“Sure, but there are losers … and then there are losers,” Irene said pointedly.
“So, I guess you’ve googled Edie, too,” Frances said, unwilling to discuss how unreasonable she could be when it came to sports.
“Of course. Edie is hard to miss. She hosts parties and charity events and is really into gardening. Like, wins awards for it. Which blows my mind. I always thought she would be the one to become an alcoholic while she made grown men cry. But apparently, she stuck with that bastard Mark who turned us in.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“She’s, like, stupid rich,” Irene continued.
“Oh. Good for Edie, I guess.”
“Maybe. I would take self-respect over money, but that’s just me. Speaking of money, what’s your plan for rallying the troops? What do we do, just call them?”
As Frances had impetuously come up with this grand plan, she hadn’t thought that far. She set aside the tea. “I think phoning either of them out of the blue is a bad idea. They’d think it was a setup and probably hang up.”
“So, what are you saying, we just pop in?” Irene asked. “No one likes a pop-in, Fran. I discovered that just today.”
“Funny,” Frances said. She wished Irene would go to the bathroom so she could grab her meds. “But sometimes it’s necessary. Remember that job we did in Pittsburgh?”
“I remember how furious the lady of the house was. What was her name? She was getting some sort of wax job when we showed up.” Irene laughed at the memory of it.
“Alice Thompson,” Frances said. The younger, newer wife of Derek Thompson. A man who had bled his ex-wife dry while she was in the hospital. Frances had known about that at the time because she and Edie were friends with Derek Thompson’s daughter, LeeAnn. She’d always wondered what had happened to LeeAnn after everything went down.
It was Edie who wanted to end Derek Thompson. She wanted to take something of value from him like he’d taken from his ex-wife. Specifically, a painting of value LeeAnn had told them about. It was Edie who came up with the catering scheme. The Thompsons were hosting a charity fundraiser, and Edie was dating a man who had been hired on to be a bartender for the catering company. The event was to be held at their very large estate.
The plan had seemed simple in theory—the four of them would present themselves as the catering crew that would be serving the following day. They would arrive a day early, claiming they had been sent to look at the event space to assess it for service. Joan had even snagged waitress costumes somewhere. This was in the days before the internet. Before cell phones. It had seemed reasonable to the four of them.
The woman who had come to the door when they arrived was a servant of some sort. Frances explained what they were there to do, and asked that she fetch the new Mrs. Thompson.
“But she’s indisposed,” the girl said.
“She must have forgotten,” Frances said. “But, like, we’re not going to get paid if we don’t do the preliminary scouting.”
The girl at the door had sympathized with that. She’d gone to get the lady of the house, who had come downstairs in herbathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head, her nails only half painted, and a thick glob of wax on her legs.
She was immediately skeptical that there should be any catering staff that day. “I am sure there has been some mistake,” she said to Frances. “I’ve worked with this catering company many times, and they’ve never had to have a look. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. Now is not a good time.” She had gestured for them to turn around and go out the door.
“I told you it was a dumb plan,” Joan had whispered hotly to Frances. But Joan had underestimated Edie’s desire to make this happen. Because that was the moment the man of the house wandered onto the scene, munching on a sandwich. Frances would never forget the speed with which Edie reached for her blouse and yanked it hard enough to pop a couple of buttons, revealing a red lacy bra underneath. She turned her brilliant smile to the man.
“Mr. Thompson!” she’d said, as if they were acquainted, and thereby grabbing the immediate attention of the wife. “LeeAnn didn’t tell me you’d be here.”
“LeeAnn?” Mr. Thompson said, his sandwich forgotten, his eyes locked on the peek-a-boo of red lace.
Edie had already sidled up to him—she moved like a cat. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for treating us to dinner.”
“Umm …” Mr. Thompson glanced nervously at his wife. Frances could see the confusion in his eyes, and the way he looked at his wife while unthinkingly maiming his sandwich. “Allow me, before this makes a mess,” Edie said, and cupped her hands around his hands and his sandwich. “I need to see the kitchen anyway, for my job. LeeAnn didn’t tell you I was working for the caterer?”
“Derek?” the new Mrs. Thompson said, and the next thing Frances remembered, she and Joan and Irene were in the house. Frances made her way to the study. She knew the painting they wanted, knew it from art class, and had it wrapped in her black apron before Derek Thompson could even think of what to say to his irate wife.
“Edie saved the day,” Frances reminded Irene now. “We would never have gotten that painting if it hadn’t been for her.”
“Pittsburgh was so fucking dumb,” Irene said with a shake of her head. “Whatever made us think we could be art thieves? We were fresh off the boat from Sweden, thinking we knew what we were doing.” She suddenly leaned forward. “Hey … are you okay?”
The question startled Frances. She automatically put a hand to her cheek to check for fever. That was something new—random bouts of fever. But her cheek was cool to the touch. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t know, you just look so pale. I thought the tea would help.”
Frances shook her head. She was going to have to do a better job with her makeup, obviously. “I can’t travel like I used to, that’s all.” She forced a smile. “I’m getting old, Irene.”
