A Touch of Minx

by Suzanne Enoch

  A few seconds after he rang the Donners’ doorbell the porch light flipped on, and he heard the muffled voice of fifteen-year-old Mike calling out his identity, followed by the more distant reply of Tom. The Donners had best not leave him standing there on the bloody porch.

  As he was beginning to debate whether ringing a second time would be a show of weakness, the door opened. “What?” Tom asked, leaning against the frame and blocking him from entering the house.

  “Get a jacket,” Richard returned in the same tone.

  “Why?”

  “We’re going out.”

  Tom looked at him for a minute, then reached back to grab a denim jacket from behind the door. “I’m going out,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Don’t kill anybody,” Katie’s voice came.

  “You told her?” Richard asked, leading the way to the car.

  “I told her we had a difference of opinion. Did you tell Jellicoe?”

  “Kind of. I didn’t think she needed to know the details.”

  “I bet she’s pissed that you’re here, then.”

  As Richard pulled open the rear door of the Mercedes, he paused. “She made me come, actually,” he said conversationally. “Apparently close friends who speak their minds are rare and wondrous and to be treasured beyond all reasonable expectation. And I’m supposed to slap your arse, but I assume that’s an American thing and we can forgo it.”

  “Okay,” Tom returned warily, climbing into the limo. “Where are we going, then?”

  “A place we can get drunk without making the cover of the Inquirer tomorrow.”

  “I’m all for that.”

  “I thought so. Just keep in mind that I’m here because Samantha refused to have sex with me until we made up.” Well, she hadn’t precisely said that, but he understood the significance of the sweatshirt and ponytail and the thick book on Japanese history across her lap.

  “After I get some beers in me I’ll think about it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And if I’m getting drunk, I’m probably going to be late getting to the office tomorrow,” Tom added, sliding over to give Richard room.

  “Shut up before you make me slap your arse.”

  “You’ll have to get a lot of beer in me before that.”

  “Don’t you know it.”

  Samantha reached for the television remote and switched the channel to CSI: Miami. Their forensics was a little ahead of the reality curve, and that Horatio guy drove her nuts with his monotone and the hands-on-his-hips thing, but she liked the problem-solving approach.

  As she turned the page of the book she’d been perusing, the house phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. The Donners’ home number. Maybe that meant that Donner and Rick had made up already. She presumed that was why Katie hadn’t called her about lunch—if their men were on the outs, they probably wouldn’t be eating together. Of course it could also be Livia, asking for an update on her case.

  She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sam. It’s Kate Donner.”

  “Hi, Katie,” she returned, a little relieved that she didn’t have to tell the little girl that she hadn’t already located Anatomy Man. “Rick showed up over there, then? You haven’t called the cops on him, have you?”

  Katie chuckled. “No. They went off in the limo together, I assume to go drinking and play pool.”

  With a small sigh, Samantha smiled. However she felt about Donner, Rick liked having him around, and that meant the lawyer needed to be around. “Good.”

  “So I was wondering if you might be free for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Café l’Europe?”

  “Ah, calzone. With real cheese. Do you want to meet, or should I pick you up?”

  Katie sounded like she was ready to go right then. “I’ll be at the office, so let’s just meet there,” Samantha said, her smile deepening. “What time’s good for you?”

  “How about noon? That’ll give me time afterward to go grocery shopping before the kids get home. I’ll make the reservations.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  Samantha hung up the phone and sat back on the deep couch. So tomorrow she would be having lunch with a stay-at-home soccer mom. Huh. She could add that to the list of things she’d never expected to do. Hell, she’d never expected to have to make a list at all until she’d met Rick.

  She stretched out her bare toes. It might be fun to have a pair of bunny slippers. They were pink and frivolous, and somebody who lived in the shadows and who had to be ready to leave with one minute’s notice and kept all her essential belongings in a backpack stuffed in the closet didn’t have room for them. Didn’t have a life where they fit.

  Samantha shook herself. Focus, Jellicoe. Enough about the stupid bunny slippers. First things first. And the first thing was Yoritomo’s armor. As she’d thought, Ron Mosley didn’t qualify as a suspect. He hadn’t even started collecting until about five years ago when he’d inherited a ton of money from an uncle. Rick’s other non–Palm Beach suggestion, Pascale Hasan, could have afforded the armor, but according to the Internet and the few sources who still spoke to her, Hasan’s obsession was with the silk and geishas, not samurai.

  Considering the theft had been ten years ago, it surprised her that after a couple of long hours on the computer she could eliminate the number of people she had. Rich people tended to have their whereabouts well-publicized, their comings and goings well-documented, and she stuck by her theory that the buyer had seen the display, probably in New York, at which time they’d decided to acquire it. Whoever she could confirm had never seen the exhibit at any of its stops was out of the running.

  In her book that left her with the hippies or Gabriel “Wild Bill” Toombs. She’d worked for Toombs once, though Stoney still hadn’t called her back with the details. If Toombs had had anything to do with the Met job, at least one other guy had worked for him, too—since she didn’t rob museums. And there might be others, if theft had become his favored method of collecting Japanese antiques. Since her sources were drying up and probably wishing her dead, she needed to find new ones.

