We all gathered around and Mac grinned. “They’re really drawing out the suspense, aren’t they?”
“I’m breathless with anticipation,” I joked, but I really could feel the excitement building.
He chuckled, and Whitney, standing on the other side of Mac, turned and glared at me. I was happy to ignore her.
Mrs. Perry began to count. “Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Reveal!”
Mr. Perry and another man grabbed either side of the canvas covering and pulled, exposing the masterpiece to the world.
Whitney gasped.
I snorted with laughter.
The Perrys’ masterpiece was an elaborate fountain in the classic Italian tradition made of rich marble and beautiful copper—and an exact replica of my neighbor Mrs. Higgins’s huge backyard eyesore. Water spewed from the hands and mouths of the angels and tumbled down over the creatures cavorting below.
The only difference I could discern between the two fountains was that the Perrys’ was worth many thousands of dollars more and would age to a fine patina in those spots where the surface was burnished copper, while Mrs. Higgins’s was constructed of faux plastic and foam and would probably crumble and collapse in a year or two. Otherwise the two fountains were identical.
Whitney began to choke, probably from the shock of seeing a duplicate of what she’d once called “the most hideous, gauche piece of garbage” she’d ever laid eyes on. That was exactly how she’d described Mrs. Higgins’s version, the one she’d seen in the back of my truck in the supermarket parking lot.
Tommy and Mac grabbed her from both sides and gave her a few firm slaps on the back. She finally waved them both away, having recovered from her choking bout. But her face still looked a little green.
The crowd oohed and aahed at the splendid display, and as the angels began to hum shrilly, Mrs. Perry made the rounds, asking all the guests what they thought of her new treasure.
Whitney gulped, then exclaimed, “It’s beautiful! I’m so envious! The silhouette of the angels is so glorious against the afternoon sky. It’s all so . . . so stylishly whimsical, yet sensual. I’ve never seen anything so utterly splendiferous in all my life.”
“I’m so happy you love it, Whitney,” Mrs. Perry said, giving her an enthusiastic hug. “You absolutely must see the original fountain once before you die. The Boboli Gardens of Florence are beyond description.” She moved on to the next guest and proceeded to gush all over again.
“You are so full of it,” I muttered in Whitney’s ear.
“Shut up,” she hissed.
A minute later, Mrs. Perry approached me. “What do you think, Shannon?”
“It’s truly unique, and yet . . .” I paused. “It reminds me of another work I’ve seen recently.”
I gave Whitney a quick glance and saw her eyes shooting poison-tipped daggers at me.
I turned back to Mrs. Perry. “Now I remember. I believe it’s similar in style and grace to something I saw in the Boboli Gardens in Florence, Italy, a few years ago.”
“Yes!” Mrs. Perry cried. “Exactly! We took our inspiration from the Boboli.”
“I knew it!” I said. “It’s truly . . . splendiferous.”
“Thank you, my dear.” She walked over to another guest and I took a big gulp of blessed champagne.
Whitney tried to walk away, but I grabbed her arm and yanked her back, saying, “You owe me one.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” she snarled. “Splendiferous, my ass.”
I laughed and downed the rest of my champagne.
Chapter Thirteen
Jane called early Monday morning as I was pouring my first cup of coffee. “It’s bad news. Bob has slipped into a coma.”
I must’ve been half-asleep, because I shook my head and stared at the phone for a long moment. “Who? What?”
“Bob Madderly. Jesse’s navy pal. He’s slipped into a coma. They’re not sure he’ll survive.”
“Survive?” I gulped at my coffee, hoping for clarity. “What the heck happened to Bob? How did he get into a coma? And how did you find out so early in the morning?”
“Bob’s a diabetic and they think he forgot to take his insulin. Or maybe he took too much. I’m not sure.”
“That’s so sad.” I’d grown to care for the sweet old guy. I remembered him winking and flirting with me at Jane’s party.
“I know.”
“Does he have any family nearby?”
“A younger cousin, but Ned and Jesse were his real family. And Stephen. He’s taking it hard.”
“That’s horrible for everyone.” I gulped down my coffee because if I didn’t, I would never figure out what happened to Bob.
“How could he forget to take his insulin?”
“I don’t know. He’s old. Maybe he forgot.”