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thing. Mom, I
Good evening, Annie, a deep voice interrupted.
Why, Frank, I said, surprised. What are you . . . ?
Ingrid and I were having dinner with some friends, he
said, looking relaxed in a charcoal-gray wool Italian suit.
I whipped my head around and scanned the room, hoping
for a bona-fide Ingrid sighting.
She just left.
Of course she did. Oh, um, Mom, this is Frank DeBen-
ton, my landlord. Frank, this is my mother, Beverly Kin-
caid.
How do you do, Mrs. Kincaid? Frank asked, as my
mother shot questioning glances at me. I ignored them.
Quite well, thank you, Mr. DeBenton, she replied.
Won t you join us?
Please, call me Frank, he said, taking a seat despite
my glare.
I enjoyed serendipitous social encounters, but I was
dying to learn what my mother was up to and she would
say nothing in front of Frank. For the second night in a row
our heart-to-heart chat had been preempted by a handsome
but unsuitable man.
Sorry about the burglar alarm, Frank, I said. I think
a friend may have set it off accidentally. I ll talk to her
about it.
I d appreciate that, Frank said. But enough shop talk.
What are you lovely ladies drinking? May I propose some
champagne?
No, you may not, I said.
SHOOTING GALLERY 147
We d love some! my mother said.
Frank ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, winked at me,
and turned to my mother. It seems I ve been a little bit
slow to put two and two together. Do you mean to tell me
that you are related to the Asco Kincaids?
We aren t exactly royalty, Frank, I grumbled.
I never doubted that, Annie, he replied, his cool
brown eyes sweeping over me. I was pretty sure I d just
been insulted, but since my mother was at the table I held
my tongue.
Indeed we are, my mother interjected, breaking the
tension. From Asco, I mean.
What a wonderful coincidence, Frank said, watching
as the waiter poured champagne into three crystal flutes.
A votre santé!
Cheers! my mother said gaily, clinking her glass
against Frank s.
Here s mud in your eye, I mocked, channeling Evan-
geline.
As I was saying, Frank continued, I ve been negotiat-
ing with a Dr. Harold Kincaid to transport art to a conference
to be hosted by the college in Asco next summer. I didn t
realize you were related to the professor, Annie.
He s my father, I acknowledged and, in view of the
beautiful smile my mother kept flashing Frank, added,
And her husband.
Isn t that something, your knowing my Harold, Mom
said. What a small world.
We ve only spoken on the phone, Frank replied, but
I hope to meet him soon.
Although my mother had at least fifteen years on Frank,
I had to admit they looked good together. Both were ele-
gant, graceful, and unfailingly refined. My father, in con-
trast, was more like me: clothes rumpled, hair askew, and
148 Hailey Lind
mind usually somewhere else. I felt a sudden and unprece-
dented surge of empathy for good ol Dad.
Frank and my mother looked at each other for a beat too
long and I lost patience with the both of them. What are
you doing here, Frank, and why won t you go away?
Anna Jane! Mom gasped.
Frank smiled. I apologize if I m interrupting some-
thing.
You most certainly are not, my mother insisted. My
daughter seems to have misplaced her manners, that s all.
Your daughter has many charms, Mrs. Kincaid
Beverly.
Beverly, thank you. Manners, alas, may not be fore-
most, he said, his warm brown eyes meeting mine. But
she makes up for it with talent and personality. You must
be very proud.
My mother all but melted into a puddle. I wanted to rip
his face off.
Alas, I m afraid I must run, Frank said, finishing off
his champagne. It was a pleasure meeting you, Beverly.
Enjoy your dinner, ladies.
With one last smile and a nod to me, he left.
My mother glared as I bit defiantly into a spring roll.
What s gotten into you, young lady? I happened to notice
there was no ring on his finger. It wouldn t kill you to make
an effort once in a while. He looks like a successful man.
You could do worse.
Mom, I m happy with my life the way it is. And need
I point out that you said almost those very words last night,
too?
That was before you told me what Michael did for a
living, she chided me. Are you saying this one s an art
thief, too?
SHOOTING GALLERY 149
Keep it down, Mom, I said, glancing over my shoul-
der.
I m simply saying that for a girl without a date all
weekend you seem to have a number of very handsome
men expressing interest.
Frank isn t interested in me, Mom. He was just
being . . . Frank. He has a girlfriend; you heard him. Any-
way, let s get back to our conversation. Do you know
someone named Francine Maggio?
She spat out some tea.
I take it that s a yes?
Two waiters flanked our table, set out clean dinner
plates, and laid before us a fragrant, heaping dish of
lemongrass chicken and a hot pot of rice, meat, and vegeta-
bles aptly named hot-pot stew.
The moment they left my mother reached across the
table and gripped my hand. Annie, how can I make this
any plainer? Leave this alone. Do you understand me? For
my sake as well as for yours. She took a deep breath and
sat back in her chair. Why don t we get this food to go? I
think we re both exhausted.
Mom, I
I won t discuss this further, Anna. I m going home to-
morrow. I have a million things to prepare for Thanksgiving.
The rum cake, of course, plus that yam-and-marshmallow
dish your father loves so much. I do hope you will change
your mind and join us. Just because I invited Javier and
Tiffany. . . .
He s my ex-fiancé, Mom, I protested. And I can t
stand his new wife. Don t you think it might be a little
awkward with me there?
Javier was a good guy and all, but at some point during
the visit he and my father would start crooning to old Julio
Iglesias albums, crying in their holiday beers, and remind-
150 Hailey Lind
ing me of the fortune Javier was making by selling groom-
ing products to Sir Snufflebums and his pampered ilk.
I attributed our brief engagement to an excess of wine
coolers, but in my parents eyes Javier would forever be
the one that got away. I just wished he would go ahead
and get away instead of hanging out with my parents on
major holidays.
Mom kept yammering on about yams, and I stopped lis-
tening. While the waiters packed up our untouched food
we argued over who would pay the bill only to discover
that Frank had taken care of it. We drove home in silence.
All in all, it was an uncomfortable ending to a very long
day.
But it was made much worse by the death threat a few
minutes later.
Chapter 10
Salvador Dalí is said to have signed tens of thou-
sands of blank pieces of paper for lithographs he
had never seen, much less created. For this bril-
liant attempt to evade poverty he has been dubbed
a forger of his own work.
Georges LeFleur, quoted in El País newspaper
Stop asking questions, a sinister voice growled when I
answered my cell phone. I let my mother into my apart-
ment and lingered on the landing, prepared to deal harshly
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