Bruce Eiger looked over the table at his guest, and then at the man’s plate, annoyed that the dinner had hardly been touched. It was one thing to throw money around to show off, but wasting a perfectly good thirty-five dollar steak galled this shit out of him.

“Eat, already.”

The old man smiled at him, and although it was a nice smile, it had a cold glint to it that made Bruce pause. Once the old guy had seen it register, he picked up his fork.

“So. You’re interested in forgery,” he began in a conversational tone.

Bruce shot him an angry look and then glanced around the restaurant. “Christ! Not so loud!”

“Nobody cares, Mr. Eiger, trust me. I’m not a beautiful young starlet that you’re trying to get into bed, so your conversation with me is of no interest to anyone here.”

“Even if that’s true, I’m not in the mood to broadcast anything, so keep it down,” Bruce snapped before shoveling in a mouthful of mashed potato. He swallowed it and looked again at his guest. “But you’re right. I am.”

“And I would venture to guess that the painting you want a perfect facsimile of would be  . . . Two Shepherds on the Hills of Verona?” came the quiet question.

“You guess good. Maybe you ought to take that sort of smarts to one of the casinos, Mr. D. Could win yourself a hell of a jackpot if the owners didn’t rough you up first.”

His guest looked up. “Oh I have, from time to time, although I’ve avoided the unpleasant backroom conversations for the most part. It’s difficult to paint with broken fingers.”

Bruce snorted. “No shit. Anyway, yeah. I want a perfect copy of the old Italian I just handed over to the Museum. The way I figure it, they can have the copy and I’ll hang on to the real thing—that way I have my investment and philanthropic reputation secure. And if any nosy critic comes along and says the painting’s a fake, I’ll scream bloody murder, then get the insurance company to pay off, since it was their expert who verified it was real in the first place.”

The little old man smiled again, and the cold glint was back. Bruce felt a shiver down his spine and tried to ignore it.

“Rather a win-win situation for you all around then, isn’t it, Mr. Eiger?”

“Absolutely. Those are the kind I like best.”

“And you’re agreeable to my terms then?”

Bruce nodded sullenly. “Yeah, yeah, the works. New ID, Australian citizenship, sheep station in New Zealand. There are easier ways to get out of a bad marriage you know. Ways I could help with.”

The smile was back. “I’m sure there are, Mr. Eiger, but I’d prefer to keep my crime at desertion rather than murder.”

“Have it your way.” Bruce shrugged, and went back to demolishing his potatoes. After several more mouthfuls, he glanced at his guest again. “So how long will it take you to do the painting?”

“A week. It will take another two days or so for it to dry, unless you allow me to use acrylics. I cane provide you with a list of everything I need. Some of it might be . . . pricey,” the old man murmured with a little genuine regret. Bruce glanced at the mostly untouched dinner and sighed.

“Two Shepherds is appraised at three million, Mr. D. As long as you keep whatever you need under twenty thou, I can handle it, along with your . . . demands. All I ask is that you get done before the end of the month, when the annual audit happens and we can get the painting swapped out.”

“Very good. And to insure that both of us are aboveboard, Mr. Eiger, I’ve taken the precaution of recording our conversation here at dinner and having it electronically transcribed to my laptop, which is in a very safe location. Here is my list of requirements and an address where you may ship them as well. Once I have the supplies, I’ll contact you with a schedule.”

Bruce glared as the older man reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of good vellum, passing it to him with a smile. “You were clean—“ he complained, “You let my man scan you!”

The old man nodded benignly. “True. However, I did arrive here earlier than you and wired the flowers . . . among other things.”

After a moment, Bruce gave a bark of a laugh, grudging admiration in it. “You got balls, Mr. D—I’ll give you that.”

“I simply refuse to underestimate you, Mr. Eiger. I’ve lived a long time and intend to continue living—preferably in New Zealand once this is all over,” The older man smiled, and this time his expression was slightly melancholy.

Sara stood on the shore and hit the remote for the Bohemian; the lights went on, and the tiny flicker of the security system reassured her. Carefully she got back into her Miata and drove off to the north, taking her time. She was sure that Grissom wasn’t around . . . yet . . . and she didn’t want to have him find her for a while.

