Page 113 of Over Her Dead Body

By evening, I have bought underwear, a dress that fits, and a pair of shoes expensive enough to improve my mood slightly.

They do.

Celeste hasn’t answered my email.

I call Michael Bennett, the attorney for the Whitaker family trust. I tell him I’m updating our records and ask whether the family still owns the painting from the Lake Austin house. It is still listed in their collection. He promises to check when it was last examined.

I do not mention Lisbon.

I have recorded my observations about the painting, confirmed tomorrow’s appointment, and spent an hour lying on the hotel bed listening whenever someone passes my door.

Enough.

I open the dating app.

Lisbon has Todds.

This one is called André. His profile says he enjoys cooking, swimming, and good conversation. Two of those can be avoided.

We agree to meet at a bar a short walk from my hotel.

He is already there when I arrive. Dark hair, open collar, forearms worth leaving a hotel room for. He stands to greet me and waits for me to choose between a handshake and a kiss on the cheek.

I kiss his cheek.

He smells good. Different.

Excellent.

“What happened?” he asks, glancing at my hands.

“I fell.”

“Badly?”

“I’ve had better landings.”

He pulls out my chair.

I like him more.

We order wine. He asks what brings me to Lisbon.

“Work.”

“What do you do?”

“I tell people what things are worth.”

“And what happens when they disagree?”

“They usually pay someone else to tell them what they wanted to hear.”

“So you disappoint people professionally.”

“Among other things.”

“I like your job.”