“He started sleeping with someone else too, and I guess she was the jealous type. Paul was worried that she would do something violent if she ever caught us together, so he suggested that we start having sex at my grandfather’s house.” Smooth! What a dick. Guys like that gave the rest of us a bad name.

“With your grandfather living there too?” Beth asked.

“It’s a big place, and my grandfather was sick by that time, but there were servants wandering around and if we got caught it would be scandalous.”

“It would be more than scandalous,” I informed her. “It would be illegal. You were a minor. That’s a no-no.”

“Anyway, the only room in the place with very limited access was my grandfather’s studio. So, Paul suggested we go there, since nobody would walk in on us. I got the key and we started meeting in there.”

“He cheated on his girlfriend, with the sixteen year old granddaughter of his friend, and possible lover, who was upstairs dying,” Beth said, shaking her head. Yep, Paul Gerard sounded like a real winner. At least Beth never dated him. Even the pornographer sounded classy next to this guy.

“After a while, he started to want to look around while we were in there together. He collects art.”

“So, he was knowledgeable enough to be able to see the value of the portrait of the elderly woman and he knew it existed,” I noted.

“Yeah, and it disappeared on the night my grandfather died, but there was no sign of a break-in. Then about a month later, Paul said we had to end it. I didn’t really care at that point, though, because I had started to figure out what had happened to the painting.” It took her a month to figure that out? Then I reminded myself who we were talking about here.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone back then what you suspected?” I asked.

“I didn’t have any proof. If it weren’t for the fact that my grandfather had left it to me in his will, there wouldn’t be any evidence there even was a painting, and I knew people would believe Paul before they would believe me.”

“How did you find out for sure he had it?” Beth asked.

“A reporter for a local rag did a fluff piece on him a couple of months ago, and took a picture of him in his study. There was a little bit of the painting showing, and I recognized it. I had put a copy of the key away in a bank box just in case I ever needed it for proof. I couldn’t believe it worked.”

“He probably thought you would never figure it out. Hubris,” Beth said.

“What does the temperature have to do with it?” Caitlin looked confused.

“Hubris, not humid. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else,” Beth explained. “He even let them photograph him near the painting. It’s been ten years and he probably figures he’ll never get caught. He may even wish he could show off a little.” I agreed. I knew this guy’s type.

“That sounds like him all right. He’s got lots of humorous,” Caitlin said disdainfully, nodding rapidly in agreement.

“So you trespassed and searched his place without his knowledge.” I broke in, glancing at Beth. She needed to remember that Caitlin wasn’t a complete innocent here. She wasn’t sixteen anymore.

“Right, and I found it, but I realized that my word wouldn’t even be enough to prove that it was my grandfather’s painting.”

“And you wanted someone knowledgeable about art as a witness,” Beth said. I could see by the set of her jaw that she didn’t appreciate being used.

“Yeah, and I thought of you. You studied art and you seem honest. Are you mad?” She sat forward and gave Beth a very earnest, childlike look. I didn’t buy it. Caitlin may not have been a scholar, but she was shrewd.

“Um… yeah,” Beth answered. “I wish you had told me upfront you wanted me to be some kind of witness for you. I really don’t want to get too involved in this personally.” I smiled to myself. Thank you baby Jesus.

“What’s the deal with the reporter?” I asked, changing the subject, before Beth changed her mind.

“Oh yeah, that’s the really weird thing,” Caitlin said sitting back again. “I recognized her.”

“She was one of the reporters who covered a lot fundraisers,” Beth noted.

“Not just her face, her name too. Elaine Cooper is the reporter who wrote that fluff piece on Paul, the one that tipped me off.”

“Okay, that’s a little weird,” I conceded, “but it could be a coincidence.”

“A reporter with a connection to Paul winds up dead on your doorstep, you have to tell the police,” Beth said sounding determined.

“Tell them what? That the dead lady wrote an article about the guy I was sleeping with when I was sixteen, who may have my grandfather’s painting, which I only know because I broke into his house?” The innocent waif was gone and Caitlin sounded impatient and a little testy. I saw Beth narrow her eyes. Beth might be a sweetheart, but she was no fool, and she was nobody’s pawn.

“I’m sure they interviewed you. Did you at least mention that you felt like you were being followed last night?” she asked coolly. I smiled again. She really should go to law school.

“No. I didn’t say anything except that she looked like one of the journalists I had seen at events I’ve attended. I didn’t want to have them start investigating me too much. Besides, the person who was following me was wearing a ball cap and a raincoat. She wasn’t wearing those things when I found her.”