No Hope In New Hope (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 7) (4 page)

Chapter 12

A Not So Lucid Lunch At Logan’s Inn

I’d chosen a burger with lettuce, tomato and mayo, no roll. Clay ordered his on a roll with everything on it. We both added a side salad then, after grinning at each other, we ordered Italian garlic dressing.

Two garlics cancel out each other.

We were having lunch at the Logan Inn, located near the center of New Hope. The weather was nice so we opted to eat outside on the patio overlooking River Road. Across the street behind all the stores ran the Delaware.

“So what do you think of Worth Gallery?” Clay asked.

I took a sip of my ice tea and nodded. “It’s okay…”

He laughed. “I hear a
but
in that statement.”

“Does Blondie, I mean
Anne,
come with the package?”

“Would that be a problem for you?” he asked.

You know, sometimes I questioned his sanity.
“Yes.”

“Do I hear some kind of jealousy lurking?”

I sat there thinking then smirked:
…jealousy?

“Not unless she has an Amazon bestseller.”

Clay burst out laughing. “How’d I exist before you?”

“I’m sure the word mundane played a key role.”

“You’ve certainly spiced things up for me.”

“Ditto. And as long as I don’t get heartburn, I’m good.”

Just then a woman approached, saying, “Excuse me.”

We both looked up from our burgers.

“Yes?” Clay asked, politely.

Scowling, she said, “You’re running Worth Gallery?”

Clay and I exchanged a curious look.
What the…

“He’s helping some friends out for a week,” I offered.

Clay smiled smoothly. “Why, is there a problem?”

“I guess it’s now yours.”

“Exactly what do you mean?” I said protectively.

Her eyes bored into me. “How do
you
play in this?”

I glanced at Clay. “I’m not sure, how do I, big guy?”

Then I glanced back at her. She was a little over five feet tall, short black hair, I’d guess late thirties, dressed in jeans, sweater and Tori Birch flats: sort of trendy, but her purse was on the shabby side. Lean and mean came to my mind, with an emphasis on angry.
What gives?

As usual, Clay was handling this with aplomb, while I was emotionally torn between being protective of him, jealous of her and wary of her possible threatening attitude.

“Can we help you?” I asked her guardedly.

She set her purse down on our table and unzipped it then reached inside. Being gun shy, I flinched.

Clay reacted instantly. “Now, wait just a minute…”

The woman paused, her hand still in her purse. “What?”

She began pulling her hand out. We both edged our chairs backward, getting ready to jump up. She looked puzzled by our actions then laughed.

“You two didn’t think I’d do anything rash, did you?”

My eyes shot to Clay’s then back to her.
Who was this?

Chapter 13

It Had Crossed Our Minds

“It had crossed our minds,” said Clay, breathing a little easier after Helen pulled out some papers instead of a gun.

I leaned back and relaxed. “You had us worried there for a moment. Who are you?”

“I’m Helen Costner and am at the end of my rope.”

She looked at each of us. “What kind of people are you used to dealing with?”

“Some unsavory ones, to say the least,” offered Clay.

“Good! Then I guess you might be able to help me.”

Clay pushed his plate to the side, curious. “With what?”

I did the same then leaned in to try and read her papers. She caught my move and flipped them over.
Ah, trust…

She grabbed a chair and sat down. “Mind if I join you?”

My intimate lunch, poof!
“I believe you already have.”

Clay kicked me under the table then smiled. “Sure.”

Helen eyed Clay. “I heard you investigate. True?”

Clay glanced at me then back to her. “Your reason?”

Now,
she
hesitated. “Well I…”

I smiled. “He’s a bottom-line kind of guy and touchy.”

That got me another subtle kick. I switched positions so he couldn’t reach me next time I opened my mouth.

“Well, before I show you anything, I need to know how much you actually know about art,” she asked Clay.

Clay glanced at me warily then to her.

I was about to say something, but he grabbed my hand.

Hard.

Not fast enough to evade his reach, I bit my lip.

Clay replied, “…Enough. I
am
running the gallery.”

“I need to know that I can trust you implicitly too.”

“Would seeing my PI license make you feel better?”

Her eyes brightened. “Yes, it would.”

Clay grabbed his wallet and flipped it open.

After carefully eyeing his ID, she smiled then batted her eyelashes at him. “You’re much better-looking in person.”

I kicked Clay a
no-flirting
warning shot under the table.

Wincing, he then leaned toward Helen. “Thanks.”

I’d seen enough.
“Helen, what can we do for you?”

She looked back and forth at us. “You’re a team?”

Clay beat me to it. “She has helped me on a few cases.”

Ha! The man was lost without me
. “Yes, and my crew!”

Confused, Helen said, “Crew? There are more of you?”

I leaned back. “I’m afraid so.”

Helen became nervous: half getting up. “Well I…”

Clay tossed me a look. “Helen, please sit. Whatever you have to say can be said in front of Samantha, my—my…”

We had commitment issues.
“Trusted co-worker,” I said.

Clay gave me a grateful smile. I smiled back giving him another kick under the table just for good measure.

“We’re so good we read each other’s minds,” I added.

