Page 23 of Dead Ringer

My eyes narrowed. I was suddenly a little suspicious about how I’d spilled my guts about Cain earlier. One of the things I’d learned about the creatures of Haven Hollow was that some of them had the ability to get you to tell them things that maybe you, yourself, weren’t planning on spilling. It wasn’t like they just high jacked your brain or anything like that. It was more that they could...encourageyou to tell them what they wanted to know. And I had to wonder if I’d beenencouragedto tell Calliope what I just had.

“I’d be happy to help you,” Calliope continued breezily.

“You would?” I felt bad being so wary, but one thing I’d learned was that if something looked too good to be true, it absolutely was.

“Sure,” Calliope gave a languid shrug, but her eyes were bright. “Anything that’s illegal in the art world should be stopped—that’s my way of thinking. So, if you and your tagalong policeman could return something that was stolen…” She shrugged. “Well, I’m happy to help.”

I was probably making a mistake, but if she could actually help us track down the idol before I got fired and probably got Cain evicted, then I’d have to take it. “Okay,” I said, feeling like I was screwing up. I didn’t need Cain growling in my head to tell me that. “Well, thank you kindly.”

Calliope clapped her hands. “Marvelous!” She turned then, and started strolling through the gallery, turning her head so she could talk to us over her shoulder. “What is it you’re looking for? A painting? A photograph? A tapestry?”

“A… statue, I guess. Small. Gold. It’s got gems in it. Old,” I added, in case that mattered.

Calliope made a little ‘ah’ sound, like I’d answered maybe more than I’d intended to. And I had to wonder, yet again, if there was something in the air that wasencouragingme to divulge every thought in my head.

Calliope paused next to a huge painting set in a frame that was made of a golden wood that gleamed like it had been waxed. Pale blue and pink and violet made up a scene of flowers, pouring out of a white pitcher to flow across the ground, like the petals had turned into a river. Sleepy willows drooped in the background, the leaves making ripples in the flow of flowers.

It was pretty, if a little too pastel for me. Give me sharp angles and bold colors any day.

“Do you know why people own art, Darla?”

I looked away from the painting almost guiltily. I hoped she hadn’t heard my opinion on it or felt it or something. It was a nice enough picture, it just wasn’t one that did anything for me. “Uh…”

She didn’t leave me hanging, her sweet voice flowing into the spot where I’d dropped the conversation. “People own art, because it makes them feel something. Good or bad, it makes them experience emotion. Either about themselves, or the world, or perhaps it evokes memories, either good or bad. The point is: art makes peoplefeel. It gives them an emotional moment.”

That was a little deep for my way of thinking, but I got what she meant. I just wasn’t sure where she was going with it.

“Well, most people,” Calliope corrected herself. “Some people want to own art, to own things, not because they appreciate them or the beauty that they bring to the world. They want to own them, just so others can’t.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “Doing so makes them feel important—that only their eyes can look upon something. So, they hoard the art away, keep it away from the world, so they can feel superior.” Calliope’s hands fisted in the skirts of her dress for a second, before she relaxed and smoothed it out again. “The things like the statue that you’re looking for, they can go for a great deal of money to certain people.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to follow along.

She turned to me, and gave a smile that was less practiced and perfect than the others, and somehow all the prettier for being real. “There are people who keep an eye out for such things they know that type of person will want. There are whole businesses built around it. They find treasures, and then they auction them off to the highest bidders. That’s the most common fate for things like what you’ve described—and usually, those objects are magic. Or they’re somehow tied to magic.”

I could practically feel Cain’s interest. She’d dangled a whole black market art ring in front of his nose, and he was all but straining towards it. I had to haul him back. The idol was the reason we were here. We weren’t coppers; we were private investigators.

That reminded me, I really needed to look into getting a trench coat. You can’t be a real gumshoe if you don’t look the part.

Calliope turned to gaze up at the painting for a moment, her head tipped to one side. “As it just so happens, I myself have been invited to just such an auction tomorrow night.”

“Well, I’ll be!”

“I never go, of course.”

“Oh. Why not?”

She shrugged. “The energies of those places are absolutely ghastly. They put me off for days afterward. But you, Darla, might find yourself interested in one of the items on offer.”

My breath caught in my throat. Holy smokes, did she mean what I thought she meant?

From the glint in her eye, and the sly curl to her lips, yes, yes, she did.

“Like I said, I won’t be going. But I could make sure your name is on the list. Whichever name that might be.”

She was right. I wouldn’t want to stroll into some black-market backroom using my own name. Especially since it was also Lorcan’s name, and Wanda would kill me twice if I brought trouble to her vampire’s door. As far as Lorcan was concerned? I thought he’d probably welcome it. There wasn’t much that Lorcan got in a tither about.

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