Chapter 25

LYNN

The drive takes less than four hours, so we arrive in Raleigh just before noon to stake out the Mintz Gallery. It's a brick-front building with large windows in a funky part of town with a bunch of cool shops and restaurants. We've been watching the building for the last half hour, but no one has ventured in or out, so it's time to step things up. My pulse jumps as I hop down from the passenger seat of Joey's truck and onto the sidewalk.

Despite his offer to let me drive, I'm not used to such a large vehicle, so I let him do his thing. He's started using his left hand now that he's gaining more strength and mobility. The few mentions he's made about his temporary replacement have tipped me off to his anxiety over getting off the injured list. So, it's good to see him using the wrist without any apparent pain.

"So, what's the plan here?" Joey asks once he reaches my side. "Are you going to tell them about Larry or not?"

I shake my head. "I'm just going to pretend I'm browsing for now."

"Got it." Joey nods and holds the door to the gallery for me to walk through.

The exhibit space is airy and bright, with several defined areas for different styles and media. We wander past the paintings in the front and continue to a central space holding metal sculptures.

"Good afternoon," a tall man in a suit and a trim mustache greets us. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Just browsing," Joey answers for us, and I send the guy a polite smile before he retreats behind a small desk along the wall.

When I turn to one of the back spaces, I gasp and quickly cover my mouth, hoping Mustache didn't hear me. "There it is," I whisper-hiss to Joey. We close the space between us and a carving that is the spitting image of Larry. The hulking figure of Bigfoot lumbering across the forest floor is so familiar that my eyes begin to well with tears. I dash them away because, dammit, I need my full vision to assess if this is the real Larry or just a close cousin.

When I lean down to get within inches of his huge feet, I gasp again. "Right there!" I whisper, and Joey leans down so our faces are only inches apart. "You see that little groove in the foot?" When Joey nods, I explain, "That's where Miller tried to put flip-flops on him when he was little. Thankfully, Mama caught him in the act before he carved more than a scratch."

"So this is the real deal?"

I nod, biting my lip as we both straighten again. I hadn't let myself genuinely believe Larry would be here, so I have no concrete plan for proceeding from here. Didn't the gallery authenticate the sculpture before buying it, like Carter said? I don't actually know how any of this works, I remind myself.

Joey points to the plaque nearby. "This just says ‘Morton Frye' and ‘unknown date.' Not a lot of info to go on."

I push back my nerves and turn to seek out Mustache again, but I stop short when he magically appears in front of us. "Ah, the Morton Frye piece. Intriguing, isn't it?" He's all smiles, and I have trouble reading anything but pride and pleasure in his expression. This guy doesn't look like someone who regularly bashes in patio doors and steals family heirlooms.

"I'm a big fan," I manage. "Can you tell me about the piece?"

"Not a lot, I'm afraid." His lips even again. "This piece is on loan and not for sale. The owner is quite the collector, but he didn't have much information either. We know it's a Frye from signature analysis on the underside, but that's about it. There are many undiscovered Frye works out there, as he was a very prolific artist even early on."

We both nod, and I venture ahead. "So, who is this collector, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Not at all. Although I feel I should warn you, he doesn't part with his pieces easily."

Joey's arm goes around my shoulders, and he pulls me into his side before I can even begin to guess his intentions. "Well, my wife is used to getting what she wants. I'm sure she can sway him."

Mustache raises a brow and heads back to his desk. "I'll get you his contact information, then."

Ten minutes later, we're in the truck again, and my phone is to my ear as I wait for a Mr. G. Taylor to pick up his phone. "Voicemail," I say to Joey as the greeting plays. When the beep comes, I say, "Hello, Mr. Taylor. My name is Lynn, and I got your information from the Mintz Gallery. I was hoping to speak with you about the Morton Frye piece you've so kindly lent to the gallery. Could you please call me back at your earliest convenience?" I leave my number and end the call before bringing the phone to my lap.

"What now?" Joey asks, one hand on the steering wheel and his handsome face turned my way.

"It would suck to come all this way just to go right back home without more information."

Joey stares at his hand for a few seconds before opening his door again. "Be right back," he says before jogging down the sidewalk and disappearing behind the gallery doors. What is he doing?

He's back less than a minute later and climbing into the driver's seat, his phone in his good hand. "I snapped a picture just in case we need it."

Why didn't I think of that? "Oh. Good thinking." If we do have to head home, at least I can prove to my brothers—and the cops—that it is indeed our Larry in that gallery. "Do you think we should try to find out where this Taylor guy works and maybe hunt him down there?"

That plan is dashed when we look up G. Taylor online and find over fifteen people living within the Raleigh-Durham area. Damn.

"We'll just have to wait, I guess."

I drum my fingers on the armrest and rack my brain for ideas.

"We should go have some fun," Joey says. His eyes suddenly widen, and he furiously types into his phone before turning to me again. "The Bulls have a game starting in thirty!."

"The Bulls? Aren't they a basketball team from Chicago?" I may not be a sports nut, but everyone knows Michael Jordan.

"The Durham Bulls. Minor League Baseball team? You have to have heard of them."

"Hmm. Isn't there some old movie about them?"

Joey looks at me like I just called his mom a skank. "You're screwing with me, right?" When my expression doesn't change, he bangs his head on the steering wheel. "Bull Durham. It's the first of Kevin Costner's three-part love letter to the game of baseball!" He lifts his head and adopts a pleading tone. "Field of Dreams? For Love of the Game?"

I brighten. "If you build it, he will come!"

"Oh, thank God."

His level of despair and subsequent relief have me laughing out loud. "I warned you."

He shakes his head, finally recovering from the torture I put him through. "So, how about it? A summer afternoon at the ballpark?"

I fight a nose wrinkle. "Maybe we should focus on our mission. Besides, we spend half our time at a ballpark as it is."

"That's not the same. I promise. The audience experience is a whole other ball game, pardon the pun."

"You and Sadie," I mutter, immediately wishing I hadn't.

"Who's Sadie?"

I wave him off. "Just a friend who loves to give me a hard time. Never mind."

When Joey looks at me like a dog in front of a store window full of tennis balls, I relent. "Okay, Mr. Costner, let's go to the ballpark."

It might do me some good to get Larry off my mind. I can't fathom how he ended up in that gallery. If this Taylor guy stole him out of some sick desire to have this particular piece among his collection, why would he put it on display in public? There's got to be an explanation, and G. Taylor is the key. I'm not leaving Raleigh until I talk to him. So, I may as well do something that makes my friend happy while I wait.

Joey grins and starts the car, almost bouncing in his seat. It's easy saying yes to him, and I'm beginning to fear I can't resist any of this man's suggestions—which could spell real trouble for my future.