Arousing Suspicions

by Marianne Stillings

  Tabitha rubbed her nose with her knuckle. “I’m glad for you, Mom, even if it is through some flyby-night online dating ser vice, as long as you’re careful. I just don’t think there’s a perfect man out there for me.”

  “Perfect?” Victoria cocked her head and smiled. Her shoulders relaxed a bit. Sitting there on the floor, she was surrounded by the coffee mugs she’d been rearranging in the cupboard. Some were old, some were left over from sets, some were new. There were tall mugs and short ones, patterned ones and plain, but the most common quality to the array seemed to be that they were all different.

  “See these mugs?” Victoria said, waving her hand over them like Vanna turning a new letter.

  “Of course I see the mugs, Mom.”

  “I’ve been working in the kitchen all day, cleaning shelves, rearranging the plates and cups and saucers, getting rid of the old, making way for the new. These are all the coffee mugs we own. I’ve had some of them from before you were born.”

  “Okay.”

  “Since they’re all sort of individuals,” Victoria said casually, her voice light, “I tried to match them anyway, find two that were perfect for each other. I tried by size, color, pattern. I tried by type of clay, porcelain, or stoneware. I tried by number of ounces each would hold or the shape of the handle. Nothing worked.” She lifted her eyes to meet Tabitha’s. “I never found two that matched. Then I decided my approach was all wrong. I gave up on finding two that matched, and decided to look for two with similar flaws.”

  After a moment of silence, Tabitha said, “You’re very clever, Mom. And very perceptive.”

  Victoria nodded. “Nobody’s perfect, sweetie. Nobody and no thing. Cal hurt you, deeply, and you’ve never been one to forgive a hurt too quickly. But for your own sake, you need to find a way out of your isolation. You’re sweet and beautiful and smart. Any man would be very lucky to win your heart.”

  For some ungodly reason, an image of Nate Darling pressed itself into her head, and even though she blinked several times to flutter it into oblivion, it stayed.

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll think about what you said, Mom.”

  Victoria smiled and tilted her head a little. “That’s all I ask.”

  Chapter 8

  If a girl falls asleep at work, she’ll marry a widower.

  FOLKLORE

  Nate sat at the café table, letting his nerves uncoil while he listened to the music. People who’d never lived in a big city, maybe never even visited one, didn’t understand about the music. Every city played a different tune, rolled along to a rhythm all its own. Some jumped erratically, their notes all over the scale, like a jingle, like L.A. Seattle was a ballad, a slow, easy love song of gray skies and lullabies. Others pulsed to a frenetic beat constantly moving never stopping never slowing never sleeping; New York.

  And San Francisco, well, San Francisco hummed. It was seductive, a melodic undercurrent that tugged at you, grabbing hold and not letting go. Cool and damp and enticing. It sounded to the ear the way fog felt against your skin.

  He glanced around. Next to his table, pink jasmine climbed a white trellis, then tumbled across the wooden awning, lending the air a sweet, sultry scent he could almost taste. He closed his eyes, and he was naked, adrift on a cloud of perfume, ready to greet his lover in languid anticipation.

  Which brought her to mind.

  Nate let his attention fall to the file beneath his hand. Running his index finger over it, he rounded the stiff edges, slipped his thumb under the cover, and contemplated what he’d just read.

  Ethan had been thorough, and Nate would pay a high price because of it. His brother had never been one to do something for nothing, and he knew Ethan would call in the favor when it was least convenient. Fair enough, he supposed, because Nate now knew everything there was to know about Tabitha March—more than she probably knew herself.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Today was Thursday…

  He checked his watch. Picking up the file, he tossed a couple of bills on the table and headed for his car.

  The Merced High School parking lot was nearly full by the time he arrived. He wasn’t sure what room she was in, but he figured he could just follow all the vacant-eyed nutcases and they’d lead him right to her.

