Faking It

  “How about now?” Tilda shuddered because he felt so good. “How about here? Oh, God, I can’t believe you’re here, I want you now.”

  “Right, you and closets,” Davy whispered.

  “We should build a closet in the attic,” Tilda said and bit his ear.

  “Ouch,” Davy said, and tightened his arms around her.

  “You are moving in, right?” Tilda whispered, pulling away a little. “We are living in the attic? You’re okay staying with my family?”

  “Yes,” Davy said, but he seemed distracted. “I’m okay with the attic, the family, and you. Can you hear what they’re talking about out there?”

  Tilda moved back to him. “The hell with them. Take me now.”

  He leaned toward the closet door. “Believe me, I want to, but I think that’s Mason out there with Clea, so if you could—”

  “Do we care?” Tilda whispered, pressing closer.

  “I don’t, but there may be some stuff going on out there I’m not getting.”

  “I’ll give you some stuff.” She kissed his neck.

  “Yes, you will. But—”

  “Do me now, against this wall,” Tilda whispered, only half-kidding.

  “Do you mind?” somebody whispered, and Tilda jerked in surprise just as Davy tightened his grip on her.

  “Rabbit?” Davy said, turning around in the dark.

  “Your financial manager’s in this closet?” Tilda whispered.

  “It’s bad enough I have to listen to what’s going on out there,” Rabbit said, his voice bleak with betrayal. “I don’t need to listen to people talking dirty in here.”

  “You think that was dirty?” Davy said. “Rabbit, you have no idea—”

  “I heard everything you said to her,” Rabbit said.

  “I didn’t say anything dir—”

  “That woman is a gold digger,” Rabbit said.

  “Considering where her hand is, I don’t think my money is what she’s after.”

  “He’s talking about Clea,” Tilda said to Davy.

  “That’s all she ever wanted was the money,” Rabbit went on, pain in his voice.

  “Oh, Clea,” Davy said. “Hell, yes, she’s a gold digger. You’re just noticing that now?”

  “I loved her,” Rabbit said.

  “Well, then it doesn’t matter,” Davy said. “Now could you leave? Because—”

  “She just wanted the money,” Rabbit said sadly.

  “Rabbit, you only want sex,” Davy said. “And God knows, Clea can deliver.”

  “Hey,” Tilda said, “I can deliver.”

  “Yes, you can, but not to Rabbit,” Davy said, and the door opened.

  “What the hell is this?” Mason said.

  “Hi, Mason,” Davy said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, you have good closets.”

  BY THE TIME they were all out of the closet, Mason was speechless, and Davy felt for him. It must have been like watching a clown car at the circus.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Mason said.

  “I think you had to be here,” Davy said.

  “I can explain,” Clea said, and then looked at the three of them standing in front of her closet. “No, I can’t. I have no idea what’s going on.”

  “Tilda,” Mason said. “Honey, what are you doing here?”

  “Delivering paintings,” Tilda said. “Clea bought paintings for you, and she wanted it to be a surprise so ... I hid.” She pointed to the case of paintings leaning against the bed. “See?”

  “Paintings?” Mason said, cheering up.

  Clea slipped her arm through his. “All six Scarlets, darling. They’re my wedding present to you.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Clea,” Mason said, patting her hand but still looking at the paintings. “I know Gwennie will appreciate it, too.”

  “Not your wedding to her,” Clea snarled. “Your wedding to me.”

  “I’m not marrying you,” Mason said. “What’s Davy Dempsey doing in your closet?”

  “He came with me,” Tilda said. “He’s very protective.”

  “What are you doing?” Davy said to Tilda. “Stop trying to save her. Let her rot.”

  “And who is he?” Mason said, pointing to Ronald.

  “I’m Clea’s lover,” Ronald said, looking betrayed. “But that’s all over. She’s only interested in money.”

  “You have a lover?” Mason said to Clea.

  “Not exactly,” Clea said, but then somebody banged on the door, and she brightened. “I’ll just get that.”

  When she opened the door, Gwen was there, looking mad as hell. “Did you know your front door is standing open?” she said to Clea. “That’s dangerous. Anybody could get in here. Like a hit man.” Clea stepped back, and Gwen caught sight of Davy and pushed past her.

