As much as he didn’t want to believe her, he did.
With a long exhalation, he leaned back against the wall between Frankenstein’s Monster, a gentleman’s portrait in top hat and frock coat, and The Bride of Frankenstein, her hair tucked under a black-and-white parasol.
“Jack’s writing again,” Hugo said. “I am happy. Well, happier. Now I can leave Clock Island with a clean conscience. I can be miserable in Manhattan or bitter in Brooklyn.”
She raised her eyebrow at him, but it didn’t last. She smiled and sighed.
“Truce?” She held out her hand, and he shook it. When he tried to take his hand back, she held on to it. “Not so fast. While I have you—”
“Ah, dammit.”
“I want paintings, and I want them now.”
Like a wolf caught in a trap, he pretended to gnaw his own hand off at the wrist.
“You said you owe your career renaissance to me,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “If you meant that, then the least you can do is bring me a Clock Island cover painting or two or fifty, please.”
“Cover paintings are not for sale. Jack’s publisher will send the fiction police after me.”
“For a show then only.” She squeezed harder.
“Release me, wench. I won’t be press-ganged.” This was not how artists usually did business with galleries. Usually there were managers and agents and emails, not arm wrestling.
She released his hand. “As you were.”
“Counteroffer,” he said. “I want a full solo show. I’ll bring five original Clock Island cover paintings and ten to twenty of my more recent pieces—which you can sell. Plus, an opening-night party with the good caterer this time.”
“Hmm…” She pretended to stroke a nonexistent beard. “This could work. A Hugo Reese retrospective. I like it. Deal.”
“Buy me a coffee, and we’ll pick a date,” he said. “I should have a few old cover paintings in my secret stash under the floorboards where I store the bodies.”
She crooked her finger at him—which had meant something very different when they were together—and led him to the gallery’s coffee bar.
A young woman in a red apron stood at the counter pouring steaming hot water over some sort of contraption balanced on top of a coffee cup.
“What’s she doing?” Hugo whispered. “Chemistry experiment?”
“It’s a pour-over, Hugo. It’s the best way to make coffee.”
“I’ll stick to my Mr. Coffee. Although I’ve always wondered…is there a Mrs. Coffee?”
“Ashley,” Piper said as they reached the counter. “Could I get a cup of coffee for my guest?”
“No, thank you,” Hugo said as he looked at the prices on the menu. “Thirteen dollars for one cup? Is it brewed with diamonds and the blood of endangered species?”
“The gallery is buying,” Piper said.
“Trust me,” Ashley, the barista, said. “It’s worth the thirteen bucks.” She pulled out a large white mug and another funnel contraption.
“Ashley, this is one of our artists, Hugo Reese. He used to illustrate Jack Masterson’s Clock Island books.”
“Oh my God.” Ashley slapped her hands onto the counter. Her eyes were huge and her voice reverent. “Are you serious?”
It never got old. There was a specific age range of people who reacted to the name Clock Island and Jack Masterson the way teenaged girls once reacted to the Beatles.
“Serious,” Hugo said. “Unfortunately.”
Piper whacked his arm.
“What’s he like?” Ashley whispered as if Jack were standing behind them.
“Oh, he’s Albus Dumbledore, Willy Wonka, and Jesus Christ all rolled into one.” If Dumbledore, Wonka, and Christ had depression and drank too much.
“That’s so awesome,” she said. Hugo was English, and he noticed Americans had trouble differentiating between his accent and his sarcasm.
“You know, you seem way too young to have worked on them,” she said.
Flattery would get her everywhere.
“I wasn’t the original illustrator. After forty books, they wanted to repackage and re-release the series with new artwork. I got the job when I was twenty-one.” Fourteen years ago. Felt like a million years ago. Felt like yesterday.
“Yours were definitely the best covers,” Piper said. “The old illustrator wasn’t bad, but the art was derivative, too much like the Hardy Boys series. Yours were like…I don’t know, if Dali did children’s art.”
“For the sake of the children, let’s be glad he didn’t,” Hugo said.
“Can I ask you something?” Ashley put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side flirtatiously.
Here it came. The autograph request. Or the selfie request. He didn’t get the star treatment often, and he planned on enjoying it.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” she asked.
“They both can—Wait.” Hugo narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
A sleek black phone sat on the counter. She tapped the screen a few times and held it up to display a web page. “It’s on Jack Masterson’s website today. It’s all over Facebook too.”
“What?”
“Let me see,” Piper said. She took the phone from Ashley’s hand. Hugo peered over her shoulder and read aloud:
My Dear Readers,
I have written a new book—A Wish for Clock Island. There is but one copy in existence, and I plan to give it away to someone very brave, very clever, and who knows how to make wishes.
Hugo’s heart started racing so fast his mind couldn’t keep up with it. Jack was doing what?
“Gotta run,” he said.
“Already? What’s going on?” Piper looked worried.
“No clue.” He kissed her cheek and bolted for the street, leaving behind his thirteen-dollar diamond-studded cup of coffee. He waved a hand at a passing taxi. It pulled over, and he got inside.
“Penn Station, quickly, please.” Hugo grabbed his phone from his back pocket. He’d put it on airplane mode while he’d been touring flats. Now he flicked it on, and suddenly a torrent of emails, text messages, and missed calls hit his phone in a cacophony of beeps, bells, and buzzes.
Eighty-seven missed calls and approximately two hundred new emails, all from media outlets and friends he suspiciously hadn’t heard from in years.
“Oh God,” Hugo groaned.
He called the house. Jack answered.
Hugo didn’t let him get a word out.
“What the hell are you up to?” Hugo demanded. “The Today show left me five voice-mail messages.”
“It’s a foot,” Jack said, “but it’s not part of the body.”
“I hate your stupid riddles. Could you tell me in short, simple sentences exactly why a girl at a coffee shop just asked me why a raven is like a writing desk?”
“It’s a foot,” Jack said again, more slowly this time, as if he were talking to a child. “But it’s not part of the body.”
Then he hung up.
Hugo growled at the phone and considered tossing it out the window. But he probably shouldn’t do that as CBS News was apparently calling him. He sent the call to voice mail.
“You okay, man?” the cabdriver asked.