  Pushing the double glass doors open, he stepped into the hallway and spotted a huddle of five or six women chattering among themselves like a gaggle of brightly feathered geese. Though the women were of assorted ages and ethnic backgrounds, three sported granny glasses, four had their hair in braids, none wore makeup, all wore baggy clothes, socks, and Birkenstocks.

  Ah, he thought. This must be the place.

  The women turned in unison and began scuffling down the corridor to enter the last room on the left. Setting off in their direction, when he got to the open classroom door he peeked around the threshold.

  He couldn’t have said why his heart gave a lurch when he saw her—or maybe he could, and that was part of the problem. Tabitha March was a contentious, adverse, disrespectful, smart-mouthed latter-day flower child…

  And she was hot. He knew he’d be wise to stay away from her, but for the life of him, he couldn’t. Now that he knew all about her, he wanted to know more.

  She stood in profile to him, engaged in conversation with an elderly man wearing an oversized gray jogging suit and blindingly white athletic shoes.

  Nate let his gaze take Tabitha in, head to toe. Her glorious mass of hair had been tamed into a sexy knot at the nape of her neck. He didn’t know about other men, but for him, the nape of a woman’s neck was one of the places on the female body that made his blood simmer.

  The blue outfit she wore looked more like a form-fitted Victorian nightgown than a dress, scooped kind of low with a little white lace to accentuate her cleavage. With her hair the way it was, she was pretty, alluring, and tempting as hell.

  He knew the moment she became aware of him. Her speech stalled, and she ummm’d and uhhh’d a lot. Finally, she turned in his direction as though she were preparing herself to face a firing squad.

  Their gazes locked. Her blue eyes widened, then narrowed. What in the hell do you want? they said.

  He cocked his head and gave her his best smile. Her cheeks flushed and she said something to the elderly man, who nodded and returned to his seat.

  “Do you have an admittance slip?” she said to Nate, her mouth in a tight, succulent rosebud. God, that mouth.

  “Gosh, Miss March. Do I need a hall pass, too?”

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice was husky and just a tone away from being a growl. He liked it.

  “Research,” he said, and left it at that.

  Around them the classroom mutters and murmurs quieted as all eyes turned to watch their teacher greet her new student. Nate could tell by her expression that Tabitha had noticed as well—and didn’t like it.

  Plastering a phony smile on her face, she said too loudly, “Of course you can monitor the session before you decide whether or not to join the class. Please take a seat, Nate.”

  So she didn’t want anybody to know he was a detective. And she obviously didn’t want to call him Darling. His name had caused confusion on more than one occasion and had led to several fistfights throughout his school years—fights he generally won.

  But, damn. His name on her lips did something to the region just below his navel he really didn’t want to think about—even if she had said it with a little more bite than was warranted.

  He grinned and nodded, sorry that he hadn’t had time to change his clothes. Showing up for a class in psychic woo-haa-hoo dream interpretation called for jeans and a T-shirt, not a gray pin-striped suit and .38.

  Sliding into one of the seats near the front, he decided this hadn’t been a half-bad idea after all. She was the teacher, he the student. That gave him free rein to stare at her for two hours—legs, hips, and…well, the rest. Not to mention her pretty face, and hair that made his fingers tickle to touch.

  By
the time the clock above the door read seven straight up, nearly all the seats in the classroom were filled. Glancing around, he noted the women outnumbered the men two-to-one, and the young outnumbered the old. All of them eyed him and his suit like he was a gangland hit man.

  Since his weapon was secured at his shoulder, he couldn’t shrug out of his jacket, so he kept it on, but loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Adjusting his glasses, he stretched his long legs out in front of him and turned his full attention on the best-looking teacher he’d ever had.

  He watched as Tabitha ran her gaze over the length of his body, then reached for the tumbler of water on her desk. Taking a few gulps, she set the glass down, cut him a stern glance, and finally turned her attention to the rest of the class, apparently determined to ignore him.

  He considered it a personal victory that she felt she needed to try.

