scoped it earlier, but another look wouldn’t hurt.
“Sure, be right there. Be good for Uncle Sam, okay?” Jake called after them.
Sam wasn’t convinced his brother had actually registered his own words. Not that Sam begrudged him the flattering attention of a beautiful woman. It’d been almost five years since Jake’s wife had died. Sam just wished the woman wasn’t one of his suspects.
Tommy tugged free of Sam’s hold and veered toward the biggest and brightest painting—rainbow-colored air balloons floating in a pure blue sky—propped at floor level outside the gallery door. Along the way his foot caught the easel of another painting. Sam lunged to stop it from teetering over as Tommy skidded to a halt in front of the air balloons. “Look, Uncle Sam, there’s a dog riding in the balloon!”
“Oh, we can’t touch them,” a kind voice singsonged. Jennifer Robbins. She squatted beside his nephew, her pleasant smile tempering the swiftness with which she’d caught his arm before he danced his grubby finger over the canvas. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
Tommy bobbed his head up and down.
“Makes me wish I could ride in such a beautiful balloon.”
The balloons weren’t the only thing that looked beautiful. Sam almost hadn’t recognized Jennifer with her blond curls spilling over her slender shoulders and wearing a casual, earthy-looking skirt and blouse that reminded him of commercials for romantic beach getaways.
“Do you like to draw?” she asked, and Tommy’s head-bobbing grew more exaggerated.
Sam stepped behind him.
Jennifer glanced up, her warm smile turning to surprise. “Sam, hi!”
He placed a cautioning hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Sorry about that. He got away from me.”
Her glance skittered to his left hand and back to his face. “This adorable little boy belongs to you?”
“He’s my nephew, Tommy. Jake’s son.” The ease with which she interacted with Tommy stirred an unwelcome appreciation for the woman. Her sister had scarcely looked at the boy—a fact that would eventually cool Jake’s interest, he was sure. “We were heading up to the buffet to meet my folks.”
“Well, hi, Tommy! I’m Jen,” she said then turned to Sam. “Let me see if the gallery has any coloring books and then I’ll walk with you. I told my sister I’d meet her there.”
“Yeah, we ran into her on deck.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “She and Jake stopped to listen to the piano player.”
Jennifer frowned. “Tommy’s mother isn’t here?”
“She died when Tommy was an infant.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sadness shadowed her eyes as she rose. “Let me get that coloring book.”
As Jennifer spoke to the balding middle-aged man behind the counter, Sam took the opportunity to scan the gallery for the two contributions the Robbins sisters were to bring aboard for auction. Contributions that might also prove to be pivotal to his case. Cruise lines normally auctioned prints, not originals, and would ship a comparable one from their warehouse to the winning bidder, rather than the actual item displayed. The fact that the cruise line had agreed to ship the Robbins Gallery’s actual contributions to the winning bidders, suggested they were originals, or if not, begged the question—was there more to the items than there appeared?
Jennifer knelt in front of Tommy and offered him a booklet of ship-themed coloring pictures and a package of four crayons. “For you.”
Tommy grinned. Sam gave his shoulder a squeeze. “What do you say?”
“Thank you!” He threw his arms around Jennifer, who toppled back onto her behind then laughed at his exuberance.
Sam’s heart squeezed uncomfortably at how good she was with the boy. He scooped Tommy into his arms then offered Jennifer a hand. “Sorry about that.”
Laughter continued to brim in her eyes. “No need to apologize. That’s the best hug I’ve had in a long time.”
“How have you been? Did the police catch the jerk who vandalized your car?” Sam knew they hadn’t, but he hoped his concern would win her confidence.
“No, but thankfully there haven’t been any more incidents.” She fussed with the delicate gold cross resting on a fine chain at her throat, and Sam wondered if the symbol actually meant something to her. She bit her bottom lip, looking way too vulnerable for his comfort.
She’s a suspect, he reminded himself. Just because she got threatened didn’t mean she wasn’t guilty. Criminals threatened other criminals all the time. For all he knew, she was aware of who was behind the attack and couldn’t identify him without revealing her own crimes.
“Except...” She let out a breath. “Last night someone kept calling my apartment and not saying anything.”
That wasn’t good. “You tell the police? Try getting the number from the phone company?”
Her rejected grant applicant hadn’t had an airtight alibi for the night of the attack, but without fingerprints or security video to connect him to the scene, the local PD hadn’t been able to charge him.
“No, I just unplugged the phone.” She offered a self-deprecating smile.
“That works, too.” He didn’t want to examine too closely why seeing that smile made him happy. She’d confided in him. It was a good start. His job was to gain her trust. Pure and simple. He set Tommy down as they stepped out of the gallery.
“Hold up a sec.” The clerk hurried over and pressed a small note into Jennifer’s hand. “The information you wanted.”
“Thank you.” She quickly tucked the note into her pocket before turning back to Sam.
Instinctively he knew the exchange had to be connected to his case. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place. So why did he feel so disappointed?
* * *
Jennifer fingered the paper in her pocket, debating how to get away from Sam for a few minutes to make the call in private. She’d recognized the ship’s curator from the Seattle gallery where he used to work—one that had had a scandal he’d exposed, much to the owner’s dismay. He’d seen right though her veiled questions about his experience and offered her the number of the PI he’d used.
Sam steered his nephew a wide berth around the art displays lining the hall. “I guess the art world’s tight-knit?”
Reflexively Jen’s hand crumpled the paper with the PI’s number. “Pardon me?”
Sam motioned to the ship’s gallery curator. “You all know each other.”
“Oh, yes, he used to be at a Seattle gallery, but I’m not actually all that involved with the gallery, aside from attending the odd opening night for special exhibits.” She glanced around at the ship’s eclectic collection. There were few pastoral scenes like her mother’s beloved early works. “My uncle insists I put in an appearance. Says it’s
