Читать книгу Winning Amelia - Ingrid Weaver - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

HANK JONES DID his best to concentrate on the conversation, because it definitely wouldn’t be cool to be caught slack-jawed and staring. He’d heard that Amelia Goodfellow was back in town. Given the size of Port Hope, he’d known it was possible they would run into each other eventually, but not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined she would be waiting for him to open his office on a Monday morning.

Typically, the clients of Jones Investigative Services ranged from employers who wanted in-depth background checks on job applicants to estate lawyers tracking down missing heirs and people who wanted their spouses followed. Fairly routine stuff, which was okay with Hank, because it meant he hadn’t yet taken on a case he couldn’t solve. But he doubted this case would be routine. The last time he had seen Amelia, she had vowed never to speak to him again. She’d kept her word for almost fifteen years.

Nevertheless, here she was, sitting in the worn leather armchair across from his desk like any other potential client. For the first time since he’d started the business, he wished he’d put more effort into the office decor. He wondered what she thought of the wheezing air conditioner in the window behind him, or the five-year-old computer that hulked on his desk, or the prize pickerel that occupied the place of honor above the coffeemaker. He also wondered why her opinion should matter to him.

If she noticed the thrift-shop decorating scheme, she didn’t let it show. She kept her face as politely neutral as her request. “Will you take the case?”

Her voice sounded the same. In his more fanciful moments, he used to compare it to syrup, but he was no good with words, and that wasn’t right, anyway. Her voice wasn’t sugary, and sweet wasn’t an adjective people would use to describe Amelia. It was the way syrup flowed, rich and clear, that reminded him of her voice. It was also hard to stop the stream of her words once they got going. They tended to stick, too.

Her appearance hadn’t changed much over the years. Her hair was a bit straighter and cut to chin length instead of corkscrewing over her shoulders, and it had darkened marginally, yet it was unmistakably the Goodfellow red. Did she still insist on calling it auburn? Beneath her flowered blouse and denim skirt, her figure appeared to be as slender as when she’d been a teenager, although she’d lost that coltish, all arms and legs look.

He suspected that even if he’d been blindfolded, he would have recognized her presence. The leather chair creaked as she shifted because she couldn’t sit still. The air around her seemed to crackle with energy she couldn’t quite contain. Amelia never did anything halfway. When she wanted something, she pursued it with her whole heart.

“Or would you have a problem working for me?” she asked.

The blunt question didn’t surprise him. The Amelia he’d known wouldn’t tiptoe around an issue. She’d been the most honest person he’d ever encountered. Well, except for her blind spot when it came to her hair color.

Would he have a problem taking her on as a client? As a rule, he didn’t make spur-of-the-moment decisions. He preferred to inspect all sides of a topic first. That’s what made him a good investigator. This situation was different, because he already knew the answer to her question. Of course, he wouldn’t have a problem working for Amelia. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He would never again be that idealistic fool, goofy with puppy love, laying his heart bare for her to trample with her size-eight feet. The pain had faded. They’d both moved on.

And the truth was, he was curious. Whatever had brought her here had caused her to swallow her pride and break one and a half decades of silence. Anyone, even if they weren’t a professional snoop, would want to know what it was.

“This is what I do for a living, Amelia,” he said. “The problems that happened between us were a long time ago.”

“Distant past,” she agreed.

“We were friends long before we made the mistake of trying to be more.”

She exhaled. It was accompanied by a subtle lowering of her shoulders. “That’s a good way to put it. Yes, we were friends once, weren’t we?”

“And since you need help, I’m glad you came to me.”

“I was hoping you would feel that way.”

“Did you think I would kick you out?”

“After the way we parted, I wasn’t sure. People can change.”

“Not me. I’m the same old, dumb lug I always was.”

“You were never dumb, Hank. Otherwise, I wouldn’t want to hire you.”

He smiled. “It’s good to see you, Amelia. You haven’t changed, either.”

If he’d hoped to relax her, he’d been wrong. Instead of returning his smile, she shifted uncomfortably and glanced at her wrist. It likely was a reflex action, since she wore no watch. “Thanks,” she said. “I apologize if this seems rude, but would you mind if we do the catching-up later? You weren’t open yesterday, and I’m a little anxious to get things going.”

The old Amelia used to charge straight ahead once she’d decided on her course of action, too. He could see for himself that she was anxious. The skin beneath her eyes appeared shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept the night before. There were new lines at the outer corners, which added maturity to her gaze. The color was as striking as ever. He’d once compared it to the shimmering patches of blue-green his father’s outboard used to leave on the surface of the water when they went trolling back when he was a kid. Not the smoothest compliment to use when trying to impress a girl, comparing her eyes to an oil slick.

“Hank?”

Her tone wasn’t exactly cool, but it wasn’t warm, either. It was cautious. Businesslike. Which he should have expected. As she’d just made clear, this wasn’t a social call. He picked up a pen and readied a fresh page in his notepad. “You said that you want me to find a painting?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll need as many details as possible before I can plan how to proceed. You do have time to answer some questions, don’t you?”