  Mentally adding another entry to her notebook of weirdness, she picked up the phone again and dialed. Two rings later she heard a familiar gravelly voice. “Castillo.”

  “Hi, Frank. It’s Sam Jellicoe.”

  “Sam. I heard you were back in Palm Beach. Is this social, or do I need to call the coroner?”

  She grinned. “You’re such a cop.”

  “Yep.” The homicide detective was silent for a moment, but Samantha could practically hear him running a finger across his thick, graying mustache. “What’s up?”

  She figuratively crossed her fingers. “Well, I know you’re the homicide go-to guy, but is there any way you could find out information about a robbery?”

  “Rick didn’t get hit again,” his voice returned, sharper. “I would have heard about that.”

  “No, this is more like a hypothetical theft, taking place sometime between now and the past seven years.” The PD probably didn’t keep records past then, anyway.

  Castillo snorted. “Seven years’ worth of thefts? Can you narrow that down? You know, days of the week, alphabetical order, anything like that?”

  She ignored his mouthing off, willing to take the sarcasm as long as he would help her out. “I can give you a name, to see if there’s anything connected to it. Three names, actually.”

  He grumbled something that didn’t sound very nice. “I am not your damn snitch, Sam.”

  “I know that. We’re two professionals sharing information.”

  “Mm hm. One, I’m the professional, and two, sharing means you give something back to me.”

  “Something like helping you solve Charles Kunz’s murder, maybe? Or—”

  “Okay, okay.” Beneath the sound of his sigh, Samantha heard his ever-present notepad opening. “Give me the damn names.”

  “Gabriel Toombs, and August and Yvette
Picault.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Sam? Should I add Trump to the list? You’re talking about pillars of the community.”

  “Hey, the Sodom and Gomorrah people were pillars of their community, too. Pillars don’t mean anything.”

  “Pillars mean money, and that means it’s better not to piss them off. I’m going to have to be careful with this. If one of their attorneys gets wind of this and thinks the PBPD is investigating them, then I’m stuck writing parking tickets out on Worth Avenue.”

  Samantha blew out her breath. “I hate lawyers.”

  “You and me both. I’ll call you in a couple of days, because I have real, actual crime to investigate.”

  “I need it by the weekend, Frank.”

  “Fuck. You and Rick are buying a whole table’s worth of tickets to the next police charity dinner. Two tables’ worth.”

  He hung up the phone before she could reply to that; evidently he thought the tickets were a sure thing—which they were. Things were lining up okay, but after sitting on the damn file for ten years, Viscanti and the Met could have given her a little more time to solve the theft. She might be Cat Woman, but she wasn’t Superman. That honor went to Clark the Anatomy Man.

  For the next hour she read up on samurai armor and swords, comparing the book’s photos with the ones Viscanti had sent her from the Met. She needed to be able to recognize them if she saw the items in person. The armor with its red and orange coloring would be pretty easy, but the daitu and wakizashi swords were very typical of the period, rare as anything that old was. They had the folded steel blades, and hilts made of wood and wrapped in stingray skin and silk. The scabbards were lacquered and inlaid with copper symbols for faith and good fortune—they would be distinctive, once she knew what to look for. Chances were that once she saw any of it, she would have to move fast.

  When she checked the clock it was eleven-thirty, Letterman was starting, and Rick was still out bonding with the lawyer. Stretching, she stood up and went to bed. Maybe Katie could give her some gardening tips before she had to call Piskford Nurseries, and she could start a whole new chapter in her notebook of the unexpected. At the least, she needed to know when she could corner Mike Donner without his friends or his parents finding out about it.

  She awoke with a start as cold feet touched her calves. “Christ, Rick,” she muttered, parting her knees and closing them again around his feet. “I’m glad we don’t live in North Dakota. You’re going to give me frostbite.”

  He chuckled against the back of her hair. “If we lived in North Dakota, I would have worn socks.”

  “Well, that’s something, anyway.” She craned her neck around to eye him leaning there with his head resting on his crooked arm. “Are you and Yale okay? Did you scratch your crotches and spit and make up?”

  “I thought I was supposed to swat him on the rump. This is very complicated.”

  Samantha turned on her back to face him. “Are you guys okay?” she repeated.

  “Yes, we’re okay.” He leaned down and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Thank you for pushing me to talk to him.”

  “You’re welcome.” Good. Good for Rick, and good for her that she wouldn’t be blamed for breaking up a friendship. She slid her hands up his bare chest and kissed him back softly. “Wanna fool around?”

  Rick returned the kiss. “Ordinarily, yes,” he murmured, curving a strand of her hair behind her ear, “but I had about a half-dozen beers and something Tom called a ‘Texas Scorpion,’ and I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “Okay. I’d be kind of mad if you fell asleep in the middle.” She settled back onto her pillow and closed her eyes. “Good night.”

  “Did Katie ever call you?”

  Pushing back the foggy sleepiness that still clogged her brain, Samantha opened her eyes again. “She did. We’re going to lunch tomorrow. Today. It’s today, right? Tuesday?”

  “Several hours into it. Where are you eating?”

  She frowned. “If you’re so interested, why don’t you come along?”

