by Holmes, Dee
She turned away from his words that were like tiny knives. Gathering her dishes, she put them in a nearby receptacle, then slung her canvas bag over her shoulder. Her sheet music peeked out of the top, a grim reminder of how badly this day had turned out through no one’s fault but her own.
“I don’t have anything more to say, Booth.”
He swore, but it wasn’t vicious, merely frustrated. “I’ll get Lisa and her things and meet you at the car.”
In the next few minutes Kathleen said her good-byes, stopping especially to thank Mavis.
“You were wonderful, my dear. I’m so glad Eric offered you the position.”
“Yes, I am, too.”
“Booth was so excited when he called me and suggested I mention you for the academy. I think he felt a bit like a talent scout who had made the discovery of a lifetime.”
“He only heard me play once.”
“Apparently it was enough. Then again, I think he had more invested than just an ear for good playing. He obviously adores you, and, you know...” She lowered her voice, drawing Kathleen aside. “I shouldn’t be saying this, but, well, it needs to be said. You’re the best thing that could have happened to Booth. Angie was very self-sufficient, very controlled. She never needed help, never asked for help, and despite all of Crosby viewing her as a paragon, and always reminding Booth how lucky he was to have her, I don’t think Booth was all that happy. Oh, he loved her, he respected her, and little Lisa will always hear only the best about her mother, but when I saw Booth with Angie, he never looked as relaxed and content as he’s been since he met you.”
“Oh, Mavis, what a sweet and generous thing to tell me.” Kathleen hugged her, feeling as if she’d been given some rare insight into Booth, while at the same time realizing it had come too late.
“Now, you run along, and when that piano arrives and is all set up, I want to come over and hear you play.”
“Yes.” But it was the only word she could say around the huge lump in her throat.
In the next few minutes, Lisa was strapped into her car seat, the back of the Explorer was packed and Kathleen had slipped into the passenger seat.
In all that time, Booth said nothing.
They drove out the tree-lined drive, the late-afternoon sun dipping low and promising a spectacular sunset.
Kathleen felt the distance between them and thought about their mutual teasing about going home early to make love. She turned and watched the scenery pass by, thinking that, like her relationship with Booth, the summer day had come and touched her, giving her joy, and now it was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“WHAT ABOUT THE PIANO?”
“You’re gonna love this, Mr. S.”
“Wait, Max. Start at the beginning.”
In a Victorian-style room in the west wing of the Old Faithful Inn, deep in Yellowstone, the Rainmaker was enjoying a snifter of brandy and a manicure while savoring the news that his problems were almost over.
On the telephone was Max.
“So let me have it again, Max. This is just too sweet not to repeat.”
“We’ve finally hit pay dirt in that mail I’ve been collecting from her house. There was a flyer from a storage company thanking Hanes’s old lady for her business and prompt payment. They trust that she will continue to store her oversize valuables with them.”
“And what valuable item has she stored with the Wyoming Storage Company?” the Rainmaker asked, feeling like the straight man in well-rehearsed routine.
“One piano. Back in the early spring.”
“And what did you do?”
“I called them and posed as her brother, told them I needed some information on her piano because I wanted to purchase one exactly like it for my wife.”
“And they gave you what you needed?”
“They gave me some, but getting an address for the broad was going nowhere.”
“You should have come up with some other ruse. A relative would know where she is.”
“I told them I’d moved and lost her letter with her new address. The last one I had was the Wyoming address. The broad on the phone said she’d go check with her supervisor. When she came back, she said she couldn’t give out personal information, and then she said something very interesting about the piano.”
Which was exactly were the Rainmaker had interrupted and asked Max to repeat the information.
“What about the piano?”
“It was gone.”
Rainmaker choked on his brandy. “Gone? Gone? As in lost? Mistakenly sold?” This was not the interesting and satisfying conclusion he’d expected. Huffing and sputtering, he snapped, “What the hell kind of storage place is this? How could they lose a piano?”