“Go ahead.”

“How did the painting go missing?”

“My sister-in-law held a yard sale on the weekend. She sold the painting yesterday while I was at work. She remembers getting thirty dollars for the painting, but she doesn’t remember anything about who bought it.”

“So it was your sister-in-law who sold the painting.”

“You remember Jenny? Will’s wife?”

He and Amelia had been in their final year at high school when they’d gone to her brother’s wedding together. They had laughed and danced and figured it was fate when she had caught the bouquet. They’d been sure they would always be as happy as they’d been then. That alone was proof they’d had a lot of growing up to do. Less than three months later, they had broken up.

“Yes,” he replied. “I remember. How are she and Will doing?”

“Fine. They’re expecting their fourth child next month.”

“Is your brother still working at that custom furniture place north of town?”

“Lancaster Cabinets, yes.”

“I heard business wasn’t good last year. Are they doing okay now?”

“As far as I know.”

“Why did Jenny have the yard sale?”

“She wanted to clean the excess junk out of the house.”

“Can’t blame her, with a fourth kid on the way. So this painting had been kept at their place?”

“Right. I’ve been staying with them since...” She hesitated.

He wouldn’t pretend ignorance. “Since your legal troubles?”

“I see you’ve heard about it.”

Anyone not living in a cave would have heard about it. The scandal and ensuing criminal trial that had bankrupted Amelia and her husband’s investment business more than a year ago had been featured on the nightly news of every major network. It had been splashed across the national papers, too. There had been a mini business boom for local hotels and car rental agencies caused by the reporters who had come to her hometown looking for information to do background pieces. For a while, she had been Port Hope’s most infamous native.

The scandal had also ended her marriage to Spencer Pryce. Feeling any satisfaction over that fact would have been mean and petty, so Hank had tried not to. Despite what she’d done to him, he would never want to see her hurt. “I’m sorry you had a hard time, Amelia.”

She acknowledged his sympathy with a tight nod. “Thank you, but that’s in the past, too. My only concern now is with the painting.”

“I assume it was valuable?”

“Only to me.”

“Could you explain that?”

“You know about my troubles, as you put it, so you must also know the courts seized Spencer’s assets to make partial restitution for the money he stole. That included our joint property.”

“I heard. It wasn’t fair.”

“Depends on your viewpoint. Our former clients thought it wasn’t enough. They would have preferred a few pounds of flesh, too.” She made an impatient motion with her hand. “That’s beside the point. I’m telling you this because I want you to know how important that painting is to me. I have practically nothing left from my old life because I ended up liquidating my personal property in order to pay my lawyer’s fees.”

“Except for the painting?”

She hesitated. “No, it wasn’t part of our art collection. Jenny found it at a yard sale last year. She bought it because she liked the frame.”

“Are you saying this painting belonged to your sister-in-law, not you?”

“Technically, yes, but I thought of it as mine.”

“I don’t understand. Why?”

“It hung on the wall in their back room. That’s where I’ve been sleeping. The painting was the last thing I saw at night and the first thing I looked at in the morning. I got to know every detail. It became very special to me. When I came home from work yesterday and discovered it was missing—” Her voice hitched. She swallowed, taking a moment to regain her composure. “All I’ve been able to think about since then is how to get it back.”

Her emotion over the painting appeared genuine, but it seemed out of proportion. Her reaction didn’t make sense. The Amelia he remembered had been impulsive at times, yet she’d also been practical. There must be something she wasn’t telling him. “What was the painting like?”

“It was a landscape, a grassy hill with an old farmhouse and weathered barns. Oil on canvas. The scene looked a lot like the countryside around here.”

“How big was it?”

“I couldn’t give you exact measurements, but it was large. At least three feet wide and two feet high.”

“Do you know who painted it?”

“The signature at the bottom corner was hard to decipher. It started with an M and could have been Mather or Martin. Possibly Matthews. The name’s not important because I’m sure whoever painted it wasn’t a professional artist.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not very good.”

“But you liked it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did Jenny sell it? Did you two have a fight?”

“No. She wasn’t being vindictive, if that’s what you’re getting at. She hadn’t known how...precious it was to me. I hadn’t told her.”

“I see.”

“And what difference does it make why she sold it? It’s gone.”

“I asked because if she’d gotten rid of it to hurt you, she might remember perfectly well who bought it but just doesn’t feel like telling you.”

Amelia lifted one eyebrow. “You’ve gotten cynical.”

“No, I’m just being methodical. That’s how I operate. I need to consider every angle.”

“Jenny feels awful about selling it. She’s almost as upset as I am.”

“Was your brother at the yard sale?”

“On and off. Most of the time he was working on the rooms he’s building in the basement and keeping track of Timmy. He’s their youngest.”

“Then he didn’t see who bought the painting?”

