Truth or Lies?, A. Gomez [reading an ebook .TXT] 📗

than Frank, maybe my height and a great deal leaner looking, not so thick or stocky.

We walked into a great room with what looked like elegant, art deco-style furniture mixed together. I wasn’t sure if I should call it a great room or just a very large living room. A great living room? There was extremely expensive artwork on a few of the walls. My eyes went directly to the Picasso. It must be a reproduction. A very good reproduction, I’d add. Surely this couldn’t be an original. I had the urge to inspect it further when I heard my name. An older woman with dirty blonde hair was sitting in one of the sofas writing in a large booklet. She stood up to greet us. Her short, pear-shaped figure made her look very motherly. Not at all like someone who worked for the Chinese Triads. She had a pug nose and was wearing a big smile. I automatically recognized her from the hospital. It was Debbie.

“So, you’re the infamous Dr. Isabel Langley,” she sounded almost excited to meet me. “I’ve heard so much about you, especially how you make Ginger’s life miserable. I’m Debbie,” she said with a warm smile.

I know who you are, bitch, I thought silently. You’re the woman that’s helping the Triads. I’m sure Ginger has also said how she wants me dead or to disappear.

“Ginger said you were pretty but I think she’s way off base here… you’re gorgeous. No wonder she hates you. And also, the fact that David Summers picked you over her.”

“Is that why I’m here?” I snapped, surprised. “Ginger is jealous of me so she had to get me out of the way? How is that going to help her situation with David?”

“Honey, I really don’t know. Sometimes there’s no reasoning with Ginger,” said Debbie, sounding confounded. “All I know is I need her help at times and I don’t want to ruin my rapport with her. So, here you are,” she paused. “And yous guys are late,” she chided in her Midwest accent, looking and pointing at Tony and Frank. “Where’s Chet?”

Chet? That Asian guy they left behind was named Chet? Did his parents name him that or did he just draw a name out of hat? That name was so eighties. And so ridiculous. It was ridiculous then and it was still ridiculous now. When I heard the name Chet, I thought of my parents and all those cheesy eighties movies they had at home. And then, I had the most inappropriate urge to giggle. I bit my lip trying to hide my amusement. A smirk began to flirt on my lips. I covered my mouth and pretended I was yawning.

Tony leaned in, explaining what happened on the tarmac. Debbie’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth gaped open, staring at me.

“Well, not sure what the boss is going to say about this. I just sent him a text letting him know you’re here. He’ll be here shortly,” she said. “You men can help yourselves to whatever’s in the fridge. The girls made Italian tonight so you should like it.” Debbie eyed Betty Lou up and down. “Honey, you look like you’re freezing. Is this what those morons picked you up in?” Betty nodded and scooted closer to me. “Don’t worry, honey, I won’t take you away from Isabel but I’d like to take you both upstairs and get you some warm clothes and show you to your room. Is that okay with you?” Debbie sounded very motherly, kind, almost.

Betty looked up at me for reassurance. I nodded, half smiling and squeezed her hand a bit tighter to let her know I wouldn’t let her go. Debbie eyed both of us, her face unreadable. Betty nodded.

“All right then, follow me,” Debbie said.

We followed her to a second set of stairs toward the back of the kitchen. These weren’t so grand as the ones by the front door but still very nice. They were also marble with wrought-iron railing but a great deal smaller, an average-sized staircase. We walked up quietly, Betty and I looking all around us, taking everything in. As we reached the top of the steps, I immediately saw another work of art. I gasped softly. Debbie heard me and turned her head slightly, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. Oh. My. Goodness. This couldn’t possibly be. It was a Georges Seurat. The painting was called A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. It was one of his most famous pieces. This had to be a copy. Surely.

“Yes, it’s the original.” Debbie answered my unspoken question. “The Boss just got it from some guy in Florida.”

My eyes were wide and my jaw dropped. This painting was supposed to be in a museum! How the hell did it get here? Did this mean the Picasso downstairs was an original too?

“I saw you admiring the Picasso in the living room downstairs. That’s an original too,” Debbie offered. “The Boss is really big on art. He goes to art auctions all the time. You’ll see a lot of art, including sculptures, throughout the house.”

“Your boss is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. I doubt this piece is from any art auction… if it truly is the original,” I said. “I remember seeing this in the Chicago Museum of Art. If this painting is in fact the original, then your boss either paid more money than he can say grace over or he acquired this work of art through some questionable means. I’m willing to wager the latter,” I said matter-of-factly.

Debbie laughed. “Isabel, your sayings… and with that accent… it’s positively hilarious!” She was laughing more than I appreciated. Okay already! I get it. I sound funny, but if you were in my neck of the woods, you’d be the funny sounding one. I glared at her.