“Naturally.” He glances up and down the street. “If you’d like to examine it in Ms. Bennett’s shop, we can do it there. The painting was securely wrapped for transportation, and it will need to be opened. I can carry it to the shop or drive closer, whichever works for you.”
“Just drive,” the younger officer says. “We’ll be right behind you.”
Her partner squawks, but she’s already heading to the driver’s side of the cruiser.
Chapter Twelve
Twelve
I climb into the car. Connolly puts it in gear and rolls forward, barely hitting five miles an hour. That keeps the cops happy but it also gives us a moment to talk.
“You think Mercy stole it?” I ask. “As part of her test?”
“Possibly.”
“She is the patron god of thieves. Could this be another part of her test? Dealing with the police. She might have stolen it, but there’s no way the police randomly pulled us over when we had it in your trunk. Did she steal it and report it?”
“He said it was reported stolen two weeks ago.”
“This isn’t making any sense.”
“I agree. If it’s Mercy’s idea of a prank, I don’t think you want to have anything to do with her, however useful she might be to your career.”
“Oh, I’ve already realized that. This is bullshit, and I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into it.”
“If I was concerned, I’d have already placed a call to my lawyer.”
I glance over. “Are you really holding off because you think everything’s fine? Or because you’re afraid your lawyer will tell your parents you were with me?”
“The police don’t have any grounds to charge us.”
“You are concerned your parents will find out.” I study his expression. “Or do you think they’re behind this?”
He parks and meets my eyes. “At this moment, I don’t know what to think, Kennedy. My concern is that they are about to take this painting and you’ll want to uncurse it first.”
I exhale. “Okay. Let’s focus on that.”
“How long do you need?”
When I hesitate, he says, “That was an unfair question. I’m asking you to rush the reversal of a dangerous hex, which is unsafe.” He glances in his rearview mirror. “I can lend you some luck if that would help.”
“It would . . . but then you’d need to deal with a balancing while also dealing with an asshole cop who really wants to charge you with something, rich boy.”
I try to pass him a smile, but it falters. “No luck, please. If you can keep doing all the talking, I’ll unwrap the painting for them and make some excuse about rewrapping it for transportation after they’ve seen it. That might buy me enough time.”
He nods, and we climb out of the car just as the two officers are walking over. Connolly pops the trunk.
“Would you like me to carry it inside?” he asks.
“Actually, allow me,” I say. “It’s light enough, and I know where to set it down.” I toss the keys to Connolly. “You remember the door code?”
“I do.”
“Then let’s get this inside.”
* * *
I take the painting to a low table that I use to wrap fragile purchases. It also does double-duty as a work bench, because I’ve learned that in a place like Unstable, you don’t want to do your repairs in the back. In Boston, customers only wanted to see the final product. In a tourist town, tinkering in the open is seen as craftsmanship at work, and passersby will slip in to watch me sand or paint.
Hope says I should do my uncursings out in the open, too. I’m sure that’d draw a crowd, but I’m not quite ready for that yet. Tonight, though, I may need to make an exception. There’s no way the police are letting me slip this painting into the back room while they stay up front with Connolly.
“Nice place,” Platts says as he struts around. “Antiques, huh? Pretty fancy. You work here, Miss Bennett?”
“It’s her shop,” Connolly says. “She owns it.”
“Huh. Pretty fancy for a young lady like yourself. Must be nice having rich friends who can help you buy all this stuff.”
His partner—Grove, according to her name tag—throws me a sympathetic look, but Connolly is the one who stiffens, his face tightening.
“I’m very fortunate,” I say. “I have an extremely supportive family and community. And friends, of course. Though one in particular seems to think he can buy an expensive painting and resell it in my shop.”
Connolly relaxes. “It was an investment opportunity.”
I roll my eyes. “You were never getting someone to pay more than two grand for it, Aiden.”
Connolly launches into a mini-lecture on art investment. I’m pretty sure he’s just making it up as he goes, but it lets me take my time unwrapping the painting, while I’m clearing my mind, opening it to the curse’s music.
Curses present differently for each weaver. To me, they are tunes that I must snatch, harmonies I must separate like twisted threads. Why music? I have no idea. My singing voice only got me a spot in the school choir when Suzy Ma faked endless bouts of strep throat to play softball instead. I may have helped her with that, being the star hitter of the softball team myself.
I wouldn’t say I’m an athlete, but I did a helluva lot better on the mound than the choir stand, and don’t even ask about my very short stint in the band. I like music, though. I sing in the shower . . . and the car . . . and the kitchen. I love to dance, even if I’m not very good at it. Maybe passion is more important than talent. I love music, so to me curses present as that.
This one starts singing its deceptively sweet song when Platts barks at my ear, “What’s all that for?” and I jump, song shattering.
“What kind of covering is that?” he demands, poking at the curse shield I’m folding away from the painting. He takes a corner. “Why’s it so heavy?”
“It’s lead lined,” I say. “Like an x-ray blanket.”
Platts jumps back. His partner stays where she is, across the room examining a set of tea cups.
“Is the painting radioactive?” she asks.
I smile. “I certainly hope not. But we were speaking of urban legends earlier, and this painting has one attached. That’s why it’s so valuable. Not the painting itself, but the story behind it.”
“Cursed, right?” Grove says, as she lifts a little sign from the tea cups. “That’s the gimmick for your shop. Everything’s cursed.”
“Formerly cursed. The formerly part is important.”
“So this is true?” Grove waves at the sign.
“The person who sold them to me swore she heard the funeral march every time she drank from the cups. I didn’t find any indication of that, but I still put it on the sign, with the disclaimer that it’s what the former owner claimed. Really, they’re just gorgeous examples of Victorian bone china.”
“They are very pretty.”
“Are you shopping or working?” Platts snaps. “And what’s this nonsense about curses?”