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this is. I don’t have an expert to suggest for that. I’ve never written a script that had art in it. I’d say it was a good idea, but I think I’ll leave that for you and your second script…finish your murder one first.”
    It looks like Quincy Mac, maid by day, private investigator by night, had her second case.
     
    Cal was true to his word. He was tied up with his murder case over the weekend. The boys were busy with the school play and engrossed with girls. I know. Shocker. Sixteen-year-old and seventeen-year-old boys who liked girls.
    The girls in question this time happened to be sisters who were also in the play. Eli and Miles took them out Saturday night. I was told it wasn’t a double date. It seems even thinking the term dated me. I was old, according to my sweet, loving sons. I practically had one foot in the grave, I was so old and out of touch.
    They were just two guys hanging out with two girls they liked.
    With Cal working and the boys occupied with the play or with hanging out with the girls, I was sort of on my own. I thought about calling Tiny, but she was crazy busy with wedding stuff. Okay, so not so much busy as crazy. We’d crossed everything off her wedding to-do list, but she was still constantly checking and rechecking.
    I called Dick’s computer guy on Saturday and left a voice mail. And though I was no computer guru, I started a computer search to find some artsy person here in LA. Someone who would know something about art and forgery.
    I’ll confess, I didn’t know much about either. I could name a handful of artists—Van Gogh, Grandma Moses and the like. The artist whose painting was stolen, I’d never heard of.
    I Googled his name—Mark Kirchoff. Th e Arthur Wadsworth Gallery was mentioned in a bunch of articles related to Kirchoff’s artwork and the LA art scene. I decided to go there for myself the next day and fill up my solo Sunday afternoon. I worked a while longer on the script and I went to the grocery store, knowing that no matter how much I bought, it wouldn’t last long.
    The next morning, I woke up to a quiet house. That wasn’t odd. The boys were not fans of mornings. I’d had a couple cups of coffee and read the paper before I saw either of them.
    Miles came out first, his shoulder length hair wild. “Rough night?” I asked.
    He grunted in a way I took to mean yes.
    “Play practice a problem?”
    “If people would learn their lines, it would be easier.”
    “Morning, Mom,” Eli said brightly. His hair had that Einstein-ish quality to it this morning. He was smiling as he started to explore the kitchen, looking for breakfast.
    “There’s yogurt and there’s bread for toast,” I said helpfully. My phone binged, letting me know I had a text.
    Still on the case. You going to be around if I can sneak out for dinner?
    I’ll make it a point to be, I texted Cal back.
    “Oooh, Mom’s got a boyfriend,” Eli crooned.
    “Maybe it was Hunter,” I said.
    “Nah, you don’t get all gooey eyed when Hunter texts. Plus, our oldest brother wouldn’t be caught dead up before ten on a Sunday morning. The only reason I’m up this early is a certain director who seems to think the cast needs an extra few hours of rehearsal today.” Eli nodded at Miles, who grunted and sat down to orange juice and yogurt.
    I listened to them snipe and banter their way through breakfasts, then I cleaned the kitchen when they went to get ready for practice.
    After they left, I headed for the gallery.
    It wasn’t that far as the crow flies, but here in LA even crow flying distances could take a long time. But seriously, this was Sunday afternoon. Where did all these people come from?
    I finally found the gallery. It was in a small brick storefront with tinted windows and a tinted glass door. The bell rang as I walked in. And I was immediately surrounded by what I assumed was art.
    To my untrained eye, the painting immediately to my right looked like something one of the boys might have