He keeps reading the paper. “Valentina is an artist. Gianna is engaged. You told me that. I bought some land from their father, Lorenzo. Don’t recall his wife’s name. Their family made their money in construction, mostly building skyscrapers. One of my cronies told me they died in a car crash in the Catskills. They’re treacherous roads there ...” He rattles his paper between his legs. “Dammit, what was the name of the town where they died? Something about singing—oh yes, Wren’s Song. It was the birthplace of Lorenzo and his siblings.”
“Wren? You’re sure?”
“I’d use the internet, but someone has it.”
I whip around and type inWren’s Song, and a small town in the Catskills comes up, population 593. It doesn’t say anything about the Russo family. I type inLorenzo Russoand find an article about a bridge his company was contracted to build and his obituary last year, butnothing that gives me a clue about why the sisters were infatuated by my locket.
“Give me thirty seconds,” I call out to Mr.Darden as I run through his den, out his door, and into mine; grab my locket; and then dash back to his place. I’m panting when I enter his study. “Was that thirty?”
“Did you go somewhere?”
I huff and hold out the necklace. “Here, does that look like a wren to you or just a bird?”
He pulls it up close to his face, then inspects it by turning it over. “It’s small and short, but lots of birds are, so I guess.”
I exhale noisily and lie down on the floor.
“Are you okay, MissLane?”
“Just thinking. I’ve always thought it was a wren. I paint wrens. I know my freaking wrens. It’s a wren.” I draw one in the air—the curved beak, the long tail. “You know what was super weird about meeting Valentina?”
“Her flashy red dress?”
I laugh. “No, but damn, I’m glad you do listen to me.”
“Hmm.”
I look over at him, but he’s still reading. “It was weird that she looked like me. Same hair, our lips, but her eyes don’t have the green that mine do. The first time I saw her, something, like ... pricked at me, but it wasn’t until later that I realized we looked alike.”
“Don’t you think you might be getting your hopes up? Or seeing things that aren’t there? Your locket is unusual and expensive, a collector’s piece—”
“Wait!” I sit up and straighten my pink sweater.
He drops the paper. “Did the eggplant kick?”
“No! I just remembered something Gianna said when she came in to get the tattoo. She said her friend had bought my dollhouse painting, that her friend was an artist and she collected everything, even jewels ...” My heart races as I stand up.
“Don’t leave me hanging,” he mutters.
“She lied, Mr.Darden. It wasn’t her friend. It was Valentina! Why would she say a friend bought my painting, unless it was to be secretive?”
“People lie for many reasons.” He goes back to reading. “You.”
I grunt. “You’re no help.” I pick up my phone and dial East Coast Ink. When Harlee answers, I say hi sweetly and “Thank you for not telling me about my paintings” and ask if she would put me through to Donny to discuss.
“Francesca?” Donny answers.
“Donny, hi. Thank you for the commission check. I need a favor, and you owe me. Can you look through your receipts and see who bought my dollhouse painting about six months ago?”
I hear the slide of his metal filing cabinet, the rustling of papers, and then his voice. “Tina Russo. She used an American Express. Total was fifteen hundred. I like that piece—”
I hang up. “I was right! It was her! But why?” I pace around the room, my adrenaline rising. “It makes no sense to lie.”
“Yet people do ... some people in this room.”
I stop and glare. “I don’t want to talk about Tuck. I’m going to tell him. I swear.”
He shuts his paper. “Fine. Let’s talk this out. What do you know? Give me the details.”