Winning Amelia Page 19

  Whitcombe tapped his gavel on the podium to signal a sale. The elderly man who won the bidding waved jauntily to acknowledge the crowd’s applause, then leaned over to kiss the cheek of the blue-haired woman beside him. He’d bought the abstract for sixty-five hundred dollars. Amelia’s hopes rose. Until now, what she thought of as the regular paintings had sold for between five and ten thousand, which was in line with the going rate for work by those artists. The ones with the duplicates had gone for prices in the same range. She and Hank were still in this. Regardless of the extra funds needed to be transferred to Whitcombe afterward for the stolen paintings, the actual cash bid was still within their reach.

  The two guards removed painting number thirteen from the easel and carried it out the way they’d come in. They returned with a pleasant watercolor of a sailboat scudding before a gathering storm. It was a relatively small painting that could have easily been carried by one person, but they didn’t deviate from their routine. Whitcombe went into action. The bidding progressed leisurely. Amelia bounced her heel against the floor.

  Hank nudged her leg with his.

  She gritted her teeth at the sudden warmth she felt from the contact. It was only nerves. Waiting for her last shot at fifty-two...correction, almost forty-two million dollars would sharpen anyone’s senses.

  He dipped his head. His breath puffed teasingly across her ear. “I just thought of something.”

  She kept her gaze on the sailboat. “What?”

  “The sizes of the paintings were listed in the catalog.”

  “So? They usually are.”

  “The dimensions of the duplicates were identical to the paintings they were paired with. That explains the crates.”

  “What crates?”

  “In the gallery storeroom. They seemed bulky. They could have two compartments. Both paintings are probably brought here in the same crate so they can be shipped together to the buyer. It explains the heavy steel door with all the locks, too.”

  She wasn’t sure when her denial of Hank’s theories had switched to acceptance. Everything she’d seen so far bore them out. His logic was relentless, and she hadn’t yet found a hole in it, no matter how hard she’d tried.

  But that was Hank, wasn’t it? He had an outstanding ability to think things through. It was one of his greatest strengths. At times it was also one of his greatest flaws.

  Whitcombe banged his gavel. The crowd applauded. Item number fourteen, the watercolor sailboat, was carried out. Amelia held her breath, not daring to blink, her gaze riveted on the doorway to the left of the platform.

  And suddenly, there it was. The painting of the farm. The weathered barns, the sloping fields, the overly blue sky, all surrounded by the carved and warped wooden frame. The guards placed it on the easel and stepped back. Amelia dried her palms on her dress and leaned forward.

  The painting didn’t look any better on the fancy easel than it had when it had hung on the wall of Will and Jenny’s back room. The composition was poor, the perspective was off, the execution was clumsy, but to Amelia, it was such a wonderful sight, it brought tears to her eyes.

  “Item fifteen,” Whitcombe said. “A work by Dr. Jonathan Mathers, aptly titled Farm on the Hill. It is an excellent example of rural Ontario Romanticism from the mid-twentieth century.”

  A buzzing sensation went through Amelia’s leg. She jerked.

  Hank covered one of her hands with his and pressed it to her thigh to stop her from bouncing her heel.

  “For this rustic gem, we’ll open the bidding at three hundred dollars. Do I hear three hundred?”

  A hand went up to their right. It was the political exposé author.

  “Thank you,” Whitcombe said. “And the children thank you. Now, will someone offer four?”

  The man from the trucking company nodded his bald head.

  “The bid is four. Do I hear five? Five hundred?”

  “Five,” Hank said.

  The author’s hand shot up again. “One thousand.”

  “Fifteen hundred,” Hank returned.

  “Two thousand.” It was the former Leafs goalie.

  The buzzing resumed. Vibrations tingled through her thighs. This time she realized the sensation originated from her purse, which rested on her lap. It must be Hank’s phone, set to silent mode. She ignored it until the vibrations stopped—whoever was calling him would have to wait. Nothing could take precedence over this.

  “Twenty-five hundred,” Hank said.

  “Come, my friends,” Whitcombe coaxed. “We can do better than that. This is a true Canadian gem, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to go home with a piece of history.”

  “Ten thousand,” the author called.

  Ten? That was Hank’s limit.

  “Ten thousand, three hundred,” Hank said.

  “Fifteen,” called the goalie.

  It couldn’t be over this fast, could it? A murmur went through the crowd. The bid had already surpassed the cost of any of the previous paintings by almost fifty percent. Several people who weren’t among the special bidders shared puzzled looks.

  Whitcombe beamed. “We thank you for your generosity, sir. You’re an inspiration to us all, not only for your talent on the ice but for your true munificence.” He lifted his gavel. “We have fifteen thousand going once. Going twice...”

  “Wait!”

  At the gravelly voice from the back of the room, heads turned. A man was moving slowly down the central aisle. Unlike the other guests, he wasn’t clad in a tuxedo. He was wearing a doctor’s white coat and white trousers. As odd as his appearance was, few people focused on him. Everyone’s attention was on the occupant of the wheelchair he pushed.