“No. His other two boys had been at the park in the morning and played in the backyard after lunch. They didn’t see anything. None of the neighbors did, either.”

“You asked them?”

“I went to every house on the block. Not everyone was home. The people who were couldn’t tell me anything.”

It didn’t surprise him that she’d already tried to solve her problem herself. That was typical of Amelia. The fact that she’d decided to seek anyone’s assistance, particularly his, was an indication of how serious this was to her. “How had Jenny advertised the yard sale? Signs? An ad in the paper?”

“Both.”

“That means her customers weren’t limited to people in the neighborhood.” Hank tapped his pen against his notepad. “With so many tourists in town, the buyer could have been visiting and just happened to see the signs or read the ad.”

“I realize we don’t have much to go on,” she said, “but I really, really need to get that painting back.”

“I agree, there’s not much to go on. I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you.”

“You can try, can’t you?”

Hank had always admired Amelia’s intelligence. Unlike him, she’d breezed through high school and aced every course. Her brilliance in mathematics in particular had earned her a full scholarship to the University of Toronto. He’d been thrilled when he’d learned about that scholarship, even though it had meant the beginning of the end for the two of them. She was certainly smart enough to grasp the fact that her painting could be a few hundred miles away by now. For all they knew, it could be out of the country. Tracking it down would be time-consuming and expensive, if not impossible. He was about to shake his head when he met her gaze.

There were tears in her eyes.

That threw him. So did the urge he felt to leap from his chair and take her into his arms.

Whoa, where had that come from? He gripped his pen harder and stayed where he was. “I’d like you to answer one more question.”

“Okay, what?”

“What’s the real reason you want this painting?”

“I already told you. I got very attached to it. It’s important to me. Extremely important. I need to get that painting back, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs me.”

“You just finished telling me you sold most of your assets before you moved in with your brother.”

“I can pay you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I might not have access to the kind of wealth I used to have, but I’m living rent-free and I make a decent wage plus tips at Mae B’s. Name your price. Once you find that painting, I’ll pay whatever you want.”

Hank fought to keep his pity from showing. Amelia Goodfellow, their class valedictorian and girl voted unanimously the most likely to succeed, the brilliant financial advisor whose company had once been worth millions, was waiting tables at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. The urge to hug her returned. “My fee isn’t the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“I asked for the real reason you want that painting.”

Her chin trembled. She tightened her lips.

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe you would be willing to throw away the money you do have on a piece of worthless, not very good art that doesn’t even belong to you. What are you holding back, Amelia?”

She remained silent.

He used to have more patience than she had. It was a good bet he still did. He waited her out.

It took less than a minute. When she finally did speak, her voice shook. “During the past year and a half, I’ve lost my business, my reputation, my husband...” She cleared her throat. “You name it, I lost it. I lost so much, it got to the point that I stopped believing I could win.”

“I’m sorry.”

She clenched her hands in her lap. Her knuckles were white. “I don’t want your pity, Hank. I’m only telling you this to make you understand.”

“About the painting?”

“Yes. That’s where I’ve drawn the line.”

“How?”

“Losing that painting was the final straw. It woke me up. I’m through taking what Fate dishes out. This time, I’m fighting back.”

“Okay, but—”

“I want to start living again. I want the right to be happy again.”

“And you believe that finding this painting will do all that?”

She surged to her feet. “Yes!”

“Amelia...”

“I’m not asking for a guarantee because I realize it’s a long shot, but it’s possible to beat the odds. I know it’s possible. The whole key is being willing to try.”

This was the Amelia he had fallen in love with. Passionate, spontaneous, throwing herself one hundred percent into whatever she did. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her.

“Will you try, Hank?”

“As you just said, it would be a long shot. I couldn’t in good conscience take your money for—”

“Fine.” She turned toward the door. “Then I’ll find someone who will.”

He shoved himself out of his chair and rounded the desk. “Amelia, wait. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. I just said I wouldn’t take your money.”

She faced him. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll make a few inquiries, and I’ll try poking around on the internet, but it will be on my own time. I won’t charge you.”

Relief appeared to be warring with pride. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I may come up empty.”

“If anyone can find it, you will. But I don’t need charity. I can pay you.”

“It’s not charity. Consider it a welcome-home present.”

Her lips twitched. It was the first hint of a smile he’d seen. “Finding that painting would be a better gift than you could possibly imagine.” She held out her right hand. “Thank you, Hank.”

He clasped her hand without thinking. He concluded most of his meetings with a handshake. Often a handshake was the only contract he needed.

But the contact of his palm with Amelia’s jarred him. Her energy tingled through his skin, just as it had when they’d been teenagers. His pulse sped up. So did his breathing. Her scent was something else that hadn’t changed. It was earthy and inviting, like the tangy smell of new grass on a sunny spring day. Not that he’d ever said that aloud, because telling a girl she reminded him of a lawn was even less romantic than the oil slick thing.

Romantic?

Yeah, sure. There was as much chance of rekindling their romance as there was of finding her painting.