Chapter 14

The painter's words echoed in the night. Shocked, I whirled to face him. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but this wasn't it.

It hit me like a ton of bricks that it had been forever since anyone had taken my side, or at least anyone who was willing to make a scene about it.

From the look on the painter's face, he was willing to do more than make a scene. He was willing to make good on his threat. Under the glare of the Camaro's headlights, he looked dark and dangerous, with his fighter's build and tight, coiled muscles.

If I were my uncle? Well, let's just say I'd be galloping back into the house, pronto.

But was he? I turned to look. Nope. He wasn't galloping. He was staring, thunderstruck, at the painter. As I watched, my uncle's face turned nearly as red as his hair. He choked out, "What did you just say?"

"You heard me," the painter said. "Now, put it back." His voice grew a shade darker. "In one piece. Got it?"

A new voice, this one female and filled with false cheer, sounded from the open doorway. "Oh, Melody, what a surprise!"

I looked up and spotted the thin, ferret-faced woman, standing in the open doorway. It was Aunt Vivian, dressed to kill as usual, in black designer clothes and so much jewelry, it was a wonder she didn't topple over.

I gave her a hard look. "If you're surprised, imagine how I feel."

Ignoring the comment, she plastered on a friendly smile and sashayed down the front steps. She claimed the spot next to Uncle Ernie, who was still holding the horse. I saw beads of sweat pooling on his upper lip and signs of dampness under the armpits of his fancy white dress-shirt.

Probably, this was the hardest he'd worked all year. My uncle was, to put it nicely, between jobs. In fact, he'd been between jobs for as long as I could remember, even before the death of my parents.

How long ago was that? Only five years? There were some days, like today, where it felt like a million.

My aunt's voice, dripping with sweetness, yanked my thoughts to the present. "Melody, darling. You never said, why aren't you at T.J.'s?"

That was a good question, and I was angry enough to give her a straight answer. "You mean right now? Maybe it's because…" My voice rose. "…I'm too busy stopping a robbery."

Her hand flew to her mouth, and she made a show of looking around. "What? Where?"

"Cut the act," I said. "I mean you. Here."

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a look of overblown concern. "Oh, dear." She turned to Uncle Ernie. "I think there's been a terrible misunderstanding." She gave him a meaningful look. "Didn't you explain it to her?"

His face froze. "Uh…"

My aunt continued over him. "We weren't taking these things. We were transporting them." She gave me a sunny smile. "For you."

"Oh yeah?" I made a sound of disgust. "Just like you 'transported' the good china? Was that for me, too?"

"Oh, stop harping on that," she said. "You don't use it, anyway. And, as I've told you many times, when you plan your next party, just let us know." She pursed her lips. "We'll bring it right back."

"Fine," I said. "I'm having a party tomorrow."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "We know you don't entertain."

About this, she was right. I didn't entertain, mostly because I didn't have the money. Forget fancy dinners. I could barely afford pop and pizza.

Pushing that depressing thought aside, I asked, "And how'd you get in this time?"

"The front door," she said. "It was unlocked."

It was the same thing she always said. It was a lie, of course. Before leaving, I'd locked all of the doors and engaged the alarm.

It hadn't stopped them. It never did. By now, I was almost convinced they had a secret entrance or something.

I gave her a dubious look. "Sure it was."

"It was," she insisted. "You really should be more careful." She looked to the painter, and her eyes narrowed. "I see you have a new friend."

I crossed my arms. "Yup."

She gave a loud sigh. "Well? Might I ask for an introduction?"

Next to her, my uncle muttered, "I wouldn’t recommend it."

I looked to the painter and felt a twinge of guilt. He wasn't just "the painter." He had a name – Joel Bishop. I'd seen that name on the check. If he was willing to stick up for me, the least I could do was remember his name.

He was still giving my uncle that ominous look. In passing, I couldn't help but wonder if it was Joel's stare, and not the weight of the horse, that was making my uncle sweat buckets.

Joel moved toward my uncle. "Are you putting that back?" His jaw tightened. "Or not?"

My uncle took a couple of steps backward and cleared his throat. "Uh, sure." He glanced toward the open front door. "I guess I'll just head inside and toss this thing back onto the pedestal."

"Remember," Joel warned, "in one piece."

My aunt spoke up. "Oh, you two, don't be ridiculous."

I wasn't sure who the "two" were. Joel and my uncle? Me and Joel? I paused. My uncle and the horse? I remained silent, hoping to just end this already.

My aunt turned to me and smiled. "In case you haven't guessed, we were taking that lovely horse to your birthday party."

"What birthday party?"

"Why, the one at T.J.'s, of course."

She knew about that? How, I had no idea. But I did know that none of my friends would've invited her. They knew better.

I gave a bitter laugh. "Sure you were."

"We were," she insisted. "I thought it would make the perfect centerpiece. We all know how you love horses."

I didn't love horses. They scared the snot out of me. Aunt Vivian might've known that if our relationship didn't consist mostly of her stopping by to pilfer my stuff.

I pointed toward the open trunk. "And what about the tablecloth?"

"Why, it's for the table, of course." She gave a little laugh. "Your birthday is a special occasion, is it not?"

I didn't bother hiding my disbelief. "Right." Like I'd let anyone spread out my grandma's best tablecloth over some bar in a booth, where who-knows-what could happen to it.

Still, I just had to ask. "And the sword?"

My aunt's gaze shifted to the trunk. "The sword? Well, yes, you see, that's for…" She hesitated, as if unsure what to say next.

Next to her, my uncle suggested, "Cutting the cake?"

My aunt shot him an irritated look, but said nothing.

Again, I looked at the sword, nestled in the folds of the tablecloth. Knowing my aunt, the tablecloth was just padding, something to protect the ancient artifact.

For some reason, that just made everything worse. To me, the tablecloth was priceless. But to them, it was convenient packing material.

As for the sword itself, it was a genuine collector's item. If the notches on its blade were any indicator, it had seen more than its share of action. And yet, I was reasonably certain that none of that action involved cutting baked goods.

I looked back to my relatives. "Forget the party," I told them. "I'm not even going." I reached into the trunk of their car and pulled out the sword with one hand and the tablecloth with the other.

Holding both of them in a death grip, I circled the vehicle, checking for more contraband. I saw nothing else, probably because we'd caught them in the act.

When I finished circling the car, I looked to my aunt and uncle, and felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. The horse was gone.

No. Scratch that. Now, Joel was holding the horse, while my uncle sweated alone.

God, what a spectacle.

And for some reason, watching Joel holding that stupid horse, I felt my eyes grow misty, and my bottom lip start to quiver. But it wasn't with sadness. It was with gratitude.

How messed up was that?