpaid employment. Deep down, I hope she doesn't hold me to it. With the gallery back up to full staff, it is running better than ever. The scandal that rocked the Hamptons has only served to increase her popularity. Jean-Luc was right, succès de scandale.

And Jase, not wishing to put off our date any longer, insisted upon having it last night. I was dressed to the nines in the latest in hospital finery, a sexy sheer number that opened down the back. But the food- he ordered out for Greek- was amazing. And the kiss that ended the date, let's just say it curled my toes.

All in all, I realized I was a lucky girl. Which is why, when I finally returned home, and Alex met me at the door saying, "You've got to help me find my murderer, or else I'll be forced to haunt you forever!" I ignored him and kept on walking straight into the guest bedroom slash art studio. I had some painting to do.

***********************************************************************

About the Author:

T. L. Ingham was born and raised in upstate New York, before living short stints in Connecticut, Rhode Island, Illinois, and then finally, Indiana where she lives today, residing with her husband and their two dogs.

She is the author of the blog 'Did This Really Just Happen?' at <http://tlingham.blogspot.com/> and co-author of Snark-o-locity at <http://snark-o-locity.blogspot.com/>

Discover other titles by T. L. Ingham at Smashwords.com:

Gilda's Locket

Losing Myself But Not Entirely

The View from the Top

The Dradon Project

Connect with Me Online:

<http://tlingham.webs.com/> and <http://www.facebook.com/tl.ingham.1>

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/TLIngham