  “No, thanks. I was just curious.”

  “Well, stop it. You’re making me cranky.”

  “Okay.”

  Shutting her eyes again, she sighed. The fact that she hadn’t awakened until Rick’s cold feet had attacked her said a great deal about how comfortable she’d become in this house, and with him. And tonight she didn’t even want to beat herself up for having blunted instincts. Rick had several times risked his life and his reputation for her. If there was one place she should be able to sleep safe and sound, it was here.

  “Are the kids coming?”

  Samantha opened one eye. “What?”

  He moved a breath closer. “Are Olivia and Mike going to have lunch with you?” he clarified.

  “No. They have school, doofus. Go to sleep.”

  “I like Tom’s kids.”

  With a growl Samantha pushed upright and slung her pillow across his head. “For a sleepy drunk guy you’re pretty pesky,” she snapped, not sure whether she was more amused or annoyed at him.

  “I’m fairly spry, too.” He grabbed the pillow away and swung it at her.

  She blocked the blow with her arm, and climbed up on her knees to tackle him flat onto the bed. “Go to sleep!” she demanded, laughing as she pinned his shoulders.

  Rick knocked her arms out from under her and spun them around so that she lay on her back looking up at him and his glittering blue eyes. Slowly he settled his weight down on her and kissed her again. “Do you think our kids would be as pretty as Tom’s?”

  “Prettier,” she answered, sliding her arms around his shoulders. “They would have two good-looking parents. Livia, Mike, and Chris are just lucky they take after Katie and not Yale. Don’t tell them I said that. Except for Donner. You can tell him.”

  “I think I’ll save that for later.” He slipped off of her and pulled her close until her back rested against his chest. “Do you ever think about it?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered, screwing her eyes shut. “Think about what?”

  “About what our kids would look like. How many there would be, how many boys and how many girls. Things like that.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder, I guess.” She tucked the sheets up under her chin. “Me and babies is scary. I never even babysat.”

  His fingers wrapped into hers. “You’re working with Livia. You two seem to get along like a house afire.”

  “She’s interesting. She thinks she’s really wise, but she’s so…innocent. You know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean. Maybe we should borrow a baby.”

  “Let’s give Angelina Jolie a call. She’s probably got some spares.”

  “I love you, Yank.”

  Finally he sounded sleepy. “I love you, Brit.”

  Richard felt Samantha in his arms relax and drift back to sleep. That had gone more smoothly than he’d expected. The idea of babies—of her having babies—had to scare her half to death. At least the thought had crossed her mind. At least she hadn’t laughed at him and dismissed the notion.

  Richard shook himself. He was getting way ahead of the matters at hand. The ring hadn’t even been finished yet. And if he proposed and she turned him down, he had no idea what would happen. He wasn’t losing her; he knew that. He persuaded people to do things all the time, so surely he could convince her that marrying him would be a good idea. A very good idea. The only idea he really wanted to contemplate.

  He awoke to the sound of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” coming from Samantha’s cell phone. “Sam?”

  “Sorry,” she yelled from the direction of the bathroom, over the sound of the shower. “Can you get it?”

  Reaching across to her side of the bed and trying to ignore the dull pounding in his skull, Richard picked up the phone and flipped it open. “Hola, Walter,” he said.

  “Oh. Hi, Rick,” the former fence’s voice came. “Are you answering Sam’s phone now?” />
  Richard narrowed his eyes. “She’s in the shower.”

  “Still, does she know you’re taking her private phone ca—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted sharply. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I just wanted to let her know I won’t be coming in to the office today. I have a couple of errands to run. She can reach me on my cell if she needs to get hold of me.”

  Glancing toward the half-open bathroom door, Richard slid to the edge of the bed. “All animosity aside, is everything well, Walter?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.”

  “Is there some coded message I need to give Samantha to convince her that I’m not lying about that?” he pursued.

  Barstone cleared his throat. “Just tell her the peas are boiling, and I’ll give her a call tomorrow. And…tell her to be careful.”

  The line clicked dead. Slowly Richard snapped the phone closed again. Something was off—hinky, as Samantha would say—but he didn’t know what, precisely. Walter Barstone did travel, but according to Sam not nearly as much as he had when he was on the job. Was he working again, fencing for someone other than Samantha?

  God, he hoped not. Because she needed Walter in her life, and if the former fence was back in business, they would need to be separated. Which would make him the villain of the piece, he supposed, for looking out for her best interests. And his own, of course.

  “That was Stoney, wasn’t it?” she asked, walking into the room wearing nothing but a towel around her hair. “Did he finally look up that stupid information for me?”

  Good glory. “He didn’t say.”

  She bent down, toweling her hair off. “What did he say, then?”

  “He’ll be out of the office today, running some errands.”

  Samantha straightened again, her whole stance alert. “What kind of errands?”

  “He didn’t say.” Richard held up a hand before she could interrupt with another question. “I’m supposed to tell you that the peas are boiling. And I expect you to tell me what the devil that means.”

  “It means they need salt,” she said absently, pulling her blue bathrobe off the back of a chair and shrugging into it. “Shaking. He’s trying to shake something loose.”