Like Osh, he was only part human. The other part, the questionable part, was still a mystery. He was like nothing I’d ever encountered. Not among the folks in Sleepy Hollow, anyway. His presence made the air crackle with electricity, mostly because of all the spontaneous ovulating going on when he walked in.
I’d slowed to an almost complete stop. Snapping out of my stupor, I picked up the pace to hurry past him. The closer I got, the more I saw, both physically and otherworldly. The molecules of his makeup seemed denser than those of a human, his DNA somehow wound tighter. He exuded a rare kind of power, as if he could command the seas and the stars alike. As if he could bend the universe to his will.
I looked past the fires that engulfed him to his slim hips that tapered up to wide shoulders. His arms, corded with muscle and sinew. His smooth biceps. Shadows undulated over them with even the slightest effort as the valleys between flesh and tendon shifted.
My gaze rose to the strong set of his chin, forever darkened with a day’s growth, but only a day’s worth. His mouth was truly one of his most spectacular accomplishments. It had the gentle fullness of passion, as though he’d just made love. As though he’d just satisfied some fortuitous woman’s deepest desires. I continued my perusal to the straight line of his nose, neither too thin nor too wide with a tilt at the very tip.
But the most startling aspect of the entire encounter? His eyes. He often wore dark shades that hid one of his best features. When he didn’t, the effect was breathtaking. He had gold flecks in his deep brown irises that sparkled beneath impossibly long lashes. They complemented his sculpted mouth and the hard set of his jaw to perfection.
Not that I was obsessed with his looks or anything.
Stepping so close to him was comparable to being within the reach of a jaguar’s jaws. It was exhilarating and terrifying. I had no idea what he was exactly, but he was damned sure not dating material, no matter how tightly his molecules were wound.
Thankfully, he rarely looked at me. The sideways glances he did grace me with were mostly filled with anger and a seething kind of resentment. I had yet to discover what that was all about, because despite his acrimonious scowls, he was interested in me. I felt it leap out of him when our eyes met. Like now.
It was such a rare event, it caught me off guard. Our gazes locked for the briefest of seconds as I walked past. His nearness seized my lungs. Sent tiny shivers up my spine. Scorched my skin. And his interest shot straight to my very pinkest parts.
Our shirt sleeves brushed as I hurried by him, and I tried not to let the fact that he sat, once again, in Francie’s section bother me. I’d never felt that spike of interest when he looked at her. Or anyone, for that matter, including the menfolk, thank goodness.
But why the animosity? Why the searing glares and seething ire? What had I ever done to him? Probably not nearly as much as I’d like to.
Again, confusion where Mr. Cranky Pants was concerned gripped me. I bolted out the front door and headed toward Mr. Vandenberg’s store, fighting the desire to look back inside the café for another peek.
Cool air wisped around me. It was a welcome refresher after being burned alive. But in my haste to get past him, I’d forgotten my coat. It was worth it, though. We’d almost touched. My shoulder almost brushed across his, and I realized he hadn’t been wearing a jacket either.
This time, anger shot through me. What was he thinking? It had to be thirty below out. Or thirty above. Either way, it was freaking cold. But he shows up in a light rust-colored T-shirt, one that fit snugly across his broad chest and tapered down to accentuate his lean stomach, and jeans, loose across his hips but tight enough to show the exquisite definition of his shapely ass.
Another thing I’d figured out about myself pretty early: I had a thing for asses.
He’d catch his death, especially since his hair was slightly damp. He’d just showered, his scent clean and earthy like lightning in a rainstorm.
I fanned cold air over my face, waved at a store owner across the street, then almost stumbled when I got to the entrance of Mr. Vandenberg’s antiques shop. I took hold of the handle and let the pain I felt—the same pain I’d felt earlier—wash over me. The sensation was not a welcome one. It clenched my stomach. Spun my head. Weakened my knees. And it was coming from inside the shop.