Clay grimaced. “Can you read mine right now, Sam?”

I could, but I can’t repeat it on this page.

Chapter 14

Getting Down To Business

Helen’s gaze swung from me then settled on Clay. “As I was saying, I need someone I can trust implicitly.”

“Why is that, Helen?” Clay asked.

“If I don’t get results, I’m liable to kill someone.”

Both Clay and I sat up straighter. She was dead serious.

“Isn’t that a little extreme?” I asked.

She sighed. “This involves big bucks…mine.”

“How big?” Clay asked.

“Try ten thousand dollar’s worth of bucks.”

Clay whistled. “And what was this for?”

She gave a frustrated sigh. “I believe we’re talking art!”

This was worse than talking to Martha.

“Oil or watercolor?” I asked.

She snapped an annoyed look at me.

I leaned away from her. “Details would help.”

Her shoulders slumped. “It was oil on canvas.”

“And how does this involve us?” Clay asked.

Those switched packing labels!
“Are you the nude?”

“Nude? You’re not making any sense,” Helen said.

Welcome to the club, lady.

“Where is
my
painting?” Helen continued.

I tried again. “…
Your
painting?”

“Yes!”

Helen then turned to Clay. “Is she always this slow?”

Enjoying this, Clay was about to retort, but I gave him another swift kick and an,
‘I don’t think so’
eye warning.

Then Helen turned back to me. “What about it?”

I shouldn’t, but asked anyway. “How would we know?”

She threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said.

I smiled sweetly. “Ditto, Helen.”

Clay gently touched her arm. “How about starting over.”

“Yes, from the beginning if you don’t mind,” I said.

Helen deflated and sighed, “I’ve been screwed.”

I gently patted her hand. “Here or somewhere else.”

Clay started to object to my poor choice of words, but Helen held up her hand. “It’s okay. No offense taken. I’m beginning to understand how she thinks. It was here.”

I smiled brightly. “I knew we’d hit it off, Helen.”

“Please call me Lenny, all my friends do.”

We shook hands. “And you can call me, Sam.”

Helen turned to Clay. “And what can I call you?”

He was about to tell her he didn’t have a nickname, but I jumped in with, “Oh, he has several that come to mind.”

Clay reached across the table for my hand, but I smartly pulled it back. He then turned away from me. “Lenny, why don’t you tell us what we have here?”

“First, can I get a refund?” she asked.

Bewildered, Clay said, “Because you never got it?”

“Oh, I have it alright!” she said.

Back to square one.
I smiled. “Lenny, are you hungry?”

Chapter 15

The Bare Essentials

Back at the gallery, Clay and I sipped coffee, sitting on the leather wingchairs in front of the fireplace, while Abby and Anne took separate late lunches. We were trying to fill in the gaps from Helen’s, I mean Lenny’s bizarre story.

The essence of what transpired at lunch with Lenny was that she had purchased a painting that was on gallery consignment. But when it was delivered to her, it wasn’t what she had bought. It
was
identical
with one exception.

Clay had asked Lenny how could she tell the difference, and she explained the woman’s shoes in the painting were different than the original: their shade of black was off. She bragged she has a photographic memory and knew her art.

Clay was mystified. “…The color black was off?”

“Trust me Clay, when it comes to shoe colors a woman notices, especially at ten thousand a pop,” I said.

“Lenny claimed the Worths’ confirmed they personally shipped it out themselves that day before they left.”

I leaned forward. “If true, it’s troubling.”

Clay fisted his hands under his chin. “…Yes, to me too.”

I pondered the possibilities in play. None of them were positive. “These are your friends. Are forgeries possible?”

“Shoes or not, it can’t be a forgery. She’s mistaken.”

“And if she’s not? You can’t call Alicia and Chris. After their delay, they’re just now flying to London. Think this through first.
You’d not only be notifying them…”

Staring off, Clay’s head snapped in my direction.

I added, “…You’d be alerting them you
suspect them.”

Disturbed, he still insisted, “Lenny must be mistaken.”

I repeated. “And if she isn’t?” I then explained about the elaborate security that their house had inside and outside, the gun cabinet in their basement and all that ammunition. I described their packing station room with the lock. “Maybe we should snoop around. It might tell us something more.”

“Your mystery-writer’s mind is overthinking this, Sam.”

“Why not find out where this goes, before they get back in a week or so? If it’s an inside job, we’re in place to help. If we’re off-base, no one’s hurt, including your friendship.”

“I feel like we’re jumping the gun though,” said Clay.

“Better safe than sorry. Do you want to tip your hand to them that you’re onto their possible illegal activity?”

“That would be a real friendship killer, wouldn’t it?”

“Before you invest cold hard cash, let’s make sure.”

“And if this Lenny is wrong?” he asked.

“She showed us the before and after photos.”

“I’m not taking her word alone. We need to follow up.”

“Who else is involved in the running of the gallery?”

“So far we have Abby in shipping and Anne,” he said.

I nodded. “…Who happens to be an art restorer, right?”

“And your meaning is…?”

“If she’s a restorer, she must be one hell of an artist.”

But that was way too obvious, wasn’t it? …Can’t be.