  “Thank God, you’re alive,” she said to him.

  “Gwennie!” Mason said, but she ignored him to concentrate on Davy.

  “Listen, you have to get out of here,” she told him. “Clea sent Ford to kill you.”

  “No I didn’t,” Clea said.

  “He’s on his way,” Gwen said. “I delayed him for a little while, but then I fell asleep. He’s probably here already. You have to get out.”

  “Thank you,” Davy said, disentangling her fingers from his shirt. “But that won’t be necessary.”

  “You fell asleep?” Tilda said to Gwen. “Ford was coming to kill him and you fell asleep! What are you, narcoleptic?”

  “It was probably the sex,” Davy said.

  “Sex?” Mason said.

  “He’s just being funny,” Tilda said to Mason.

  “Ford’s going to kill you,” Gwen said to Davy, ignoring them both. “He has a gun. Clea has paid him to kill you and he’s not going to retire until he’s finished.”

  “I did not pay him,” Clea said.

  “Usually she just kills her husbands,” Davy said, “so I don’t—”

  Clea stood up, incandescent with rage. “For the last time, I did not kill my husband. Either one of them. They both died of heart attacks.”

  “Not according to the FBI, they didn’t,” Mason said. “At least Cyril didn’t. He was poisoned.”

  Clea blinked at him. “Somebody poisoned Cyril?”

  “That would be you,” Davy said to her and looked at Mason. “When did you talk to the FBI?”

  “They exhumed the body a couple of weeks ago, according to Thomas.” Mason shook his head. “He told me at the gallery opening Friday night. He said the FBI had evidence that Clea had killed Cyril and had stolen his collection. He seemed serious, but I just can’t stop thinking of him as the caterer.”

  “Why would anybody poison Cyril?” Clea said, outraged past the point of caring. “He was eighty-nine, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Well, there was all the money you inherited,” Davy said, watching her. “Patience has never been your strong suit.”

  “I did not kill—”

  “I believe you,” Tilda said to her. “Just ignore him.”

  “Hey,” Davy said.

  “Well, pay attention,” Tilda said. “Why would she kill him if he was eighty-nine and rich?”

  “He wasn‘t rich,” Clea said, evidently goaded beyond endurance. “He died broke, okay?”

  “Really?” Davy said. “What a disappointment for you. You suppose the warehouse fire you set had anything to do with that?”

  Clea glared at him. “Do I look like somebody who would set a warehouse fire?”

  “No,” Tilda said. “You don’t look like somebody who could light her own cigarette.”

  “It was just my lousy luck,” Clea said miserably. “He was supposed to have all this money and then it turned out he’d spent it on his art collection and then most of that burned—”

  Davy turned back to Mason with renewed interest. “So you talked to Thomas Friday.”

  Mason nodded. “He came to warn me about Clea.”

  “About me?” Clea sat down, almost in
tears. “What did I do?”

  “You know, the list is so long,” Davy said to her.

  “He told me you kill your husbands,” Mason said to Clea. “And that the Homer Hodge you gave me was from the warehouse fire. How did that end up at the gallery? Did you take it there?”

  “What Homer Hodge?” Clea said. “I don’t kill people!”

  “Look,” Mason said. “I have no interest in seeing you in jail, Clea. I’m about to marry the woman I love, and I don’t want to make anybody suffer. If you leave now, I won’t turn you in. The police don’t know what Thomas knew.”

  “Clea, when did he get home on Friday night?” Davy said.

  “After midnight,” Clea said, glaring viciously at Gwen. “Because of her.”

  “She doesn’t know,” Mason said to Davy, dismissing her. “She wasn’t here. She’s just trying to use me as an alibi for Thomas.”

  “What?” Tilda said. “How did you know—” And then Davy stepped on her foot. “Ouch?”

  Mason stayed focused on Gwen. “Look, I can understand why this is confusing, honey, but it’s okay. I’ll take care of everything, even the gallery. We’ll run it together. I’ll be just like Tony.”

  “I don’t want the gallery,” Gwen said. “I hate the damn gallery. I want to get away from the gallery, not be buried there for the rest of my life. I’m sorry, Mason, I’m grateful you paid off the mortgage, but—”

  “What?” Davy said.

