"What?" Michael asked, looking up from another painting.
"Well, we've solved the mystery of the disappearing bedroom rug anyway," I said, pointing to the Oriental rug beneath me. "Of course, we still have the mystery of why he dragged it out here."
"Are you sure it's the same rug?"
"Well, I see little bits of white carpet fuzz sticking to the underside," I said, examining the back of the rug.
"Redecorating, I suppose," Michael said, shrugging.
"All my best clues turn out to be useless," I complained.
"This is weird, too," Michael said. He had pulled out another painting and was staring at it with a puzzled frown.
"What?" I asked. I glanced over. Michael stood between me and the painting, but I could see that this nude Mother was waving a gauze scarf, which I somehow suspected would emphasize, rather than conceal, anything of potential prurient interest.
"Would you look at mis!" he said.
"Do I have to?" I replied. "I'd really rather not. I've seen enough. Much more than enough, actually."
"You haven't seen anything like this," he said, stepping aside so I could see the latest painting.
I glanced up, expecting to see another smiling, unblushingly nude Mother. I was right about the scarves; they left absolutely nothing to the imagination. But instead of Mother's face, I saw a patch of blank canvas.
"Has he painted out her head in that one?" I asked.
"More like he never painted it in at all," Michael said.
"Or could he have taken the face off with turpentine or something?"
I went over and looked at the head. Or rather, the lack thereof.
"No, if he'd wiped off the head, he'd have taken the background, too," I said. "But that's still perfectly fine."
"All ready to paint the head in," he said. "This is really weird."
"And she's standing on the migrating rug," I pointed out.
Michael nodded. He moved the nude with scarves aside, revealing yet another headless nude, this one posing brazenly in a clearing in the woods. Resnick had finished the background in elaborate detail, right down to a bee hovering above a clover blossom in the grass and the delicate fluff of a dandelion in the nude woman's hand. But again, no head. The coloring of the skin and body hair made it obvious that the woman was blond, and she definitely had Mother's tall, slender build. But the head was completely missing.
"What the devil's going on here?" I muttered.
Michael began to move the latest painting aside. A piece of paper fell from behind it, and he stooped to pick it up.
"You know," he said, glancing at what he'd picked up. "This may sound crazy, but--"
"Put your hands on your heads!" barked a voice from behind us. "And don't move!"
Since the two halves of that order were obviously contradictory anyway, I decided to risk turning around as I raised my hands.
Jim Dickerman stood in the studio doorway, holding a gun.
Assuming we survived the night, I was going to have a long talk with Dad. He was always so excited at the idea of my investigating a real murder case. But here, I would explain to him, we had a perfect example of why this was such a stupid hobby. If you go around trying to hunt down criminals, some of them resent it, and sooner or later they take matters into their own hands.
"Should have known your snooping would cause trouble," Jim said.
"Don't be a fool, Jim," Michael said in his most earnest, persuasive tones. "You'd never get away with it. Just put it down."
It sounded sensible to me; I'd have dropped my gun in a heartbeat. Jim wasn't buying it.
"If I have to shoot you, I'll just put the gun back in my brother's truck and they'll think he did it," Jim said.
"You'd set up your own brother for a murder rap," I exclaimed. I still felt guilty enough over setting my brother up for a disastrous blind date, and that was years ago. Jim, however, shrugged casually.
"If I have to. Back up a bit," he added, gesturing slightly with the gun. "And lie down. Facedown. And stick your hands up behind your backs."
We followed orders. Then he walked over to Michael's side. I braced myself. Was he going to shoot Michael? Should I throw myself at Jim? Then he dropped something by Michael's head. A roll of duct tape.
"You," he said, obviously meaning me. "Tape his wrists."
He backed up and pointed the gun at me while I did as he ordered. And then he made me lie back down again, and he taped my wrists.
I should have been terrified that I was probably about to die, but instead, I found myself fuming over the fact that he'd taped my arms behind my back. Don't male thugs ever stop to think that although lying on your stomach on a hard wooden floor may not be relaxing for men, it's downright torture for any woman with larger than an A cup? Obviously not. I growled to myself and shifted slightly so I could see what Jim was doing. I had a hard time looking over my knapsack, which lay open just in front of my face.