Dusted by Holly Jacobs

boys being enveloped by everyone as Cal reached out and took my hand. He gave it a tight squeeze, and I felt a suspicious moisture in my eyes. I am not Peri. I don’t tear up at Hallmark commercials.
    But at this one moment, everything was perfect in my universe.
    And as a woman who was practically on death row just a month ago, I’d take it.
     

Chapter Six
    First thing Monday morning I finally heard back from the third forgery victim. I’d left countless—okay, not countless, but a lot of messages, asking to bring our insurance investigator over.
    I called Dick and asked if he was available.
    He was.
    I think that’s the lovely thing about having a friend who’s a writer…they can juggle their schedule easier than a lot of people can. I promised myself not to abuse his friendship. He seemed to be enjoying the investigation, but he still needed to work.
    Dick and I went to the Graham’s house. It was one of the largest in the neighborhood. It practically screamed my-owners-have-money-to-burn.
    I have never experienced having-money-to-burn.
    I knocked at the front door, then rang a doorbell that sounded like a Cathedral organ.
    Miriam Foster, aka Ms. Designer Shoes from the Arthur Wadsworth Gallery, opened the door.
    “Miss Foster?” I said. She was probably here for the same reason I was here…the stolen paintings. “How nice to see you again.”
    For a second, I thought I saw a flash of recognition but I blinked and she simply looked blank, as if she didn’t know me.
    So, I reintroduced myself. “I was at the gallery the other day. I looked at some Kirchoff paintings and one by a guy named Jolly.” I still thought that was a stupid name for a man, but I realized he’d had no say in it. I blamed his parents.
    “Oh,” she said, not exactly clarifying if she remembered me or not.
    I suppose if she found me lacking in my khakis then she found me even more so in my jeans and Mac’Cleaner shirt. I was beneath her notice. Fine. I wasn’t here to see her anyway. “We’re here to see Mrs. Graham. She’s expecting us.”
    “I’m Mrs. Graham.”
    “Your business card said Miriam Foster.” I remembered because the card was on my white-board.
    “I use my maiden name for business purposes.” Her eyes narrowed as she assessed me. It seemed as if this was the first time she’d really seen me. “So you own the cleaning service that stole our paintings.”
    “Mac’Cleaners had nothing to do with your paintings being stolen. This is Mr. Macy. He’s here from the insurance company to investigate what went on.”
    Dick cleared his throat. “Please show me where the art hung.”
    Miriam strode across her marble floors, wearing a pair of designer heels. I might like shoes, but even when I’d been married to Jerome, I’d never worn shoes with names. I had a lot of shoes, but they were bargain shoes. So I had about as much of an eye for shoes as I did for art…which meant not much of one. These looked like the pair she wore at the gallery. That’s the height of frivolousness, buying two pairs of expensive shoes that no one could tell apart.
    “There,” she said, pointing to her east wall, that was now blank, other than four heavy duty looking hangers. “We’re devastated. I love Kirschoff and we bought early in his career. To have them stolen from us…”
    Miriam paused and looked as if she were passing a kidney stone. I think it was her version of pain.
    “It feels like having a child taken from us.”
    Now, I understand having possessions you treasure. I have a white mug that belonged to Louisa Mac. The story goes her teacher went on a trip and brought all his students back a mug with their name on it and dated 1873. If my house was on fire that mug would be the first possession I’d grab…but only after my kids were all out.
    I guess comparing a painting—even an expensive work of art—to children kicked up my mom-gene.
    “Do you have children?” I asked.
    Her kidney stone must have passed