path, the creek waters rippling behind him with the rose-petal freshness of the 1648 Pastoral Landscape by Claude Lorrain.
Google made research too easy.
He put his hands on his hips and looked up with a smile. Five feet away a man in a maroon beret frowned, brush in his hand, yellow paint threatening to drip onto the mossy ground.
“Ah,” Chip said and picked up his easel. “I’ll just—give you a bit more breathing room.”
The man’s eyes remained trained on him until he was safely seven yards down.
Five minutes later, with easel up, brush in hand, and the colors of the rainbow spread across his palette, he was ready for action.
“Right.” He looked down at the colors and up again.
A gust of wind bowed budding tulips.
He looked over his shoulder to the other painter.
The man dipped his paintbrush in—for lack of a more cultured term—purple.
Purple? That couldn’t be right.
Chip looked to what the man was looking at, the stream and cow farm stretching out across the horizon.
Cows: black. Stream: blue. Barn: a dead-looking yellow and green. There was no space for purple—
He glanced over to the man’s easel again.
Oh. Oh yes. Well, if you did it like that.
Chip took a few steps, angling for a better view of the man who had somehow used purple in the shadows of the hill and made it look utterly normal. As though, of course, all hills are somehow purple. How had Chip not seen that?
The man jerked up his head. His frown deepened when he caught Chip’s gaze, and he tilted his easel away.
Chip tugged on his cuffs. Honestly. This was the Plein Air event. All sorts of people were about to walk by at any moment. If the man had expected to be alone, he should’ve painted in a closet.
Chip returned to his easel and dipped his brush into the purple.
Yes. Purple was a fine choice.
Suddenly his breast pocket vibrated, the wail of rings breaking the song of the babbling brook. He put the brush between his teeth and pulled out his phone.
“Hey, Tim. What’s up?” Chip said through his teeth, then cradled the phone to his ear to remove the brush from his mouth.
“I’m over here at Haymaker Street,” replied Tim, the nineteen-year-old Lowe’s delivery rep and longtime family friend. “Nobody’s here to sign off on these appliances.”
Chip forced himself not to growl like a caveman. This was the third time in a month his sub wasn’t where he needed to be. And worse, right now Chip couldn’t afford to let him go. “Okay, let me make a call. Hold on a sec.”
Chip dialed Keith’s number. His fingers tightened around the brush as the number of rings grew. Finally he gave up and dialed Tim back.
“Do you think you can get in?”
“I checked both the front and back doors,” Tim said. “They’re locked.”
“You try a window?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
Finally, Tim cleared his throat. “You want me to check for open windows, sir? You know that can be construed as trespassing . . .”
Chip pulled out his deepest, most compelling voice. “Tim. You are in Marion. I am in Abingdon. Nobody is there. I need those appliances. I just need you to go to the back window and see if you can get it open.”
“It’s broad daylight, sir. I can’t do that again. The police—”
“I know the police caught you last time. I remember. It was a mess. But I took care of it, didn’t I? I didn’t leave you out to dry.” Chip kicked at the dirt, realizing as he lifted his head that the artist had stopped painting and was watching him.
Their eyes met, and Beret Man jerked his attention back to the canvas.
“Just, please,” Chip continued, “please—get those appliances to me. And Tim, if you do this”—he lowered his voice—“I’ll owe you.”
After a bit more grumbling, the teen relented. Chip hung up the phone and stuffed it back in his breast pocket. The phone started to ring again, but he silenced it before the second ring.
He sighed.
Looked over to shrug with a, “Work. What are ya gonna do?” but then stopped, noticing that Beret Man wasn’t in his spot.
He was another ten yards off, the back of his easel now planted directly toward him, which meant the man had decided either to keep an eye on him at all times or to make Chip the subject of his masterpiece.
Good grief. You overhear someone telling a guy to break in at all costs and let you