“Well, I sold a similar painting two months ago for a hundred and twenty-five thousand. Another client, a couple, bought a Gamble from me five or six years ago for thirty-five thousand. Now it’s worth a hundred and fifty.”

“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Solana said. Surely her ears weren’t deceiving her.

The Mumford woman went on, “If you don’t mind my asking, is there a reason you can’t leave these with me?”

“It’s not me. It’s the gentleman I work for. I might talk him into leaving them for a week, but not longer. I’d need a receipt. I’d need two receipts.”

“I’d be happy to oblige. Of course, I’d need to see the two bills of sale from the original purchase or some proof the gentleman actually owns the paintings. It’s a formality, but in transactions of this magnitude, the provenance is critical.”

Solana shook her head, inventing a back story as quickly as she could. “Not possible. His wife bought them years ago. There was a fire after that and all his financial records were destroyed. Anyway, what difference does it make after all these years? What matters is the current value. This is an authentic Gamble. A big one. You said so yourself.”

“What about an appraisal for insurance purposes? Surely he has a rider on his policy to protect himself in case of loss.”

“That I don’t know about, but I can ask.”

She could see the woman turning the problem over in her mind. This business of provenance was just an excuse to bring the price down. Maybe she thought the painting was stolen, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The woman wanted the paintings. Solana could see it in her face, like someone on a diet looking at a rack of doughnuts through a plate-glass window. Finally, the gallery owner said, “Let me think about it and maybe we can find a way. Give me a number where you can be reached and I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

When Solana left the gallery she had the two receipts in hand. The lesser of the two paintings, the William Wendt, was valued at seventy-five thousand. The other four paintings in the trunk she’d hold on to until she was satisfied she’d been treated well. It was worth waiting a week, if she could have that much cash in hand.

Home again, she found herself brooding on the issue of Kinsey Millhone, who seemed determined to snoop. Solana vividly recalled the first time she’d knocked on Mr. Vronsky’s door. She’d despised the girl on sight, staring at her through the pane as though she were a tarantula in one of the glass cases at the Museum of Natural History. Solana had taken Tiny there often as a child. He was fascinated by the variety of disgusting insects and spiders, hairy things that lurked in corners and under leaves. Some had horns and pincers and hard black carapaces. These loathsome creatures could disguise themselves so cunningly that it was sometimes hard to spot them in the foliage where they hid. Tarantulas were the worst. The display case would appear empty and Solana would wonder if the spider had escaped. She’d lean toward the glass, searching uneasily, and suddenly discover the thing was close enough to touch. This girl was like that.

Solana had opened the door to her, picking up her scent as clearly as an animal’s, something feminine and floral that didn’t suit her at all. She was slim, in her thirties, with a wiry athletic build. That first encounter, she wore a black turtleneck T-shirt, a winter jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes, with a slouchy-looking leather bag slung over one shoulder. Her dark hair was straight and carelessly cut as if she’d done it herself. Since then, she’d presented herself on numerous occasions, always with the same lame compliments and clumsy questions about the old man. Twice Solana had caught sight of her jogging along State Street early in the morning. She gathered the young woman did this weekday mornings before the sun was up. Solana wondered if she went out before dawn to spy on her. She’d seen her peering into the Dumpster when she passed it on the street. What Solana did, what Solana put there, was none of her business.

Solana forced herself to remain calm and polite in dealing with the Millhone woman, though she kept her fixed in an unrelenting stare. The young woman’s brows were lightly feathered, green eyes set in a fringe of dark lashes. The hazel of her eyes was eerie-green with gold flecks and a lighter ring around the iris that made her eyes blaze like a wolf’s. Watching her, Solana felt a sensation wash over her that was nearly sexual. They were kindred spirits, dark to dark. Usually Solana could look straight into other minds, but not this one. While Kinsey’s manner was friendly, her comments hinted at a curiosity Solana didn’t care for. She was someone who took in far more than she let on.

The day she’d offered to go to the market, she’d given herself away. Solana had gone to the kitchen to make up her grocery list. She’d hung a mirror in the kitchen beside the back door and she studied herself now. She was fine. She looked good, exactly as she claimed. Caring, concerned, a woman who had her patient’s best interests at heart. When she returned to the living room, purse under one arm, her wallet in hand, she saw that instead of waiting on the porch as she’d been asked, she’d stepped into the house. The gesture was small, but it smacked of willfulness. This was someone who did what she wanted and not as she was told. Solana could tell she’d had a quick look around. What had she seen that day? Solana had longed to scan the room to see if anything was amiss, but she’d kept her gaze pinned on the young woman’s face. She was dangerous.

Solana didn’t like her persistence, though now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen Kinsey for two or three days. This past Friday she’d gone next door, looking for help getting the old man out of the shower. Mr. Pitts was out and Kinsey had come over instead. Solana hadn’t cared which of them it was. Her purpose was to drop the remark about the old man’s fall. Not because he’d fallen-how could he when she scarcely let him get out of bed-but as a way of accounting for the fresh bruises on his legs. She hadn’t seen Kinsey since and that seemed odd. She and Mr. Pitts were always expressing such concern about the old man so why not now? The two were clearly in cahoots, but what were they up to?

Tiny had told her that Thursday while he was napping, he heard someone moving around in Gus’s house. Solana didn’t see how it could have been Kinsey, because as far as she knew, the woman didn’t have a key. All the same, Solana’d called a locksmith and had the locks changed. She thought back to the Other’s tale about the woman investigator asking questions at the senior facility where the two of them had worked. Clearly she’d been sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

Solana went back to the old man’s room. He was awake and he’d struggled into a sitting position on the side of his bed. His bare feet dangled and one hand was outstretched, clutching the bed table for support.

She clapped her hands loudly. “Good! You’re up. Would you like some help?” She’d startled him so badly she could almost feel the jolt of fear that had shot up his spine.

“Bathroom.”

“Why don’t you wait here and I’ll bring the bedpan. You’re entirely too wobbly to be prancing around the house.”

She held the bedpan for him, but he couldn’t pass any urine. No big surprise. That was just an excuse for his getting out of bed. She couldn’t imagine what he thought to accomplish. She’d moved his walker to the empty bedroom so in order to get anywhere, he’d have to creep from room to room, holding on to the furniture for support. Even if he reached the back door, or the front door for that matter, he’d have to negotiate the porch steps and then the sidewalk beyond. She thought she might allow him to escape and get as far as the street before she brought him back. Then she could tell the neighbors he’d taken to wandering off. She’d say, Poor old thing. In his flimsy pajamas, he could catch his death of cold. She’d say he’d been hallucinating as well, crazy talk about people being after him.