Max chuckled. “Not to worry, Mr. S. I tore into that like a wild wolf with a hind quarter of beef. I ranted and raved on how they’d lost my sister’s piano, and how I’d sue them, and then the broad got her supervisor on the line. He was wheezin’ and yappin’ about how I had it all wrong, the piano wasn’t lost, and then he spilled the info. The piano was shipped per the owner’s request to Connecticut. The guy reeled off the address and told me I could check for myself. The delivery is set for Tuesday.”
The Rainmaker straightened, his smile returning, and waved away the nubile young woman buffing his bluntly cut hails. “Tuesday? That’s in a few days.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Max, this is perfect. This is freaking perfect.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements. You’ve been superb, Max. This deserves a bonus.”
“I’d like to do one more thing.”
“Not necessary.”
“Mr. S., if you’ll forgive me for disagreeing, I think this will take care of the bitch in such a way that your plans for her to go to the slammer will go forward without any more unexpected escapes.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
Max explained, his voice so diabolically calm that the Rainmaker was pleased Max worked for him, instead of the other way around. By the time Max was finished, however, the Rainmaker was nodding. A smoothly executed arrest with as little fanfare as possible would, of course, be accomplished. After all, who was going to argue with a Wyoming sheriff bringing in his deputy’s killer? But having Max leave an opening presentation would definitely show the displeasure of the Rainmaker in a very personal way.
Smiling at the trembling manicurist, the Rainmaker gestured for her to return, then said to Max, “Make it good.”
“Oh, not just good, sir. Spectacular.”
BY TEN ON TUESDAY morning, Booth was cranky and grumpy and not at all in the mood to think about how his life had been turned upside down by one woman.
And not just any woman, but one who made him hard and happy and frustrated and confused. Just who in hell was Kathleen Yardley, anyway?
Booth had been examining that puzzle at various levels of his consciousness since the night he’d come home and found her in the rocking chair holding his sleeping daughter. Not once had she directly answered it.
She’d overreacted, she’d clammed up and she’d dissembled. My God, she’d bobbed and weaved with quicker moves than a wily target avoiding a sharpshooter.
Bad enough that he’d spent the past few nights with little sleep, but Kathleen had refused to share his bed. He’d awakened this morning finally prepared to eat some crow, to apologize, although he didn’t know what in hell for. But whatever it took, he intended to get things back to the way they’d been before Eric had made his offer.
Yet, when he came out to the living room, the sheet she’d used for the past few nights on the couch was folded on top of the plumped pillow beside a note saying she was moving to the carriage house.
“So you don’t want to face me or talk to me, huh, babe?” He crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash. “Just swell.”
Booth kicked the couch and cursed. Shoving his hands through his hair, he made himself consider his options.
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He wanted to drive over to the carriage house and demand an answer about what in hell had happened between them. But he couldn’t even do that, thanks to Gladys Hucklebee. He’d assured his mother he would deal with whatever off-the-wall reasoning the woman had for visiting her today. Of one thing he was sure: he intended to see that it was her last visit.
Maybe afterward he’d go see Kathleen, but then he had to go to work, which meant he would have to ask his mother to keep Lisa. He assumed, rather grimly, that Kathleen wouldn’t be coming back.
Dammit.
Booth got Lisa up and sat her in the high chair. “Well, princess, it looks like it’s just you and me.” He tickled her belly and she giggled.
He went to the coffee maker and poured a mug, then spilled some dry cereal onto the chair tray for Lisa. She kept looking at Booth, then pointing toward the bedroom. “’Leen. ’Leen.”
Booth stopped and looked at her. “What did you say?”
“’Leen.”
“Lean? What are you talking about, Lisa?”
“’Leen!” She scrunched up her face in obvious frustration.
Booth sighed, resting his hands on his hips, realization finally dawning. “’Leen as in Kathleen? Is that it?”
