different style and a way to add a different texture to your work.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Have you painted any that way?”
She shook her head and gave me a curious look. “It doesn’t suit the work I’m doing right now but I suppose I might try it someday. I didn’t know you were interested in art, Fortune.”
“I’m not really,” I said. “We were sort of poking around into that business with Gil and apparently, he’d gotten into art and was bumping heads with the creative director at the theater, who is in charge of all the artwork.”
“You’re talking about Brigette Driscoll,” Emmaline said.
“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”
“The art gallery that is presenting me carries fliers for the theater and the theater carries fliers for the art gallery,” she said. “A lot of the art businesses in the quarter advertise for each other.”
“That’s cool. Do you know her?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said. “We met a time or two years ago but I can’t say I know her personally. Sad what happened with her family though.”
“You mean her father dying?” I asked. “Sounds like he’d been sick for a while. Sad that her mother went so quickly after.”
Emmaline frowned. “Not just his passing…there was talk.”
I perked up. “What kind of talk?”
“That her father had a gambling problem,” she said. “The rumor is he stepped down from the senate and his firm because he was afraid it would go public.”
“I guess we’re not talking about losing a couple thousand down at the casino,” I said.
She shook her head. “The rumor was illegal gambling and that he’d lost everything. If you ask me, that’s what caused his wife’s heart problems.”
“So he bowed out before he could be made a spectacle,” I said.
“It was the least he could do for his wife and daughter,” Emmaline. “The very least.”
I shook my head. “That’s unfortunate all the way around.”
“Let me help you with that.” Gertie’s voice sounded behind me.
A second later, a shower of pink glitter rained down on me, Emmaline, and Ida Belle. We all turned to look at Gertie, who was guiltily clutching a plastic bag with a few remnants of pink glitter in it.
“Oops?” Gertie said.
“What the heck are you doing?” Ida Belle ranted and started brushing the glitter off her clothes.
“I was trying to help this girl get the bag open,” Gertie said.
The little girl, who was staring up at us, started to giggle.
“Well, mission accomplished,” I said. I leaned over and brushed what I could off my clothes and out of my hair and onto the little girl’s picture.
“Thanks!” she said and went back to her drawing.
“I think I better find a mirror,” Emmaline said and hurried over to a storage box to retrieve her purse.
Ida Belle glared at Gertie.
“Like this wasn’t hard enough to get off the first time and now you have us up for round two of the glitter wars,” she said.
“Hey, it has an advantage,” Gertie said.
“I’d love to hear it,” Ida Belle said.
“We all still had glitter in our scalps,” Gertie said. “I see some shining in Fortune’s when we’re in sunlight. I assume Carter hasn’t noticed because he hasn’t been around much and he’s been preoccupied.”
“What the heck does that have to do with anything?” Ida Belle asked.
“Now we all have a reason to have glitter in our scalps,” Gertie said triumphantly. “And his mother is a witness.”
“And a victim,” I said.
Gertie waved a hand in dismissal. “Anyway, now Carter can’t prove it was us that caused the explosion behind Tiffany’s house.”
“You mean he can’t prove that you caused the explosion,” Ida Belle corrected.
“I have news for you,” I said. “Carter absolutely knows it was us and nothing would convince him otherwise. Not even video of us in another country at the same time.”
“But he can’t prove it,” Gertie said. “And that’s all that matters.”
Her words struck me for some reason and I frowned, trying to figure out why…‘all that matters.’
Maybe it all matters.
Mannie had said that earlier. I stared at a painting a young boy was doing of ghosts playing cards.
He never really got off the stage.
The problem with people like Gil is he spent so much time in character that I think he forgot who he really was.
Gil played the part of the detective.
It couldn’t be. Could it? But it made sense. At least most of it did.
“What’s wrong?” Ida Belle said.
“I think Detective Casey arrested the wrong person,” I said. “We have to get to New Orleans now.”