Widow - Anne Stuart [62]
“I thought you weren’t interested, Maguire,” she said with a silky purr.
“I’m not. Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?” She batted her eyes innocently at him, but Gia Schiavone probably hadn’t been innocent since the day she was born.
“Don’t bother trying to deny it,” he drawled. “You’re the only one smart enough and mean enough to do it. What have you got against Charlie?”
Gia stopped pouting. “Didn’t she like her little present? She was worried about the missing paintings, so when I found one of them I thought I should return it to her. I was going to drag it out onto the terrace but I thought a little discretion might be wise.”
“Very thoughtful of you. Where do you claim you found it?”
“You don’t believe me? I did find it, but I wouldn’t think of doing that to the canvas! I know the value of Pompasse’s work—I have a healthy respect for money, even if I hate that pale, overgrown little bitch. The portrait was already destroyed when I found it—slashed with a knife and splashed with paint. I guess someone else hates her as much as I do.” Her mouth curved in a satisfied smirk.
“Where did you find it?”
“You’re being awfully protective, aren’t you? What does it matter to you?” she shot back.
“I’m being protective of the paintings. It’s my job, remember? Where did you find it?”
“Near the old barn. It was propped up against the wall, as if someone wanted me to see it. Though I assumed it was Charlie who was supposed to find it. She’s the only one around here who goes for long walks. It was a fluke that I was out. But since I figured that it was obviously meant for Charlie, I decided to help things out a bit and deliver it.”
“And paint her door for good measure?”
“It was a nice touch, don’t you think?” she said smugly. Reminding Maguire just how much he hated smug little girls.
“So you think Charlie killed the old man?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice.
“I know she did.”
Her calm certainty threw him for a moment. “How?” he demanded.
“By leaving him. She took his heart with her, and he could never love anyone else.”
“Honey, I doubt he ever loved anyone in his entire life. Are you telling me Pompasse pined away, or do you mean Charlie shoved him down the stairs?”
“How could she do that?” Gia said blankly. “She wasn’t even in Italy when he died.”
“But you were. Maybe you were in Florence on the day he died. Did you push him down the stairs?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I loved him.”
“But you were being replaced, weren’t you? Maybe you went to tell him you were leaving him, and he got angry, and you struggled. It was an accident, no one was to blame,” he suggested smoothly.
But Gia had already pulled herself together. “You’re crazy. I was nowhere near Florence on the day he died. And why the hell do you care?”
“I don’t. All I care about are the paintings. I want to know where the other ones are, and I want to find his journals.”
“I can’t help you,” Gia said with an extravagant shrug of her bony shoulders. “And I would if I could. One thing you could say about Pompasse—he took care of his own. If there’s any money left then some of it will be mine. I want to make sure the full estate is valued, and I don’t like the idea of missing out on the value of those paintings.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you stole them yourself, then decided to sacrifice one for the sake of your vendetta against Charlie,” Maguire suggested. “It still leaves you with at least two priceless paintings.”
“Of Charlie.” Her venom wasn’t feigned. “Not exactly what I want. Trust me, I’m too practical. Don’t waste your time with me. Why don’t you ask Charlie where the paintings are? She knows this area better than anyone.”
He wasn’t going to get any more out of her and he knew it. Not at this point. “Go back and work on Henry some more,” he said wearily. “It’s less expensive revenge than destroying paintings.”
“And a lovely notion it is, Maguire. I’m enjoying myself tremendously.”
He watched her go, twitching her nonexistent rear, and he cursed softly. He wasn’t any further ahead than he had been before.
The problem was, he believed Gia,