“You’re a good friend, Lynda,” Sharon said. “And a pathetic optimist.”
“Let’s hope I’m a good lawyer. Ben’s gonna need one.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Eric Boudreaux sat in his opulent suite at the Tampa Biltmore, studying the stock quotes in the newspaper that had been delivered to his suite that morning. His appointment was in less than two hours, but he still hadn’t heard from Louis Dubose.
The television news droned in the corner. Occasionally, he glanced up to see if anything interested him.
“. . . art gallery owner Louis Dubose . . .”
Startled, Boudreaux looked up at the screen to see the face of the man he had never met before, except by phone. Leaning forward, he grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.
“. . . was found dead after being shot in the back. Police sources say the gun, which was found in a dumpster near the gallery, was registered to Benjamin L. Robinson, a local artist who was residing in the gallery. According to sources, Robinson was fired and evicted the day of the murder . . .”
Eric listened, stunned, trying to follow the words, but all he was certain of was that Dubose was dead. How could that be?
He had flown from France for this very appointment, anxious to get his hands on the prize that would make him even richer than he already was. If Dubose was dead—
The phone rang, and he snatched it up. “Boudreaux,” he said in his heavy French accent.
“Yes, Mr. Boudreaux,” a voice said cheerily. “So nice to hear your voice. I trust your flight was a good one?”
Boudreaux frowned. “Who is this?”
“My name is John Lieber, and I’m a close friend and colleague of Louis Dubose. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Boudreaux looked back at the screen, but a commercial was playing now. “Yes. The murder.”
“The murder,” the man said sadly. “You’ve heard the news, then. Our friend was murdered brutally. A terrible thing. So unexpected.”
Boudreaux was quiet. Dubose had not mentioned another contact, although Boudreaux had suspected that he wasn’t involved in this business alone. He would act cautiously, he thought. It was difficult to trust Americans, and he did not like doing business with them.
“I was Dubose’s partner in our little enterprise,” the man said. “And I see no reason that it can’t go on as planned. I’d still like to meet with you and make the exchange.”
“You have it?” Boudreaux asked hopefully, his thick eyebrows arching.
“It’s in a safe place,” Lieber said. “It may take me a short while to secure it.”
“How long?” Boudreaux asked. “I must return to France.”
“Just another day or two. I give you my word it will be worth your time. After all, you didn’t come all this way just to return home empty-handed.”
Boudreaux considered that for a moment. He couldn’t take the chance of walking into a trap. He had an impeccable reputation, and no one had ever suspected him of being involved in anything that wasn’t legal. What if somehow he had come under suspicion, and international art detectives were setting him up? Things weren’t going smoothly enough. Yet he wanted what he had come here for . . .
“How . . .” He tried to put the words together correctly. “How may I trust you?”
“You have to trust me,” Lieber said, “because I have the greatest find in the art world this century. If you don’t trust me, you’ll lose out.”
Boudreaux nodded slightly, but didn’t say a word.
“Please. Just stay where you are for another day or, at the most, two. I’ll be back in touch as soon as we can make the exchange. Dubose would have wanted it this way. He wouldn’t have wanted this sale to be jeopardized because of some unfortunate circumstances.”
Boudreaux wasn’t convinced. His instincts all screamed for him to get on the plane and head back out of the country. But Lieber was right. This was the find of the century.
“I will stay until I hear from you,” he said grudgingly. “If I do not hear within two days, I will leave.”
“Fair enough,” the man said. “I’ll be in touch. And Mr. Boudreaux? You won’t regret this.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The children were missing.
While the others were looking inside, Ben went out back to see if they were in the yard. The little tree house nestled in the oak in the backyard was a new development since he’d last been here. Sharon had hired someone to build it for Christy because she loved to climb.
But building a tree house was the father’s job. He should have been the one to design and execute it, and that bothered Ben as he peered up the ladder. It looked sound enough, though. The truth is, he probably couldn’t have done a better job. But it was the principle of the thing. If Sharon had asked him, he’d have built the little house.
On the other hand, Anne would have probably had a fit about his being over here at all, and it would have gotten too complicated . . .
Sharon had probably done the right thing. Christy deserved a tree house. She shouldn’t have to deal with the divorce fallout every time she wanted something. Besides, her mother could afford it. Despite the financial pit Ben had left her in, Sharon had thrived since the divorce. She had a way of always bouncing back. No matter how bad things looked, good things came out of it for her. She was lucky that way.
His luck hadn’t been so good.
He heard crying in the tree house. Gripping the rungs, he slowly started up the ladder. He got to the hatch at the bottom and knocked lightly on the floor of the house. “Anybody home?”
The hatch opened and Christy’s wet, red face greeted him. “Come in, Daddy. We’re crying.”
The announcement almost amused him, but when he pulled himself in, the sight broke his heart. Christy moved back to sit by Emily. They both sat Indian style, holding hands as they wept.
“What’s wrong, girls?” he asked softly.
They looked at each other. “Nothing.”
Ben climbed farther up into the tree house and tested the boards to see if it would hold him. It had been well built, he admitted. But these days Sharon did everything first-class. She had the money to.
