Page 63 of Just Beachy

He cocks his head, and I can practically see his Spidey senses kicking in. “Where’s Grand?”

“She’s having a lie-in this morning. And I think I’m going to take a bit of a nap, too.”

“Okay. I’ll call you later and—”

“That would be great.” I yawn and stretch when what I really want to do is throw myself into his arms and tell him what’s happened to Grand.

“So I’ll call you later,” he says again, studying me more carefully.

“Okay,” I say as I follow him downstairs into the foyer. “Sounds good.” I go up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek then practically push him out the door, afraid that if he lingers, the kidnappers will assume I’m asking him for help.

When he’s gone, I plop down on the sofa, drop my head into my hands, and somehow manage not to cry. Because if theyarewatching me, I don’t want them to see how frightened I am.

I breathe deeply, in and out, while I try to push the fear away.Think,Sydney, think. Where would you hideThe Madonnaif you were Grand?

The one thing I know for sure is that Grand thinks the way she paints—in broad strokes and startling color. She is a “seat of the pantser,” driven by her emotions and instincts.

Trying to trust my own instincts, I force myself off the couch. Then I search her studio, her car, her bedroom, andevery cabinet, closet, nook, and cranny in the town house where a rolled-up canvas could possibly fit.Nada.

Then I sit at the dining room table and stare out at the water. There, I think until my head starts to pound, which doesn’t take long, given how frightened for Grand I am. I command myself not to give up because time’s wasting. But ultimately, I’m forced to accept the fact that despite how much I love my grandmother and how close I’ve always felt to her, I can’t put myself all the way into her shoes or her head. Trying to think like Grand is not working, but I have todosomething.

Blinking back tears, I realize that while Grand is the person who hidThe Madonna, Cassie Everheart is the “person” who could figure out whereThe Madonnais hidden; and she’d do it in one episode. Cassie wouldn’t be sitting around whimpering. She’d take action of some kind.

Unable to sit still another moment, I leave the town house and begin to walk the cobblestone street that weaves through the complex. With each step, I ask myself,What would Cassie do?

Despite having played her for years, I do not have the epiphany I’m so desperate for. No solution or course of action pops into my head, so I force myself to think about all the crimes Cassie solved. There were a few that involved kidnappings and hostage situations. But regardless of the crime, the first thing Cassie did was focus on the things shedidknow, not the things she didn’t.

Cassie would mentally sift through the people in Grand’s world until she came up with a suspectorperson who shecould get information from. In my case, it needs to be someone who’snotin law enforcement, who spends time with and/or has access to Grand and has some connection to the art world.

As Luke has pointed out more than once, Brian Boyer checks all these boxes. And he began courting Grand practically the moment he met her. Luke believes Brian is the bad guy or is at least tied to them. If Luke is even partially right, Brian may be the only person who can conceivably help me find Grand.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head for Brian’s building. Channeling Cassie, I march up to his front door and ring his doorbell. When there’s no response, I bang on the door until my fist is raw. But Brian Boyer does not come to the door or buzz me inside.

When I call his cell, it immediately goes to voicemail. I’m afraid to leave a message and I’m not even sure what I’d be asking for.

• • •

Back at Grand’s,I sink into her sofa and stare out the living room sliders. I have no idea what to do next.

I can’t tell Luke what’s going on, and Brian is not responding, which only increases my suspicions that he’s involved. I’m all my grandmother has. But I’ve looked forThe Madonnaeverywhere I can think of and still haven’t found it. I can’t leave Grand in the hands of the kidnappers, whoever they are, a moment longer than necessary. Especially since I’m not going to be walking into their lair with the painting.

I need a plan B. Something that will get me in with some chance of getting Grand and me out alive.

I feel myself spiraling toward the pit of despair, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to pull myself out of it. If I let myself panic, I won’t even have a chance to save Grand.

I need something devious that will take the people who have Grand by surprise and give us an opportunity to escape. I ask myself what Cassie would do, and when she doesn’t pipe up with an answer, I run through scenarios theMurder 101writing staff came up with for her over the years. There was drug trafficking, human trafficking, murders, and missing persons cases, but I can’t remember any that feel applicable. And of course, this is not a television show. And the kidnappers are not actors.

My heart pounds. My fear of failing Grand is a living, breathing thing. I’ve got to come up with a bluff convincing enough to get me into where she’s being held so that I can do everything in my power to make sure we at least have a shot at walking out alive.

I walk back down to Grand’s studio and stare at her easel. Then I look over at her stack of blank canvases and pull up a photo ofThe Missing Madonnaon my phone. I used to copy Grand’s work when I was younger. I couldn’t create anything impressive on my own, but I painted some credible copies.

I waste valuable time trying to convince myself that I could paint a convincing copy ofThe Madonnawith Phillip Drake’s signature on it, but I haven’t painted in years,and I don’t have the time or the talent to even attempt to re-create Grand’sMadonna, not to mention figuring out how to “age” it.

I rack my brain trying to come up with a plan C, but the only option left is to bluff my way in with a rolled-up canvas of the right size, hand it over, then pull Grand behind me and a pistol out of my boot so that I can hold it on the kidnappers while I back Grand and I out of there, hopefully before they fully realize they don’t have the realMadonna.

I know this is a risky plan, but I’m pretty sure that while they’re likely to pat me down when I arrive, they’re not going to make me take off my boots. I tell myself that thiscouldwork because men tend to underestimate women—a truth Cassie Everheart used to her advantage in numerous episodes.

Now, all I have to do is find a pistol small enough to fit in a boot. Before I lose my nerve, I call Luke and hope like hell he doesn’t let it go to voicemail.

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