“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.”
“Wait,” Amelia said. “He just came in and looked around? He didn’t say anything?”
“Nothing important. Something about you being a good artist.” Her fingers trembled on the keypad. She missed the final digit in 911 and had to start again. “Damn it. He liked your canvas, I mean, really liked it. He could barely keep his eyes off it. Then he talked about The Three Musketeers for some stupid reason. Some ‘all for one, one for all’ bullshit. He’s obviously some loon. The second he walked out, I locked the door on him. No way he was getting back in here.”
Amelia placed a hand on Joie’s, stopping the call. “Then it’s over.” Though she sounded calm, every neuron in her body fired, excitement crackling through her like sparks off a roaring fire. “And I know exactly who that was.”
“Well, who?”
“My Uncle Frank. Not actually my uncle but an old friend of my father’s. He’s practically part of the family. A bit odd, but he’s okay.” She saw the skepticism in Joie’s eyes. “Really.”
Joie held the phone in her hand. “Uncle Frank.”
“Yep. He scared you, huh?” She chuckled. “You were perfectly safe. Winston too. But what’s with the ‘one for all’ business?” Keeping it light, keeping it normal, but she knew. She knew who and why, and the moment was suddenly as bright as a Christmas morning. The day. It was here. Now.
“Not funny. You weren’t around. You didn’t feel the temperature of the room drop when he walked in, and you didn’t see Winston freak out. He went off.”
Amelia glanced down at Winston. He was watching her, but it didn’t look like she was going to get her customary rush or cuddle. Something had changed between them. He growled at her, then backed away, drawing closer to Joie. Amelia gave him a sympathetic pout. “Poor Winston.”
Joie exhaled, relief flooding her. “Wow. Okay. Uncle Frank. Tell me something. I’m telling you, old dude needs to work on his people skills.” She slid the phone into her pocket and padded back to her side of the studio, Winston trotting along beside her.
“He’s all right once you get to know him.” Amelia stepped up to her canvas, her back to Joie, physically incapable of getting the smile off her face. “He said I was a good artist, huh? That’s wild. He say anything else?”
“Loved your painting. Didn’t say squat about my shit. But the real creepy part was after he left, he just stood out front looking around; then he walked off whistling like he didn’t have a care in the world. I mean, who whistles? And who doesn’t have a care in the world? The world’s sinking like a rock, and he’s just living the dream, apparently, and in a mood to whistle? Think about it. When’s the last time you even heard someone whistle?”
Amelia turned, a brush in her hand. “Nothing wrong with whistling.”
“When you’re a creepy old dude who scares the Milk-Bones out of an innocent dog? Yeah, there is. That’s elevating the creep factor by like a million.” Winston stood up, moved off his doggy pad, and eased in beside Joie.
Amelia squatted down and called for Winston. “C’mere, boy. Where’s my hug?”
Winston growled, refusing to move. Joie reached down to comfort him. “See? He’s still not right. He’s even growling at you now.”
Amelia stood watching Winston for a moment, and then she turned back to her work. It was too momentous a day to worry about dog cuddles and growls. She felt too good, too light. She began to hum.
“I’m telling you,” Joie said as she began to chisel, “you say he’s harmless, fine. But the hairs rose up on the back of my neck. He felt dangerous, like he was cold all the way through. There’s something off with that guy, family friend or no family friend.”
Amelia felt Joie’s eyes on her back but didn’t turn around. She had work to do. He’d seen her painting and admired it, but had he really seen it? Did he fully appreciate her vision? “Was there anything else he said, Joie?”