He sat down on the floor next to Christy, and Emily climbed into his lap. He pulled Christy up onto his other leg and held both of his children tight. “Now, tell Daddy what’s wrong.”
“It was the news, Daddy,” Christy said. “They said you killed Mr. Dubose.”
“You know I didn’t. You do know that, don’t you?”
“But we’re scared.”
“You know Daddy didn’t kill anybody, don’t you?” he asked again.
Both of the girls nodded, and fresh tears rolled down their faces. Ben buried his face in Christy’s hair.
“Girls, this is the worst time in Daddy’s life. Sometimes things just don’t go like you plan. But I didn’t kill Mr. Dubose, and I’m gonna find out who did, and it’s gonna be okay. Let’s look at the good side,” he said, trying to cheer his daughters up. “We’re all here in the same house together.”
“But Mommy hates Miss Sharon,” Emily said, rubbing her eyes.
Ben shook his head, saddened by the complications adults, in their weakness, throw at the children who depend on them. He kissed his youngest daughter’s cheek. “Honey, it’s just real hard for them. They were both married to me, and it’s kind of weird, all of us living here together.”
“Are they gonna fight all the time?” Emily asked.
“Let’s hope not.”
Christy touched Ben’s face, rubbing the rough growth of stubble. He hadn’t shaved since they’d been evicted. “I’ve been praying for you, Daddy.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Ben said. “You just keep right on doing that.”
He looked around at the little building they sat in. “I haven’t been up here before, Christy. Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thank you,” she said, wiping her face.
“But it needs a little paint, doesn
’t it?”
She looked around as if she’d never noticed it before.
“I tell you what,” he said. “Since I’m gonna be here with nothing to do for a little while, maybe we can start a project.”
“What kind of project?” Emily asked, her face brightening. “You mean a painting project?”
Emily loved to paint, but his studio had always been off-limits to her. The idea of being involved in one of his projects now had enough appeal to distract her from her sorrow.
“Yeah,” he said. “How about if we come up here tomorrow and start painting? We could paint the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling, and—”
“We could paint pictures on it,” Christy piped in.
“Sure, we could paint a mural. It would be gorgeous.”
“Nobody can paint a mural like you can,” Emily said.
“All right, then, we have some plans to make. I want you two to go inside and eat supper, and then after supper, get some paper and draw pictures just like what you want on the walls of the house.”
“Can we paint on the outside, too, Daddy?” Christy asked.
“Sure we can. We’ll paint anything you want, as long as we clear it with your mom.”
Christy and Emily forgot their grief as their minds reeled with possibilities. Ben wiped both their faces and kissed them on the cheeks.
“I love you guys.”
“I love you, too, Daddy,” they each said.
“Now, go in and eat supper. Your moms are worried about you. Then you can get started on the designs. I’m just gonna sit up here for a minute by myself.”
He watched as they scurried down the ladder, and for a moment he hesitated, thinking about what had just taken place. Here he sat in the little tree house built by someone that his ex-wife had hired because Ben himself was no longer a factor in their family. And here were his two children, one from each marriage, best friends and loving each other as sisters. Now, arrested for murder, he was back in the home, but with his new wife and children . . .
Nothing about this was natural. It was as bizarre a set of circumstances as he could have imagined.
How in the world had he come to this? No job, no income, facing the possibility of going to prison . . .
The depression and anger that had been pulling him like quicksand since Dubose had fired him pulled him further under. Miserably, he slipped out of the hatch and climbed back down the ladder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sharon didn’t have an appetite for the meal she’d cooked, so she stayed away until everyone had left the table. Then she ventured back into the kitchen to clean up. Anne was already loading the dishwasher, and when she looked up, Sharon saw that she was crying.
Sharon pretended not to notice.
“I’m cleaning up,” Anne said.
“That’s all right,” Sharon told her. “I can do it. Why don’t you go take care of the kids?”
As if Sharon’s words had been an indictment, Anne dropped the pot on the counter and wiped her eyes. “Look, Sharon, the kids are being taken care of. They’re playing upstairs, and Jenny’s with them. Don’t act like I’m neglecting them.”
“I didn’t say that,” Sharon said. “Did I say that?”
“I know what you were thinking.”
“All right,” Sharon said, crossing her arms and squaring off with the woman. “What was I thinking, exactly?”
“You were thinking that you’ve waited six years to see us in this position,” Anne said, tossing down the hand towel she was holding. “You were thinking that we deserve all this, and you’re secretly delighted that we’re in all this trouble.”
“That’s not true,” Sharon said. “And I resent it.”
“I can see right through all your generosity, Sharon!”
“That’s enough, Anne.” The words were Ben’s, and both women swung around.
Anne’s tears came harder now. “Don’t you dare defend her!”
“I’m not defending her,” Ben said. “She doesn’t need defending. Now calm down.” He crossed the room and cupped his wife’s chin. “Anne, look at me,” he said.
She looked up at him with her red, furious eyes.
