Chapter Nineteen: Baiting the Trap

Nancy awoke, Monday morning, in a considerably less serene mood. She had slept poorly, due to a restless mind which would not stop going over her plans for the following day; and she felt as though she had just closed her eyes when she was jolted back into consciousness by a less-than-gentle nudge from Joe.

"What was that for?" she demanded, rolling over in time to see him finish untangling himself from the sheet and launch out of the bed. He stumbled to the dresser and jerked a drawer open, accompanying his actions with a litany of sotto voce profanity.

"Get up, Nan. We're late," he said, in a voice still low and sleep-roughened. "Frank just stuck his head in to tell me he's leaving. We're supposed to meet everyone at the gallery in," he paused to glance at his watch, "Shit. Ten minutes."

Nancy sat up. "I'm up."

"You're naked," Joe pointed out, stepping hastily into a pair of jeans.

"I am aware of that!" Nancy told him. She threw back the blankets and stepped out into the chilly room to grab her overnight bag from the closet, adding her own muttered imprecations to Joe's swearing. He hated to be late. She knew that. She was not fond of tardiness, herself.

"What happened to the alarm you set?" she asked, turning her bag upside down and shaking its contents out onto the bedroom floor. "And where the hell are my jeans?"

"I haven't seen them. And I don't know. Maybe it glitched. Maybe we just didn't hear it." Joe disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Nancy to paw through her small pile of rumpled clothing. Her bag had contained the dress she had arrived in yesterday, a few sets of clean underwear, one very risque nightgown, a pair of athletic shorts, and one earring. Clearly her mind had not been on restocking her overnight bag the last few times she'd been home.

"Shit," she said fiercely, shoving the pile of useless garments back into her bag.

"Wear something else," Joe called through a mouthful of toothpaste. She heard him spit and rinse his toothbrush. "We've got to go!"

"It's not that simple!" Nancy called back, switching her attention to their dirty clothes basket.

Joe stepped back into the room and paused to look at her. "Don't you have some stuff in the closet?"

She shook her head and continued rummaging. "Just a couple dresses. Nothing useful for today. Please don't watch me dig through the laundry. I know I'm being gross."

Joe shrugged. He opened the desk drawer which housed his grandfather's Colt 1911, removed its safety lock, and slid the weapon into its holster. "This is why you need to use that empty drawer."

Nancy ignored him. She had just located her jeans at the very bottom of the pile. Trying not to think about how unsanitary they must be, she yanked them out and tossed them toward the desk chair. "Eureka. Grab me a shirt, please?"

"Your bag is right in front of you."

"I need to borrow one" she called, darting into the bathroom for her own ablutions. When she returned, Joe's Aerosmith t-shirt was waiting with her jeans and underthings. Joe himself leaned against the door, arms crossed stoically, and watched her get dressed.

"Socks," she muttered, delving desperately into an outer pocket of her bag. "I'm almost ready, Joe. What do you want?"

"I want you to use the damn drawer. This is ridiculous."

She sat up, holding one purple sock and one blue sock. They would have to do. "I don't usually have this problem, do I? I usually plan ahead. I just didn't think it through when I stayed over last night."

"But if you had more stuff here, you wouldn't have to plan all the time. What about shoes? Do you even have sneakers here?"

His words sparked a moment of dread before she realized that she had left her sneakers behind after their run the other morning. "Yes," she said, retrieving them from the closet.

"You're not going to lose your independence if you start keeping more clothes here," Joe told her. "It's okay. I want you here. I made space for you. Why are you so set on keeping your life separate from mine?"

"We don't have time for this conversation right now," Nancy said, tying her second shoe with an impatient jerk. The lace broke off in her hand. Shit. She threw the broken piece toward the wastepaper basket and stood up, ignoring the annoyance of the unlaced shoe.

"I'm not trying to separate our lives, Joe, I'm trying to keep my own life simple. I can't live scattered between two houses."

