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of the store to get a better look at Harold’s assistant as Monty continued to pump his arm up and down.
    Ivan was the physical opposite of Monty. His hulking form loomed like a giant next to Monty’s slim figure. Rich, olive skin glowed with the same confidence as his smile, which he turned in my direction as soon as I stepped out from behind Monty’s springing frame. A narrow scar ran down the left side of his face, curving underneath his square jaw, the slight disfigurement only enhancing his machismo.
    “Ivan Batrachos,” he said in a deep, movie actor’s voice, offering me the hand he had just pried loose from Monty’s clinging grasp.
    I shook his hand, taking in the earthy smell of new construction and freshly cut, redwood planks.
    “So, I hear you’re taking over the place,” Ivan said, the deep, dark wells of his pupils flickering with a thinly veiled intensity. “I was so sorry to hear about Oscar’s death. You’re his niece aren’t you?”
    I nodded, surveying his brawny physique. Ivan was neatly dressed in a workingman’s uniform. A clean, white T-shirt poked out of the neck of his plaid, button-down shirt. His carpenter-style work pants were constructed of a riveted—seemingly bulletproof—canvas fabric, a fitting match to his steel-toed, combat-ready, work boots.
    “You know, your uncle talked about you all the time.”
    The comment knocked me off guard, and my throat caught, delaying my response long enough for Monty to barge back into the conversation.
    “Ivan, I had no idea you worked for Harold Wombler,” Monty said brightly, desperately seeking Ivan’s attention. “Well, I’d heard rumblings of that, but, honestly, I refused to believe it.” Monty leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’re far too skilled to be indentured to that man.”
    Ivan chuckled good-naturedly. “Oh, I’ve learned a lot from Harold—and he gives me free rein on my projects. I’ve got no complaints.”
    “Perhaps I could give you a quick overview of our plans,” Monty offered, flushing giddily. He pulled out some of his sketches from a parchment tube, flourished the roll proudly in the air, and took them over to the counter near the cash register.
    I leaned against the dental chair, watching the amused look on Ivan’s face as he followed Monty over to the counter. The turn revealed a thick mullet of golden brown, sun-licked hair that flowed over Ivan’s shoulders and swished several inches down his back.
    “Oscar and I had discussed some renovation ideas not long before he died,” Ivan said casually as he leaned over the counter, waiting for Monty to unfurl the sketches on its surface.
    Monty’s shoulders stiffened like a clothes hanger had been inserted underneath his shirt. His ears turned an abashed red.
    “Oh?” His voice squeaked with strain. “You don’t say.”
    “Oscar was going to fix up the Green Vase?” I asked, incredulous.
    Ivan shrugged his loose, limber shoulders, causing a temporary rapid in the waterfall of hair. “Sure. He’d asked me to come by and look at the storefront. He wanted to do something simple to make it acceptable for the board and get Napis off his back. We tossed around some ideas—drew up a couple of tentative plans. It hadn’t gone very far.”
    Ivan turned his head to look at Monty’s face, which had suddenly gone abnormally pale. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said encouragingly.
    “Oh,” Monty said as if he’d punctured a lung. His long, sweating fingers clamped down tightly on his rolls of sketches. “You put together some proposals for Oscar?” he gulped, his voice pitching higher and higher.
    “Yeah, but they were preliminary really,” Ivan said, flicking his hand dismissively. “Go ahead. I’m interested to see what you two have come up with.”
    I tilted my head, puzzled at Monty’s sudden panic to show off his work.
    “Look,” Ivan said consolingly, “I’m no Picasso.” He pulled a folded square of butcher paper out of one