Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(95)

That will totally work.

Three days. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. Three days to get a cashier’s check and appear in room 404 of the county building to redeem the taxes in person plus 1.5% interest for every quarter they had been late plus of course the redemption fee because obviously a person so desperately in need of redemption should absolutely have to pay an additional fee to obtain it.

The morning traffic went all blurry and surreal as I squinted at the cars in front of me, wishing I knew where my sunglasses were. Finally I swung into the alley behind the gallery and let myself in the service door. My footsteps rang out dramatically across the darkened installation as I crossed the space, my head down, on a mission to simply make it to the breezeway. The air still smelled cloyingly of cotton candy and popcorn, and the polished concrete floor was littered with multicolored mylar strips.

When I got there, Melissa looked up at me with her mouth open, her hands hovering over the crate of wrapped parcels.

“Oh,” she said, surprised, “did you need to see these or something before I finished up?”

“Melissa?”

“Yeah, hi… I hope you don’t mind,” she cringed, looking around uncertainly.

“What? No… actually this is totally cool, saves me having to crate them myself. I’m just surprised you’re back. I thought you… uh, left.”

She waved her hand in the air like she was wafting away an invisible bong hit. “Oh, no… no… That was all a big misunderstanding, I guess. My band had a thing in Denver… Or no, we didn’t but I thought we did, and--”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” I interrupted. “Listen, do you have the address handy? I don’t even know where I’m taking these.”

She blinked at me in slow, mechanical, delayed-reaction type blinks that were fascinating to watch. For just a moment, looking at her distracted me from the muttering schoolmarm in my brain and her task list mantra.

Close the deal. Close the deal.

“Melissa?”

“I sure do. They’re right here,” she said without acknowledging the delay in any way. Reaching along the floor, she retrieved a sales order slip and held it in the air for me to grasp.

I took it from her and scanned the details. Edna Mayfield... Now why did that sound familiar? And an address that was about a half mile from my house.

“OK, are we good to go then?” I asked, smartly folding the sales invoice in half.

She backed away with her hands up as though surrendering. “Sure, Margot. It’s all ready for you,” she sang in her sleepy voice.

She helped me carry the crate back out through the loading dock door and then somehow we got it into the Saab’s shallow trunk. With a nonchalant wave, she shuffled back inside and was gone.

See? I told myself. This is a sign. Everything is going so smoothly. Got the paintings, got the address. Now go dazzle the buyer.

This will totally work.

Dazzle the buyer, my imaginary schoolmarm reminded me again. Go. Now.



***



I turned onto a street just a couple blocks past my own and then into the curving brick driveway that ran up the hill, through a small lemon grove and to the front door. The house was classic old Hollywood: Spanish architecture, wrought iron flourishes, stucco, marble, and money. The hedges had been clipped into undulating ribbons that raced toward the front door, which was under an elegant arch draped with jasmine and wisteria.

Straightening my top and skirt, I checked my posture as soon as I stood up in case someone was watching me from the house. Make a good impression, the schoolmarm advised me solemnly.

I stepped carefully toward the front door arch, focusing on keeping my posture erect though the crate was a lot heavier than I thought it would be. Still, I didn’t want to arrive without it, and didn’t want to just pull the paintings out one by one, and didn’t want to look exhausted and panicked either.

Oh my god, calm the fuck down, Margot.

I rang the bell with my elbow and waited, listening to the musical gong echoing in the space behind the wide, carved door. It was a nice doorbell, serene and somewhat languid. I hoped I was going to get the chance to turn my own doorbell into something so nice before they kicked me out.

The crate pulled drastically on my arms and I shifted it across my hip, still trying to appear as though it wasn’t too heavy, really. Finally I heard soft footsteps approaching the door and gave a little whimper of relief.

The handle clicked and the door swung inward.

“Hey, stranger,” Jackson said, his smile momentarily illuminating the entryway like a blast of lightning.

I gasped and choked simultaneously, burping out a sound that sounded like my tongue had slid halfway back in my throat.