"You could live here," he blurted out, following her into the living room.

"What?"

"Just live here. You said you want to keep things simple. What could be simpler than that?" He was watching her face. She could tell that he was trying to keep his own expression neutral, non-threatening; but the look in his eyes was unmistakably hope. "You could take Frank's room after he leaves. We don't have to share a room if you don't want to."

"Please don't. Not like that," Nancy said, turning away to take her coat from its hook by the front door.

"Like what?"

"Like...like it's not a big deal. Like I'm here anyway, so I might as well keep hanging around." Nancy felt frustrated. She knew she wasn't expressing herself clearly. "I don't want to be a habit for you," she said, shaking her head. "Come on. Let's go."

*********************************

Nancy had hoped the drive over to River Heights would afford her the time to re-center, to work up some enthusiasm for the case and the work they were about to do toward solving it; but that was not to be. The thick clouds overhead had begun producing a treacherous, sloppy mix of rain and snow which made for poor visibility and even poorer traction. Though she trusted Joe's ability to drive safely under any conditions, Nancy couldn't help feeling tense as the truck crawled its way into town. Joe did not seem inclined to talk, and this suited her mood. She stared ahead, watching the road unfurl in front of them and silently berating herself for her ungracious response to Joe's offer.

He shouldn't have asked like that. Not while we were running late and already on edge, she thought, with some irritation.

The truck slid, suddenly, splaying out sideways across the lanes for a few heart-stopping moments before Joe eased it back under control. He glanced toward the passenger side of the cab.

"Okay?"

Nancy let out a shaky breath. "Yes. You?"

"It's slick. I'm gonna get on Hargrove at the light. It'll take longer, but the sand trucks usually go that way first."

"It's all right, Joe."

"I hate to keep everyone waiting." He relapsed into his silence, and Nancy into her brooding. It wasn't just Joe's unexpected offer that had her feeling unbalanced. Their investigation also weighed heavily on her mind. She was worried about the trap they were laying. Was the bait enough to interest Allie? Would anyone show up? And what if someone did? If they were right, it would be Diarmid; and Diarmid, if indeed it were he, had already killed once and attempted to kill again. Nancy was not terribly worried about her ability to take him on, under the right circumstances. But this case was different, in that she was not working alone. This trap would be Nancy and Joe's first real test as partners. Though she felt confident in their ability to take down a suspect without getting killed in the process, she was worried about the more psychological aspects of the job. They had to be able to communicate clearly, to make decisions without hesitation, to anticipate each other's movements and capabilities with complete clarity. Any errors in judgment would certainly have serious consequences. And overlaying that train of thought, like a particularly persistent mosquito, was the knowledge that they were running later by the second. Callie, Frank, and no doubt Chet as well, were all waiting for them to begin setting up their pretend art exhibition.

Nancy's phone chimed suddenly, startling her. She read the message and sighed. "Callie says Chet just arrived with the rest of the paintings," she told Joe.

"Tell her we'll be there in a minute." Joe said tersely. He sped up a little. They were in town, now, and while the roads were still messy, they had at least been salted.

"Oh, no," Nancy said, her heart sinking with a sudden realization. "What if this weather shuts down the airport? If Allie or Diarmid were planning to fly in to get this painting, they might not make it."

Joe eased the truck into a parking space in the little lot adjoining the art gallery Callie had arranged for them to borrow. He pocketed the keys and looked at Nancy. "That's not our problem right now. We have to operate under the assumption that our suspects are in the area already."

"Okay." Nancy pulled up the hood of her coat. "Let's do this, then."

"Wait." Before Nancy could step out of the truck Joe had dashed around to her side and reached in to scoop her up, bridal-style.

"Joe, stop it. What are you doing?"

"Keeping your feet dry, Drew. Don't worry, I won't make it a habit."

The uncharacteristic sarcasm in his voice sent a pang of remorse through her. Rather than meet his gaze Nancy looked down, watching his feet in their waterproof boots stride to the other side of the deep puddle the truck was sitting in. Only after he had set her down did she look up.

