over the painting and frame. In this world of microdots and all that other technical crap, nothing is what it seems.”
“You’re thinking that the attack had something to do with this painting?”
“How do I know? I’m grabbing at straws. There are holes in every theory I come up with. They had the keys to the gallery. Why not just come in and steal the painting if they wanted it? Or maybe those scumbags were going to take the painting after they killed me. All I know is that they had no reason to murder me so I have to search for some other cause. This is the only common thread I can find. The painting was in the article. And even Celine didn’tthink that the offer for the painting was reasonable.” She determinedly blinked back sudden tears. “She didn’t care. She was just happy. Will you call Venable or shall I?”
“I’ll do it.” He reached for his phone. “And while I’m at it, I should probably probe a little into the man who offered for the painting. What was his name?”
“Donald Sarnoff. San Francisco.”
“Right.” He glanced down at her feet as he dialed the number. “You’re barefoot. Go get on some slippers.” Before she could tell him to mind his own business, he turned away and was talking on the phone to Venable.
Later.
She dropped down on the granite bench a few feet away. The stone was cold against her bare thighs. She was suddenly cold all over. The lights seemed glaringly bright, and the face of the man in the portrait of
Guilt
appeared threatening.
Crazy. She had painted that face. She had not used a model, and the creation had been born entirely from her imagination.
No, not entirely imagination.
There had been the dreams.
Dreams that had come every night. Dreams that would not go away until she had finished the painting.
She didn’t want to think about the dreams.
But she had never felt any sense of threat before. It had to be the stress of this terrible night that was playing tricks on her.
MacDuff turned away from the phone. “Venable will have an expert here within the hour.”
“I won’t let him take the painting. He’ll have to do the work here at the gallery.”
“I didn’t think you’d let it out of your sight. That’s what I told Venable. Didn’t you hear me?”
She shook her head.
He studied her. “No, I believe you’re holding on by a hair at the moment.” He took off his tweed jacket as he crossed the short distance separating them. “You’re shaking. Why couldn’t you just go to sleep and face all this tomorrow?” He knelt beside her and put the jacket around her shoulders. “Would it have been too much to ask? You’re a great deal of trouble to me, Jane MacGuire.”
The jacket was warm from his body, smelled faintly of spice and the outdoors and felt deliciously comforting. And, in spite of his words, his tone was also oddly comforting. Yet comfort wasn’t a word that she had ever thought of in connection with MacDuff. Forceful, domineering, charismatic, sometimes even amusing, were all apt descriptions. Never comforting.
No, that wasn’t right; years ago, she had watched him comforting Jock during one of the bad times for the boy. But then Jock was one of his people and therefore an exception to every rule. For anyone else, there could be a price to pay for any softness MacDuff showed them. “I couldn’t sleep. How could I? I started to go over in my mind all the possible reasons why I should have a gigantic target painted on my back.”
“And you came up with that less-than-cheerful painting.”
She nodded. “
Guilt
. It was in the newspaper story. Someone wanted it very badly at the show. Maybe it’s not really me. Perhaps those crazies think I have something that belongs to them.” She shook her head. “But I could very well be wrong. I know it’s pretty flimsy but it was the only thing I could think of.”
“It’s not all that flimsy. I’d say it was very canny reasoning.”
“Guessing.”
He smiled. “Then
“You’re thinking that the attack had something to do with this painting?”
“How do I know? I’m grabbing at straws. There are holes in every theory I come up with. They had the keys to the gallery. Why not just come in and steal the painting if they wanted it? Or maybe those scumbags were going to take the painting after they killed me. All I know is that they had no reason to murder me so I have to search for some other cause. This is the only common thread I can find. The painting was in the article. And even Celine didn’tthink that the offer for the painting was reasonable.” She determinedly blinked back sudden tears. “She didn’t care. She was just happy. Will you call Venable or shall I?”
“I’ll do it.” He reached for his phone. “And while I’m at it, I should probably probe a little into the man who offered for the painting. What was his name?”
“Donald Sarnoff. San Francisco.”
“Right.” He glanced down at her feet as he dialed the number. “You’re barefoot. Go get on some slippers.” Before she could tell him to mind his own business, he turned away and was talking on the phone to Venable.
Later.
She dropped down on the granite bench a few feet away. The stone was cold against her bare thighs. She was suddenly cold all over. The lights seemed glaringly bright, and the face of the man in the portrait of
Guilt
appeared threatening.
Crazy. She had painted that face. She had not used a model, and the creation had been born entirely from her imagination.
No, not entirely imagination.
There had been the dreams.
Dreams that had come every night. Dreams that would not go away until she had finished the painting.
She didn’t want to think about the dreams.
But she had never felt any sense of threat before. It had to be the stress of this terrible night that was playing tricks on her.
MacDuff turned away from the phone. “Venable will have an expert here within the hour.”
“I won’t let him take the painting. He’ll have to do the work here at the gallery.”
“I didn’t think you’d let it out of your sight. That’s what I told Venable. Didn’t you hear me?”
She shook her head.
He studied her. “No, I believe you’re holding on by a hair at the moment.” He took off his tweed jacket as he crossed the short distance separating them. “You’re shaking. Why couldn’t you just go to sleep and face all this tomorrow?” He knelt beside her and put the jacket around her shoulders. “Would it have been too much to ask? You’re a great deal of trouble to me, Jane MacGuire.”
The jacket was warm from his body, smelled faintly of spice and the outdoors and felt deliciously comforting. And, in spite of his words, his tone was also oddly comforting. Yet comfort wasn’t a word that she had ever thought of in connection with MacDuff. Forceful, domineering, charismatic, sometimes even amusing, were all apt descriptions. Never comforting.
No, that wasn’t right; years ago, she had watched him comforting Jock during one of the bad times for the boy. But then Jock was one of his people and therefore an exception to every rule. For anyone else, there could be a price to pay for any softness MacDuff showed them. “I couldn’t sleep. How could I? I started to go over in my mind all the possible reasons why I should have a gigantic target painted on my back.”
“And you came up with that less-than-cheerful painting.”
She nodded. “
Guilt
. It was in the newspaper story. Someone wanted it very badly at the show. Maybe it’s not really me. Perhaps those crazies think I have something that belongs to them.” She shook her head. “But I could very well be wrong. I know it’s pretty flimsy but it was the only thing I could think of.”
“It’s not all that flimsy. I’d say it was very canny reasoning.”
“Guessing.”
He smiled. “Then
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