  “Welcome to class, everyone,” she announced. “This is our fifth session and I hope you’ve all had a chance to practice what we’ve discussed so far. To get things going tonight, does anyone have a dream they’d like to share?”

  Several hands went up. Gesturing to a thirty-something woman with short black hair, Tabitha said, “How about we start with you, Kismet?”

  The woman named Kismet smiled and left her seat to stand at the front of the class. She was a somewhat plump, attractive woman with expressive brown eyes and a generous smile.

  “Well, a few nights ago,” she said, concentrating on her fingers, “I had the most bizarre dream. I was in a sort of a prison. I’ve had prison dreams before, lots of times, but that’s beside the point, I suppose.” She made a nervous giggle in the back of her throat. “Anyway, I was in this prison and there was a big courtyard and I watched as the guards wheeled in a flatbed cart kind of thing, and on this cart was a gigantic baked potato. I mean, it was the size of a Toyota!”

  She glanced over at Tabitha, then lowered her head again. “Well, see, the potato had been cut open and fluffed, you know like they do in restaurants? But it didn’t have any toppings. Just fluffy potato!”

  Giggling again, she shrugged. “Anyway, this other prisoner—actually, it was Russell Crowe, if you can believe that…”

  Everyone in class laughed, and Kismet’s cheeks flushed.

  “Um, Russell Crowe and I agreed it would be a good idea to climb, like, inside the potato? So when the guards wheeled it away, we could escape. We did that, and we got out of the prison. I can’t imagine what it means!”

  Kismet grinned sheepishly as the class nodded and scribbled notes. Tabitha stepped forward and asked Kismet to return to her seat.

  To the class she said, “In order for Kismet to understand what her dream is trying to tell her, she needs to think about what’s going on in her life right now. A prison escape and a giant potato, and even a famous actor, are going to mean something different to each of us. Those dream interpretation books you can buy generally don’t help much because different symbols mean different things to different people.”

  Nate watched as Tabitha crossed the room and scooted her butt onto her desk to face the class. Crossing her ankles, she smiled at Kismet.

  “Having said that, a prison can usually be interpreted as confinement, either emotional or physical. And a potato certainly represents food to one degree or another. And Russell Crowe…Kismet envisioned him, while you or I would have dreamed up a different person entirely, depending on what he symbolizes to us.”

  Shifting gears a little, she said, “Was Kismet’s dream prophetic, release, wish, or problem-solving?”

  The classroom bubbled with lively conversation and musings as the students debated with each other as to what kind of dream Kismet had experienced.

  “Nate?” Tabitha said, looking squarely at him. “Which do you think it was?” Conversation trickled off and the room grew quiet.

  He squirmed a little in his seat. “Wish?”

  “Very good,” she said, her eyes alight with mischief. “I agree. What is Kismet wishing for?”

  He squirmed again. “She, uh, she wants to go out to dinner with Russell Crowe?”

  Behind him, several women tittered, a man laughed, and Kismet choked.

  “I doubt that’s it,” Tabitha said, amusement warming her voice. He felt his body respond to her in spite of himself. “That doesn’t explain the prison aspect of the dream, Nate.”

  Returning her attention to the class, she said, “Anybody else have—”

  “Wait!” Kismet rose from her seat. Her fingers clutched a tissue as tears slid down her plump cheeks. “I…I think I know. I want to tell you—”

  “It’s not necessary, Kismet,” Tabitha interrupted, her voice calm and soothing. “I think I understand now, but you don’t have to talk about this in class.” Her eyes were soft and sympathetic, filled with compassion, and some kind of pain Nate didn’t understand.

  Kismet shook her head. “I want to…my husb-husband,” she stammered, her voice thick with tears. “We don’t have a good marriage. He’s so controlling, you see. Harsh. Physically, if you know what I mean? I eat. It’s what I do, to escape, to be kind to myself. Even though I realize it, I can’t seem to stop.” She wiped her eyes. “I think the prison represents my m-marriage, the potato was the food I use to cope, to escape. It’s probably obvious just by looking at me.” She sobbed again. “Russell Crowe was, well, maybe he represents my an-an-anger.” She was crying full-out now.

