This is a domestic matter. None of his concern, though we’re welcome to use his office because he’s an understanding guy.
Yeah, maybe I’m misinterpreting the situation, but I can’t help but kinda hate Cullan Connolly even more than I do his wife.
A look passes over Marion’s face. That moment where she expects him to join her—to help her—and then has to reorient herself when he doesn’t . . . again.
She clears her throat and reaches into her folder to pass me another paper.
“Please explain this, Kennedy.”
It’s a letter from Connolly. Written on his company stationary and signed with a flourish. Sent to the family lawyer, it directs them to begin a monthly ten-thousand-dollar withdrawal from the “active” portion of his trust fund, to be sent to an account in the name of Kennedy Bennett.
I read it, and I laugh.
“You find something amusing?” Marion says.
“I’d joke that I’d love to know where the money’s going, ’cause I’m not seeing it. But really, I’m laughing that you think I’d believe such an obviously fake letter.”
Her expression doesn’t change, and I peer at her. “You did write that, right? Please tell me your investigator didn’t dig it up and you actually believe that Aiden would be stupid enough to ask his family lawyer to wire me monthly payments from his family trust fund.”
“My son can be naive in matters of financial security.”
I snort. “You mean he can be naive when it comes to believing he has any financial privacy. Trusting when you tell him that his trust fund is his to do with as he likes. He knows better, and he would never do something this blatant.”
“So you’re accusing me of writing that?”
“Maybe someone else did and planted it. I have no idea. I can guarantee, though, that I’m not getting ten grand a month from Aiden, and no paper trail will prove otherwise. The only thing he buys me is food—dinner and whatnot—and I pay for his as often as I can.” I pause. “Oh, wait. He did give me a gift earlier today. A flat of Magic 8 balls, which probably set him back a couple hundred bucks.”
“Magic 8 balls?”
“It was a joke.”
“My son does not make jokes, Ms. Bennett.”
I shrug. “Apparently, he does now. I don’t know anything about that insurance claim.” My gut twists thinking about it, but I plow forward. “And I don’t know anything about payments from his trust fund. What I do know is that you’ve been the victim of a nasty prank aimed at me, through the Costa painting, and I apologize.”
“Nasty prank? Is that what you call it?”
“Not really. It’s vicious and cruel, and I hope no one was hurt.”
“Someone was hurt. One of my staff.”
My gut twists again. “I am sorry. I can absolutely guarantee, though, that no matter how it came into your possession, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Are you certain about that?”
I pause again. “No, I misspoke. Like I said, it’s about me. Sending it to you was about making things uncomfortable for me. I meant that I didn’t deliver it. I don’t know which painting it is or what it does. I’ve never seen it. I will, however, handle it.”
Marion walks to a shelf and picks up an iPad. She comes back to me and hits the screen. It’s security camera footage showing a figure in a hoodie at the delivery door. The figure leans the painting against the side service gate and hits a bell. Then they walk away.
I pause and enlarge the picture. The movements and size suggest a woman, though the hoodie and shapeless sweat pants make it hard to say that for certain. She’s about my size, and while her hood is pulled up, a long strand of dark hair escapes.
“It’s someone who looks vaguely like me,” I say. “Dressed in oversized sweats. Keeps her face averted from the cameras but lets that one matching strand of hair slip out.” I tap the time. “When this was delivered, I was with Aiden, in Boston with a third party, tracking down another painting.”
“What third party?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. The important part is that I was with Aiden. He’ll vouch for me.” I meet her gaze. “I presume that will be enough. He is your son, after all.”
“Enough of this, Marion,” says a voice behind me.
I’d forgotten Cullan was there. I turn to see him rising from his desk.
“Either the girl is telling the truth or she’s not going to,” he says. “She’s right about one thing, though. We can speak to Aiden. He wouldn’t lie to cover for her when that painting injured one of the staff.”
“Are they all right?” I say.
He waves aside my concern. “Just a scratch. More of a shock than anything. She’s been given the rest of the week off.” He walks from behind the desk. “Let’s get this over with. The painting is downstairs. You can take it or uncurse it or whatever you need to do. I just want it gone.”
“I am sorry—”
“Yes, you’ve said that. I don’t really care whether you’re sorry or not, Ms. Bennett. I just want you to take your cursed painting and leave.”
I glance at Marion. Her jaw sets, and in that moment, she looks like her son when he doesn’t want to do something but knows he should. After a moment, she gives a curt nod.
“Fine,” she says. “We’re done here.”
“Then I’ll escort Ms. Bennett to the painting, and Leon can drive her back to Aiden’s.”
I hate to leave this unresolved, but the woman wants a reason to hate me, and this gives her one. I’m exactly what she expected. A gold-digging curse weaver who lacks the intelligence to threaten her more subtly than this.
I glance at Marion one last time and then follow Cullan from the room.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-six
Cullan Connolly has correctly deduced that I’m no threat to his sphere of interest: the business empire. That doesn’t make him an ally, by any means, but it does mean that this may be where Connolly can focus his own efforts. Use his father’s disinterest in me to sweep his mother’s target from my back.
Yes, I hate the idea of suggesting Connolly pit his parents against each other, but they’ve been doing it to their sons for years, so I feel only the most perfunctory stab of remorse at such a Machiavellian plan.
Cullan said the painting was in the basement. True, but it’s not in the same building as the house. Also, it’s raining, which makes this a very inconvenient trip across the property. We enter another building. A guest house? I don’t know. Like I said, it’s raining, and also we go through the back door.
“Smart getting it out of the main house,” I say as we descend steep stairs. It’s my first words since we’ve left Marion, and Cullan only says, “Yes.”
“I probably can’t uncurse it on-site,” I say. “I’ll need to transport it, and for that I require a shielding blanket.”
“Which would be . . .?” he asks as he opens a door.
“Like an x-ray blanket. Lead lined.”
He takes out his phone and taps a message to someone. “If we don’t have such a thing on the premises, I will have one brought immediately. By the time you’ve finished examining the piece, it should be here.”