"You know I didn't mean it that way," she said softly.

"I thought we had come to an understanding." Joe looked hurt. "I love you, Nan, and I'd love it if you stopped bouncing between houses and stayed with me. Do you need a proposal first? Because I can do that."

"You're making it worse!" Nancy said, frustrated. "I don't want any of this to come from a sense of, of inevitability. I've been in that kind of relationship before. I took all the steps I was expected to take. I don't want us to be like that. Does that make sense?"

Joe stepped closer, blinking a snowflake off his eyelashes. "The way I see it, this is an organic development. Frank is moving out. You're sick of never knowing where you're going to spend the night. I'm fucking crazy about you and I want you in my life and in my bed," he said bluntly. "I can say all that in much more romantic terms if you'd like. I can write you a sonnet, or spell it out in roses. Hell, I can hire a string quartet and sing it to you."

Nancy was giggling, at this point, all the stress of the morning forgotten. She popped up on tip-toe and kissed him. "Sonnet," she said. "I'd like it in sonnet form."

"I'll give it a shot," Joe said, taking her hand. He have it a gentle tug, encouraging her to head toward the building.

"I'm sorry, Joe. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I should have realized why that would bother you," he said, reaching for the door.

"Don't put that on yourself. You're good, but you're not a mind-reader."

"Unfortunately," he agreed.

The interior of the art gallery was buzzing with activity. Nancy slipped her coat off and hung it up, looking around. Frank was doing something on his laptop toward the back of the long room. Callie was sorting through a large box of paintings. And Chet, his red hair plastered down with rain, was repairing a damaged picture frame.

Hearing the detectives come in, Callie looked up. "You made it!"

"How are the roads?" Frank called.

"What roads?" Joe quipped, heading over to help Frank with the electronics.

"Nancy, where do you want these?" Chet asked, holding up a particularly large canvas.

"Wow," Nancy said involuntarily, looking at the pile.

"Wow what? You said to bring as much of Iola's work as I could." Chet's freckled face looked anxious, now. "Did I bring the wrong stuff? Should I have brought less?"

"No, Chet, this is fantastic. I just had no idea how many paintings Iola had left."

"One of the boxes is my work," Callie explained. "And they're not all oil paintings. A lot of them are pencil sketches or watercolors."

Nancy knelt between her friends, glancing at the landscape painting on top of the closest box. "Thank you. Both of you. It means so much to me that you were willing to let us borrow these."

"Hey, you can't have a convincing art exhibition with no art," Callie said lightly.

"I'll start hanging stuff if you tell me where it all goes," Chet said.

"The only one the thief will care about is the forged Watson piece," Nancy said thoughtfully. "We'll hang that one back there, where we can get a nice clean camera angle on it. And we can put the rest up in whatever order we want."

"I'll take the forgery, then," Chet said, scrambling to his feet.

"It's on the reception desk!" Callie called after him.

"Are you okay, Cal?" Nancy asked, sorting through a stack of framed watercolors.

"I'm tired today. I'll be fine." Callie leaned in, looking at the pictures as Nancy flipped through them. "I'd almost forgotten how talented she was. Aren't these beautiful?"

Nancy nodded, though her attention was not fully on the artwork. "Please take as many breaks as you want. We have more than enough help here to take care of the heavy lifting," she urged.

"She's right," said Joe, who was passing by with a large electronics case. "All you have to do it sit back and tell us where to hang things."

"I wouldn't feel right doing that!" Callie protested.

"Joe, where did you put the pliers?" Frank yelled from the far corner.

"You had them last!" Joe yelled back, heading toward his toolbox.

Nancy gathered a few frames and stood up. "Seriously. Go easy on yourself," she told Callie, and moved toward the exhibition area to hang her selected pieces. The tension she had felt earlier was beginning to creep back around the edges of her consciousness. Their thief- their killer-- knew where the painting was, now. The trap could spring at any moment between now and the "close of exhibition" Tuesday evening.

