Grace Takes Off (9 page)

AFTER THE PILOT AND CO-PILOT CAME
through to say hello and to assure us of a safe flight home, we were off. The guy
with the drumsticks had pulled them out and maintained a constant, albeit quiet, rhythm
on his thigh, nearby pillows, whatever he had handy. Bennett tuned him out, and I
was surprised to find the patter rather soothing. Drunken Jeff managed to remain sound
asleep—as evidenced by his cabin-shattering snores—but only until we reached an altitude
where seat belts could be undone.

Awakened by the pilot’s announcement, he gripped the back of my seat to pull himself
up to standing. I turned to see his florid face hovering over my headrest. “Where
are we?”

His warbling cry and yellowed, bloodshot eyes told me he hadn’t actually sobered up
yet.

“Sit down,” Adam called from farther back. “And be quiet. I’m trying to read.” I twisted
to look. Adam leaned back in his oversized chair, one arm braced behind his head,
his free hand holding a fat hardcover, reading glasses perched on his nose. If I didn’t
know he was the leader of a rock band, I would have taken him for a dad on vacation,
or a college professor enjoying a little downtime.

Rudy hurried over to Jeff, easing the bewildered man back into his seat as his companions
laughed among themselves then resumed whatever quiet conversations they’d been enjoying
before the interruption.

Evelyn came around behind Rudy to talk to me and Bennett. “We’re serving dinner on
this flight, as you know.” She handed us each a printed menu card from a small stack
she held close to her chest. “We have a wonderful menu, and all I’ll need is for you
to make your preferences known.”

She started to move to address the next row of travelers, including Jeff, but held
up a finger as though suddenly remembering. “I have food allergy information on file
for most of the group, but I don’t have that information handy for either of you.”
She wagged her finger at us. “Be sure to let me know soon.”

Bennett was way ahead of her. He tapped the menu. “I can tell you already that I don’t
want asparagus.” Continuing to tap, he added, “I think I’ll enjoy this pasta primavera,
but without the asparagus.”

“Got it,” Evelyn said, jotting down a note. “Anything else?” She looked to me then
back to Bennett, who had relaxed again.

“That’s it,” he said. “I’ll eat almost anything else.” One brow arched. “Almost. But
asparagus?” He shook his head, frowning. “Won’t touch the stuff.”

“Millie won’t eat asparagus, either,” Matthew chimed in. Hearing her name, the collie
regarded Matthew with devoted dark eyes. He and most of the others had taken spots
on the long sofa. Matthew stroked the dog’s back with obvious affection, talking about
her the way parents often brag about their kids’ antics. “You should see her pick
the pieces out and drop them next to her food bowl.” He laughed. “It’s hilarious.”

Pinky had separated herself from the group by taking a seat beyond the sofa. Although
I could tell that she had been listening in on the conversation, she stared out the
plane window with an expression so forlorn that it was obvious she wanted to be anywhere
but here.

Matthew rubbed Millie’s face. “You know exactly what you want, don’t you, girl?”

Millie barked in happy response. Pinky sent the dog a scathing look of contempt before
resuming her lonely gaze.

“You feed her table food then?” Bennett twisted his chair all the way around. “Is
that healthy for a dog?”

“Yeah,” Matthew assured him. “Only the best for my girl here. Organically grown, pesticide-free.
I want to keep her around for a good, long time.”

I could have sworn Pinky snorted at that. Matthew must have heard it, too, because
he turned to her briefly before returning to our conversation. “So what do you do
back in North Carolina?” Matthew asked us. “Are you two, uh, together?”

Bennett told Matthew all about Marshfield Manor and how I’d been hired as assistant
curator just over a year ago. He left out any mention of the murder that saw me promoted
from assistant to full curator and estate manager, but he gave a succinct overview
of our tourist business and hinted about the treasures we shared with visitors.

“I’ve heard of Marshfield,” Matthew said. “Been meaning to visit there, but haven’t
gotten around to it.”

Matthew told us that SlickBlade had been contracted to open for a big-name group at
an upcoming concert but declined to mention the group’s name.

“You’re not into heavy metal, are you?” he asked.

“Not especially. I’m more classic rock. Some heavy metal is okay—”

He smiled. “Don’t worry. That’s why there are so many varieties of music out there.
Not everything appeals to everyone. You’d probably be surprised to find out that I
enjoy operettas, wouldn’t you?”

I was.

“Gilbert and Sullivan,” Matthew said. “Can’t get enough of them.”

Delighted to discover a fellow fan, Bennett jumped into the conversation and soon
the two men were discussing their favorite productions and even occasionally singing
a lyric or two. I listened, joining their animated conversation from time to time.
Behind us, Adam read, Jeff tried to go back to sleep, Pinky fumed, and the other travelers
chitchatted among themselves. Through all of this, Evelyn made sure our drinks were
refreshed and that we had all the snacks we needed. She went out of her way to see
to everyone’s needs, quietly reminding Rudy that he was on board to work, not to socialize.

The cheerful cabin steward had been finding plenty of opportunity to stop by and talk
with the two women who’d come on board. Although I hadn’t learned their names, I knew
that they were part of the band’s crowd. They weren’t cruel, but it was clear they
had no interest in befriending Pinky, who had apparently latched onto soft-touch Matthew
at the very last minute. Once aboard, however, her interest in the musician had dwindled,
as had the group’s interest in her. Maybe she’d seen this as an opportunity for a
cheap ride home. I couldn’t decide what her story was, and truth be told, I didn’t
care.

“May I get you another?” Evelyn asked Bennett with a wide smile as she pointed to
his nearly empty glass. “We still have a long ride ahead of us.”

Bennett picked up what was left of his Manhattan, drained it, and handed the glass
to her. “One more,” he said. “It’ll help me sleep. After dinner I’ll be dead to the
world.”