And he would try to find her, Sara knew. This change to his comfort zone was bound to shake him up. It was shaking HER up, and to put off thinking about that, she drove on, reaching the little bed and breakfast within a half an hour.

The modest Spanish ranch house—Jardin de la Flor, according to the sign on the gate--stood on the outskirts of town, surrounded by low hills, charming and quiet. Sara pulled in the long driveway and passed the main house, moving down the road that curved around it, and heading for one of the bungalows in the back.

There were two of them, and a large barn on the grounds between them; Sara parked and got out, looking around. The lights on both bungalows were out, but the ones at the barn were on, so she stepped to the door and fished out keys from a ring in her purse. Once inside, Sara looked around, relaxing a little. The smell of gesso, oil paint and turpentine filled the spacious area, as did the physical clutter of canvases, drop cloths, tables full of palettes, crumpled tubes of paint and all the effluvia of art, on a grand scale.

Sara cleared her throat and called out, “Uncle Alex?”

“Here, Sara my sweet---“ came the preoccupied response from deeper in the barn.

She wandered over and found Alex in an old, paint-stained sweater and jeans, his hands working over a well-lit canvas in front of him. Under his brush, a lovely street scene emerged; a rainy day at some Paris marché with the bleeding pinks and purples of the flower seller’s stall blending in with the falling drops, and the heavy glints of reflective white along the grey cobblestones painted along the bottom of the picture.  Sara whistled, and Alex smiled.

“Faux-Monet style, but I felt the need to work of a bit of anger this evening, and this seemed to be the safest way to do it. Given the number of cameras in the casinos today, it’s the better part of valor, don’t you agree?”

“In your case, totally. So how’s the Two Shepherds coming along?”

“Starting on it tomorrow, “ Alex told her as he concentrated on the upper part of the cloudy skies, touching it lightly and effortlessly creating a dappled effect. “I’ve done the preliminary sketch on the canvas, and need to re-measure them to make sure I’m within a few centimeters or two. Have you found a match for the frame yet?”

Sara stared at the painting, entranced by it as she spoke, slowly. “Still working on it, but I’ve got a promising lead out of a church restoration center in San Francisco—they’ve agreed to Fed Ex the samples for you to look at in the next few days—Santiago will sign for them if we’re out. How about the, um, special project?”

She blushed as she asked, and Alex shot a sidelong glance at her, tenderly amused. “Second thoughts?”

“No,” she countered, “But some . . . difficulties.”

“Ah,” Alex commented gently. He finished up his work on the underside of the clouds and carried his palette to the sink, staying quiet and waiting for her to speak again. By the time he was cleaning the brushes, the silence had gotten too much for her, and she wandered over, resting one hip against the sink.

“I’m . . . mad at him. He treated me in a way I wasn’t expecting—at least not from him and I probably overreacted. So I’ve told him to stay away for a while,” Sara confessed softly.

Alex glanced up. “How did he treat you?”  His voice was soft, but the hard steel in his tone made her shake her head quickly.

“No! Nothing like that, don’t worry! He’s not the type to EVER hit me, geez!”

“So what did he do that got him into your bad graces, Sara, my dear? From what I can tell, the moon and sun both seem to rise out of this young man’s . . . eyes,” he decided, flashing Sara a quick grin. She returned it, chuckling a little.

“He, um . . . sort of locked me in the basement when his mother came over. Unexpectedly.”

“He unexpectedly locked you in, or his mother came over unexpectedly?” Alex asked for clarification, rinsing his hands and drying them on the small towel that Sara handed him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Came over unexpectedly. Neither of us was quite . . . dressed for a visit, much less a matriarchal one, if you get my drift.”

For a moment, Alex said nothing, but his merry smirk made Sara blush all the deeper, and to counter it, she cleared her throat. “Anyway, to make a long and embarrassing story short, I’ve decided we need some time apart.”

“The course of true love never does run smooth, does it? And what am I to do with  . . . .?” he drifted off, but waggled his eyebrows.

Sara’s expression shifted to something between devious and melancholy; she shrugged. “I’ll think of something. Right now, he doesn’t deserve it.”