I peeked in the window, raising a hand to shield the sun, to make sure the coast was clear. It looked clear. Mr. V stood at the register, his shoulders tense, his gaze a thousand miles away. Behind him sat a man I didn’t recognize. He was thumbing through a magazine, his booted feet propped on the counter, aka, clue number one that something was amiss.
That counter was over a hundred years old. Mr. V treated it like it was family. He was very particular about food and drink in his store in general, but nothing, absolutely nothing edible was allowed on that counter. And there sat a brute of a man with muddy boots flung on top of it.
I squeezed the door handle and fought the urge to turn tail and run. It was none of my business. Whatever Mr. V had going on was none of my concern. I couldn’t get involved with others’ problems just because I could sense them. Or the effects of them. Even if I did get involved, what could I do? I didn’t even know my own name. How could I help others when I couldn’t help myself?
I couldn’t. Involvement of any kind was out of the question. I’d deliver the sandwiches and call it good.
I raised a barrier around my heart, pushed open the door, and entered as nonchalantly as possible.
When he glanced up, the weight of Mr. Vandenberg’s stress, of his agonizing emotional pain, hit me like a brick wall. It ripped into me. Punched me until I almost doubled over.
I set my jaw and forced one foot in front of the other. “Hey, Mr. V,” I said, my voice a husky shell.
“Hey, Janey. What do I owe you?”
I couldn’t help it. I had to test him. After a quick survey of the brutish man sitting behind him, I put the bag on the counter. The counter on which no food was allowed to sit.
Mr. V said nothing. Nor did he do anything besides open the register. His normal response would have been to snatch the bag off the counter posthaste for fear of an oil spot. Instead, the brute stood and opened the bag to rummage through it. He took out a sandwich, then closed it again, never even glancing my way.
“Janey?” Mr. V asked.
“Sorry, twenty-seven even.”
He nodded and dipped shaking fingers into the till.
Another man walked in from a back room, spotted me, and almost turned around. The brute barked at him.
“What did I tell you?” he asked. In Farsi, his Middle Eastern accent thick.
Seven. Farsi was the seventh language I knew, counting English. As tourists from all over the world came into the café, I would listen to their conversations, and every single time I understood them. I had yet to hear a language I didn’t know—but I remembered nothing of my past. How was that even possible?
The other man wore coveralls, the knees and elbows dirty as if he’d been digging, and he had an ax in his hand. He eyed me from underneath thick eyebrows that knotted in suspicion, his too-lean features stark in the low light.
“We are through,” the man said, his Farsi hinting at a northern Iraqi upbringing. “We will need the plasma cutter tonight.” He said the words plasma cutter in English, and the brute’s gaze snapped toward me to see if I was paying attention. I’d already taken the opportunity to take an extreme interest in an antique necklace Mr. V had in a display case beside the register. I sighed longingly.
Appeased, he tossed the bag to his partner and jerked his head in a silent order to leave. The brute, who was not so much tall as beefy, then turned his attention to his own sandwich.
Mr. Vandenberg handed me two twenties, trying hard to control his shaking fingers. He was one of those middle-aged guys who seemed much older, mostly because he was thin with slightly graying hair. The fact that he wore outdated wire-rimmed glasses and a bow tie didn’t help either. He
lived for all things nostalgic.
“Keep the change,” he said, his gaze suddenly pleading. He wanted me out of there and quick.
“Thanks.”
More voices wafted over from the back room. They were muffled, so I had a hard time making out what they were saying. All I caught was something about a support beam. It needed to be restrengthened? Reinforced. It needed to be reinforced. Another spoke about a metal pipe. There seemed to be something blocking a route.
The brute took note of my lingering presence. I had no choice but to leave. Just as I turned, another woman came in. I’d waited on her at the café. A part-time hairdresser and full-time busybody with more gumption than sense.
Mr. V’s adrenaline shot through the roof.
“This is pretty,” I said, pointing to the necklace so I could hang around a bit longer.
“Hi, William.”
“Good morning, Ellen. I have your lamp boxed up and ready to go.” He cast a quick gaze at the brute as though asking permission, then shuffled to a shelf in the back to get the box.
