The Other Crowd. Alex Archer

ago, actually. Did you know her?”

      “I’ve heard of her.”

      “Wesley Pierce drove her to Cork to have her checked out by a doctor.”

      “Ah, Pierce is the bloke who winks at all the girls and flashes his unnaturally white teeth at ’em. He and Beth had a thing, you know.”

      She’d suspected Wesley hadn’t told her everything. “How do you know?”

      “Whole town knows. We know everything that’s up with everybody.”

      She believed that. It probably wasn’t that easy to hide an affair, drinking problem or addiction when the center of town boasted the Four Corners.

      “They had a spat, they did,” the old man said. “You might want to question loverboy if you’re intent on finding the real answers.”

      “I’ll do that.” She believed the old man wasn’t trying to throw her off. He had no reason to.

      “You talk to Mrs. Collins up the way?” the man asked. “You want to know about the other crowd, she’ll have what you need.”

      Interesting. Daniel hadn’t mentioned his mother’s knowledge of faeries. “Thanks. I’m having dinner with her this evening.”

      “Then you’ll see her collection. That lady does have a pack rat in her. Blessed Rachel.”

      9

      Garin raced to the curb where his limousine waited. The driver already had directions to the auction house. He slid inside and grumbled about the delay. “I had to get a passport waiver. This is obviously not my day.”

      He settled in and reached for a bottle of Evian water as the car drove away from the airport. That hit the spot. They’d grilled him on his overseas travels. It was as if they’d suspected him of third-world espionage.

      Although he could claim a certain amount of notorious dealings, he covered his tracks well. And he’d kept his cool while sitting in the customs office. He knew when to bow to authority and when it was best to make a fuss and start threatening subordinates.

      To his credit, the man who’d contacted the German consulate to verify his passport had been polite and efficient. He’d wanted to get Garin through customs as quickly as he could, and Garin appreciated that.

      “What time have you got?” he asked the driver.

      “Ten after three, Mr. Braden. I’ll try my best, but the auction started at three.”

      “Damn it.”

      Roux had called while he’d been crossing the Atlantic Ocean to let him know his bidding paddle would be waiting. He wasn’t sure of the order of items to be auctioned off. He might still make it, unless the Fouquet went first.

      “I can call in my bid. I’ll have to. Roux wanted me to take a look at it first, but it’s got to be the painting,” he mumbled to himself.

      He slapped his suit coat, mining for his cell phone. “Hell!”

      “You have a phone up there, Stephan?”

      “Sorry, Mr. Braden. My daughter dropped it in the toilet this morning. Did you forget yours?”

      “It’s back at the airport.” He turned, assessing which would be faster—making the turn and getting back on the ring road that surrounded the airport, or driving straight on and crossing his fingers this limo could fly.