Yet Aunt Dee didn’t seem to know about it.
Why?
And if “RD” was Robert Dunnigan, why hadn’t Uncle Rob mentioned William’s visit to his sister?
CHAPTER SEVEN
DOROTHY CIRCULATED AROUND the art gallery, chatting with the customers. It was a typical Sunday afternoon, with busy and slow moments. She enjoyed the visitors, even when they weren’t knowledgeable about art. When William was alive they’d been so focused on each other and their friends and family, she hadn’t felt the need for casual social outlets like the gallery.
Now she welcomed it.
Yet in a lull between customers she began kicking herself for hinting to Layne that William might have been having an affair. Would Lani be hurt and disappointed?
Sometimes Dorothy was so tired of the questions. She wanted to let it go, she just didn’t know how to without knowing what had happened. Everything inside her shrank from believing Will had been doing anything wrong. And in the beginning she’d had no doubts—Will was innocent. Period.
But as the weeks had passed, and loneliness took over, it was hard not to start wondering if there had been something that she hadn’t seen. Perhaps it was just part of the grieving process, trying to rationalize that what you’d lost hadn’t been that great, anyway.
Yet if she did discover Will had been having an affair, would it change what they’d shared together? He’d loved her, but for some men, being unable to have a biological child was a huge deal. Was it possible that Will had spent so much energy reassuring her about not having children, he’d suppressed his own feelings? And if he’d looked for comfort elsewhere, did that make her partly responsible?
“Hello. Do you work here?” said a man with a strong Irish brogue, startling Dorothy from her unpleasant thoughts.
“Yes, I do. May I help you?”
“I wondered if you could explain that.” He pointed to an abstract painting done by one of the other artists who, in Dorothy’s private opinion, was trying too hard to be avant-garde.
“The painter has explained this is an expression of the purity of sexual energy. Cynthia feels sexuality is on a higher plane than other human emotions.”
“That’s bull crap. Obviously she’s never gotten laid.”
His blunt, outrageous response was refreshing and Dorothy tried to keep from laughing—she’d often thought the same about Cynthia. “I wouldn’t know. Are you more interested in abstract paintings, or other forms? Impressionist, perhaps?”
He shrugged. “Not interested, period. I’m just looking for a birthday gift to send to my sister back home in Ireland.”
It made sense. Dorothy tried not to pigeonhole their patrons based on appearance, but this guy did not look like someone who’d ever visited an art gallery. He wore jeans and a blue linen shirt and had a strong build, without a spare ounce. His manner suggested he was quite down-to-earth and confident. At the same time he appeared to be successful, if the fine sports watch on his wrist was any indication.
“What part of Ireland are you from?”
“Dublin, mostly. Early on we lived in Dún Laoghaire, and I was born in Drogheda.” His brogue became particularly strong as the Irish names rolled off his tongue. “I came here as an ambitious lad, over thirty-five years ago, though I’ve lived in other countries, off and on.”
“But you still consider Ireland home, though you’ve spent your adult life in other countries?”
He appeared surprised. “Sometimes, I suppose. But I’ve done well. Didn’t have much interest in the backbreakin’ work my father killed himself doing by the time I was seven, at any rate. Now, about this...” He pointed a different painting on the wall. “What does that one say to you?”
Dorothy looked at the canvas. It was another of Cynthia’s creations and held even less appeal for her personally. “I have no idea,” she said honestly. “A spilled egg yolk, maybe? The artist calls it Broken Sun in a White Sky.”
The man laughed and leaned forward to read the nametag on her shoulder. “I like you, Dorothy Hudson. My name is Patrick Donovan. Show me something you’ve done yourself.”
Dorothy led him to a couple of her favorite pieces. One was of Mount Rainier, and the other depicted a hawk sitting on a fence post. She did little abstract or expressionist work, unlike many of the artists exhibiting at the gallery. Most of them didn’t have a high opinion of her ability, claiming she played up to the tastes of tourists, but her paintings sold well and the owner approved of her for that reason.
“This is more to my sister’s taste,” Patrick announced. “I’ll take the one of the mountain.”
“We have many prominent regional artists who are considered quite collectable,” Dorothy urged. “You should look around and be sure you’ve seen all that we offer.”
He shook his head. “I know what I want and don’t need to go shoppin’ around.”
The look he gave her wasn’t inappropriate, but it made her sharply aware of him as a man. Guilt flashed through her; Will had only been gone since December. It didn’t mean anything—she was just lonely, that was all. They’d done everything together and as much as Layne tried to be there for her, it wasn’t the same.
“Very well.” Dorothy pushed the thought away. “Would you like us to ship it to your sister in Ireland?”
“May as well. But I’ll have to return with Alleyne’s address. When will you be working here again?”
“Any of us can assist you. Or you can call and provide the address.”
“I don’t want anyone else. I want you, and I prefer taking care of it in person.”
Dorothy occupied herself with taking the painting off the wall. Patrick wasn’t flirting—he seemed too plainspoken to flirt, but there was something in his tone and eyes that suggested he found her attractive.
