“There’s something hidden in the needlepoint,” said Ian, watching Gabe gulp tea. “What, a message?”
“More or less.”
“What sort of message?” asked Ian. Gabe’s silence annoyed him. “Come the f**k on. You can’t drag me along and not tell me. Are there love letters tucked behind the framing? Bills?”
“Not in the other one,” mumbled Gabe. He slouched forward onto the table and sighed. “Probably not in the one you have, either.”
“You tore apart a nice framed piece of art to look for money?” Ian heard the tone in his voice, surprised he was so appalled by the act. He hadn’t thought he much appreciated art or antiques or even framing—but apparently he was offended on behalf of the needlepoint. “Well, you’re not de-framing this one.”
“We have to look.”
“George will never talk to me again.”
Ga
