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“Yeah, that’s entirely Marge’s personal interpretation. She’s still struggling to get the anatomically correct proportions down on canvas.”

Vesta quirked a quizzical brow.“The anatomically correct proportions?”

Scarlett grinned.“We all see what we want to see, Vesta.”

She frowned.“I don’t know if I like what my daughter is seeing. She is a married woman, you know. So frankly I think this is a little worrying.” For a moment she stood there, rocking Grace, then finally she said, “I’m in.”

“You’re in?”

“Absolutely. Between this guy Van Gauche netting himself a cool three hundred million and Marge putting her marriage in serious jeopardy, it’s a no-brainer.”

“Yesss!” said Scarlet, and pumped the air with her fist.

“Mind you, my interest is strictly artistic, not to mention altruistic.”

“Oh, for sure,” said Scarlett, flashing her a cheeky grin.

“I’m doing it for Grace,” Vesta explained. “If I can leave three hundred million bucks to my family, I will die a happy woman, knowing they’re well taken care of.”

“Absolutely,” said Scarlett virtuously. “We’re all doing it for Grace. Isn’t that right, sweetie?” And she fondly kissed her godchild’s pink chubby cheek.

“Beebie!” Grace babbled.

“And let’s not forget about Marge,” Vesta added. “My daughter has obviously developed some kind of unhealthy obsession with Naked Guy’s package and needs to be saved from herself. Good thing she has a mother who cares.”

“Bears!” Grace gurgled, always needing to have the last word.

CHAPTER 9

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Tex had been expounding on his wife’s penchant for fine arts for the past ten minutes, when Ida Baumgartner, the patient who’d sat quietly listening, suddenly piped up, “The thing is, doctor, that your wife may very well be a wonderful artist, but from what I hear, there is a very good reason why that may be the case.”

Ida was Tex’s most loyal and faithful patient. The bluff, apple-cheeked middle-aged lady came in at least once a week, with some real or perceived complaint, and was as garrulous as they came. Which is why it surprised him that she’d waited until now to interrupt his monologue.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Ida pursed her lips censoriously.“You know how I hate to gossip, doctor. But I’m afraid Marge’s art class isn’t above reproach.Morally speaking, that is.”

She placed particular emphasis on the word‘morally,’ indicating it was of the utmost importance to her, as well it might be. Ida was a widow, but even when Mr. Baumgartner was still alive, she’d been at the forefront of the moral revolution in Hampton Cove, always seated in the first pew in St. John’s Church on Sunday morning, and first to decry the slackening of morals in their small town.

“What do you mean, morally speaking?” he asked, thoroughly befuddled.

She took a firmer grip on her purse, as if afraid Tex might make a grab for it when he heard what she had to say.“There is a persistent rumor floating around town that Chanda Chekhov uses male models to pose for his students.” She gave a meaningful nod of the head and fixed him with a meaningful stare. “Nude male models!”

Tex opened his mouth to speak, but no words formed, so he hitched up the mandible. Nude male models? Posing for his wife? Now that was something she hadn’t told him. Even though she had spoken at length about her artistic experience, the words nude, male or model had never passed her lips.

“Are you sure about this?” he finally asked. It was a rhetorical question, for Ida was always sure about any of the claims she made.

She now nodded significantly.“Oh, yes, I am.”

He swallowed a little convulsively.“You mean there are males… in the nude?”

Once more she nodded slowly, a pair of glittering eyes fixed on him, allowing the meaning of her words to fully penetrate.

“So… a nude male model has been prancing around in front of my wife?”

“And for the full hour, too. A roomful of women, slavering over a naked man, studying him from every angle, under a row of spotlights. And people wonder why the divorce rates in this country are going through the roof. If it were up to me, this kind of sickening exhibition would be outlawed, and the perpetrator sentenced to life imprisonment for destroying the moral fiber of the community.”

“I find this very hard to believe, Ida,” he admitted.

“Oh, but I have it from someone who was there. She was so shocked at the spectacle that it took her a full week to recover. She also told me that attendance figures have tripled in the short time this man’s services have been retained.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know this male model’s name?”

“I didn’t catch his name, but I know he’s an artist himself. As one would expect.” She adopted an expression of disgust. “Seedy bunch, one and all.”

“Young?” he asked in a croaky voice.

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four-year-old artist,” he murmured. “Naked in front of my wife.”

“And Charlene Butterwick, your brother-in-law’sunmarried partner.”