“I’m not scheduled again until Wednesday between two and four in the afternoon,” she explained. “Will that make it too late to arrive in time for your sister’s birthday?”
“There’s enough time.”
She calculated the cost of shipping to where his sister lived, and added it to the sale, getting another surprise when he took out his wallet and paid in cash, though she caught sight of several credit cards. It wasn’t a problem, just unexpected. The gallery charged high enough prices, they didn’t see many cash sales, and shipping out of the country was pricey, as well.
Patrick slid the wallet back into his pocket. “Is there a place to get coffee or tea nearby?” he asked.
“The Seattle area is a coffee capital. We may have more places to drink coffee than anywhere in the world,” Dorothy answered wryly. “When you go out of the gallery, turn right and you’ll find a shop three doors up the block.”
“In that case, will you have a cup with me?” He looked at his watch. “No other customers are here and you should have closed twenty minutes ago.”
Startled, Dorothy hurried over and changed the discreet open sign to Closed. Normally the owner or a paid employee also worked at the gallery, especially on a Sunday, but they’d been shorthanded with a summer flu bug making the rounds. Ideally the “artist on duty” got an opportunity to sketch or paint during their stints at the gallery, with the paid attendant answering questions and handling sales.
“How about it?” Patrick queried again.
“It’s nice of you, but I have to finish here.”
“I’ll wait.”
Dorothy considered refusing, but she’d enjoyed talking with him. Besides, over the past few months she’d gotten into such a deep rut in her life she could barely see over the top of it. At least having a cup of tea with a stranger would be different, and it wasn’t as if it was a date. “Dating” sounded funny for someone her age, anyway. Not that she was old, she’d just felt older these days, and she certainly wasn’t ready to think about that aspect
of her life.
She finished the basic tasks, then locked up and walked with Patrick to the small shop. Muldoon’s was more appealing than some of the modern cyber cafés, offering a bakery and a garden area she enjoyed.
Instead of coffee she chose apricot tea and saw that Patrick selected tea, as well, but when the barista asked him what variety, she received a direct look. “Tea, with none o’ the frills. Just put in three bags to make it good and strong and leave room for plenty o’ milk.” He also ordered a selection of sweets and thrust the basket at Dorothy when they sat at one of the outdoor tables.
“Eat. A breeze would blow you away,” he said gruffly.
She ate an apricot thumbprint cookie, unsure of what to say. “What made you decide to get a painting for your sister?” she asked finally.
“Alleyne is full o’ fancies.”
He seemed to think it was sufficient explanation and Dorothy hid a smile. Did his indifference extend to all the arts, or just painting?
Patrick didn’t eat the desserts he’d bought, but he drank his tea in long gulps before ordering another cup. They talked about Ireland and their families—there were three Donovan siblings. Patrick was the eldest. His twin brother and sister, born after his mother married again, were nearly fourteen years younger. The brother lived in Kilkenny with his wife and five kids, while Alleyne had been widowed while still a bride and had never remarried.
Patrick set his cup down. “Did you and your husband have children?”
“No, but one of my nieces was at the house so often it was almost the same as having a daughter. Layne has grown into a wonderful young woman.”
Yet a faint pang went through Dorothy. She’d gotten over the regret of not having kids, but now she was having to deal with it again because of her questions about William. Oddly, she would have liked to ask Patrick his opinion about whether being sterile could lead a man to have an affair, only it wasn’t the sort of thing you discussed with a stranger.
“What does Layne do?” Patrick asked.
“She works for the Puget Sound Babbitt as a researcher.”
Unable to resist, Dorothy pulled several pictures from her purse, shuffling the Christmas photo of her sister’s family to the bottom. It was a good shot of the rest of the family, but Layne looked out of place among her blond siblings and their tall, confident mother and father—as though a woodland pixie had appeared unexpectedly in the family’s midst.
Her favorite picture of Layne had been taken at Seattle’s Pike Place Market, holding three long loaves of French bread in her arms and laughing at the camera.
“That’s Layne,” she said, passing it to Patrick.
“She looks Irish.”
“With her dark hair?”
“I have dark hair, too.” True enough. His hair was black, shot with a few strands of silver, and his eyes were a piercing blue. “The Irish are not all redheads with green eyes and a belief in leprechauns.”
“It never occurred to me that you believed in leprechauns.” Dorothy passed him another two pictures. “Those are of Layne’s twin sisters and her brother. She’s the youngest. And the second one is of Barbara and her husband.”
He didn’t seem particularly interested in the family photos and asked if she had another of Layne. Dorothy hesitated before showing him the one she always carried of her niece and Will, taken a few months before his death. Will had an arm around Lani’s shoulders and their expressions were carefree and happy. It was probably the one she liked best of William, though she wished it didn’t hurt so much to look at his face and wonder about everything.
Patrick gazed at the picture for a long moment. “Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. He looks to be a fine man.”
“He was.”
Normally Dorothy cringed at expressions of sympathy, but Patrick simply handed the photographs back to her and began talking again about his homeland. Of course, since he didn’t know the events surrounding William’s death, it wasn’t as awkward as it could have been.