“I’m so excited,” she said, oblivious. Or not. “It’s going to look great in my foyer. Oh, Natalie missed her hair appointment. I hope everything is okay.” She was fishing. Must’ve been running low on scandal.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry.” Mr. V walked back to the counter, box in hand. “We had a family emergency. She and the kids had to go to my mother’s for a few days.”
Lie.
“Oh, goodness.” Intrigue drew her closer as the melody of fresh gossip slid inside her ears. “I hope everything is okay.”
’Nother lie.
“Yes. Yes.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his aquiline nose. “It’s fine. My mother fell and bruised her hip, so Natalie is staying with her this week.”
She took the box, her razor-sharp gaze raking over him. Did she know he was lying? She let a calculated smile widen across her face. “Well, you give her a big hello when you talk to her. And tell your mother to get better soon. I’ll be expecting more of that fabulous zucchini casserole before too long.”
He forced a soft laugh, but I felt fear radiate out of him. A fear that was so genuine, so dire, it pulled the air from the room.
Having gained nothing terribly gossip-worthy, the hairdresser waved a saucy good-bye and left with her lamp. Mr. V cleared his throat when he realized I was still waiting. Dug into a pocket. Dropped several coins on the floor but ignored them to rummage through the small bills he’d freed.
“Janey, sorry, what’s the damage?”
It took me a moment to realize he was so distraught he was trying to pay me again.
“It was twenty-seven.” I waited a second as he counted out the bills and another nice tip before adding, “But you already paid me.”
When his blue gaze crested the gold rim of his glasses, he flushed. “I did, didn’t I?”
I gave him a sympathetic nod.
“Sorry.” He stuffed the bills back into his pocket. “Did you want to look at something?”
I didn’t figure “The back room?” would go over well. My only question at the moment—besides the one involving the letters W-T-F—revolved around how much English the brute knew. I couldn’t risk talking to Mr. V in case the man was as fluent in my native tongue as I was in his, and I didn’t know enough about the situation to try to signal the anxious storeowner.
“Nothing I can afford,” I said with a teasing grin. “Have a good day.”
He took off his glasses and began to clean them. “Yes. Absolutely. You, too.”
The brute had bitten through half the sandwich and was glued to the magazine again, but I doubted very seriously he had any interest in Mr. V’s copy of Antiques & Fine Art.
I’d had zero intention of getting involved when I walked in. By the time I left, I had zero intention of leaving it alone. Mr. V was in such a state of distress, I was impressed he could even speak. But how much longer would he be able to keep up the charade? He was cracking inch by inch. Whatever his new friends were up to, there were at least four involved. That bag held four sandwiches, none of which Mr. V could eat. He was allergic to eggs, yet he’d specifically ordered mayo on all four.
I opened the door and listened to the cheery chime of the bell, so at odds with the climate inside. This time the frigid air served only as a reminder that I was not dressed for the frozen tundra. But a picture caught my eye just as I was leaving. It was on a shelf, meant to display one of the antique frames that were for sale. It had a sign by it with a child’s writing that read, For sale: Frame $50. Parents $49.95 OBO.
I let the door close behind me and fought a shiver. To display the frame, Mr. V had put a picture of himself and his family in it. I knew that family; I just didn’t know they’d belonged to Mr. V. They came into the café a couple of times a week. His wife, Natalie, was gorgeous. She looked like an islander with exotic coloring and thick black hair. Her children were a combination of the blond-haired, blue-eyed Mr. V and the rich dark colors of his wife.
Their names were Joseph and Jasmine. Joseph was around ten, and Jasmine a few years younger, six or seven perhaps. I remembered them so vividly from our very first meeting partly because of the combination of dark hair on both of them and crystalline blue eyes.
“You’re really bright,” Jasmine had said to me as I took their order.
“Well, thank you.”
“Are you an angel?”
Joseph elbowed her without taking his eyes off his phone.
I laughed softly. “Not usually.”
“Sorry,” Natalie said. “Jasmine thinks she can see auras.”
“Wow.” I turned to her. “That’s a cool ability.”
