The Art of Deception

Adam, a bit.
    A quarter mile from the gallery, she stopped and parked on the side of the road. Grateful that the Titian was relatively small, though the frame added weight, she gathered it up again and began to walk. Her heels echoed on the asphalt.
    Clouds drifted across the moon, obscuring the light then freeing it again. With her cape swirling around her, Kirby walked into the cover of trees that bordered the gallery. The light was dim, all shadows and secrets. Up ahead came the low moan of an owl. Tossing back her hair, she laughed.
    “Perfect,” she decided. “All we need is a rumble of thunder and a few streaks of lightning. Skulking through the woods on a desperate mission,” she mused. “Surrounded by the sounds of night.” She shifted the bundle in her arms and continued on. “What one does for those one loves.”
    She could see the stately red brick of the gallery through the trees. Moonlight slanted over it. Almost there, she thought with a quick glance at her watch. In an hour she’d be back home—and perhaps she’d have the lemon trifle after all.
    A hand fell heavily on her shoulder. Her cape spread out like wings as she whirled. Great buckets of blood, she thought as she stared up at Adam.
    “Out for a stroll?” he asked her.
    “Why, hello, Adam.” Since she couldn’t disappear, she had to face him down. She tried a friendly smile. “What are you doing out here?”
    “Following you.”
    “Flattering. But wasn’t Papa entertaining you?”
    “He dozed off.”
    She stared up at him a moment, then let out a breath. A wry smile followed it. “I suppose he deserved it. I hope you left him comfortable.”
    “Enough. Now what’s in the package?”

    Though she knew it was useless, she fluttered her lashes. “Package?”
    He tapped his finger on the wrapping.
    “Oh, this package. Just a little errand I have to run. It’s getting late, shouldn’t you be starting back?”
    “Not a chance.”
    “No.” She moved her shoulders. “I thought not.”
    “What’s in the package, Kirby, and what do you intend to do with it?”
    “All right.” She thrust the painting into his arms because hers were tiring. When the jig was up, you had to make the best of it. “I suppose you deserve an explanation, and you won’t leave until you have one anyway. It has to be the condensed version, Adam, I’m running behind schedule.” She laid a hand on the package he held. “This is the Titian woman, and I’m going to put it in the gallery.”
    He lifted a brow. He didn’t need Kirby to tell him that he held a painting. “I was under the impression that the Titian woman was in the gallery.”
    “No…” She drew out the word. If she could have thought of a lie, a half-truth, a fable, she’d have used it. She could only think of the truth. “This is a Titian,” she told him with a nod to the package. “The painting in the gallery is a Fairchild.”
    He let the silence hang a moment while the moonlight filtered over her face. She looked like an angel…or a witch. “Your father forged a Titian and palmed it off on the gallery as an original?”
    “Certainly not!” Indignation wasn’t feigned. Kirby bit back on it and tried to be patient. “I won’t tell you any more if you insult my father.”
    “I don’t know what came over me.”

    “All right then.” She leaned back against a tree. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”
    “Good choice.”
    “Years ago, Papa and Harriet were vacationing in Europe. They came across the Titian, each one swearing they’d seen it first. Neither one would give way, and it would’ve been criminal to let the painting go altogether. They compromised.” She gestured at the package. “Each paid half, and Papa painted a copy. They rotate ownership of the original every six months, alternating with the copy, if you get the drift. The stipulation was that neither of them could claim ownership. Harriet kept hers in the gallery—not listing it as part of her private collection. Papa kept it in a guest room.”
    He considered for a moment. “That’s too ridiculous for you to have made up.”
    “Of course I didn’t make it up.” As it could, effectively, her bottom lip pouted. “Don’t you trust me?”
    “No. You’re going to do a lot more explaining when we get back.”
    Perhaps, Kirby thought. And perhaps not.
    “Now just how do you intend to get into the gallery?”
    “With Harriet’s keys.”
    “She gave you her keys?”
    Kirby let