Part 19 (1/2)

”That's great!” I said, forcing a smile. ”I need to get both sides of the story. It would be wonderful to be able to quote someone who actually had a good experience with her.”

”Wish I could help,” he said, starting to close the door, ”but I'm just finis.h.i.+ng up my latest painting. I've got to get back upstairs to my studio.”

”It won't take long, I promise.”

Maybe it was my winsome smile. Or the pleading look in my eye. Or perhaps my foot wedged on his doorstep.

Whatever the reason, he changed his mind.

”Oh, okay,” he said, waving me inside with a sigh.

I followed him to a huge living room, tastefully decorated in various shades of brown and taupe. All the pieces looked expensive; none of them exciting. It was like walking into a hotel lobby. The only spot of color was a red box of Valentine's chocolates on the coffee table.

How odd. I remembered Joy telling me Greg painted ”fabulously colorful landscapes.” So why was a guy who made his living working with color living in a symphony of beige?

”Have a seat,” he said, ushering me to one of two beige sofas flanking the coffee table.

He sat down across from me, perched at the edge of his sofa cus.h.i.+on, his hands on his knees, clearly ready to cut the interview short the minute he could.

I eyed the box of chocolates on the coffee table, but he made no move to offer me one.

First Joy, now Greg. There certainly was a lot of choco-h.o.a.rding going around.

”So what would you like to know?” he asked.

”Were you aware of any of Joy's shady dealings? How she used phony pictures of models and actors to lure clients? How once she had her clients roped in, she rarely came through with a match?”

”I'd heard rumors,” he admitted, ”but she was always up front with me. The minute I signed with her, she started setting me up with great women. She really was the best in her business,” he said, smiling a smile that didn't quite ring true.

”Do you mind my asking why a handsome guy like you needed a matchmaking service?”

”You wouldn't believe how many women are only interested in me because I'm a famous artist,” he said, raking his fingers through his mop of sun-bleached hair.

I'd bet my bottom Pop-Tarts there'd be hordes of women eager to run their hands through that mop-with or without a famous artist attached.

”I needed Joy to find me someone who'd love me for myself.”

”How long were you with her?” I asked.

”About five years.”

”That long, huh? Funny that someone who was the best in her business couldn't make a match for you in five years.”

Anger flashed in his eyes for the briefest beat; then he forced a smile.

”Love's not easy,” he shrugged.

”So you don't agree with the scuttleb.u.t.t that she cheated her clients, even blackmailing some of them?”

I waited for a reaction to my blackmail bait, but he wasn't biting.

”I don't know how she treated anybody else,” he said, ”but she was always wonderful to me. I'm really going to miss her,” he added, doing his best to strike a mournful pose.

As he sat there in his work s.h.i.+rt and jeans, his hands clasping his knees, something about his appearance didn't ring true.

And then it hit me.

It was his hands. They were perfectly clean. Not a spot of paint anywhere.

If he'd just been working on a painting, as he'd claimed, shouldn't his hands be splattered with paint?

”Well,” he said, getting up, ”I've really got to get back upstairs to work.”

Doing what? I wondered.

And as I followed him to the front door, I noticed something else that seemed odd. Looking down at the socks peeking out from his running shoes, I saw that one of them was blue, and the other brown.

Had he gotten dressed in a hurry? Or was this some sort of artistic fas.h.i.+on statement?

It wasn't until I was back outside strapping myself in my Corolla that I came up with another explanation for those mismatched socks.

Was it possible that one of the area's leading artists, famous for his use of color, was actually colorblind?

But that simply couldn't be.

Or could it?

I drove to the end of the block and waited about five minutes. Then I headed back to Greg's McMansion. Something fishy was going on with that guy, and I was determined to find out what it was. Crouching along the rosebushes out front, I made my way to the side of the house, then tiptoed toward the back, checking each room for signs of Greg. But he was nowhere to be seen.

Then I remembered that he said his studio was upstairs.

By now I was at the back of the house. I looked up and saw a room with large floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors leading out to a balcony. The perfect s.p.a.ce for a studio.

But how was I supposed to spy on Greg if he was up on the second floor?

And then I spotted it. The answer to my prayers: A large oak tree, several of its branches practically touching the room's balcony.

Somehow I had to climb that tree.

The last time I'd s.h.i.+mmied up a tree was never, but I had to give it a shot.

It wasn't easy, but with strength, determination, and a small ladder I found propped up against Greg's garage, I managed to scramble up to a branch with a view of the room.

The branch looked strong. But was it strong enough to hold me and the cavalcade of calories camping on my thighs?

Gingerly I inched out along the branch, holding on to a crevice in the tree trunk, just in case the branch gave way.

Thank heavens the mighty oak remained mighty, and the branch held firm.