Read Online Mason's Daughter by Cynthia J Stone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cynthia J Stone
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“We aren’t late, are we?”
Officer Avery points to the back door and they head toward the hallway like cattle through a chute. As they stomp past, the office door slams. Good for Mr. Donatello. He has learned his lesson.
“Mike, I need to ask you something.”
He listens while I explain that Colton had no knowledge of my arrangement with Mr. Donatello. When I come to the part about the payment, he begins twirling his hat around one finger. I ask him to repeat his exact words to Colton about the money, but he demurs.
“You probably heard Big Jack offer to pay for Colton’s accidents before,” I say, “but I never accepted. Besides, he can’t write any checks now. I’ve got his power of attorney, but Harlene has the checkbook. Why did you tell Colton his grandfather would pay for the damages?”
“I, uh . . . well, there might be another explanation.”
“Hello, Sally,” a voice calls from across the room. “Ooh, isn’t that color divine on you?”
I spin around to see Angelique float into the gallery, glistening like molten gold. Behind her, denim-covered legs support a large framed painting that wobbles behind her through the door.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says. “I don’t remember if I told you Mr. Donatello ordered this one.” Angelique points to the canvas, as her helper sets her painting at his feet. “This kind gentleman offered to carry it inside.”
I all but jump as I recognize the man who grins at me.
“Hello again,” he says.
Angelique leans toward him, her earrings swinging to and fro as if they can hypnotize. “Tell us your name, you darling young man.”
“Brett Kennedy,” I answer.
“Timing really is everything,” Angelique says in her husky voice. If anyone else winked and gushed a cliché like that, I would gag. From her, it sounds natural, even intriguing.
The back door opens, and squeals and laughter blow in from the alley. Charlie enters the gallery, with six-year-old Maddie dangling from his hand. “The chain gang is hungry. Who wants a breakfast taco from Hot Crossed Buns?” He scans the room for takers. “Oh, hey, Brett.” They pump hands. “I didn’t realize you were joining our party.”
“I’m just here to pick up a new piece of artwork.” Brett shakes his head. “But today has started off very fortunate for me.” When Brett smiles at me, Mike Avery’s black leather gun belt creaks as he straightens his back.
“Oh, yes, let me introduce you to Officer Mike Avery, a good friend of our family.” I can picture redness creeping up my neck and onto my face, spreading like an oil spill.
After they shake hands, Mike excuses himself. Angelique takes Brett’s arm and mine to tour us around the gallery. By their nodding and pointing, it’s evident he shares her wide knowledge of the art world. We stop in front of the painting Mike found so troublesome.
“This is the one I’ve purchased,” Brett says. Pride covers his voice like a tarp.
Angelique purrs and twitches like a cat pawing a toy. “You have a marvelous eye, Brett.” She turns toward me. “Sally, what do you think?”
Is she trying to induce me to approve of the painting or the purchaser? “Marvelous, especially in the eye of the beholder. Why don’t I get Mr. Donatello for you? I think he’s in the office.”
I tap on the door and detect some rustling noises, and then metal clicks against metal. “Mr. Donatello?” I try the handle. The door is locked.
A man’s voice answers. “He’s not here.”
My hand lingers on the doorknob, and I wait, all but certain I heard wrong.
It was still dark outside, but I woke up thirsty. I looked at the clock beside my bed. Clyde taught me how to tell time last month. The big hand was near six, just like me. That cut the hour in half, he said. The little hand was stuck between the two and three. Morning was hours away.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. Aunt Mary was right. Clyde and I shouldn’t have eaten all
Officer Avery points to the back door and they head toward the hallway like cattle through a chute. As they stomp past, the office door slams. Good for Mr. Donatello. He has learned his lesson.
“Mike, I need to ask you something.”
He listens while I explain that Colton had no knowledge of my arrangement with Mr. Donatello. When I come to the part about the payment, he begins twirling his hat around one finger. I ask him to repeat his exact words to Colton about the money, but he demurs.
“You probably heard Big Jack offer to pay for Colton’s accidents before,” I say, “but I never accepted. Besides, he can’t write any checks now. I’ve got his power of attorney, but Harlene has the checkbook. Why did you tell Colton his grandfather would pay for the damages?”
“I, uh . . . well, there might be another explanation.”
“Hello, Sally,” a voice calls from across the room. “Ooh, isn’t that color divine on you?”
I spin around to see Angelique float into the gallery, glistening like molten gold. Behind her, denim-covered legs support a large framed painting that wobbles behind her through the door.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says. “I don’t remember if I told you Mr. Donatello ordered this one.” Angelique points to the canvas, as her helper sets her painting at his feet. “This kind gentleman offered to carry it inside.”
I all but jump as I recognize the man who grins at me.
“Hello again,” he says.
Angelique leans toward him, her earrings swinging to and fro as if they can hypnotize. “Tell us your name, you darling young man.”
“Brett Kennedy,” I answer.
“Timing really is everything,” Angelique says in her husky voice. If anyone else winked and gushed a cliché like that, I would gag. From her, it sounds natural, even intriguing.
The back door opens, and squeals and laughter blow in from the alley. Charlie enters the gallery, with six-year-old Maddie dangling from his hand. “The chain gang is hungry. Who wants a breakfast taco from Hot Crossed Buns?” He scans the room for takers. “Oh, hey, Brett.” They pump hands. “I didn’t realize you were joining our party.”
“I’m just here to pick up a new piece of artwork.” Brett shakes his head. “But today has started off very fortunate for me.” When Brett smiles at me, Mike Avery’s black leather gun belt creaks as he straightens his back.
“Oh, yes, let me introduce you to Officer Mike Avery, a good friend of our family.” I can picture redness creeping up my neck and onto my face, spreading like an oil spill.
After they shake hands, Mike excuses himself. Angelique takes Brett’s arm and mine to tour us around the gallery. By their nodding and pointing, it’s evident he shares her wide knowledge of the art world. We stop in front of the painting Mike found so troublesome.
“This is the one I’ve purchased,” Brett says. Pride covers his voice like a tarp.
Angelique purrs and twitches like a cat pawing a toy. “You have a marvelous eye, Brett.” She turns toward me. “Sally, what do you think?”
Is she trying to induce me to approve of the painting or the purchaser? “Marvelous, especially in the eye of the beholder. Why don’t I get Mr. Donatello for you? I think he’s in the office.”
I tap on the door and detect some rustling noises, and then metal clicks against metal. “Mr. Donatello?” I try the handle. The door is locked.
A man’s voice answers. “He’s not here.”
My hand lingers on the doorknob, and I wait, all but certain I heard wrong.
It was still dark outside, but I woke up thirsty. I looked at the clock beside my bed. Clyde taught me how to tell time last month. The big hand was near six, just like me. That cut the hour in half, he said. The little hand was stuck between the two and three. Morning was hours away.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. Aunt Mary was right. Clyde and I shouldn’t have eaten all
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