She grinned, calmer now. “’Leen.”
“She’s not here, princess.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“Ah, sweetheart, don’t cry.” But Lisa began anyway, and Booth knew then that Kathleen had not only wreaked havoc on his life, but on his daughter’s, too. And not just ordinary, lousy havoc, but a life-changing havoc, by removing her affection and caring. That was the problem, he thought. She’d become too much a part of their lives.
He distracted Lisa by turning on the small TV to one of the cartoons. “Look, there’s that silly bunny. He’s jumping and hopping, and look, he’s going to make that kitty run.” Lisa clapped her hands and giggled, forgetting for the moment that Kathleen was gone.
Booth took another swallow of coffee. He could either feel sorry for himself—which was tempting but unproductive—or he could go out to the carriage house and tell her he understood she wanted to live there, but he wanted her back in his life, in his bed. A small voice inside muttered, But back for what? An affair? Continuing what they’d started? And what happened when good sex was no longer enough?
Hell, he hadn’t had it long enough to imagine it not being enough. He rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. One thing at a time. Deal with Gladys Huck-lebee, go to work and then tomorrow, when he wasn’t as edgy, he’d go and talk to her and get this all straightened out.
The phone rang and he answered, hoping.
“Booth, I got some news,” Lou Deasley, his bounty-hunter pal from Georgia, said without preliminaries.
Hope collapsed. “Make it good.”
“Man, are we in a foul mood or what?”
“Foul and nasty and getting worse. Make me happy.”
“Hey, buddy, I only dig it up, I don’t promise rewards. First off, this Mason Knight ain’t as rich as the car would indicate. He and his wife own a detective agency.”
Booth brightened instantly. “Are you serious?” At his friend’s affirmative, he muttered, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Now, before you go into high gear, hear me out. It’s not on any five-star list. More like one phone and a few old cameras. They mostly follow straying husbands and boyfriends, but recently their lawyer resolved a lawsuit brought by one of their clients claiming Mrs. Knight had acted in an unprofessional manner when she had an affair with one of the straying husbands.”
“Doesn’t sound like she’s one of the brightest bulbs in the attic.”
“They swear it didn’t happen.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway, the Knights settled rather than lose their shirts and their business. But the suit took its toll. Unprofessional conduct doesn’t sit well down here, and they went a number of months without the phone ringing.”
“So what were they doing up here?”
“That I don’t know,” Deasley said. “I did some checking around but couldn’t find any connection to Connecticut, much less Crosby.”
“Run across the name Kathleen Yardley?”
“Nope. Nothing even close.”
“Terrific,” Booth muttered, discouraged again.
“Hey, I said I couldn’t guarantee rewards.”
“Yeah, but thanks for this. It’s more than I had, but now that I have it, it’s just one more piece that doesn’t fit.”
“There is one other thing. Their home mail is being held at the post office, and their newspaper isn’t being delivered.”
“Vacation?”
“That was my reaction.”
“But in Crosby?”
“Maybe relatives?”
Booth sighed. “I checked around the neighborhood, and no one knows of anyone having company from Georgia.”
“Mind if I ask why the interest?”
“A woman I know had a very strange reaction to the car, and then she was too quick to change the subject when I asked her about it.”
“This Kathleen?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe she had an affair with old man Mason.”
“I can do without your sarcasm.”
Deasley chuckled. “Hey, dead ends ain’t nothing new to you or to me. Chalk this one up and move on.”
“Ever the philosopher.”
“Hey, Booth.”
“What?”
“You bangin’ this Kathleen?”
Booth bristled at the term. He’d never been squeamish about describing sex. He’d “banged” a few women in his time, and they’d banged him right back. But not Kathleen. Whatever he’d had with Kathleen, it was too special to be described in street language.
“She’s not the type.”
“Hey, whatever greases your skids.”
“Thanks for your help, buddy. Ever need a favor, give me a call.”
