"Amazing that Fulton's even bothers to stock my books, given that so few people around here are inclined to read them."
"Hey, you're our only local author and besides, you're a Harte." Eugene's voice hardened. "Everyone thinks that gives you special status in Eclipse Bay."
Nick was saved from having to respond directly to that tricky conversational gambit by a loud, jarring crash. Fred had just slammed two glasses of beer down onto the top of the bar.
"Come and get it, Eugene," Fred called, turning back to his soap. "No table service until four-thirty when Nellie shows up for the evening. You know that."
"Allow me." Nick got to his feet and went to the bar to collect the beers. He set them on the table and sat down again.
"Well, well, well." Eugene grabbed his beer and hauled it closer. "Never thought the day would come when I'd get served by a Harte." He gulped some beer and lowered the glass. "How about that, Dwayne? One of the honchos of Eclipse Bay just bought us a beer and served it, too. What d'ya think of that?"
"Weird," Dwayne said. He snickered and downed a hefty swallow from his own glass. "Damn weird."
You couldn't discuss things rationally with these two, Nick reminded himself. It would have been the equivalent of engaging in a conversation concerning the origins and meaning of the universe with a pair of particularly dimwitted bulls. The best you could hope to do was prod them in the direction you wanted them to take.
"Heard you've been doing a little detecting, yourself, Eugene," Nick said. "Sandy over at the station says you've got a theory about just who might have made off with that painting."
Eugene blinked a couple of times and then managed to make the intellectual leap required to grasp the meaning of the sentence.
"Yep, that's me, all right," Eugene said, sounding pleased. "Detective Eugene Woods." He grinned at Dwayne. "Got a ring to it, don't it?"
Dwayne snorted. "A real ring."
Eugene turned back to Nick. "I know who took that painting, but you ain't gonna like it." He put the glass down with a decisive clang and wiped his mouth on the back of his shirt. "Makes you look downright stupid, Harte."
"I've looked that way before," Nick said. "I'll get past it."
Eugene cackled so hard he choked. It took him a while to recover his wind. "Always enjoyed the sight of a stupid-looking Harte."
"I can't help feeling that this conversation is losing its focus," Nick said gently. "Could we return to the subject at hand?"
Eugene stopped grinning. His heavy features twisted into an expression of deep suspicion. Probably worried that he had just been insulted and not quite certain how to react, Nick thought.
Eugene, being Eugene and therefore extremely predictable in some ways, did what he always did in such circumstances. He went on the offensive.
"You wanna know what I think, Harte? I'll tell you. Only solid suspect far as I can see is your new girlfriend, the gallery lady. And you're screwing her. Ain't that a kick in the head? The big-time detective is screwing the prime suspect." He looked at Dwayne. "Ain't that a kick in the head, Dwayne?"
"Yeah," Dwayne said obediently. "A real kick in the head."
Eugene leaned across the table to make his point to Nick. "How do you like them apples, Mr. High-and-Mighty Harte? Looks like the lady has you by the short hairs. How's it feel to be led around by your balls?"
"Before we go into that, maybe you'd like to tell me where you heard this theory," Nick said.
"What makes you think I heard it somewheres else?"
Eugene's features transformed as if by magic, shifting from malicious glee to a twisted glare. "Maybe I came up with it all by myself. You think you're the only smart one around here?"
Nick throttled back his temper with an effort. He was here to gather information, not get into a brawl. "You got any proof that Octavia Brightwell stole the painting?"
"Proof? I don't have to show you no proof. You're the private eye. Find your own proof." Eugene leered. "Just keep digging away. Who knows what you might find?"
"Okay, you don't have any proof," Nick said evenly. "Would you, by any chance, have a motive?"
"Motive?" Eugene glanced at Dwayne.
"He means like a reason why she would steal it," Dwayne said, surprising Nick with his insight and comprehension.
"Oh, yeah." Eugene switched his attention back to Nick. "I can give you a reason, all right. That picture is real valuable and it ain't insured or nothing. Not even mentioned in Old Man Thurgarton's will. There's no record it even exists, get it? No, whatcha call it, prominence."
"Provenance," Nick corrected softly.
"Right. So the way I figure it, little Ms. Brightwell is pulling a fast one on all of you. Works like this, see, she hides the picture, pretends it got stolen and later, when the heat dies down, she leaves town, maybe goes to Seattle or some place like that and sells the damn thing. That way she gets to keep all the money. Now do you get it, Harte?"
"Interesting theory," Nick said.
"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" Eugene quaffed more beer and lowered the glass. Pleased with himself.
"And you say you came up with it all on your own?"
"Yep."
Dwayne opened his mouth, but he closed it again very rapidly when Eugene threw him a warning glare.
"In that case," Nick said, "can I ask you two gentlemen to refrain from spreading it any further until we find out exactly what is going on and maybe get some proof?"
Eugene looked intrigued. "Why should we keep quiet?"
"For one thing, there's a lady's reputation at stake."
"What reputation? Everyone in town knows she's screwing your brains out."
"I was speaking of her professional reputation."
"Who cares about that?" Eugene asked blankly.
"I do, for one," Nick said. "And I think maybe you and Dwayne, being gentlemen and all, should care about it, too."
They both looked at him as if he'd suggested that they should care about quantum physics.
Eugene recovered first. "Hell with her pro-fess-ion-al rep-u-ta-tion," he said, sounding each syllable out with sneering precision. "I don't give a shit about her reputation. You give a shit, Dwayne?"
"Nope," Dwayne said. "I figure the fact that she's screwing Harte's brains out is a lot more interesting than her professional reputation."