Catherine looked with clear, unmistakable lust at the racks of clothing that stretched back through the long room, and watching her, Mike felt himself stiffen slightly. He’d suspected she’d respond to the Closet this way.

“It’s like . . . heaven---“ But that was David speaking, not Catherine. Startled, Mike looked over at the man, nothing his glazed expression behind his glasses. Next to him, Jelly Bean grinned.

“Yeah I thought you’d like this place. We have the specs of every casino’s uniforms on file, along with the standards for most federal and government ones as well. We’ve got a few cultural selections too, and some historical stuff, although that doesn’t get play too often---“ he murmured, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

David moved close to the first dress on the nearest rack; a Waffle World waitress uniform. He ran a knowing hand along the capped sleeve. “This one’s out of date—the Waffle World corporation shifted from double-knit poly to a rayon poly blend two years ago because of rashes.”

“What?” Catherine asked distractedly, her attention focused on a slinky cocktail dress of green dappled satin. David tapped the waitress uniform once more, this time with more authority.

“The uniform. It was in all the trades, because Waffle World was considering selling the bulk of their wear out to the theater overstock folks. Double-knit traps too much sweat, and the restaurant worker’s union filed a complaint on their behalf to get the uniforms changed. So this one’s out of date—if you sent someone out in this uniform, the other waitresses would definitely pick up on it.”

Jelly Bean was nodding, impressed. “Good to know. We definitely need you in this closet.”

“Oh I could be really happy right here,” he replied unhesitatingly. He moved to Catherine and took the cocktail dress from her, shaking his head. “Not this one—the cut is for someone about a size nine, A cup. And the color’s good on you, but honestly? You’d look better in---“

David pulled out a sleek chiffon dress of tawny brown with gold threads woven in it, and handed it to Catherine, who forgot to pout as she eyed the new creation and purred. “Oooooh! Shoes?”

“Brown velvet Chitanas or Astrabellas, open-toe with a three inch heel,” David replied confidently. “Gold earrings, brown velvet  hand bag, or if you’re going for flash, gold leather clutch.”

“Buster, you can pick my wardrobe any day,” Catherine announced with a delighted grin. “Even the waitress ones!”

David blushed, but looked enormously pleased; Mike and Jelly Bean grinned at each other.

“Okay, I think we’ve found your particular vocation, Mr. Phillips,” Mike murmured. “You might want to think about your code name—we’ve got a list of available ones to choose from.

“Hey!” Catherine asked as all four of them moved out of the Closet and back into the hall. “Wanted to ask—how come you’re called Mike TeeVee when everyone else around here has a candy-related name?”

“I went by Nonpareil for a couple of years,” Mike admitted, “But once I got assigned to the East Coast and took up my secret identity, it was more fitting to link it to that. And Mike TeeVee does relate to candy.”

“Why candy?” David asked curiously. They were all walking towards the frosted glass doors now, with Jelly Bean leading the way. He gave a shrug.

“I’m sure there Miss Lollipop would say that are a lot of Freudian implications about regression to childhood and oral fixations, but I think it’s mostly because the unifying element is sweetness. We do this job for our own satisfactions, so to speak. Got a name in mind yet, David?”

“Marshmallow, I guess,” he murmured, pushing up his glasses by the bridge piece on his nose, “it’s as good as any.”

“I think it’s free, so that’s fine,” Mike told him, holding open the doors to usher everyone else through. “And you?” he murmured in a lower, flirtatious tone to Catherine.

“I want to be Butterscotch,”  she told him.

 Mike shook his head regretfully, following behind her. “That one’s out—killed in the line of duty, so the name was retired.”

“Hmmm,” Catherine frowned. “Damn.”

“On the other hand, I could see you as a Bit ‘O Honey,” Mike added in a voice meant only for her ears. Catherine blushed, but before she could say anything in reply, the sound of gunfire echoed out. Both she and David looked stunned; Jelly Bean grinned.

“Welcome to the firing range—real bullets, all the time.”

Dinner at Porcini’s was slow. Grissom tried to keep up a cheerful demeanor for his mother, who gave up asking him if he was all right and kept him busy answering questions.

//Yes, I am seeing someone, mom. She’s . . . // Grissom paused mid-sign, trying to think of how best to express all the incredible, endearing, wonderful things about the naked woman he’d left locked in his basement.

