Chapter 4

"Morning, Laura," Murphy said, trying to sound less anxiety-ridden than he was.

"Good morning. Have you found any more holes?"

"Too damn many!"

Laura looked surprised.

"Did you know that Chad has been contacting some of the staff? Making changes to our arrangements?"

Laura was stunned. This was not what an insurance agent did.

Murphy glanced around, and, not seeing Steele, he went on, "Look, I'm glad he's gone. We've got a serious problem here."

"He's in the kitchen. I didn't have any tea."

Murphy didn't like the sound of that.

"Tell me he didn't stay with you last night."

"He stayed in my spare bedroom." She smiled sadly at the floor. "He made breakfast like he used to."

Murphy softened. He put his arm around her shoulder. "Look, Laura. I know the guy's not the lout I'd like him to be, but I don't want to see you get hurt all over again."

Both of them could see that possibility. Laura appreciated that Murphy didn't want to have to talk her off the proverbial ledge.

"It'll be okay, Murph. Tell me what Chad's been doing."

"He called one of my investigators, asked him to change a security code on a door."

"Did your man do it?"

"Not until I told him to change all the codes. And you're going to love this one."

"Lay it on me."

"He called the head chef, asking about Steele."

"What?"

Murphy shrugged.

Laura asked, "Does Chad know Remington's here?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Laura was irate, but she didn't let this stop her from asking a very important question.

"Did he ask to have to code changed to something specific?"

"No. Just changed."

"What did the chef tell him?"

"Nothing. He's never met Steele."

Laura fumed, trying to think. Chad might be twenty, as he had insisted in a pimply voice over the phone, but Laura still thought of him as The Insurance Teenager. He had tried to inject himself into the security arrangements before. Was he just trying to end around her again, still irritated that a woman knew so much more than he did about security? Was he testing her? And why had he asked about Remington?

Murphy watched as her anger dissipated and the spark of a grin crossed her face.

"Shall I sic Remington on him?"

Murphy considered that, starting to smile himself. In a moment they were both laughing.

"No, I can't," Laura said when she could finally breathe again. "I can't."

"It'd be fun."

"Chad wouldn't stand a chance, but I'd lose what little respect I've earned."

"Don't use him as the head of a detective agency. Send him after Chad in his other capacity."

"Murphy, that's positively wicked."

"You haven't said no yet."

Laura patted Murphy's arm.

"Run a check on our young colleague. Please stop short of having his car stolen."

xxxxxx

Remington took the whistling kettle off the oversized professional stove in the kitchen. He poured a cup, then tossed in the tea bag he had found. He was headed out when he heard a door open and close.

Peering around the corner, he saw William Foster with a cell phone to his ear.

"Yes, the Gauguin is coming down."

Silence. Remington waited.

"I told you, it's coming down. It's the schedule. Why do you care, anyway?"

Remington blew on his steaming tea as he listened to Foster's end of the conversation.

"Deal with it, Chad. The Matisse is being changed, too."

"Because I don't like it, that's why. I like my Vermeer."

Vermeer and Gauguin in the same conversation. Remington supposed that wasn't necessarily telling, as the same person owned both. However, he also knew they were both copies. Good ones, he noted, but copies nonetheless.

"Well, the Vermeer is going up."

Remington retreated out the other kitchen door as Foster ended the call and came in. He then reentered the kitchen pretending to look for a spoon.

"Ah, Mr. Foster."

"You're the art critic, right?" he said, crossing the huge room. When they were closer, he lowered his voice. "I talked to Mr. Michaels earlier. Is it okay to use your real name?"

Remington put the pieces together as quickly as he could.

"Of course, of course. Mr. Michaels is a competent associate, but he isn't privy to everything. The need for the alias has passed, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention my presence to anyone."

Foster nodded.

"So, Steele, do you really have a 'storied past' with Miss Holt, or was that part of your cover?"

"That was the plain truth."

He chuckled. "I like Miss Holt. Tough as nails and beautiful, but far too serious. She reminds me of my wife."

Remington was glad Foster wasn't after Laura. He liked the man, despite not knowing what his level of involvement was with the paintings.

"She's not always so serious. I would imagine your wife can be carefree and passionate, too."

Foster looked at his shoes.

"She was."

"Was?"

"She died long ago. Car accident."

"I'm very sorry."

"I was sorry, too, but we had some wonderful times. I remember those."

Remington wished he could remember only the wonderful times with Laura. Foster seemed to find something cathartic in this conversation, so he offered more.

"My family didn't approve. Very stereotypically rich, they were, and she wasn't. I chose her over them. It was the best decision I ever made."

"I guess love isn't always complicated."

"Love, no. Everything else was. My family disowned me. I worked in a factory. We had a tiny apartment, which became far too big and empty after the accident."

"And then you made your own fortune? Throwing galas and showing off the art collection?"

"I think of myself as the caretaker of all this money. It isn't really mine; I'm just enjoying it."

xxxxxx

Laura found Remington in the vacuum of the cavernous gallery, standing in front of Nevermore instead of sitting on the nearby bench. He sipped his tea.

"Which picture is replacing this?" he asked.

"Vermeer's Young Woman Seated at the Virginals."

Steele grunted. He put his cup down on the bench behind him.

"Don't care for that one?"

"No. Leave this one up as long as you can."

"The final gala is the day after tomorrow. I'll have to get it moved today."

Laura watched him study the Gauguin.

"Tell me what you find so fascinating about Nevermore," she said.

He glanced at Laura and decided to show one card.

"Gauguin may have painted a Tahitian nude, but I don't really care about the details. The Poe reference adds a little, I suppose. It's not the brushwork, the colors, the composition, per se. It's the feeling of it."

Laura nodded thoughtfully.

"She's you," he said.

He turned toward Laura and away from the painting for the first time. Their eyes locked. He took her hand and kissed it, drawing her close.

As their lips met, his eyes closed. Laura kept her eyes on him, like she did when they were first together. If she closed them, she thought, maybe when she opened them again, she'd discover she was just waking up from a dream and he wasn't really there.

"Hey, Laura. I've got what you asked for," Murphy called from the back of the gallery.

"The man has Mildred's timing," Steele muttered.

Murphy trotted up.

"Nothing special about Chad Fenton. It's exactly what you'd expect for a kid who hasn't been working long."

Chad was the person Foster had been talking to, Remington noted to himself.

"How did he get such a high-powered job, writing multi-million dollar policies?" asked Laura. "Family connections? Some kind of reward for sniffing out something that saved the company a lot of money?"

"Kid's got an Ivy League degree – two-year associate's, anyway – but no family money that I could see. The insurance company wouldn't talk, and there are no relevant headlines in the press."

Remington asked, "Which school?"

"Cornell," answered Murphy.

Steele nodded.

"Girlfriend? Roommate?" asked Laura.

"No and no."

"Great."

Remington made another inquiry. "You didn't find anything even the tiniest bit unusual? Nothing at all caught your eye, even for a moment?"

"Nope," answered Murphy.

Remington said, "Be wary of this person."

"Why?"

"Two things. First, no one is that dull. It takes special effort to go completely unnoticed. Second, Cornell has an associate's degree program for guests at the local prisons."

"Kid doesn't have a record," Murphy added.

Steele nodded again.

"I did a quick search on Foster, too."

"Oh?" Laura asked.

"It's weird. Your boyfriend had a longer bio when he breezed in back in '82."