  “Take a break, everyone,” Tabitha said quietly. “Please.”

  Quickly crossing the room, she pulled the weeping woman into her arms. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re safe here.”

  The other students stood and began filing out of the room, throwing looks of sympathy Kismet’s way. Nate went to the door, but didn’t leave.

  So Kismet’s SOB husband hit her. He felt his stomach tighten and his palms get damp. Bastard. There should be a special place in hell for men who abused women.

  Tabitha lifted her head and looked across the room at him. Their eyes locked, and there was no mistaking the plea in her gaze.

  As he walked toward the two women, Tabitha placed her hands on her student’s shoulders. “Nate is a police officer, Kismet. Maybe he can help you.”

  “Ma’am?” he said.

  Kismet raised her tear-stained face to him and brought the tissue to her nose, but said nothing.

  “I can help you,” he continued, “but you have to file charges against your husband. Are you willing to do that?”

  Taking a card from his pocket, he held it out to her.

  “It’s a shelter, downtown,” he said. “It’s safe. Call them.”

  She gazed down at the card, sniffed, then took it. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “I’ll think about it. I have kids, and—“

  “Then do it for them, if not for yourself. Okay?”

  Kismet nodded again, then turned to Tabitha. “I’ll think about it. I’m going to go now. I’ve never told anybody about this before. I can’t believe I said anything. I’m so sorry.”

  “Kismet,” Tabitha said, her voice soft. “You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. A person can only take so much for so long. You wanted it to finally come out, and your dream was telling you it’s time. Please take the detective’s advice and let the police help you.”

  Kismet nodded, then went and gathered up her purse and notebook. Silently, she walked to the door. At the threshold, she paused, turned to Tabitha, and smiled. Then she was gone.

  “She won’t call, will she.” Her words were not a question.

  “No.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  Nate blew out a long sigh. “No.”

  “She’s a nice woman.”

  He nodded and muttered, “Yeah. They usually are.”

  As the students returned to the room, Nate took his seat, and for the next ninety minutes he watched Tabitha conduct class.

  She sure seemed to know her stuff. It was mostly woo-woo bullshit, of course
, but that was beside the point.

  Her hands were expressive and she moved them as she spoke. He got to study her mouth, too, as it formed all kinds of words—smart words, kind words, sweet and even sentimental words. With each word she spoke, she became more beautiful to him, and more desirable.

  After class, a few students lingered to ask questions. He bided his time, waiting until they had all gone and he was alone with her.

  Tossing a stack of papers into her briefcase, she said, “Do you have a question, Inspector?”

  “I liked it better when you called me Nate, Tabby.”

  She snapped the lid closed. “I liked it better when you called me Ms. March.” Grabbing the handle of the briefcase, she said, “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be—“

  “I like how you care about your students, Tabby. I thought you handled Kismet’s situation really well.”

  “Oh, um, thank you. I hadn’t realized until tonight how much she’s hurting. I just wish there was something more I could do.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “She knows she can come to you. She knows there are people who care about her. Maybe that’ll give her the strength to leave that prick.”

  Tabitha gazed down at her hand on the briefcase. “You seem to have very strong feelings about domestic violence.”

  He nodded, remembering many encounters he’d rather forget. “When I was in uniform,” he said, “we got calls all the time. It made me sick to see how badly some of those women had been beaten. I never could understand it. I’d cut off my own arm before I’d hit a woman. The card I gave Kismet is for a shelter I volunteer at one day a week.”

  Her head lifted and she looked him in the eye. “You volunteer at a shelter? That’s wonderful.”

  Shrugging again, he said, “It’s damned sad, actually. Some of the women are afraid of me when they first meet me; some of the kids are, too. I’m a big guy and I know I can intimidate, so I just try to be nice, quiet, keep them from feeling threatened. Let them know that not all men are bullies.”