Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(77)

“Not sure yet. It’ll tell me when I’m done, or at least I hope it will.” Winston retreated to his pad, but his dark eyes followed his every move. “I’m Joie, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Joie. I was looking for Amelia? I thought she might be in.”

He could feel the woman’s guard drop, though he made sure not to get too close, not to invade her personal space. Easy to do. She held no interest for him. Neither did the dog.

She dusted her hands off on the plaster-splotched apron she wore. “Oh, she hasn’t been in today. We don’t keep regular hours. Was she expecting you?”

“No, I’m just passing through. Unplanned stop.” He turned back to the canvas, letting the lie sit. Amelia’s painting really was magnificent. “Did she paint this?”

“Yeah. It’s her masterpiece, for sure. She’s obsessed with it, but I suppose all artists get wrapped up in their work, right? Otherwise, why bother in the first place. Eh, how do you know Amelia?”

He moved closer to the canvas, taking the work in, every inch, every line. Reaching out, he lightly touched it with his index finger, feeling the tracks in the paint left behind by the artist’s brush. “We’re old friends.”

He could almost feel Joie working it out. Old friends, yet he was considerably older and unspectacular, average in every outward way. The grin on his face when he turned away from the canvas was self-deprecating, shy, not the truth. “You could say I knew her when.”

“If you leave your name, I’ll let her know you stopped by.”

The woman looked down at Winston, who was on full alert, watching him, ready to go at him if he made even the slightest of wrong moves. Protecting his owner, of course, but the dog’s vigilance was making Joie uneasy. He watched as she stepped back and put the block of plaster between them, sneakily slipping her chisel out of her apron pocket. It was a subtle move, one that told him she wasn’t comfortable. The chisel would not have been enough. “Or your number,” she said. “I’m sure she’d like to get in touch.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll come back. Surprise her. You can tell her for me, though, that she’s a wonderful artist. Will you?”

“Sure. She’ll love to hear that.” Joie flicked a look at her block of whatever. He could tell she was relieved he was going.

He turned for the door, giving the canvas one last look, but stopped and turned back. “Tell her also that it’s still all for one and one for all.”

Joie’s brow wrinkled. “Like from The Three Musketeers?”

He brightened. “You know the story?”

“Doesn’t everybody? We read it in like seventh grade.”

He considered her reaction for a moment. “I suppose you’re right.” He looked down at her pet. “Sorry for upsetting Winston.” The dog’s ears perked up as he lifted half off the pad, the growl starting again. “Enjoy your day.”

Stepping out onto the street, he stood on the sidewalk, watching the street. Pleased with himself, he was. He’d made first contact after so many years of lurking in shadows, planning, perfecting. Behind him the studio door locked. He didn’t have to turn around to know that it was Joie locking herself in and him out. Didn’t matter. He’d done what he’d come to do.

“Her masterpiece.”

He smiled, a real one this time, then walked away whistling. Something light, jaunty. There were good things coming. This was the start.

“What a wonderful day, Amelia.”





CHAPTER 53


Joie practically tackled Amelia when she came through the door an hour later. “We have to call the police.”

“Why? What happened?”

Joie’s eyes were wild, jumpy. Not like her. Winston, too, looked wired, ready for a fight. Amelia quickly turned to her canvas, relieved to find it as she’d left it. Then she scanned the room, but nothing seemed to be out of order there either, so not a burglary.

“This strange man came in looking for you,” Joie said. “He just wandered in off the street and said he was here to see you. That you were old friends.”

“That’s all? I thought something serious had happened.” Amelia broke away from Joie’s grip and slipped out of her jacket, moving over to check her brushes and her paint. “What old friend?” She didn’t have any old friends—or new ones for that matter. She had herself, her art, and Bodie.

“You don’t know him?”

Amelia chuckled. “How could I? You haven’t told me anything.”

Joie dug into her apron pocket for her phone, her hands shaking. “White guy. Fifties. Kinda average all around. Brown eyes but deep set. I’ll never forget them. And the coldest motherfucking smile you’d ever want to see. It sent shivers down my spine. But the worst part was that Winston took an instant dislike to him. He growled, barked, wouldn’t go anywhere near him. He never does that. He’s a love bug; you know that. But this guy? Not on your life. Dogs know.”

As Joie recited the man’s particulars, Amelia knew. The eyes, the smile. “Who are you calling?”

“The police, of course. I should have done it an hour ago, but I wanted to check with you first in case he was actually legit.”