“You don’t have an aura,” she said, in awe. “You are one.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet. Thanks.” I winked at her and asked Joseph what he wanted to drink.
“Coffee. Black.”
Knowing he couldn’t be more than ten, I looked to his mother for assurance.
She lifted a shoulder. “It’s his only vice,” she explained.
At his age, I should hope so. When I poured him a cup, he took out a chocolate bar from his coat pocket and dropped a square into the coffee.
“His only vice?” I asked Natalie.
She smirked. “Does that count as two?”
Ever since that first meeting, I automatically took Joseph a cup of coffee and added the caveat “Drink responsibly.” He would laugh from behind the cup or give me a thumbs-up while Jasmine studied me, tilting her head this way and that, looking for my wings. I’d fallen head over heels for them.
I leaned back against the brick wall of the building. Were they involved somehow? Were they in trouble? Once the cold got to be too much—about nine seconds later—I pushed off the building and headed back, playing out the hundred scenarios that might explain the bizarre events in Mr. V’s store. The men were digging near the west wall. The only thing beside the shop was a dry-cleaning business. Why would a group of Middle Easterners tunnel into a dry-cleaning business?
I stopped and glanced back at the cleaners. Everything appeared normal. It looked, well, like a dry-cleaning business. What could it possibly have that would convince a group of what seemed like perfectly sane men to tunnel into it?
I looked past the cleaners. The next building was vacant, and there was a wine shop beyond that. It was a very popular store. Tourists loved wine.
Who was I kidding? I loved wine. Who didn’t love wine?
Seeing as how the men were risking so much to tunnel into a dry-cleaning business in the middle of the day when they could be spotted and/or heard, there had to be something pretty spectacular in that building. But my mind spun with a thousand questions.
Why dig during the day? Why not wait until night? The noise, perhaps? The lights? Unusual activity could draw unwanted attention faster than if Mr. V just happened to be doing renovations. But why not use the vacant building to tunnel in from instead of essentially taking a man hostage? Maybe what
they were after was closer to Mr. V’s shop? That made no sense either. Once they were in the building, they could go anywhere they wanted. Then again, why tunnel? Why not just break in?
None of the situation made any sense. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was getting Mr. V safely back to his family. If he were being held hostage—
I stopped at the entrance to the café and considered the magnitude of fear I’d felt radiating out of him. It was one thing to be afraid for your life, but could Mr. V’s entire family be at risk? Were his wife and kids hostages, too?
I had to report my suspicions, but what if a cop started poking around and got Mr. V killed? Or worse, his entire family? The situation demanded delicacy. A cavalry galloping to the rescue with lights flashing and guns blazing was not the answer. Sadly, I didn’t know what was.
A blast of arctic air urged me inside. I stepped into the gentle roar of a full house, and my gaze instantly shot to Reyes. His back was to me. Probably a good thing since I couldn’t think clearly when I looked at his face. Or his shoulders. Or his thick, unkempt hair.
I took out the money Mr. V gave me and headed toward the register to ring it in. Sweet Mr. V and his lovely family. Who could I go to with this? I needed someone high up in the law enforcement food chain, like a detective or even the police chief. I’d gotten to know a couple of the cops, but again, the situation demanded kid gloves, not boxing gloves, and the cops I’d met so far did not inspire that kind of confidence.
But that brought me to problem number two: What would I tell the person I did go to? I saw these Middle Eastern guys and got a bad feeling? Racist much?
I glanced at Garrett as I walked by and considered asking him. He did something coplike, though I wasn’t sure what. There was Mr. Pettigrew as well. He was a former detective. Maybe I could talk to him, but again, what would I tell him? And how much could I count on him what with that demon lurking in his innards?
I spotted Cookie looking at me with a huge smile on her face. An appreciative smile. Like a really big one. I slowed as she walked toward me. Her arms opened, and I half expected her to plant a big wet one on me. Instead, she planted one on her husband, which made more sense. He’d walked in right behind me.
The Dirt on Ninth Grave Page 4
