This was the first time the cat had made an overture toward her—usually, Gretchen stayed far out of everyone’s way. Her favorite perch was on the top of the stair railing that led to the small, dusty loft above. There she sat most days, her tail dangling, its end flicking as though disgruntled with the world.
“You like that idea, do you?” Fiona asked, reaching slowly to scratch Gretchen’s soft grey head. She felt more relaxed now—the cat was not reacting as though there was any sort of supernatural presence.
But she could hardly deny that there was something going on in this shop.
She looked back at the wall in front of her and thought that perhaps she had indeed stumbled upon something curious.
She gingerly pulled to her feet, ready to duck if something rushed toward her again, and walked, half-stooped, down the hall to the back room of the shop. Perhaps there was some tool she could use to get through the wall.
But in the back, Fiona only found a broom and a toolbox with hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches much too small to be of any use.
She spoke to the room at large, just to let…whatever it was…know that she would follow through on this odd situation.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring a crowbar or something and get Dylan to help me pry that plywood away,” she said, hastily reaching for her keys and purse as she sidled toward the back door, just in case the…entity…was of an impatient nature. “And I’ll see what it is old Valente had to hide.”
~*~
Fiona had no help from Dylan the next day—for he’d called, explaining that he had the unexpected chance to meet with an historian from Williamsburg about a topic in his dissertation. Her head began to swim when he went on to describe the details—something to do with the way the floorboards in Colonial homes were laid compared to those in England—and Fiona cut him off and told him not to worry about it.
But much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t wait for his return. Despite her nervousness, she was dying to know what was behind that wall…and aside from that, she felt as if she’d made a promise to whoever or whatever was in the shop.
Fiona locked the front door of the store so that any arriving customer wouldn’t surprise her, then she hurried back to the little alcove under the stairs.
Hefting the crowbar, she glanced around to see Gretchen watching her avidly from a step halfway down the stairs. The green eyes stared at her, and the cat looked interested, rather than sleepy or miffed as she usually did.
“Well, I hope I’m not about to make a fool out of myself over nothing,” Fiona murmured, shoving one end of the crowbar under the bottom of the wall.
She heaved and immediately felt the flimsy wood give. She heaved again and it cracked, splintering along near the floor. She found the seam between two thin pieces of plywood and shoved the crowbar between them. They came apart easily, splitting along under the thick paint job that hid the woodwork.
By the time she pulled a good chunk of plywood away, a dark hole yawned behind it and Fiona felt vindicated. There was some kind of room or storage area behind there, under the stairs, and obviously it contained something with a yellow feather.
Perhaps it was some old clothing—hats or costumes—and she might be able to sell it to a vintage clothing store. Or—she wrinkled her nose against the dust as much as from the thought—the feather could be attached to some victim of a taxidermist.
A rattling at the front door drew her attention from her task, and Fiona whirled around to peer toward the front. Sighing, she pushed a spiral of hair out of her face, tucking it back into the loose twist at the back of her head, and let the crowbar fall onto the floor. Dusting her hands over the jeans she’d chosen to wear today, she hurried to greet the customer at the locked door.
By the time she got to the front, though, no one was there, and she tsked in annoyance at the unnecessary interruption—and the loss of a customer.
She started back toward her project, pausing at the desk to grab a flashlight, and felt her stomach tingling. She couldn’t help but remember those Nancy Drew books she’d read growing up.
The titian-haired sleuth peered into the cavernous darkness, her flashlight beam glancing off the walls. The secret had to be there—the last clue to the Mystery of the Antique Light! Nancy’s pulse quickened when the flashlight illuminated a metal chest in the far corner….
Fiona smirked to herself as she thrust first the flashlight into the hole, followed by her head.
Then she screamed.
~*~
“Mr. Pettigrew, the contract can be revised,” Gideon repeated for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. He was able to keep his voice smooth, but the back of his jaw ached. “It’s not an unusual circumstance at all. It—”
A light tap on his door interrupted him, and, with an apologetic glance at the fussy, skinny man with him, he called, “Yes?”
Claire cracked the door and poked her silvery blond head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Murphy is here. She says she needs to see you as soon as possible.”
Gideon felt his heart lighten, and he almost smiled. But, then, remembering himself, he kept his face placid. He wasn’t surprised that she’d come crawling back…only that it had taken her a week to do so.
“We don’t have an appointment, do we, Claire? If not, then I’m afraid she’ll have to wait until I’m finished with Mr. Pettigrew—or come back at another time.” It wouldn’t do to give her the impression that she had the ability to get him to drop everything to see her—even though that was precisely what he most wanted to do.
Did he imagine it, or did Claire—his ultra-professional, poker-faced assistant—give him a nasty look? “Mr. Nath, she appears rather…distressed….”
