Yes. I was. And whatever else he was taking. I turned toward the trunk of his car. Inside, I saw an ancient broadsword and a lace tablecloth.
I felt my jaw clench. The sword was a collector's item, worth more than I cared to consider. But it was the tablecloth that really ticked me off. It wasn't a pricey artifact, but ithadbelonged to my grandmother on my mom's side.
She'd died years before I was born. She hadn't been a wealthy woman. Far from it. Other than a few old photos, the tablecloth was all I had to remember her by. And I actually used the tablecloth, too. I saved it for special occasions, like Christmas, Easter, and the occasional Thanksgiving.
And here, Uncle Ernie was trying to steal it, just like he'd stolen the good china and half of the wine glasses.
Screw that.
I looked back to my uncle and felt my gaze narrow. "How could you?"
He wasstilllooking insulted. "I don't know what you think here, but you've got it all wrong."
Sure I did.
A new voice, the painter's voice, cut across the short distance. "Yeah? Then put it back."
I turned toward the sound and was surprised to see him standing just to my right, giving my uncle the look of death.
My uncle gave a nervous chuckle. "Put what back?"
I made a sound of annoyance. "Oh for God's sake. He means the horse, obviously." I pointed. "The thing you're holding."
My uncle looked to the statue. "This?"
I rolled my eyes. "No. The horse you rode in on."
After a long, awkward moment, my uncle's eyes widened to epic proportions. "What? You think I'mstealingthis?"
I stared in stunned silence. At that moment, I could practically see him wearing a straw hat and denim overalls, pooled around his ankles.What chicken? This chicken?
I threw up my hands. "Of course I think you're stealing it. What else would I think?"
My uncle's gaze shifted to the painter. "So, uh, who's that?"
It was the painter who answered. "It's the guy who's gonna kick your fat ass if you don't turn around and put that back where you found it."
Chapter 14
The painter's words echoed in the night. Shocked, I whirled to face him. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but this wasn't it.
It hit me like a ton of bricks that it had been forever since anyone had taken my side, or at least anyone who was willing to make a scene about it.
From the look on the painter's face, he was willing to do more than make a scene. He was willing to make good on his threat. Under the glare of the Camaro's headlights, he looked dark and dangerous, with his fighter's build and tight, coiled muscles.
IfIwere my uncle? Well, let's just say I'd be galloping back into the house, pronto.
But was he? I turned to look. Nope. He wasn't galloping. He was staring, thunderstruck, at the painter. As I watched, my uncle's face turned nearly as red as his hair. He choked out, "What did you just say?"
"You heard me," the painter said. "Now, put it back." His voice grew a shade darker. "In one piece. Got it?"
A new voice, this one female and filled with false cheer, sounded from the open doorway. "Oh, Melody, what a surprise!"
I looked up and spotted the thin, ferret-faced woman, standing in the open doorway. It was Aunt Vivian, dressed to kill as usual, in black designer clothes and so much jewelry, it was a wonder she didn't topple over.
I gave her a hard look. "Ifyou'resurprised, imagine how I feel."
Ignoring the comment, she plastered on a friendly smile and sashayed down the front steps. She claimed the spot next to Uncle Ernie, who wasstillholding the horse. I saw beads of sweat pooling on his upper lip and signs of dampness under the armpits of his fancy white dress-shirt.
