She pushed into the town hall and nodded at the receptionist. “I’m Samantha Rowen. Here for Jasmine Jones.”
The young girl checked her computer and notified the town liaison.
Clementine stepped aside as two men entered. Two Elvi, to be precise. Elvi was plural for multiple Kings, not Elvises. Another tidbit she’d learned while researching the festival. Best to sound educated around this crowd. These two weren’t wearing polyester jumpsuits, but their slicked black hair and rock star swagger were dead giveaways. One looked Filipino, the other Japanese. One was heavy, the other heavier. One old, one young. Both winked at her.
Apparently the King came in all nationalities and sizes, and winking was a thing with them.
“Here to sign in,” said the portlier fellow.
She’d have inspected them more intently, but her mark was Caucasian and fit. Neither of these Elvi were Maxwell David. She studied the hallway instead, Whichway’s history splayed behind glass panels. The photo of a horse and buggy plodding down Main Street was beyond quaint. Maybe spending time here wouldn’t be so bad. With the festival kicking off in ten days, she’d have over a week to get settled and find Maxwell before the town went nuts. Getting an invite to his family’s estate could take longer.
“Samantha Rowen?”
“The one and only.” For the next couple of weeks, at least.
Jasmine approached, her hand held out for a shake, and Clementine’s mind snapped back to the last hand she’d held. Large. Masculine. Sweaty. Her heart gave a twist.
She shook Jasmine’s hand and forced a smile. “I’m surprised contestants are already showing up.”
Jasmine eyed the new arrivals. “Some like to get settled. Some love Whichway and extend their stay here. The town swells to twelve times its size during the festival.”
Which would complicate Clementine’s job, but she’d dealt with worse. She just had to find her Elvis and nab his painting while being Samantha Rowen, music producer, not Clementine Abernathy, lover of large sweaty hands. “That was my plan, too,” she said. “Spend some time relaxing before the festival starts. Thought I’d let you know I was in town, in case you needed anything.” And to solidify her alias.
Jasmine handed her a festival guide, then fiddled with her diamond ring. The one carat beauty sparkled against her dark skin. “This is the festival’s twenty-fourth year, and the event runs smooth as molasses. Just glad to have some young blood judging. As long as you’re at the performance arena for the first show, you go on and enjoy our town. You’ll fit right in.”
Clementine’s pink skirt and sleeveless top did have country girl written all over them.
After a bit more chitchat, Clementine pushed into the still-humid air and zeroed in on her next target: the Whatnot Diner. A pretty hilarious name for the town of Whichway. Beside it was the Who’s It Café, like a Dr. Seuss book had come to life. But the Whatnot Diner was her focus. If her intel was correct, Maxwell David would be sauntering in there shortly for his morning coffee. The perfect time to force their meeting and follow Lucien’s usual advice.
Be nice, but not too nice.
Show some vulnerability.
Insinuate a problem you have.
Make your mark think it’s his idea to meet up again.
Cleavage always help.
Clementine had plenty of cleavage. She, however, never slept with her marks. Another of Lucien’s rules: too much familiarity clouds judgment. A kiss was okay, coquettish flirting a must, but she was never to take things further and lose sight of her goals. Shaking large sweaty hands wasn’t as important as giving a kid a future. She’d remain a lone tree in an empty field if it gave one child a chance.
The diner was across the road and down a block, everything here walkable. Pedestrians smiled as they passed her, some even saying hi. A sharp contrast to New York’s head-down, cell-phone-obsessed commuters. The unfamiliar cheeriness unnerved her, but she found herself smiling back, each exchange draping her like a favorite coat.
She opened the diner’s door and a bell chimed. Booths lined the windows, red leather stools along the counter opposite. The place was half-full, a mix of men and women in khaki and denim gossiping or reading the paper. None had black hair or wore a suit. Maxwell David wasn’t here yet. Since he usually sat at the counter, she chose a stool.
A waitress—Imelda, according to her nametag—appeared with a coffee pot and mug. “How’d you like a cup, honey?”
“I’d take it intravenous if I could, but a cup will do.”
Imelda lifted the pot higher as she poured, turning the simple act into an impressive show. “Our turnovers are our signature pastry, the sausages are homemade, and we only use free-range eggs. Bread’s baked fresh, too.”
“So basically, everything’s good?”
“As sure as my daughter will flunk her next math test.” Fondness bled into Imelda’s joke. She looked young to have a kid taking math tests, her round face and dimpled cheeks doll-like. A picture of kindness. What would it have been like to have grown up with a mother like her?
“Sounds like I have to try the turnovers,” Clementine said, squashing silly sentimental thoughts. “Apple, please.” Because Maxwell ordered them, a commonality they could discuss.
“You won’t be disappointed.”
Imelda moved down the counter, and Clementine checked the Elvis wall clock. The rock and roll legend took up the face’s center. The hands indicated 9 a.m., Maxwell David’s usual coffee-and-pastry hour. So far he was a no-show.
Her phone buzzed, and her stomach dropped. Lucien. His text wasn’t a surprise. He always kept her apprised of new details, and she never went more than a few hours without checking in, but he knew she wasn’t on schedule, that her drive here had been prolonged. She pulled her phone from her purse.
Lucien: Made contact yet?
She could practically hear the disappointment in his words. Aside from the Monet disaster, she’d been flawless for ten years. She’d executed heists with precision, never losing a score unless a competitor had snatched it first. Mistakes were like rust bubbles, corroding a car’s metal, hinting at the vehicle’s eventual demise. She’d been virtually rustproof until four weeks ago. (Goddamn Jenny and her fun purple hair.) She needed to get her head in the game.
Clementine: Today’s the day. Sitting in the diner now.
Dots bounced in reply.
Would he chastise her for delaying their plans? Warn her someone else would beat them to the painting?
The diner door chimed, but she couldn’t drag her attention from her phone. The David family was clueless to their painting’s worth. Lucien’s exhaustive research had traced the unsigned Van Gogh over the decades, eventually learning the David family had acquired it through an estate sale, neither party aware of the artist’s name. Maxwell’s father owned it now. He’d hung it somewhere in their gaudy mansion, unaware of its value. But others might have sniffed out its worth and location. Her rival, Yevgen Liski, could have sniffed it out, a prospect she’d rather not contemplate.
Lucien: Go slow. With a long con, gentle and gradual is the best way to earn trust. Once you have that, you’ve already won. And if you’re feeling off, if you need out or need to talk, I’m just a call away.