  Amelia recognized him instantly, despite the ravages of age on his once burly frame. She had studied his biography as part of a business course. Wolf Hennerfind had literally struck gold in his youth, and had parlayed his share of the find into a worldwide gold mining empire. He had been a flamboyant figure several decades ago, but he rarely appeared in public anymore. His once-thick black hair had been reduced to scattered strands of white, and his fleshy features had shrunk close to the bone, yet his face still projected the aura of a vigorous man. And why not? Money was power, and his personal wealth was rated in the billions.

  Whitcombe addressed the new arrival directly. “Mr. Hennerfind! We’re honored you have decided to join us.”

  Hennerfind lifted one hand from the red plaid blanket covering his legs. He pointed at the easel that held the Mathers. “What’s the bid for that painting?”

  “Fifteen thousand,” Whitcombe replied.

  “I’ll make it a hundred.”

  There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Even Evangeline was smiling now. Whitcombe went through the motions of asking for more bids, but none were offered. No one would be able to compete with what Wolf Hennerfind carried in his wallet.

  She returned her gaze to the painting. Okay. It wasn’t gone yet. As long as she could see it, there was still hope. If she could rig a distraction, find a fire alarm to pull or maybe just yell “fire” to get the guards and everyone else out of the room, she would be able to run to the dais and pull the ticket out of the painting....

  Hank draped his arm loosely around her shoulders. She couldn’t tell whether he was offering sympathy, or whether he was readying himself to prevent her from doing something stupid. It was probably both.

  The end came more quickly than she could have imagined. The gavel clacked against the podium. The room erupted into cheers and congratulations because of the countless children who would be going to camp the following year. Rather than bringing the crowd to order, Whitcombe announced an intermission, reminding his guests of the open bar. As people rose, eager to partake in more free booze and the chance to gossip, Whitcombe went to speak with Hennerfind.

  Amelia leaped to her feet before Hank could stop her and squeezed her way along the row of chairs to the aisle at the side of the room. The tide of people heading the other way block
ed her path to the front. She stood her ground as they brushed past her, keeping her gaze locked on the painting, preparing to sprint the instant a gap opened up.

  “Amelia, no.” Hank moved behind her and looped his arm around her waist. He spoke against her ear. “The guards won’t let you near it.”

  She threw her weight to the side, trying to break his hold but this time he had a firm grip. “Let go of me. It’s still there.”

  As if on cue, the white-gloved hulks lifted the painting from the easel and carried it out of sight.

  She jammed her fist to her mouth, fighting to hold back the sob. No. Please, not again. It had been so close.

  Hank turned her the other way to join the retreating crowd. Unless she wanted to topple off her heels or create an even bigger scene, she had no choice but to go along. He maintained his grip on her waist as they crossed the lounge. He didn’t speak again until they reached the comparatively vacant lobby. “There’s nothing more we can do here, Amelia.”

  “There must be. We just need to think.”

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “Wait! It’s not over yet. I have an idea.” She grabbed his hand as they neared the front entrance and tried to pry his fingers loose. “The back door!”

  “What about it?”

  “The hotel must have a loading bay or a delivery entrance. We could sneak in there and try to get to the painting before Hennerfind takes it away. That’s probably where they were brought in.”

  Rather than loosening his hold, he tucked her closer to his side. One of the guards who was posted at the front door turned his head to regard them. Hank put on a smile and spoke to Amelia through his teeth. “You’re right. The paintings probably were brought in through the back, which means Whitcombe would have tighter security there than he does here. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  Vibrations shot through her body where she pressed against him. “I already thought of that. We could do something to distract the guards first.”

  “Amelia...” He frowned and glanced at her hip. “Is that my phone?”

  Of course, with her purse wedged between them, he would feel the vibrations, too. “Let it ring,” she said. “We don’t know how long we have before Hennerfind decides to leave.”

  He grabbed her purse with his free hand. The chain slipped from her shoulder before she could react. He thumbed open the clasp.

  “Hank, let it go. This could be our last chance.”

  “It’s after midnight,” he muttered, releasing her so he could pull out the phone. “This call must be important.”

  “And what we’re doing here isn’t?”

  He put the phone to his ear and answered anyway. An instant later, he held it out for her. “It’s for you.”

  “Come on. No one would—”

  “It’s your brother.”

  It took a heartbeat for her brain to switch gears. All thoughts of the ticket drained from her mind to be replaced by a wave of dread.

  Will must have been the one who had called before, too. She’d ignored it. She’d been too wrapped up in her own problems to consider what else might be happening....

  Jenny!

  Amelia grabbed the phone.

  And she discovered that just when she’d thought things couldn’t get worse, they did.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE HOSPITAL CORRIDORS had been darkened for the night. Although visiting hours had ended long ago, Will had arranged with security to let them through. Hank’s tux and Amelia’s evening dress had raised few eyebrows at the nurses’ station—the maternity ward was well accustomed to come-as-you-are arrivals. Amelia eased open the door to her sister-in-law’s room.