  “Mason paid off the mortgage,” Tilda told him. “Don’t interrupt, she’s dumping him.”

  “He didn’t pay off the mortgage,” Davy said. “I did.”

  “You didn’t pay off the mortgage?” Gwen said to Mason.

  “I can explain that,” Mason said to Gwen.

  “You paid off my mortgage?” Tilda said to Davy.

  “No,” Davy said. “That would be presumptuous of me. I paid for the bed and applied the payment to the mortgage.”

  “This should be good,” Gwen said to Mason, crossing her arms. “Explain.”

  “You paid six hundred thousand for a bed?” Tilda said to Davy.

  “Considering what happened on that bed, it was a bargain,” Davy said.

  “I thought it was a mistake at the bank,” Mason said to Gwen. “I was going to go over there and pay it off. I thought—”

  “With what?” Ronald said bitterly. “You’re broke.”

  “What?” Clea said, going beyond outrage now.

  “I was trying to tell you,” Ronald said, looking at her with distaste. “I investigated him when I investigated the Goodnights.”

  “Hello?” Tilda said.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Mason said to Ronald, “but you have no idea of my resources.”

  “Actually,” Davy said to Mason, “he probably has a better idea of your resources than you do. It’s pretty much his thing.”

  “Gwennie.” Mason reached for her hand. “Let’s get out of here, go someplace where we can talk.”

  “No,” Gwen said. “I wasn’t faking about the other guy. I slept with him. I loved it. I plan on doing it again. In Aruba. And I’m going to learn to scuba dive.”

  “Go, Gwennie,” Davy said. “So, Mason—”

  “All right,” Mason said, scowling at them all, clearly going for the Stern Patriarch look. “You people don’t realize the position you’re in, but that’s all right, I do. You could all go to jail for perpetrating a fraud. Gwennie might be willing to go, but she’ll never let Tilda be arrested. And Tilda might go, but she won’t let Gwennie be hurt.” Mason smiled at Gwennie. “And neither will I. We’re getting married, Gwennie, and I’m running the gallery, just like old times.”

  “She cheated on you,” Clea said to him, virtue making her voice shrill. “With a hired killer. Mason, darling—”

  “Pre-wedding jitters,” Mason said, and turned to Tilda. “It’ll be all right, Tilda. I’ll protect you like a father.”

  “The hell you will,” Tilda said to Mason. “I’ve had enough of that.”

  “Of course, Davy’s a different story,” Mason went on. “With his record, they’ll throw away the key and board up his cell.”

  “I don’t know why everybody assumes I have a record,” Davy said to Tilda. “I was actually pretty careful about that.”

  “I think he’s completely out of touch with reality in general,” Tilda said to Davy.

  “I’m serious,” Mason said.

  “Chasing money’ll do that to you,” Davy told Tilda. “Did somebody say he was Cyril’s money manager? Because you can’t trust those guys.”

  “There were extenuating circumstances in my case,” Ronald said.

  “Getting your brains fucked out by a greedy blonde is not an extenuating circumstance,” Davy said to him.

  “Enough,” Mason said. “I’ve made plans and we’re going to follow them.” He nodded at Tilda. “You’re a very good painter, Scarlet. I caught on to that at the gallery opening. You’re going to do a lot more paintings for the gallery.” He turned to Gwen. “It’ll be like old times, Gwennie. You had Tony, and now you have me.”

  “Mason,” Gwen said. “It’s not happening.”

  “Yes it is,” Mason said, leaning back and folding his arms.

  “Oh, look, he thinks he has something,” Davy said to Tilda. “He never does, but he’s always optimistic. Terrible poker player.”

  “I have something,” Mason said. “I’ve found Homer Hodge.”

  “Who?” Tilda said.

  “And he’s not happy about your daughter pretending to be Scarlet,” Mason went on to Gwen.

  “What?” Gwen said.

  “So I’ve talked him out of having you arrested—”

  “You miserable little rat,” Gwen said, glaring at him. “You did not talk to Homer. The only one who talks to Homer is me. And he thinks you’re a jerk. And a liar. And boring in bed.”

