Dusted Read Online Free Page B

water? Or nice woodland paintings where the trees looked like trees?
    “Interesting,” I said. “I like his use of color and those brush strokes. I like it.” My Google search paid off, and Ms. Designer Shoes nodded approvingly.
    Turns out Mark Kirchoff wasn’t one of the gallery’s up and coming artists. He was a well-established artist and the price of this particular painting was a lot of money. I mean, a lot.
    A lot of dollars for a bunch of colored lines.
    I felt sick. If they thought someone from Mac’Cleaners stole an original Kirchoff painting, it would be a major crime. I thought that the cost of stolen items affected the charges and potential jail time. I’d have to ask Cal. No, I couldn’t ask him. He’d told me to stay out of it.
    “Thank you. I’ll be back,” I said and hurried toward the door. I was going to be sick. I knew it.
    “Here, take my card,” Ms. Designer Shoes said.
    Miriam Foster, it read.
    “Thank you, Miriam.” I purposefully used her first name to establish that I was the top dog, despite my khakis and boat shoes. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
    I’d barely shut the door when my phone buzzed in my purse. I stood in front of the tinted windows and looked at it. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
    “This is Robert Williams. You’re Dick’s friend?”
    “Yes. I need some help with—”
    He interrupted. “I know. Dick called to vouch for you. He filled me in on everything but the name.”
    “Could we meet sometime soon?” I asked. “I’ll explain it all to you.”
    “No. There’s no need. Dick told me enough, and I’m in Iceland right now.”
    “Oh, hang up and e-mail me. I can’t imagine how much the long distance is costing you.”
    He laughed and there was a hint of an adult laughing at a child’s innocence in it. “Yeah, don’t worry. It doesn’t cost me anything. I’m calling…” He paused, and switched whatever he was going to say to, “I’m calling you over the Internet.”
    He spoke slowly, as if speaking to a child.
    “Oh,” I said, hoping I sounded like I knew what he was talking about. “So could you do a check on Theresa Maxwell?”
    “Give me your e-mail.”
    I did and he hung up abruptly.
    Weird.
    There was definitely a chance this man had spent more time with his computer than was healthy for him. He had no people skills.
    I looked back through the tinted window of the gallery. I’d set everything in motion that I could.
    I headed home to write some more and tackle the laundry.
    When you have teen boys in the house, the cupboards are always bare and there’s always laundry to be done.
    Always.
     
    I was still doing laundry on Monday while I waited for Cal to come over and take me out to dinner. He hadn’t made it over Sunday night.
    Murder could be hard on a relationship.
    The dryer buzzed, so I went back, grabbed the basket of clothes and rather than fold them at the dryer, I went back to the living room and sat on the couch.
    The doorbell rang.
    “Come in,” I called.
    It was Tiny, not Cal. She came in and shut the door behind herself as she exclaimed, “It’s worse.”
    “What’s worse?” I asked as I set down the t-shirt I’d been folding.
    “Theresa’s forgery. It’s much worse than we imagined.” She walked back to my kitchen and I followed. She opened the fridge and pulled out my box of wine.
    Yes, I drink boxed wine. I could only imagine Miriam, Ms. Haughty-Art-Gallery, Designer-Shoes Lady’s turned up nose if she discovered my secret.
    Here’s the thing, I am the only adult in the house and I rarely drink more than a glass of wine with a meal. So the box works well for me. I know that true wine connoisseurs would turn up their noses to it, but thankfully I’m not friends with any wine connoisseurs and this particular friend didn’t seem to mind the box.
    Tiny poured herself a glass and sat down.
    I sat next to her. “Don’t say Theresa’s forgery. She didn’t forge anything, or have anything to do