  A shaded light burned above the bed where Jenny lay. She looked as if she’d been through a storm. Her hair pooled on the pillow in tangles. Shadows deepened the hollows of her cheeks and beneath her eyes, and the rest of her face was as pale as the sheet that covered her body. Her much flatter body. Apart from the shallow rise and fall of her chest, she was completely motionless. An oxygen tube ran to her nostrils and an IV line was taped to the back of her hand. Wires trailed from beneath her hospital gown to a heart monitor. The steady beeps were reassuring, yet at the same time ominous. They sounded too feeble to represent a woman’s life.

  The baby was gone, but Jenny wasn’t alone. On the room’s other bed, Owen and Eric lay sound asleep beneath a blanket, cuddled together like puppies between the raised safety rails. Will was slumped in an armchair beneath the window, snoring softly. Timothy, clad in SpongeBob pajamas, was sprawled across his chest.

  Hank squeezed her shoulder. “I can wait outside,” he whispered.

  She shook her head, covering his hand with hers. “I’ll need help getting them to the car.”

  Will must have sensed their presence. He blinked and lifted his head. He looked as if he’d gone through the same storm that Jenny had. He was a wreck. Every line on his face seemed to have deepened since she’d last seen him. His cheeks bristled with unshaved whiskers. Though apparently he’d taken the time to pull on a pair of jeans before he left the house, he wore a striped pajama top and had no socks in his sneakers.

  Amelia moved forward, intending to take Timmy, but before she could, Will shifted the sleeping toddler against his shoulder and rocked to his feet with him. He paused to look at Jenny, made sure that the safety rails of the bed where his two oldest slept were locked in place, then tipped his head toward the doorway and followed them out of the room. They went as far as a cluster of purple vinyl benches that were arranged near the end of the darkened hall.

  Amelia put one arm around her brother, giving him a hug that wouldn’t wake her nephew. All she managed to say was his name before her throat closed with emotion. She kissed his bristly cheek and pulled back.

  “Thanks for coming, kid,” Will said. He glanced at Hank. “And thanks for bringing her.”

  “Sorry for the delay,” Hank said. “Phone trouble. How’s your wife doing?”

  “They stopped the hemorrhaging. All we can do now is wait.”

  Will filled in the details he hadn’t given over the phone. He and Jenny had been about to go to bed when her water broke. Her contractions had come on hard and escalated quickly, and since the length of time she’d been in labor had gotten shorter with each of her three previous deliveries, they’d guessed the birth was imminent.

  He hadn’t wanted to bring the boys along, but the neighbors who could have come over to stay with them were either on vacation or had already gone to their cottages for the weekend, and there hadn’t been time to call in any of their regular babysitters. Even if Will had managed to find someone who had been free and had been willing to come over, he hadn’t wanted to risk waiting for a sitter to arrive. He’d had no choice but to help Jenny to the van while Owen and Eric grabbed Timmy, and he’d brought the whole crew to the hospital.

  “We were excited, not worried,” Will said. “After all, this was our fourth time around. We thought we were old hands at this. We had the routine down pat. We never expected trouble.”

  “No one would,” Amelia said. “Jenny told me all her checkups had gone fine.”

  “There was no sign of a problem until we were in the delivery room,” Will said. “And all of a sudden her blood pressure just dropped. She passed out. They said something tore internally. She was losing so much blood.” He clenched his jaw briefly. “One of the hospital volunteers had been keeping an eye on the boys out here, so they didn’t see it.”

  Amelia shuddered, picturing the nightmares her nephews might have had if they’d witnessed their mother in that condition. And to think that for a while Will and Jenny had actually considered arranging to have the boys present for their new sibling’s birth. “I’m so sorry, Will.”

  “I probably should have taken them home already, but I had to stay with Jenny. I don’t want her to wake up alone, not after what she’s been through.”

  “Of course, you should stay,” Amelia said. “I never should have g
one out of town tonight. I was supposed to watch the kids when Jenny went into labor.”

  “You couldn’t have known this would happen now. None of us did. Jenny wasn’t due for almost two weeks.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”

  “The trouble would have happened whether you were here or not.”

  His reassurance did little to ease her guilt. “How’s the baby?” she asked.

  Will pressed his cheek against Timmy’s head, then led them to the end of the hall and around the corner to the nursery where tiny, red-faced newborns were bundled in their bassinettes. He stepped close to the window. “She’s in the second row, third from the left.”

  Amelia’s eyes filled as she looked at her tiny, perfect, brand-new niece. The baby’s heart-shaped face came from her mother. The wisps of hair that showed at the edges of her pink cap unquestionably came from her father. She slept peacefully, mere hours old, unaware of the turmoil that surrounded her birth. “She’s beautiful, Will.”

  “She’s feisty, too. She came out wailing.”

  “She’s a Goodfellow, all right,” Hank murmured. “Just look at that red hair.”

  “Auburn,” Amelia corrected automatically.

  Hank peered at the card on the foot of the bassinette. “What’s her name?”

  “Right now, she’s Baby Girl Goodfellow,” Will said. “The name’ll have to wait until her mother and I can decide together.” He spoke briskly, but the light coming through the window was brighter than in the hall. It revealed his eyes were as moist as his sister’s. “Jenny doesn’t...” He swallowed. “She doesn’t know we have a daughter. She said it didn’t matter, but she couldn’t fool me. I knew she wanted a girl this time.”