  Mason took a step back.

  “And a murderer, I bet,” Tilda said. “Although if you hit Thomas, you’re not a very good one.”

  “You’re all bluffing,” Mason said, recouping. “Well, I’m calling. You have nothing. Game’s over.”

  “I don’t think they’re bluffing,” Davy said. “And even if they are, we have an ace in the hole. Or in the hall.”

  “Damn, boy, you’re usually a better poker player than this,” Ford said from the doorway.

  “Nope,” Davy said without turning around. “I’m just putting my cards on the table. Arrest him. Or if I’ve got it wrong and Clea really did hire you to kill me, shoot him.”

  “I did not hire him to kill you,” Clea said.

  “She pretty much left that part up in the air,” Ford said. “I tried my damnedest, but she never would come right out and say it. It was Rabbit who hired me. Through his Bureau connections.” He shook his head at Rabbit. “What were you thinking?”

  Davy turned to Ronald. “You put out a hit on me?”

  “Not exactly,” Ronald said, shifting away from him.

  Davy looked at Clea. “You know that second condition, about not killing him? Forget it. Have at him.”

  “I don’t know who you are,” Mason said to Ford, “but get out of my house.” He nodded at Clea. “And take her with you.”

  “No, thanks,” Ford said. “The Columbus police are on the way to arrest you. Thomas finally came to, and you’re the last thing he remembers.”

  “Whoops,” Tilda said to Mason.

  “So I’m just watching things until the cops get here,” Ford said. “I was kind of hoping you’d all keep talking so I wouldn’t have to mention that.” He looked at Gwen. “Especially you. Aruba?”

  “The Columbus police?” Gwen said to Ford. “You called the police? Who are you?”

  “I think he’s the FBI,” Davy said to Gwen. “The only real one in the bunch. You finally picked a winner.”

  “Mason killed Cyril?” Clea said, more perplexed than upset. Then she perked up. “To get me?”

  “Pay attentio
n,” Davy said to Clea. “Mason burned an empty warehouse so he could steal Cyril’s art collection and sell it. I’m guessing Thomas figured it out and confronted him, and Mason bashed him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mason said, but he sounded too confused to be convincing.

  “I told you he was broke,” Ronald muttered to Clea. “People don’t realize how hard it is to sell art.”

  “The hell we don’t,” Tilda said with feeling.

  “You’re FBI?” Gwen said to Ford, focusing on the essentials.

  “Well, there’s Thomas the Caterer, too,” Tilda said to Gwen.

  “Thomas the Caterer is not FBI,” Ford said to Tilda. “We have some pride. He’s Cyril Lewis’s grandson.”

  “Cyril had a grandson?” Clea said to Ford.

  “I slept with the FBI?” Gwen said to the room in general.

  “Not all of it,” Davy said to Gwen. “Just him.”

  “Mason killed Cyril, Thomas was stalking me because he thought I did it, and Ford’s the FBI?” Clea said to Davy.

  “That’s about it,” Davy said.

  “Oh, well, that’s just fine.” Clea looked around the room, so mad she was spitting. “All of you people are just—” Her voice broke off as she searched for the word.

  “Liars and cheats?” Tilda said.

  “Yes,” Clea said, and turned to Ronald, putting her hand on his arm. “Ronald, darling, these people are horrible.”

  “Just what you deserve,” Ronald said.

  “Ronald,” Clea said, her beautiful eyes filling with beautiful tears as she moved closer. “How could you?”

  Ronald cleared his throat. “Well...”

  “After all we’ve been to each other,” she said, pressing against him. “After all our plans for the future.”

  Ronald whimpered.

  “Go for it, Rabbit,” Davy said. “Only the good die young. You’re covered.”

  Clea smiled up at Ronald, and Ronald sighed.

  “I just want to make it clear,” Tilda said, casting a cautious look Ford’s way, “that if we get out of this unjailed, we’re all going straight.” She smiled at Ford as honestly as she could fake. “Really.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Ford said as official-sounding feet started up the stairs. “I’m taking your mother to Aruba.”

  “WELL, THAT was interesting,” Davy said, following Tilda up the stairs to the attic an hour later.