He hung up, poured himself some more coffee, then realized he was going to have to bathe and dress Lisa since Kathleen wasn’t here. “Okay, princess, let’s get it done.”
By the time he had his daughter clean, diapered and dressed, his shirt was soaked from splashed bathwater and the floor was covered with baby powder where Lisa had grabbed and waved the open container that Booth had left too close to her. His elbow stung from knocking the door closed and hitting his funny bone.
Feeling dragged out, he settled Lisa in her crib for a nap, kissed her, packed up the overnight bag for her to stay at his mother’s. Then he dropped wearily into a living-room chair. He knew exactly why dads weren’t created to be moms. It was too exhaustingly complicated.
About four hours later, at a little past two o’clock, Booth bundled Lisa into the car seat and drove to his mother’s.
Janet opened the front door, relieving him of her granddaughter. “Where’s Kathleen?” she asked, nuzzling the baby and anchoring her possessively in her arms.
“She’s busy at the carriage house.” Booth saw no reason to go into detail. He placed the overnight bag on the staircase to go upstairs. “Would you mind keeping Lisa tonight?”
“Of course not.” Then she glanced at Booth and her smile shrank. “You should be helping Kathleen. Good heavens, Booth, where is your gratitude?”
“I told you I would be here today to deal with Gladys.”
“You prefer Gladys to Kathleen?”
“I’m not making a choice.” But he had to ask himself the same question. Why wasn’t he at the carriage house with Kathleen? Maybe, just maybe, he was avoiding the inevitable confrontation.
His mother wasn’t letting go. “After all she’s done for you with Lisa...and I thought you really cared about her....” Her voice trailed off as if she wasn’t sure what more to say, then she straightened and added bluntly, “At least I certainly had that impression when I visited last week.” She nailed Booth with a stern look to remind him she expected her son to be as honorable as he’d been
taught. “In my opinion, she’s the most positive thing to happen to you and Lisa in months.”
Booth stayed silent. He agreed, which again had him wondering just what had gone wrong? Wait a minute, he thought, feeling bruised and contrary. She’s the one who walked out, not me.
His mother frowned, stepping close to him. “You don’t look very well. Tired and cranky.”
“And royally pissed and not in the mood to be reminded of my bad manners or Kathleen’s good points.”
“My goodness, you are touchy.” She was staring at Lisa and scowling.
Booth didn’t miss the scowl. “Now what?”
“You have her shirt on backward.”
“It’s on, isn’t it?”
“But the buttons are supposed to go at the back and the lace at the front. Come on, sweetheart, Grammy will fix it. Your grampy never did very well when it came to dressing your Auntie Darlene, either. Guess these Rawlings men just don’t know how to dress babies.”
Booth rolled his eyes and leaned down to Lisa. “Tell Grammy you don’t care.”
“’Leen.”
Janet blinked. “’Leen?”
“First word. Just this morning.”
“Oh, sweetie, can you say it again for Grammy?”
“’Leen.”
His mother hugged her. “I wonder what she means.”
“What else?” he said wearily. “She’s talking about Kathleen.”
Janet Rawlings looked at Booth and then at Lisa and back to Booth. “Very interesting.”
“Doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Of course it means something. You just haven’t allowed yourself to figure out what.” Booth started to say it was too damn late for subtle meanings, interesting or otherwise, when Janet glanced out the window. “Oh, and there’s Gladys. Good Lord, what is all that stuff she’s carrying?”
It was Booth’s turn to scowl. The “stuff” was in wrinkly faded grocery sacks bearing the name of a store that had closed more than ten years ago. Gladys the pack rat. He recalled Angie telling him that she had boxes and boxes of old mail that she cut and used for scrap paper, a shoebox full of pencil stubs, and four hundred dollars she’d found in an apron pocket where she’d tucked it in 1985 when there’d been a spate of burglaries in her neighborhood.