“She always looks that way.” Gideon waved it off with a casual gesture, but he felt a prickle of concern. He expected Claire to take that as a dismissal and to handle Fiona—as she did all of his other situations, but she did not.
“Mr. Nath, I apologize for belaboring this,” she cast a smile at the fidgeting Mr. Pettigrew, “but Ms. Murphy expressed her need to see you immediately…and if you weren’t available, she requested that I see her in to Mr. Nath, Senior.” The woman looked as though she’d actually tossed a trump card onto the table, a slight smugness playing about her face.
Gideon caught himself before he uttered the outraged exclamation that came to his lips. “I see.” Annoyance drew his brows together—she wasn’t there to see him on a personal note—unless she was using his grandfather as a way to get to him. No, Gideon dismissed that thought immediately, Fiona was completely guileless. She wouldn’t do that.
Now concern washed over him, and he stood behind his desk. “Er—well, Claire, I—”
“I can certainly see to Mr. Pettigrew’s last minute items,” she stepped in smoothly. “I believe your meeting was almost over anyway.” She turned the full force of her attractive smile at the man, and Gideon saw the fussiness drain from his countenance to be replaced by a dazed, hungry look.
He nearly snorted, but realized that wouldn’t be a smart thing to do to a client. God help him if he ever got that look on his face in the presence of a woman.
“Yes. Please, if that’s all right with you, Mr. Pettigrew?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course,” he stammered.
Claire disappeared out the door, and moments later returned with Fiona. Both men rose from their seats—Pettigrew, whose jaw nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of both women in close proximity, and Gideon, who felt his whole body tighten when he saw how damn good she looked in jeans and a vintage Nirvana t-shirt. It was skin-tight.
Then he saw her face and knew something was terribly wrong. When he turned to release his client from their meeting, and saw the man’s eyes fastened on the very well-defined breasts under the blue-gray shirt, Gideon could do nothing but grit his teeth. As it was, the handshake he gave the lech was bone-crushing, and at least had the result of turning Pettigrew’s attention from Fiona’s body to his attorney.
&nbs
p; “Thank you, Claire,” Gideon said to his assistant, and reminded himself to give her another raise.
As soon as he shut the door behind them, he crossed over to Fiona, who’d begun to pace around the room. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Her face was wan and white, and lines of worry etched around eyes that seemed dazed and lost.
“There’s a body in the shop.” Her voice came out rough and uneven, and her hand shook as she pushed her hair out of her face.
“What?” He stared at her, taking her arms as though to steady her. “A body? Someone is dead? Someone broke in—”
“She’s definitely dead,” she said, shuddering. “All that’s left of her is a skeleton.” She took a deep breath and pressed her hand over her mouth.
“Fiona, sit down and tell me what is going on.” He propelled her into a chair, then turned to his desk and jammed a finger into the intercom. “Helene, please, I need some—uh—sparkling water?” he glanced at Fiona to be sure, and she nodded absently. “Sparkling water, and…why don’t you bring a small brandy too.”
“I found a skeleton under the stairs—where that big desk used to sit,” she explained rapidly, as though it was a relief to get the words out. “It was boarded up under there—and when I pulled the wood away and looked in there, I saw a skeleton on the floor.”
“How—this is stupid that I’m asking this, but how do you know it’s a woman?”
“Her clothes are still on her.” Fiona shuddered once, hard, then seemed to lose the rest of her control and suddenly, she was trembling, crying, and in his arms all at once. “I didn’t know what to do or who to call…so I came here.”
He smelled her hair and held her close, his mind working rapidly even as his body leapt and sizzled at the feeling of her against him. “Did you call the police? What about Dylan? Does he know?”
She shook her head against his shoulder, her curls tickling his chin. “No,” her voice was muffled. “I came right here.”
“All right, then, let’s head over there so I can be there when you call the police.”
Chapter Nine
White bones glowed in the dim light, easily visible in the small closet like room.
Gideon didn’t consider himself a squeamish person, but the sight of the skeleton, still clothed, collapsed against the wall, sent an uncomfortable ripple through his middle.
Her skull tilted back, empty sockets and gapping mouth yawning at the ceiling. One of her knees was somehow still propped upright and the other had fallen to the side, stretching her skirt like a canopy between them. Judging from the style of her dress, she appeared to have been there since the mid-fifties. A hat lay fallen to one side and its decoration of pale yellow feathers matched the trim on some other type of garment sitting in a crumpled heap next to it.
Gideon jumped slightly when something touched him from behind, but it was Fiona, coming to stand next to him at the gaping hole in the wall.
“Did you talk to the police?”
“Yes. They’re on their way. I told them not to use their sirens—it’s going to be bad enough having a cop parked in front of my shop so soon after my reopening.” Fiona seemed less unsettled than she’d been when she first came to his office. Still, though, when he turned to look at her, he could see the worry and shock in her amber eyes.
