"I only read books about serial killers."
"Figures," Nick said.
"Who would have thought you'd have made a successful career as a writer? You know, the day I heard you'd quit Harte Investments I told Edith Seaton that you were making a big mistake. 'Edith,' I said,'that young man is going to ruin his life and break his grandfather's heart'."
"We all survived, interestingly enough. Mrs. Stiles, I wondered if I could ask you a few questions."
"You're trying to find that missing painting, aren't you?" Betty sighed. "Of course you can ask me some questions, but if what I've heard is true, I'm afraid you're wasting your time."
"Why is that?"
She lowered her voice. "Well, dear, as everyone knows, the most likely suspect is Octavia Brightwell."
"Funny you should mention that, Mrs. Stiles. I've heard the same thing and I'm trying to find out who started that rumor. Thought maybe you could tell me."
"You want to know who started it?" Betty asked incredulously.
"That's right."
"But why does it matter, dear? I mean, it's perfectly obvious when you think about it that Miss Brightwell is the person most likely to be the thief."
"It's not obvious to me," Nick said.
"Oh." Betty seemed baffled by that news. Then she gave him a pitying look and patted his arm. "Well, I suppose it's understandable that you would want to think the best of her under the circumstances. But for what it's worth, my advice is to find another girlfriend."
Nick smiled coldly. The hard part about being a real private eye, he decided, was that sometimes it was extremely difficult to avoid losing your temper. But there was nothing to be gained by telling Betty Stiles that she was an interfering busybody.
"I don't plan to take your advice, Mrs. Stiles. So that leaves me with no choice except to find the real thief."
"But if Miss Brightwell took the picture—"
"Octavia didn't take it."
She made a tut-tut sound. "You seem very sure of that."
"I'm sure, Mrs. Stiles."
"Really, Nicholas, I wouldn't have thought that you were the type to be so easily taken in by a woman's wiles."
"And here I thought you were too smart to be conned by a thief."
Betty bridled. "I beg your pardon?"
"Isn't it obvious? Whoever started the rumor is the person who stole the painting."
"But that's ridiculous."
"Where did you hear it first, Mrs. Stiles?"
Betty drew herself up with great dignity. "I heard it right here at the beauty shop."
Nick looked past her through the window and saw two women sitting under the hair dryers. They had magazines on their laps but neither was reading. Both were focused intently on the scene taking place outside the shop. The owner of the salon, Carla Millbank, was watching him in the mirror as she wrapped a client's hair in little pieces of aluminum foil.
His conversation with Betty was going to be all over town by nightfall.
His new problem loomed large. The gender divides in Eclipse Bay were still firmly entrenched. There were some places a man could not go. Carla's Custom Cut & Curl was terra incognita for every male in the community.
Fifteen minutes later he walked into Bright Visions, still fine-tuning the details of his new scheme.
The place appeared to be empty except for Octavia, who was sitting on the high stool behind the counter. She looked up from some notes she was jotting down on a sheet of paper.
"There you are," she said. "I was getting worried. Did you find Betty Stiles?"
"For all the good it did me." He studied the two framed paintings leaning against the wall. "I don't remember those. Are they new?"
An odd expression crossed her face. "Yes, as a matter of fact."
"I'm no expert, but I like them."
"So do I."
"Nice view of the Arch. The scene of the pier at night is great, too. Sort of moody with the fog and the dark water and that little light on the boat. Who's the artist?"
There was a movement in the doorway behind the counter. Jeremy appeared from the back room. He looked at Nick with a veiled expression.
"That would be me," Jeremy said.
Gail came to stand beside him. "Isn't he terrific?" She was bubbling with enthusiasm. "I've already got a client in mind."
Of course it would be Jeremy, Nick thought. What the hell was the matter with him? How could he have forgotten Jeremy and his considerable commercial talent. If he'd been paying attention instead of concentrating on how to get someone inside the beauty shop, he would have put it all together instantly as soon as he saw the pictures. Now he was stuck with doing the polite, civilized thing in front of Octavia and Gail.
"Congratulations," he said to Jeremy, keeping his voice absolutely level. "Nice work."
"Be even nicer work if it pays," Jeremy said. His tone was just as level as Nick's. "But I'm not going to quit my day job anytime soon. I mean, what are the odds of actually being able to make a living by painting? A million to one, maybe?"
"I'm sure Nick knows exactly how you feel," Octavia commented. "He must have had the same doubts when he put his first manuscript in the mail. Isn't that right, Nick?"
She had him neatly cornered, he thought.
"Sure," he said. "And every time I've put a manuscript in the mail since that first one. It always feels a lot like jumping off a cliff."
Obviously it had been a mistake to tell her what lay beneath the surface of this little feud he and Jeremy had going. What was it with her, anyway? Why couldn't she let the two of them conduct their private war without outside interference?
Jeremy looked serious. "The jumping-off-the-cliff thing never goes away?"
Nick shrugged. "Not that I've noticed. My advice is to get used to it. It'll give you an edge." He switched his gaze to Gail. "How would you like to play undercover agent?"
"Do I get to wear a trench coat?" Gail asked.
"Not unless you want to get the collar wet in the shampoo bowl."
Octavia hopped off her stool. "Carla's Custom Cut & Curl? You want Gail to see what she can pick up in the way of gossip in the beauty shop?"
"Yeah. Betty Stiles says that's where she first heard the rumors."
"You're really serious about this detective thing, aren't you?" Jeremy asked Nick.
"No, I just needed something interesting to put down in my journal under the subject of what I did on my summer vacation," Nick retorted.