I winced, hoping no one noticed. Referring to death so lightly always sent a zing
up the back of my neck. Personal quirk.

Evelyn winked. “You’ve got it.” She turned to me. “Another lemonade?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks.”

Pinky spoke up. “I could use another drink.”

I didn’t make it a habit to monitor another’s alcohol intake, but I was pretty certain
Pinky had downed her third, and was now requesting a fourth. Maybe she’d been thirsty
and had been enjoying lemonade, too, but the woman’s glassy eyes made me doubt that.
Evelyn plucked the proffered glass from her chubby hand and asked, “Death in the Afternoon,
right?”

Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “That’s the name of the drink?”

Pinky glared. “Don’t get so high and mighty. I’ll have you know that Ernest Hemingway
invented it. He named it after one of his books.”

“Oh,” was the best I could manage. “And is it any good?”

“It’s powerful,” she said, “and doesn’t make my brain foggy the way whiskey does.”

“Good to know,” I said politely, but she had already returned to staring out the window.
I shot Bennett a “Whoops!” expression, which Matthew also caught. He waved a hand
as though to dismiss my concerns. For two people who’d arrived together, they hardly
behaved like a couple.

Delicious scents wafted our way from the rear of the plane—dinner would be served
in less than an hour—and Matthew decided that it would be a good opportunity to allow
Millie to visit the area of the plane that had been identified for her special needs
in flight. He excused himself. Pinky watched them go, readjusting herself in her seat,
looking as though she might need to use the human facilities herself.

I crossed the aisle and pulled the hidden jump seat out from the wall in front of
Bennett. Evelyn dropped off his fresh Manhattan. Finally alone, he and I would be
able to talk privately—relatively speaking—for the first time since we had arrived
at Villa Pezzati. Without hesitation, I pounced on the big question that had been
troubling me since our visit to his friend’s in-house gallery the day before.

I kept my voice low but found it impossible to keep my anticipation level down. “What
was up with that Picasso skull?”

Bennett glanced around the plane’s cabin. Though luxurious and comfortably sized,
it was still close quarters. He inched forward in his seat, then leaned toward me,
elbows on his knees, drink in both hands. “It’s a fake.”

I’d expected him to tell me he had doubts about the piece’s authenticity. I hadn’t
expected an unequivocal declaration. “Are you sure?”

He swirled his drink, sending a nonchalant glance around to ensure no one was listening.
“Right here”—he tapped a spot just behind his right ear, where he’d indicated for
me to look when I’d held it—“the real skull has a scratch.” He took a deep sip of
his drink, then amended, “More like a chink, actually. A deep one, roughly in the
shape of a
P
. When Nico first acquired it, we discussed—at length—whether it had been left there
intentionally or if the skull had suffered some damage in its travels. I’m sure you
noticed that the skull at Nico’s home had no such mark.”

“Could it have—?”

Bennett anticipated my question. “The indentation was too deep to have been buffed
out.” He gave a vehement head shake. “That’s beside the point, though. Nico would
never have changed it. Never.”

The enormity of what he was saying took a moment to sink in. “Have you said anything
to Nico?”

“How could I? We were never alone long enough for me to bring up the subject. And
when I asked to visit the gallery again, I was accompanied by Gianfranco and Cesare.
I couldn’t spend any additional time with the skull because I thought my curiosity
might look suspicious and I didn’t know who to trust. I used my time there to take
a closer look at some of the other pieces on display.”

“And?” I was afraid of what he might say next.

The ice in Bennett’s drink made soft clinking sounds against the glass as he swirled
it again. “There is at least one more counterfeit piece in there. I’m sure of it.
My guess is that there are more that have been replaced by forgeries. More than can
be identified via my quick cursory examination. If it hadn’t been for the skull—an
item with which I’m intimately familiar—I never would have even thought to look.”

“This is terrible news for Nico,” I said. “Someone close to him is stealing.”

Bennett gave a solemn nod. “Whoever switched it took great pains to make a copy—a
too-perfect copy. It’s a huge endeavor and I would bet my entire fortune that whoever
did this didn’t act alone and didn’t act without power. You saw Angelo. He could snap
either one of us in half if he had a mind to it.”

“You think Angelo’s behind it?”

“I don’t know what to think.” Bennett set his drink down, staring at me with intense
concentration. “All I can say for certain is that Nico trusts too blithely. There
are far too many individuals with access to his treasures. Cesare could easily have
made the substitution during one of his visits. There’s too much to consider.”

“What should we do?”

He lowered his voice even further, despite the fact that no one paid us any attention.
“We,”
he said, emphasizing the word, “aren’t going to do anything. You have a knack for
getting into dangerous situations. I don’t intend to let anything happen to you this
time. I’ll handle it.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Bennett, please. We’ll be home soon and far away
from scary Angelo or slimy Cesare. I can help without endangering myself.”

“I’ve had time to think about this. I can’t move forward, can’t make any allegations
without proof to back them up.”

“Do you have proof?”

Matthew and Millie returned, interrupting us. Matthew took in a deep, appreciative
breath. “Smell that, girl,” he said to Millie, who stared up at him, pink tongue hanging
out, and dark eyes full of love. “Dinner smells like it’s almost ready.”

Millie scooted around Matthew’s legs just as Pinky grabbed her purse and got to her
feet, apparently deciding to use the facilities after all. Despite the plane’s extra
personal width, the quarters were compact. As Matthew reclaimed his seat, we hit an
unexpected moment of turbulence. Millie let out a high-pitched yelp of pain. Pinky
jumped back.

Millie lifted one white paw and whimpered.

“Watch out,” Matthew said, bending down to check her.

Pinky blinked. “Not my fault. What do you expect on a plane like this? It’s built
for people, not animals.”