Serious Moonlight(59)

“What’s a facilitator?” Aunt Mona asked.

“Someone who facilitates . . . something?” Sharkovsky said, shrugging. “No idea. What’s this for, anyway?”

“School project,” Daniel said quickly. “International finance. This is a bonus project.”

Sharkovsky stared at him as if he didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth.

“Does it say anything else?” I asked.

He glanced at it again before handing it back. “Not that I can read, sweetheart. If you want my opinion, it looks like it’s something the two of you need to keep your noses out of. It’s best to mind your own business when it comes to people’s financial affairs.”

That prickled. Embarrassed, I accepted the paper, folded it, and shoved it back into my purse while Daniel clicked off his phone’s screen. He wasn’t happy about Sharkovsky’s condescending tone. At all. I could practically feel the annoyance radiating off him.

The art dealer’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and said, “Sorry, but I need to take this. I’ll only be a second. Help yourselves to refreshments,” he said, gesturing to a tray of vodka bottles, ice, and tumbler glasses. Then he pushed off his seat and answered the phone while padding to the opposite end of the roof.

As soon as he was out of sight behind a screen of bamboo trees, Aunt Mona swung toward us. “Come on,” she whispered. “We need to get downstairs before that housekeeper comes back.”

“What?”

“He lied to me! You think I’m going to let that stand? That’s against the gutsy gal motto.”

Alarm bells blared in my head. This had to do with whatever she’d seen from the landing downstairs. If I had a “Nancy Drew” inquisitive look, then Mona had a “Joan of Arc” defiant look, and I’d seen it plenty of times—usually when she was about to suggest something stupid, rebellious, and possibly illegal.

She jumped from her chair and grabbed my hand, tugging me to my feet. “Come on! Daniel, you too.”

Even more confused than I was, Daniel leaped to follow as Aunt Mona led us back into the house, taking two stairs at once—which, I must say, is pretty impressive when you’re wearing orange leopard-print heels. When she hit the final landing, she turned and entered the short hallway that had piqued her curiosity during our initial climb to the roof.

“What are you doing?” I whispered hotly, heart racing madly. “These are bedrooms.”

“His bedroom,” she clarified after sticking her head into the second doorway. Then she disappeared inside.

Thoroughly embarrassed and well on my way to a massive stress-induced stroke, I turned around and gave Daniel an apologetic look. He glanced up and down the stairwell, and then we both followed Aunt Mona.

It was a massive bedroom. All white. Plush, shaggy rug. An excellent view of the lake. But Aunt Mona wasn’t concerned with any of that. She stood stock-still in front of a massive painting that covered half the wall.

I’d seen it before. I’d watched it being painted.

Young Napoleon Bonaparte. Seven feet tall, wearing a grungy Seattle flannel shirt and his famous bicorn admiral hat.

“But . . . I thought he sold that for you?” I said. “For a crap-ton of money.”

“Oh, he said he did, but now I think I’ve figured it out,” she said. “See, he had a thing for this painting. He’d hounded me about selling it to him before he finally agreed to display it in his main gallery. It hung for months with no offers or interest, and I was about to give up hope when a ‘private’ buyer came forward to take it off Sharkie’s hands—only, he’d offered half the asking price, which Sharkie claimed was hugely inflated anyway.”

Aunt Mona was desperate to sell and took the offer.

“Don’t you see?” she said, gesturing wildly toward the painting.

I shook my head. Daniel just glanced back and forth between the painting and Mona, wide-eyed. Probably wondering why in the double hockey sticks he got involved with a weird girl and her crazy family, no doubt. I wouldn’t blame him for thinking that. Not one bit.

Mona groaned in frustration. “Sharkie didn’t sell this painting to an outside buyer. He kept it for himself and paid me half the asking price. He ripped me off!”

“Jesus,” Daniel whispered.

“Jesus is fucking right,” she mumbled. “And if Sharkie thinks he’s getting away with this, he can think again. Help me get it off the wall.”

“What? You can’t be serious!” I whispered. “That’s stealing.”

“All right, Eleanor Lindberg,” she chided.

I resented that. It also made me doubt myself. I did not want to be like my grandmother.

“Look, Birdie. The bastard cheated me. I painted this. Me! It’s mine. He swindled me out of thousands of dollars. So now I’m getting it back,” she said. “Are you helping me, or not?”

Oh God. She was serious. The last time she got this fired up, I had to play lookout while she stole an American flag from the front of city hall and replaced it with one that read FASCISTS.

“You were supposed to be helping us with our case!” I whispered. “We didn’t come out here to help you seek vengeance.”

“No one plans vengeance,” she argued.