At least we're ready for him, this time, she thought. Last time, Diarmid had caught her off guard, and she had still managed to fight him off. He would have no chance this time around.

The piece she was hanging caught her eye, suddenly: a pen-and-ink portrait of a much younger Joe, drawn with tender, meticulous strokes which betrayed the artist's love for her subject. Nancy did not have to look for a signature to know that this was Iola's work rather than Callie's. She felt a stab of jealousy, followed swiftly by remorse. Iola was dead. Nancy would not, could not, begrudge her the happiness she had shared with Joe.

Nancy glanced over at Joe, wondering, for the first time, what effect being surrounded by his dead girlfriend's artwork was having on him. But Joe seemed unburdened by these artifacts from his past. He and Frank were completely absorbed in getting their cameras set up. Both brothers were leaning over a tangle of wires and tools. Joe was gesturing and Frank was nodding and reaching for a screwdriver. It was a nice little picture of the bond between them and of their seamless working relationship, forged by years of joint detective work. Though this was Frank's day off, he had yet to utter one word of complaint about being here. Joe needed him, so here he was. Touched, Nancy turned back to her work.

The morning passed quickly. Nancy was just stepping back to admire the last painting she had hung, one of Callie's watercolors, when Chet approached her.

"Want to get out of here for a couple minutes?" he said. "I'm making a deli run. We're about finished here and I sure could use some lunch."

"That sounds really good," Nancy told him. "Just let me grab my purse."

"I have it right here," he said, handing it to her. "And I already asked everyone what they want. Let's go."

"You don't waste any time!" Nancy said, laughing.

"Is there something wrong with being efficient?"

"No. It's a good thing."

The temperature had dropped, and it was still snowing steadily. Nancy hopped up into the passenger seat of Chet's beloved jalopy and tried to relax, despite the springs which were threatening to poke through the upholstery.

"Your next project has got to be new seats for the old girl," she told Chet, who was easing the temperamental old car into gear.

"Yeah, yeah," Chet said dismissively.

There was silence for a few moments. Then Nancy impulsively spoke. "How did you know I needed a break?"

"I saw your face when you hung that portrait, earlier." Chet shrugged. "You guys never give me any credit. I've hung around detectives long enough for some of your habits to rub off on me."

"I'm sorry, Chet. I hope you don't think I feel resentful of Iola's artwork."

Chet was quiet for a moment, and his face was thoughtful. "I know what it's like, living up to her," he said finally. "I was in her shadow even when she was alive. I was the fat kid with the weird hobbies. She was popular, and talented, and pretty. And then, after...you know...well, dead people can do no wrong, you know?"

Nancy nodded. "I know."

"My parents didn't intend to, to canonize her," Chet said, giving the steering wheel a thump to underline his choice of words. "But that's how it is. Saint Iola. Her old bedroom is one big shrine. But, Nancy, Joe doesn't worship her. He used to come by and sit in there and, I don't know, cry, or talk to her, or something. But he hasn't done that in years. He's made his peace with her. I don't know if you have."

"Sometimes I feel like I'm intruding," Nancy confessed. "She was my friend, too. And today, surrounded by her work and hearing you and Callie reminisce about the paintings, I felt really uncomfortable. I wonder what she would think about me and Joe."

"I think she'd be glad he found someone like you," Chet said, pulling into the deli's parking lot. "We all are. When he was with Vanessa, you could tell she was trying to change him. He talked differently, like he was filtering himself, and he sold his motorcycle and started smoking. With you, he's the same guy I grew up with, except he doesn't spend every weekend at a bar."

"Okay." Nancy took a deep breath and unbuckled her seatbelt. "That helps." She looked over at Chet. "What about you? Are you all right?"

"I made my peace a long time ago," Chet said. Nancy could tell that was all he wanted to say on the matter. She let the subject drop.