“What?” Ronald said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re breathing heavy.”

“Asthma,” Davy lied. “Give me her address and her account numbers.”

Ronald furrowed his brow. “I don’t think that would be ethical.”

“Rabbit,” Davy said, putting steel in his voice. “You have no ethics. That’s how you got into this mess. Give me the damn numbers.”

Ronald hesitated and then took a pen and notebook from his inside jacket pocket, flipped to a page, and began to copy numbers down.

“Thank you, Rabbit,” Davy said, taking the page Ronald tore from the notebook. He stood up and added, “Don’t leave town. Don’t steal anything else. And do not, for any reason, call Clea.”

“I’ll do anything I damn well please,” Ronald said.

“No,” Davy said. “You will not.”

Ronald met his eyes and then looked away.

“There you go.” Davy patted him on the shoulder. “Stay away from Clea, and you’ll be fine. Nothing but good times ahead.”

“At least admit you stole her money, you crook,” Ronald said.

“Of course I did,” Davy said, and went off to rob the most beautiful woman he’d ever slept with. Again.

BREAKING INTO Mason Phipps’s house had been a bad idea, but Tilda hadn’t been able to think of a better one. Now, creeping through Mason’s halls in the dark of night, she was reconsidering. She really wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. She was a retired art forger, not a thief. Plus, the place was deserted except for a caterer in the kitchen and Gwennie’s Dinner Party from Hell in the dining room, and it was spooking her out. “Drama Queen,” her dad would have said, but she had reason to be spooked. She’d searched an empty billiard room, an empty library, and an empty conservatory, and now she stood in the barren hall, thinking, I’m knocking over a Clue game. Miss Scarlet in the hall with an inhaler. Those were the days, the Golden Age, when men were men and women didn’t have to do their own second-story work. What she needed was one of those old-fashioned guys who rescued women and stole things for them.

Oh, pull yourself together, she told herself. She crept upstairs and opened the doors to one empty room after another until she found a bedroom full of silky things tossed everywhere, perfume scenting the air, the kind of room that fit the kind of woman that Tilda would never be. For one thing, she’d never have enough money.

Something glowed on a desk. Tilda squinted at it through her glasses and realized it was the edge of a laptop computer. Clea Lewis had closed her laptop without shutting it down. Careless, Tilda thought, looking around at everything the woman had and didn’t take care of. Really, she didn’t deserve to own a Scarlet.

Downstairs, a phone rang, and Tilda picked up speed, making a circuit of the room in the dim streetlight that filtered through the curtains, checking behind furniture and under the bed, feeling her way when the shadows were too deep to see. The Scarlet wasn’t that small, she thought as she turned to the quartet of paneled closet doors along one wall. Where the hell had Clea stashed it?

She opened the first two doors and shoved the clothes apart to search the back of the closet.

A man stood there.

Tilda turned to run, and he slapped his hand over her mouth from behind and yanked her against him. She kicked back and connected with his shin, and he swore and lost his balance and dragged her to the carpet as he fell.

He weighed a ton.

“Okay,” he said calmly in her ear, while she struggled under him, trying to pry his hand from her mouth before her lungs collapsed. “Let’s not panic.”

I can’t breathe, Tilda thought and sucked in air through her nose, inhaling a lot of dusty carpet.

“Because I’m really not this kind of guy,” he went on. “There’s no criminal intent here. Well, not against you.”

He had a grip like a vise. Her lungs seized up as his hand pressed against her mouth, her muscles clenched, the world got darker, and the familiar panic overwhelmed her.

“I just need to be sure you’re not going to scream,” he said, but she was going to suffocate, she’d always known she would someday, her treacherous lungs betraying her like everything else in the Goodnight heritage, but not like this, not in the middle of breaking the law while being mugged by some deadweight lowlife, so as her lungs turned to stone and his voice faded away, she did the only thing she could think of.

She bit him.

DOWNSTAIRS, GWEN SMILED over the last of dinner at sweet, chubby Mason Phipps, trying to keep her thoughts on the landscape that Mason was showing her and not on her youngest daughter, roaming somewhere in the house looking for evidence of her misspent youth.

“What do you think?” Mason said, and Gwen yanked her attention back to him. “It’s a Corot.” He stroked the top of the frame with one finger. “Tony wasn’t sure, but I said, ‘No, that’s a Corot.’ And when I had the canvas tested, I was right. It’s a Corot.”

It’s a Goodnight, Gwen thought, but she said, “It’s very beautiful.”

“Those were the good old days, collecting with Tony,” Mason said, and Gwen thought, Tony sure thought so. She listened with one ear while Mason waxed on and on about the old days. This dinner was lasting for months. She could have done an entire Double-Crostic by now. A hard one.

“I prefer folk art,” the blonde at the other end of the table said, and Gwen turned to look at Clea Lewis, lovely as a spring morning, if spring had been around for forty-odd years but had taken really, really good care of itself.

“Folk art,” Gwen said politely. “How interesting.”

“Yes, I’m still collecting it,” Mason said. “But it’s not the same without Tony. He really had the life, buying art, running the gallery, hosting all those openings.” The envy in Mason’s voice was palpable, and Gwen thought, Yeah, Tony had a good time.

“And living with you and the girls, of course,” Mason added, smiling at her. “Little Eve and Matilda. How are they?”

Eve’s been divorced since her husband came out of the closet, and Tilda’s given up forgery for burglary. “Fine,” Gwen said.

“You were always the best part of his life, Gwennie,” Mason said. “You don’t mind if I call you Gwennie, do you? It’s what Tony always called you. It’s the way I always think of you.”

“Of course not,” Gwen said, thinking, Yes, I mind, and a fat lot of good it does me.

“Mason and I first met at a museum opening,” Clea said, looking beautifully reminiscent, all dreamy blue eyes and creamy soft skin and silky blonde hair. Gwen thought about throwing a plate at her. “My late husband’s grandmother founded the Hortensia Gardner Lewis Museum,” Clea went on. “It was Cyril’s passion.” She smiled at Mason. “I find passionate men irresistible.”

“Cyril was a good man,” Mason said. “We were more than business associates, we were great friends. I helped him the way Tony helped me.”

Oh, God, I hope not. Gwen picked up her glass of wine. “The Lewis Museum?” She tried to remember if Tony had ever sold them anything. Private museums could be so gullible.

“It’s a small museum,” Mason said, adding, “Of course it got larger when I gave it my Homer Hodge collection.”

Gwen choked on her wine.

“And now I’ve come home to finish the last of my new collection with a southern Ohio painter, Homer’s daughter, Scarlet,” he said while Gwen tried to turn the choke into a cough. “Do you remember Scarlet Hodge?”

“Uh,” Gwen said, and hit the wine again.

“According to a newspaper interview Tony did back in eighty-seven, she only did six paintings.” Mason leaned closer to Gwen. “In fact, as I remember, Tony had exclusive rights to her work.”