“Is the FBI still in town?” Wes asked his friend.

“Probably, but I haven’t heard. I’m sure the Mortons will know.”

They drove through the black gates tipped with gold spires and stopped in a circular drive before a massive Mediterranean-style stucco mansion. It was a grand palisade that always impressed Wes each time he visited. The real attraction was the Roman statuary that filled the gardens and the limestone gazebo where rich amethyst-colored blooms of wisteria draped over the stone every spring, filling the air with its thick scent. It was a beautiful sight during the late spring and early summer.

Wes reached the door first and pressed a finger on the small white doorbell incased in a gold frame. A few seconds later, a man appeared, dressed all in black. The butler, Mr. Clancy, nodded in greeting.

“Mr. Thorne, Mr. Devereaux, this way please.” He led them to one of the sitting rooms off the main hall.

The Mortons, Jill and her husband Daniel, were seated on a sateen loveseat speaking quietly, their faces strained. They were in their sixties, but both still trim and almost ageless in looks. They were a favorite family among the island’s elite, and they deserved the attention. The Mortons, while rich, were not ostentatious, and as patrons of the arts, they put much of their wealth back into the artistic community. More than once, Wes had flown with them to New York to see an opera or ballet. They also offered up the pieces of their private collection to the Met for temporary exhibits. Wes admired them, and he admired few people in this world. He only wished his parents had taken lessons from the Mortons, rather than lose themselves in their obsessions with social power and elitism.

“Wes, my dear boy,” Jill stood and greeted him, taking his hands in hers, shaking them gently. Her light blue eyes, though somewhat dimmed with worry, still managed a small twinkle. Dear boy. He was a grown man, but she’d known him since he was a child. The endearment would have angered him coming from anyone else, but from her it made him smile.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Morton. Royce called me with the news about the Goya.”

Daniel stepped forward and shook his and Royce’s hands.

“We’ve had a devil of a time coping with it,” Daniel admitted, his faint British accent coming through. He’d moved to America as a young man and had made his fortune here, married Jill, and became a U.S. citizen, but the Brit was just underneath his skin.

“One minute the Goya was there; the next it was gone. We were hosting a party and in the span of two hours, it was removed right under our noses.”

Wes thought this over carefully. “Do you have a guest list I can see?”

“Yes,” Jill said. “The FBI took a copy and is interviewing all of the guests, but you know how these parties can be…”

Wes knew only too well how easily things could go wrong at parties on the North Shore of Long Island. Twenty-five years ago, eight-year-old twins had been kidnapped out of their own kitchen in the midst of a summer party their parents were hosting. The kidnappers had seemed to have no trouble vanishing into the night without being seen or discovered. Not much had changed in the way of security.

“How did you know it was gone? Royce said there was a forgery left in its place?”

“Oh.” Jill blushed. “It was the frame. That was the only way I could have known. The wood had a hairline fracture, from when Daniel dropped it a few weeks ago. You could feel it, but not see the crack.”

Jill retrieved a wood frame from the coffee table by the loveseat.

“The FBI returned this to us after they swept it for prints. It was clean. But it’s not our frame.” Daniel ran an index finger over the edge of one of the corners. “There was a crack, just here. I only noticed it was wrong because the painting was slightly crooked and I touched it to readjust it. It was then I saw the lack of the break.”

He ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair and sighed.

Royce examined the frame and passed it to Wes. The frame was eight-by-ten in size, incredibly small by most art standards. Rather like the Mona Lisa. Many famous paintings were tiny in comparison to the general public’s expectations, but this particular Goya was even smaller.

The Goya was a small painting of a woman overlooking a cliff from a terrace. It was not in the form of his dark period, which was his most famous style, but more along the lines of the years he painted portraits of high-society members. The image of the woman was strangely personal, as though Goya had seemed to know the woman intimately, the way the wind teased her hair and her skirts fluttered about her legs, showing her fine figure. Wes knew the woman in the painting had a story to tell, and when it came up for auction, he contacted the Mortons immediately. They’d wanted to buy it and he’d helped arrange it.

He continued to study the frame.

“What do you think, Wes?” Jill took the frame back from him and set it down on the table.

Wes pursed his lips, thinking. He wasn’t an agent, or a police officer, and had no real skills in investigation, but he knew art. And more important, he knew the seedier side of the art world.

“Whoever took this will have to hire someone to fence it, and then it will be put up on the black market, unless they already have a buyer arranged. I will put my feelers out, but I also want a copy of your guest list and copies of the video footage of the collection gallery.”

Daniel nodded. “Of course, we can get that for you. We’re waiting on the FBI to finish with the tapes and then we’ll send them to you.”

“Good.” Wes thanked the couple and then he and Royce headed for the door.

Wes stared at the car. He’d been too lost in thought earlier when Royce had picked him up to notice the state of the Spyder. It was dirty and covered in splashes of mud.

“What the hell have you been up to while I was gone?”

Royce threw back his head and laughed. “You have no idea, and I’m definitely not telling.”

“Right.” Wes chuckled and got into the passenger seat. His phone buzzed and when he pulled it out he saw there was a text from Lilly Hargrave, a woman who owned an expensive clothing and lingerie shop in town.

“Back to your place?” Royce raked a hand through his hair before he buckled his seat belt.

“Actually, take me into town. Lilly has something for me.” Wes buckled himself in and couldn’t resist the smile. The day had started out grim, but things were looking up.

“Lilly? What do you want with her? I thought you and she were over ages ago?” Royce, the paleontologist, said, digging up Wes’s fossilized romantic history trying to find answers.

“We are done,” he assured his friend. “But Lilly is still a friend. She’s ordered something for me from Paris, and I want to pick it up immediately.”

“Well, aren’t you Mr. Mysterious today.” Royce spun the wheel and the Spyder shot out of the Morton’s gravel drive and onto the road toward town.

Wes ignored his friend’s subtle taunt. “What do you make of this painting situation?”

“Me?” Royce was quiet for a moment. “Depending on the level of access of the guests, we might be looking at one of our own on the North Shore as a potential thief. Of course, a stranger may have gotten into the house during the party, but I’ll hold off on guessing until I see the footage and the guest list. What about you?”

Wes drummed his fingers on the windowsill of the passenger side. He didn’t want to think about one of their own being responsible, but the sad truth was it could be very possible.

“I think we may have a fox in our hen house, Royce.” It was time for hunting.

*  *  *

Callie stared at the Gulfstream G150 on the tarmac, her knuckles white on the little duffel bag containing her clothes.

Jim let out a low whistle.

“That boy sure knows how to travel in style. Good thing, too, because you deserve the best, sweetheart.” Her father hugged her with one arm and kissed her cheek.