TILDA FOUND out about Thomas when the police found her in the attic. She went downstairs to Gwennie and said, “What the hell?”

“It’s not as bad as we thought,” Gwen said brightly over her vodka and pineapple-orange. “He’s not actually dead.”

“You thought he was dead and you didn’t come get me?” Tilda poured herself a drink and tried to be upset. Poor Thomas. The man was practically a pinata.

I want to paint, she thought.

“He looked so awful,” Gwen said. “Of course, he’d been lying behind the Dumpster for twenty-four hours. The police think he was talking to somebody out there and the other person just bashed him with a rock. Unpremeditated.”

“Oh.” Tilda nodded. “So how’s Ford?”

“He says he wouldn’t have left a body behind my Dumpster,” Gwen said. “And I really think if he tried to kill somebody, they’d die. I mean, he’s efficient.”

“Right,” Tilda said. “So who do they think did it?”

“Well, there’s us,” Gwen said. “And everybody at the gallery. They’d like to talk to Davy and Michael since they took off like that.”

“Davy,” Tilda said.

“I think they called the police in Temptation,” Gwen said.

“Oh,” Tilda said. “Maybe that’ll bring Davy back.”

“That’s good,” Gwen said “Concentrate on the important stuff.”

“I have to go paint,” Tilda said, and went back upstairs to the jungle in her studio.

TILDA FINISHED the last Scarlet as the moon rose overhead in her skylights. When it was done, she looked at it, feeling tired and peaceful and finished, the end of one chapter and the start of a new one. Then she looked around at the charcoal lines on her walls, while Steve lay in the middle of her bed, exhausted from watching her. “We should keep painting, Steve,” she said to him. “We’re on a roll.”

She turned the stereo on and painted to Dusty Springfield singing “I’d Rather Leave While I’m in Love” and Brenda Holloway doing “Every Little Bit Hurts.” She remembered Davy saying she needed music from this century and switched to the Dixie Chicks, mattress-dancing while she applied gold leaf to her headboard, and ended up at four in the morning painting huge, happy, non-insane sunflowers over her bed as Pippy Shannon sang, “I Pretend.”

“Our song,” Tilda told Steve, tired enough to be able to laugh, until Pippy sang, “Who am I foolin‘? I’m foolin’ myself.”

“Really my song,” she told him. “I should pay more attention to what these women are saying.”

She stepped back to look at the sunflowers, and they made her think of Clarissa, waving her Sharpie, saying, “Sign it bigger.”

“Steve,” she said, and Steve picked up his head from the bed and looked at her blearily. “It’s very important to sign your work.”

She put down the broad brush she’d used to lay in the leaves and picked up a number 1 paintbrush instead. She hunted out a tube of cadmium red from her paint box, squirted out a dime-sized drop, dipped the brush into the paint, and took a deep breath. Then, with a trembling hand, she signed the first painting again, writing “Matilda” above the “Scarlet” and “Goodnight” under it.

“Matilda Scarlet Goodnight,” she read out loud. “Her work.”

She dipped the brush into the paint again and moved to the cows. Her hand was steadier this time, her strokes surer. “Matilda Scarlet Goodnight,” she read, conviction in her voice this time. “Her work.” She kept on until she signed the lovers, and then she sat back and looked at what she’d done.

She felt wonderful.

“These are my paintings,” she said to Steve. “Nobody’s ever going to take that away from me again.”

Except for Clea, she remembered bleakly. Well, she’d think about that tomorrow.

Then she put her brushes in water and climbed into bed with Steve and fell into a dreamless sleep.

WHEN TILDA woke up at nine the next morning, she packed up the paintings, put Andrew’s “Bitch” cap on for good luck, and dropped Steve off with Eve and Gwennie, telling them where she was going.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Eve said. “This is wrong.”

“Maybe not,” Tilda said. “Maybe this is right. Maybe I was just supposed to get them back so I could sign them.”

“No,” Eve said, but Tilda hugged her good-bye, drove to Clea’s in Jeff’s car, and parked outside.

I don’t want to give these up, she thought as she looked at the case she’d packed the paintings in. I don’t want to stop painting like that.

And I don’t want to do any more murals.

She sat there for a moment, and then dug in her purse for her cell phone and her day planner and turned to her work list: six more murals scheduled with the contact numbers written beside them.

She dialed the first one and said, “Mrs. Magnusson? This is Matilda Veronica. I’m going to have to cancel your mural. Something has come up and…” She went on, soothing her wounded clients, offering them paintings or furniture, feeling the tightness between her shoulder blades ease. It took her over an hour, and when she was done, she looked at the case and thought, If I have to give these up, I should get more for them.

And even though she was late, she shifted deeper in her seat and began to plan.

“WHERE’S TILDA?” Davy said, when he came through the office door.

“Where have you been?” Gwen said, annoyed with him. “All hell’s been breaking loose here and-”

“The police,” Davy said. “They’re still talking to Dad. Where’s Tilda?”

“At Clea’s,” Gwen said miserably. “She’s taking her the Scarlets.”

“Why?” Davy said, exasperated.

“Somebody told Clea she was Scarlet,” Gwen said. “It’s blackmail, but there’s not much-”

“Fuck,” Davy said. “I leave for one day and you people fall apart.” He went out again before Gwen could think of something cutting to say.

“Well, the hell with you,” she finally said to the empty doorway and went upstairs to get her puzzle book.

Ford met her in the hall. “What now? I heard you yelling.”

“Davy,” she said.

“He’s back?” Ford said. “Good, I need him. Where is he?”

“He left again,” Gwen said. “He’s going to Clea’s to save Tilda.” She felt waspish about that.

“Clea’s.” Ford went back inside his apartment and Gwen followed him.

“What are you doing?” she said, and saw him pick up a shoulder holster. “No, I can’t let you do this.” She stepped in front of the door.

“Do what?” Ford said. “I’m running late here-”

“Look, I know that the people you’ve… well, I know if you showed up at their door, they were probably asking for it-”

“Grosse Pointe Blank” Ford said.

Gwen deflated.

“All hit men know that movie,” Ford said. “It’s our Casablanca.”

“It’s not funny,” Gwen said. “That’s what Tony always used to say, ‘If they’re going to buy art they don’t like just to show off, they’re asking for it.’ But it’s wrong, and I…” She shook her head at him. “Can’t you just move to Aruba and open an orphanage?”

“Why the hell would I want to open an orphanage?” Ford said, clearly mystified.

“To atone,” Gwen said. “If you stop now, maybe-”

“Gwen.”

“Because Tilda really loves Davy and we don’t want him…” Gwen stumbled over the word again. “Like Thomas.”

“Catering is no life for a man,” Ford agreed.

“Damn it, Ford.” She slammed the door behind her. “I have had enough of you goddamn men not taking me seriously. First Tony patted me on the head for thirty years, and then Mason wants to marry me for my gallery, and now you’re making jokes before you kill my future son-in-law, and I’m sick of it. I am somebody to pay attention to, damn it, and I am not putting up with any more goddamn patronizing and mediocre sex and…” She stopped as she saw his face change. “If you make fun of me,” she warned him, “you’re a dead man.”