“Hang on a minute.”
Brett heard Pat walking up the stairs and opening the closet doors.
“Okay. I’m here,” Pat said, “but I can’t see it.”
Brett moved the phone away from his mouth. “Where in the closet is the painting, Laura?”
“Down the bottom, at the back. I covered it with a towel.”
Brett spoke to Pat. “Did you hear that?”
“Loud and clear. I’ll put the phone down. My knees make it difficult to get up and down.”
It seemed to take ages, but eventually Pat came back on the phone. “Found it. The frame is cracked, but I don’t think the painting has been damaged. How did it get in here?”
Brett sat back in the kitchen chair. “Laura and her sister were playing ball upstairs. The painting was knocked off the wall.”
“They should have told us.”
“She knows that now.”
“At least we’ve got the painting. Have you seen Dave?”
Brett sighed. “Not yet. I’ll drive to his mom’s house soon.”
“Good luck.”
He’d need more than luck to navigate through Dave’s emotional minefield. But first, Laura had an apology to make. “Hold the line a minute, Pat. Laura’s got something to say to you.”
Laura’s eyes shot open. She looked as though she was about to bolt from the room.
Thomas gave her a nudge.
With a worried frown, she held out her hand for the phone. “Mr. McConachie?” she whispered. “I’m really sorry for bouncing the ball inside and not telling you about the painting.”
Brett couldn’t hear Pat’s reply, but Laura solemnly nodded, listening intently to what he said.
Laura had learned a valuable lesson today. Now all he needed to do was make sure Dave was okay.
***
After Brett left Thomas’ home, he called Dave’s mom. It was just as well. Dave wasn’t at home, but he’d called her an hour ago to say he was staying with some friends.
He was on his way over there now, hoping Dave had calmed down enough to understand why he’d asked him about the painting.
The street he was driving down wasn’t far from town. With its two-story homes and old, gnarly trees, it had more character than most of the new subdivisions in Bozeman.
He looked at the mailboxes and slowed down. Dave’s friends lived on a corner property. Someone had strung Christmas lights through a tall pine tree in the front yard. It looked like a typical family home, but Brett was still cautious. He knew some of the friends Dave had hung out with before he’d come to the ranch. They were bad news and there was every chance they hadn’t changed.
He parked his truck and made his way to the front door. Unlike Laura’s enthusiastic welcome, this door stayed firmly closed.
He knocked, then peered through the glass panels beside the door. The woman walking down the hallway surprised him. Instead of the twenty-something delinquent he’d expected to see, this woman was closer to fifty. Dressed in jeans and a thick sweater, she could have been anyone’s mom.
She opened the door. “Can I help you?”
Brett took off his hat and held out his hand. “I’m Brett Forster, ma’am. Dave Buchanan’s mom said he was staying here. Could I speak to him?”
“I’m Maria Chapman.” She hesitated before continuing. “Dave has told me about you. Could you come back another day? Dave isn’t feeling all that well at the moment.”