//Smart? Pretty? Loving? Playful? Understanding?// his mother teased, signing quickly. //Gil darling, I’m SO glad for you!//

//All that and more, Mom. Thanks,// Grissom sighed, finally managing a small smile. //She’s very special.//

//Good. So when do I get to meet this very special woman?// Olivia pursued, //because Maynard says--// she stopped, and Grissom narrowed his eyes at her, debating between outrage and amusement.

//Maynard? Has been talking about . . . me?//

This was not good. Grissom had hoped that hiring the big ex-porn star would give him more time for missions, but if the price was a breach of security . . . . he felt oddly hurt; betrayed. His mother had the grace to look chagrined.

//Only after I plied him with my chocolate sour cream cake with fresh raspberries,// she confessed with dancing fingers. //Fresh from the oven.//

//Ah.// came Grissom’s response. //The major artillery.//

//I was desperate. //

//Clearly. But you should have asked me, Mom—I would have told you about Sara—in due time,// Grissom tried to bluff. His mother’s response was a familiar arch of an eyebrow and a slightly disbelieving stare.

He relented. //Okay, so maybe my concept of due time is a little longer than most. I wanted to be sure, all right?//

His mother didn’t look completely convinced, but she rolled her eyed good-naturedly. //All right, Gil. So where is she now?//

They wouldn’t let him in the delivery room, and it was a relief, to be honest. He loved her, but the last thing he wanted was to be in the way, with everyone working around him and on her.

Still, it hurt too, and while she understood, he felt like crap being apart from her. Out here in the hallway of the Maternity Ward, he could hear the TVs from the other rooms; the soft-voiced pages and conversations and blips while behind the double doors he knew she was . . . .

The doors swung open, and a lanky young doctor leaned out, pulling his surgical mask down to speak, his smile wide. “Mr. Ecklie?”

“Yeah? Mel—she’s okay?”

“Just fine. Came through the Caesarian like a trouper, and you’re a father now. If you’d like to suit up and come see your son—“

Conrad Ecklie froze for a moment, the impact of the other man’s words like a rush of warm air against him.

Like the backsweep of angels’ wings. One of Mel’s sayings, he recalled, understanding with perfect clarity what she meant now as he moved to the double doors, pushing them open with trembling hands.

Mel was there, woozy from anesthesia, but smiling, her glossy dark hair damp with sweat, and tucked in her arms lay a small bundle in a flannel blanket, wriggling aimlessly. Conrad moved over, hand reaching out for Mel’s forehead. “Hon—“

“Hey, Con. We did it,” she whispered, tired but thrilled, her smile so brilliant that Ecklie thought it was brighter than the overhead lights. “Matthew. He’s perfect.”

“Just like you,” Ecklie told her, and bent to kiss her lips.





Olivia Grissom’s Chocolate Sour Cream Cake AKA Maynard’s Addiction

1 pkg. Moist Devil's Food Cake Mix
1/4 cup water
1/3 cup vegetable oil
4 large eggs
2 cups sour cream, divided usage
1 tub Cream Cheese Frosting, divided usage
1/2 cup seedless red raspberry jam
2 tubs Classic Chocolate Frosting
Fresh Raspberries, optional

Preheat oven to 350º. Grease and flour two 8-inch pans.

Blend cake mix, water, oil, eggs and 1 cup sour cream in large bowl. Beat a low speed until moistened (about 30 seconds). Beat a medium speed for 2 minutes. Pour into pans. Bake and cool cake according to package directions.

To assemble, place 1 cake layer on serving platter. Spread 3/4 cup cream cheese frosting on top of layer. Spread jam on top of cream cheese frosting. Top with remaining layer. Frost top and sides of cake with chocolate frosting.

To prepare sauce, blend remaining cream cheese frosting and 1 cup sour cream in a small bowl until smooth and creamy. Garnish top of frosted cake with 2-3 tbsp of sauce in center and fresh raspberries. Place 2 tsp. sauce on center of each serving plate and top with a slice of cake. Garnish with fresh raspberries, if desired.

For a different twist, try another seedless jam such as strawberry, blackberry or orange curd.

Makes 12 servings.