It wasn’t until her cell phone rang that she realized they’d been chatting for over an hour. “I’d better take this,” she murmured as she pulled the phone from her pocket and answered, knowing it had to be Layne.
“Hey, Aunt Dee, it’s me.”
“Lani, I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“Not a problem. Did you get held up at the gallery?”
“Uh...something like that.” Dorothy shifted uncomfortably, though it wasn’t as if she was being unfaithful to William’s memory by drinking a cup of tea with a man. “A customer asked me to have tea with him and I lost track of the time.”
“Him?”
“Yes. He bought that painting of Mount Rainier you especially liked. I’ll be there in a while.”
“No rush. I’d offer to start cooking dinner....”
“No,” Dorothy said hastily.
Layne laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to burn up any of your special pans.”
* * *
CONNOR TRIED NOT to appear interested as he listened to Dorothy Hudson’s side of the conversation with her niece.
For all he knew, Dorothy might be the reason her husband had been an embezzler. She could have pressured him into stealing from his company, wanting a grander lifestyle than the one he could provide through normal means, especially with their debts mounting. Or William Hudson could have done it without her knowledge, aware that she was dissatisfied—she didn’t seem the type, but women could be hard to read.
Connor tipped the dregs of his tea down his throat.
Normally at this point he’d be congratulating himself for devising a reasonable excuse for returning to the art gallery, but there hadn’t been a real need to come in the first place. What Matt needed to know could be learned through the widow’s financial records.
Yet Connor wanted to understand why Dorothy Hudson affected him so much. For days he’d been unable to get her out of his mind. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. The look in her eyes... He sighed. Dorothy could become like Alleyne, lost in her grief and not really living. Perhaps it was foolish to compare them, but sometimes it seemed as if his sister had buried her soul along with her husband.
Connor’s mouth tightened. Alleyne would take little help from him. When she’d finally visited Seattle, he’d told her the plane ticket was from frequent flyer miles he would never get around to using. It was true enough; he’d never go to the trouble of using them for himself, but he would for Alleyne.
“I’m so sorry,” Dorothy said as she ended the call. “My niece was expecting me. I think she was worried and didn’t want to admit it.”
Connor shook himself. “That’s all right. Is Layne nicknamed Lani, or is this a different niece?”
“It’s Layne. Will and I are the only ones who’ve ever called her Lani. I’d better go—we’re supposed to have dinner.”
“I understand.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
Dorothy’s hesitation before extending her own hand was so brief that most people wouldn’t have noticed. “Yes, Wednesday. Thank you for the tea and pastries.”
She hurried away and Connor watched the gentle sway of her hips before heading toward his Jeep. Because he had parked outside of Dorothy’s house for an extended period the previous Sunday, he’d left the Jeep three blocks away to avoid the remote possibility she would remember seeing it. He would use another vehicle when he returned.
He also hadn’t brought Finnster since he’d used the rottweiler on his original reconnaissance of the Hudson household. Finn was sulking at home, resentful of being left behind, though he was allowed to roam the extensive Eisley estate at will.
Connor muttered a Gaelic curse at how complicated things had become.
He’d almost introduced himself as Connor O’Brian, yet Patrick Donovan was the name he used undercover. The art of undercover work was not to lie; his full name was Connor Patrick Donovan O’Brian. What’s more, the family had called him Patrick when he was a boy—it being a proper saint’s name—and Alleyne did have a birthday coming up.
Perhaps he shouldn’t return to the art gallery. Dorothy’s grief was too new for her to be interested in another man, yet that was partly what bothered him. She was thin, drawn to a fine edge, the way Alleyne had been in the months after Liam’s accident.... Months that had dissolved into years. Perhaps it was his guilt for not doing more for his sister that drew him to Dorothy Hudson.
* * *
LATE SUNDAY EVENING Layne tucked her legs beneath her and read through the company phone bill that had accidentally been sent over in the boxes from Hudson & Davidson.
It was big.
She didn’t spend that much on local and long distance service in a year. Uncle Will had probably been reviewing the monthly statement around the time he’d died, which is why it had been packed up. But did it mean anything?
Individual phone numbers were shown, some more than once. There were annotations beside most of the entries, though Layne didn’t know what they meant. She thought they’d probably used it as a record of billable hours for client services...and hoped the company had lost revenue by misplacing it. Unfortunately, a replacement bill wouldn’t have been hard to obtain.
Not nice, Layne thought. But Hudson & Davidson wasn’t being nice to Aunt Dee, either. And Layne strongly suspected Peter was trying to bilk Aunt Dee out of her share of the company.
She’d printed a calendar for the year Uncle Will had died and began comparing the dates when calls were made to see if there was a pattern, particularly around any Thursday. The biggest problem was that she didn’t know who had made the calls, and which numbers, if any, belonged to her uncle’s personal clients. It was information she might have been able to get from Matt’s stepfather. Unfortunately that ship had sailed, particularly now that the Babbitt had done an article on the man—Peter was probably even more suspicious than his stepson.
Challenging Matt Page 9
