Widow - Anne Stuart [60]
Maguire closed the door behind her silently, then reached in his pocket for the camera. He’d been a quixotic fool to clean off the damning word from the door before he could take photos, but Charlie had been so panicked, so distressed, that he’d been uncharacteristically noble. He took some photos of the smear, anyway, contemplating whether he could re-create that damning word long enough for a decent photo. It would make a helluva dust jacket.
In the end he didn’t bother. The ruined painting on the floor was dramatic enough.
He took his time, using different angles, propping it against the bed. He took a few shots of the paint-spattered sink and her stained blouse for good measure—he’d learned from Molly that some of the least-expected photos turned out to be prizewinning shots. Though what the hell would Molly think of him now that he’d sunk to the level of spying on the rich and famous? He didn’t know whether she would have laughed or wept.
He knew one thing, though. She would have kicked his butt for what he was doing to Charlie. She would have told him what a son of a bitch he was, and he would have listened.
But Molly had died, covering one too many battles, and he’d stopped caring what anyone thought.
By the time he was finished the sky was beginning to darken into the early autumn twilight, and he could hear voices on the terrace below.
He peered out, and they were all congregated out there. Olivia and Henry and Gia, with Madame Antonella holding court. There was no sign of Charlie, but that didn’t worry him. She was probably in the kitchen with Lauretta and Tomaso, discussing garlic and pesto. No one would see if he hauled the ruined painting out of the villa to someplace secure.
He still couldn’t figure out why Charlie had come to him. And it hadn’t been an accident—she’d been heading straight for him and no one else. She said it had been instinct, knowing he was trying to find the missing paintings. It was instinct, all right, but of a much more basic nature. She may not like sex, or kissing, or men. She may not like him very much at all. But she was drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, like an iron filing to a magnet, like a dog to a bone. Which was exactly what he wanted.
He lucked out—no one spotted him as he spirited the ruined canvas down the stairs. He couldn’t stash it in the studio—the entrance was down from the terrace and he’d have to carry it straight past the curious inhabitants of La Colombala. Besides, Gia had already proved that the studio was far from secure. He’d pointed her in Henry’s direction, and if his glance from Charlie’s window was anything to go by, she’d already zeroed in on him, but you never could tell who might decide to pay him a little visit.
Instead he propped the painting behind the house, hidden in the underbrush, hoping that no one would notice it in the gathering twilight. After it was dark and the household was asleep he’d take it up to the old church—there were plenty of dry, empty rooms there to store it.
The question was, who had left it for Charlie to find? It was a good-size painting—about two feet by three feet, and heavily framed. It would take some effort to haul it into Charlie’s room without anyone hearing.
And why would they do it? The slashed painting seemed more like a death threat, the scrawled word on the door an accusation.
Of course the police could find out who did it in short order. Fingerprints, questioning, would narrow it down immediately. Too bad he wasn’t about to involve them, but he had his priorities straight. If the police started investigating Pompasse’s death, then half the paparazzi in Europe would be on the trail. He already had one hell of an advantage, but he wasn’t about to give that up readily. Besides, it wasn’t as if Charlie was in any particular danger. So someone had put a torn, paint-splattered painting in her room. Someone was just