“You’re really stressed out, honey, and I understand that. So am I. But lashing out at Sharon is not going to help. It’ll just make things worse, and we need to concentrate and keep our heads clear right now, okay? We don’t have time for all this bickering.”
She fell against him, and he held her for a moment, letting her cry. Sharon turned away, suddenly feeling like an intruder in her own home.
“Look, you go lie down,” he whispered to Anne. “You need a break. Just go take a nap, and let Jenny look after the kids. She loves it.”
“But Bobby’s sick. It’s almost time for his cough medicine.”
“I’ll give it to him,” Ben said. “Go on now. I need you to be rested. There are going to be a lot of sleepless nights between now and the Grand Jury hearing.”
Sharon watched her leave the room. Ben turned back to Sharon and shot her an apologetic look. “Sharon, I’m sorry. She’s not herself. She’s usually a sweet, warm person. Once you get to know her—”
“Spare me.” Sharon turned away and started wiping the counters.
Ben’s voice trailed off, as though he knew his mouth was leading him down the wrong path. “Okay, never mind. Listen, if you don’t mind, I need to make some calls. Do you mind if I use your study?”
“Fine,” Sharon said. “Oh, and if you need to paint, we could probably find some place around here for you to do it.”
He shrugged. “Thanks a lot. I’m just not feeling real creative right now. I did promise the girls we’d do some painting in the tree house, though. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, I think it’s a good idea. It’s about time Christy’s father got involved in her life.” She turned back to the dishes and began scrubbing them with a vengeance.
Ben couldn’t think of a response that wouldn’t just make things worse, so he started out of the room. The phone rang, and he turned back. “I’ll get it. It might be Lynda.”
He picked it up. “Hello?”
He hesitated, then in an agitated voice, asked, “Who is this?”
Sharon turned around. “Who?” she whispered. He only shook his head, indicating that he didn’t know.
“What are you talking about?” His face began to redden. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“What is it?” Sharon asked in an urgent whisper.
Ben put his hand over the phone. “Call the police,” he mouthed. “Trace the call.”
“It’s him?” she asked in disbelief. “The killer?”
He nodded frantically and gestured for her to hurry.
As Sharon rushed to the car where she could call from her cellular phone, Ben continued the conversation. “You’ve got to tell me what you’re looking for,” she heard him say. “I can’t read your mind.”
She reached the garage and threw open her car door, and frantically dialed 911 on her cellular phone. After hearing what she had to say, the dispatcher transferred her. She waited, on hold, wishing someone would pick up.
After a moment, Ben burst through the door with Anne on his heels. “Do you have the police department?”
“Yes,” she said. “But it takes an act of Congress to speak to the right person. I’m on hold—”
“He’s looking for something,” Ben cut in, raking his hand through his long hair. “I don’t know what it is. He wants me to leave it at the airport at 10:30 tonight, but I have no idea what he’s talking about. He threatened me. Said he’d go into the next phase of this nightmare if I didn’t bring him what he wants.”
“Well, what could it be?” Anne asked. “Didn’t he give you a clue? Are you supposed to guess?”
“He thinks I already know,” Ben said. “That’s what’s so bizarre.”
Giving up, Sharon slammed the phone down. “Come on, Ben, we’ve got to go to the police station
.”
Anne looked stunned. “He doesn’t need you to go with him.”
Sharon felt reprimanded and quickly got out of the car. “You’re right. Go! Somebody needs to tell somebody. Here. Take my car so you can call Lynda on the way. She probably needs to know about this.”
Ben looked back toward the house. “What about the kids?”
“We’ll take care of them,” Sharon said. “Between Jenny and me they’ll be okay.”
Anne started running back into the house. “I’m not leaving Bobby. I’ll take him with us.”
Sharon looked as if she’d been slapped down, but she said nothing.
As they waited, Ben tried to work back through the conversation. “He said to get a black Travel-Lite garment bag from Wal-mart. That’s what I’m supposed to deliver it in. He was very specific that it had to be that brand.”
Sharon frowned, wondering why. “Well . . . all right. I’ll leave Jenny with the girls and I’ll run to Walmart and get one while you’re gone. Who knows? Maybe it’ll come to you. Maybe you’ll figure out what he’s looking for.”
He nodded. “If the police believe me, this could clear me, Sharon. If they could catch him tonight . . . I could be off the hook.”
New hope brightened her eyes. “That’s right!”
Anne came back out, carrying Bobby with one arm and the diaper bag and her purse on the other. “Okay, let’s go. I’m ready.”
“Good luck,” Sharon told him. “And don’t forget to call Lynda. She probably needs to meet you at the station.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tony Danks scribbled on a legal pad as Ben related the phone conversation, every nuance of his body suggesting that he didn’t believe a word of it. Larry Millsaps looked doubtful, too, though his eyes remained focused on Ben’s as he spoke. Lynda sat beside Ben, occasionally prodding him with more questions that she thought might strengthen his story. Anne stood in the corner of the room, quietly swaying to keep Bobby from waking up.
“So . . . did you record this phone conversation?” Tony asked without looking up from his scribblings when Ben finished the story.