Nightsong by Karen Toller Whittenburg Read Free Book Online Page A

past as Jesse had done. Elleny knew Mark would have endorsed her decision to rent the studio, to get the memories stored in the proper perspective. And without adoubt she knew he would have approved the tentative attraction she felt toward Phillip.
    The problem was that Elleny wasn’t sure she approved.
    Turning, she stared through the bay window at the colorless winter lawn outside. In the last few days she had thought more about the pattern of her life than she had in months. She wasn’t looking for a relationship, hadn’t given much thought to that aspect of her future.
    Yet when Phillip smiled at her, she suddenly, unexpectedly, began to consider the possibility.
    And maybe, she decided with a slow smile, that wasn’t such a bad thing to consider.
    * * * *
    Phillip paced from the bedside table to the door and back again. He was tired of the cramped motel room, and he was tired of waiting. Why didn’t Sylvie phone? He’d been leaving voicemail messages ever since he’d left Elleny’s house.
    Elleny.
    He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d enjoyed the afternoon – even the dinner – far more than he’d intended. She was so easy to be with, so easy to talk with. And he’d certainly done plenty of that. Discretion was essential at this point, and he’d slipped more than once today—most notably when he’d mentioned the moves during her childhood. He still couldn’t believe she’d hadn’t called him on that one.
    Elleny Damon was a paradox. She had to know that her late husband was an art forger, that he even had signed his name to his own father’s paintings. Yet Phillip had a gut feeling that as unbelievable as it seemed, Elleny was unaware. How else could she so innocently have offered him the use of the studio? And what would she say if she knew he’d been to the room above the garage twice before she had shown it to him today?
    Any novice would think to check the doorsill, he had said, but it hadn’t occurred to him on those previous visits. And now Elleny had made it easy. Almost too easy.
    The phone rang, and he answered quickly. “Sylvie? Where the hell have you been?”
    “Hello, Phillip, and a good morning to you, too.”
    “It is almost ten P . M ., Sylvie, too late in the day for your nutty humor.”
    There was a short laugh from a throat he had wanted to wring more than once over the years of their business partnership.
    “I take it the van Warner painting didn’t meet you at the edge of town.” Sylvie’s tone was mildly soothing and flagrantly amused. “I have to say I told you so, Phillip. That painting was stolen too long ago. No one could even tell us when and where on the Collection tour that the forged copy might have been substituted for the real thing. The odds against recovering the original are against us.”
    Us? How like her to tell him it couldn’t be done and then include herself in the excuse just in case he wasn’t able to do it. Sylvie Smith was an original. An original pain in the neck.
    But in his saner moments Phillip knew the smartest thing he’d ever done was to partner with her in opening a private insurance investigation firm. Most insurance companies were more than willing to hire an independent to investigate claims, especially the more complicated claims like the van Warner theft. And he stood to reap a substantial fee if he managed to pull this one off.
    “You can sit on that ‘ I told you so’ for a while longer, Syl.” He pulled a chair closer to the phone and slumped into it, prepared to fill her in on his progress. “I haven’t found the van Warner yet, but so far my hunch has been right on track.”
    “You’re kidding! You mean you’re really on to something?”
    “It’s too early to be sure, but I’m willing to bet that the stolen painting is here. I was at the Damon house today, and – by the way, I rented a studio here.  From Elleny Damon, Mark Damon’s widow.”
    “You sneaky genius.”
    “I’m feeling a bit guilty about