He started to reach for her, but she stepped away, putting distance between them. “Gideon.” Her voice was a soft warning, and she shook her head slightly.
A pang shot through his belly. He didn’t want her pulling away from him, keeping her distance, banning him from her life. The realization came quickly—its force a shock that actually made his eyes widen. He wanted her, physically, sexually, of course…but her flamboyance and casual personality intrigued him against his will, bringing an air of the unexpected into his staid world. He wanted to know her.
That realization both lightened the regret that had clouded his life for the last week, and scared the hell out of him. He’d been playing the game of hard to get, and carrying the need to be in control like a shield in front of him…but in that moment of clarity, he realized he couldn’t do that with Fiona. She was too open, too honest…and crazy though it was, she had begun to insinuate herself into his mind so that he couldn’t shake her loose.
That simple warning—the sound of her speaking his name—made something click inside him. He realized how foolish it would be to hold onto a non-relationship with Leslie just so that it didn’t appear he was capitulating to Fiona’s demands…and in the process, lose the opportunity to be with her.
Just as he was about to speak, the faint scream of sirens reached their ears and Fiona jerked her eyes to his, dismay coloring her face. “Oh, no!” she moaned, turning toward the front of the store. “I told them not to use the sirens!”
She fled toward the door and Gideon followed, unable to help admiring the back view of her jeans.
A homicide detective accompanied the officer who came, and they were both very pleasant men even when she scolded them for using their sirens. In fact, Gideon felt that they were a bit too solicitous toward Fiona, treating her as though she’d found a blood-spattered, decapitated body—not a harmless, long-dead skeleton.
She showed them the hidden alcove and Detective Sherman Hinkle pried the rest of the boards away from the space under the stairs. They took photographs of the bones, and searched the small area to be certain there weren’t any other items in there.
When the forensic team arrived, and they were ready to move the skeleton, it took only a moment to determine the cause of death: “Head wound,” said the team leader, gingerly pulling the skull away from the wall. “Right in the back. Probably didn’t feel a thing.”
Fiona closed the shop for the rest of the day, and, when, at nine o’clock in the evening, all of the police and detective personnel had filed out, she was surprised to find that Gideon was still there. He’d been beside her all along, of course, fielding questions, directing the lawmen, and keeping the peace in his own direct, structured way…but when the activity finally settled down hours later, Fiona realized that she should be surprised that he’d stayed.
“You’re so busy,” she said, suddenly feeling awkward now that they were alone in the store. “I can’t believe you’re still here.”
His handsome face stilled. “I wouldn’t have left you to handle such a thing on your own.” He looked at her, and she felt the weight of desire in his gaze, warming her, but she also saw something less mercenary there. Like concern, or tenderness…not simply lust.
“Well, thank you.” She didn’t know what to say, and the awkwardness was growing. When she found the skeleton, she had one coherent thought: get to Gideon—he would help.
She’d forgotten her need to stay away from him and her resolve that, as attracted to him as she was, she couldn’t give in and share him with another woman. As she looked up at him now, and her attention rested on the planes of his face, gliding over the firm, manly chin and to his mouth, she felt that resolve falter.
“Let’s grab a bite to eat,” he suggested in a voice rough with some emotion. “Unless your appetite has fled?”
“Yes. That would be great,” Fiona agreed, seizing on an opportunity to move past the heavy moment. Perhaps he’d taken her warning to heart, and the only caution she need have would be directed at herself.
His car, so different from her tiny yellow Beetle, had butter soft leather seats that embraced her in comfort. It was a sleek black Mercedes, and it had been parked with less neatness than she would have expected. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to comment—after all, the mood had to lighten up soon or she was going to go mad at the thought: a skeleton in her closet—so she teased, “Nice parking job.”
He paused in buckling his seatbelt and looked up at her from under a thick shock of hair. “You didn’t give me much time to tidy it up,” he replied dryly, then changed the subject. “Would you like me to cook, or are you in the mood to go somewhere?”
�
�What? This sounds suspiciously like a date,” she replied with an arched brow. And then she added, “You cook?”
“Yes, well, I usually wait at least a week after finding a skeleton in her closet before I ask a woman out, but I decided to make an exception in your case.”
Fiona stared at him. “Did you—did you just make a joke? You?”
Gideon frowned, tilting his head as though contemplating a deep thought. “Yes, I guess I did. Sorry about that. Now,” he turned to fit the key into the ignition, “what’s your preference? Eating in or eating out?”
“Depends what you’re cooking,” she replied, still staring at him.
The decision was made. “My house.” He started the car with a low purr and the Mercedes slid into the street.
Suddenly, Fiona panicked, picturing them at his house, enjoying an intimate meal, picking up where they left off…. “Gideon, I don’t think—”
The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) Page 13
