And lately, they had been, she recalled with dismay. She forced herself to meet Matt’s sympathetic gaze. “That would explain why Dad was so short-tempered.”
“Do you honestly believe your father would have cheated on your mother?” he said with satisfying skepticism.
“I don’t want to believe it,” Emma said.
“Then don’t. I certainly don’t, and we don’t have any evidence pointing in that direction.”
Cautious relief stirred inside her. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true. Emma, don’t jump to conclusions and don’t think the worst. Let’s take this one step at a time and see where it leads us. Maybe we’ll know more after we meet with Jennifer on Monday.”
She nodded. She could wait a few more days, especially if the news was likely to be bad.
“That reminds me,” she said, relieved to be able to change the subject. “Cori called last night. She wondered if Sunday evening would be good for us for dinner.”
Matt nodded. “Works for me. How about you?”
“Actually, it’s the best night for me, too. Cori’s cooking. I’ll tell her it’s fine. She said seven o’clock, if that works for us.”
“I’ll pick you up at six-thirty, then,” Matt said.
“I could just meet you there,” she said, her thoughts drifting back to that earlier instant of sizzling awareness. It would be really smart to avoid a situation in which that could be repeated.
Apparently Matt guessed exactly what she was thinking, because his gaze locked on hers. “I’ll pick you up,” he repeated, then added, his eyes twinkling, “Just keep your blouse buttoned, okay?”
Emma frowned at him. “I’ll wear a turtleneck.”
He laughed. “No need to go quite that far on a hot August night. I can remain reasonably civilized when I have to.”
But what if I don’t want you to? Emma wondered, barely managing to keep the thought to herself. What if what she really wanted was for Matt Atkins to make her feel totally alive for just a few blissful hours in the midst of all this mind-numbing uncertainty?
“Or not,” he said quietly, his gaze unwavering.
Emma barely contained a sigh. It was almost as if he’d read her mind…the one she’d obviously lost.
Matt was pretty sure that little scene in the diner with Emma had cost him ten years off his life. Didn’t the woman know any better than to play a game like that with a man? A less scrupulous man would have taken what she was offering and not given it a second thought. Hell, he’d almost grabbed her and plundered that sweet mouth of hers without thinking.
Matt shuddered at the memory of just how close he’d come to forgetting every rule he had where Emma was concerned. As a girl, she had driven him crazy without doing a thing besides bestowing an occasional smile on him. As a woman, she had an arsenal of weapons that could tempt a saint, which apparently was precisely what she’d thought she was doing. If he couldn’t get a grip on his hormones, these visits to the diner were going to kill him.
Not that he would stay away to save himself. She needed him and he’d promised to be there for her. Of course, maybe he could speed things along, spending some of his own time investigating whether there really was a motive that might explain her father’s suicide. Determined to do just that, he pushed back from his desk at the station and headed for the door.
“You going someplace?” Cramer inquired as he passed.
“I’ve got a few things to look into,” Matt said.
“I’d go by Sweet Smell of Success, if I were you.”
Matt spun around, his gaze narrowed. “Why would I want to go by a florist’s?”
“You want to know who sent those flowers to Don’s memorial by the lake, don’t you?” Cramer asked, his expression totally innocent.
“Are you clairvoyant or something?” he asked testily. “Or have you been hiding out in the bushes by the lake?”
Cramer chuckled. “I had dinner with Gabe and Harley last night. They couldn’t wait to tell me about their big investigation.”
“Heaven help me,” Matt muttered.
“It’s going to take more than heavenly intervention to keep those two under control. If I were you, I’d lock them up in protective custody.”
“Maybe I’ll just assign you to keep them out of mischief,” Matt retorted.
“As if,” Cramer said, then apparently spotted the serious gleam in Matt’s eyes. “Oh, no. They’re my friends.”
“Who better to keep an eye on them?”
“I don’t spy on my friends.”
“It’s not spying. It’s police business.”
“My police business is right here,” the desk sergeant reminded him. “Stacks of paperwork to do while I’m subbing on the day shift.” He shuffled an inch-high accumulation as if that would prove his point.
“You can have that finished by lunchtime,” Matt said. “Besides, I don’t think Gabe and Harley are likely to get into too much trouble during the day. It’s evenings I’m worried about.”
“I’m off at three.”
“Which means you’re free to spend your evenings with those two old coots,” Matt said, liking his plan better and better. “Make sure they don’t know you’re watching them, either. Take ’em to dinner. Take ’em bowling. Do whatever you can think of. I want ’em safe and out of my way. I don’t want to have to deal with their hurt feelings.”
“Who’s paying for all this?” Cramer asked suspiciously. “Does the department have a budget for this sort of thing? I’m sure as heck not spending my money on those two.”
Matt reached in his wallet and pulled out some twenties. “Have a ball.”
Cramer grabbed up the money, looking considerably more cheerful. “Don’t worry about a thing, boss, I’ve got it covered.”
“See that you do.”
Satisfied that he’d neutralized his rogue sleuths for a day or two, Matt set off for the florist shop with the too cute name. He wasn’t sure what instinct of Cramer’s had zeroed in on this particular shop, but he trusted the desk sergeant to know a thing or two about what was going on around town.
When he entered Sweet Smell of Success, a bell tinkled merrily over the door and Valencia Freeman floated out of the back room in a bright orange caftan. A smile spread across her round face when she saw him.
“Matt Atkins, I was wondering when you’d turn up here. Are you after information or flowers for Emma?”
Matt bit back a curse. Was there anyone in this town who wasn’t aware of his feelings for Emma? Then again, Val was supposedly known for her psychic abilities. She told fortunes when she wasn’t making up pretty bouquets of rosebuds and lilies. He had a feeling her sideline was more lucrative than her primary business, since a lot of people wanted to know what the future held. He, however, was more interested in the past, at least today.
“Information,” he told her.
“About those flowers I made up for Don’s memorial by the lake, I assume.”
He wasn’t surprised that she knew that, too. “Yes. Who bought them?”
“As much as I’d like to help you, I can’t say.”
“You’re not bound by confidentiality rules,” he pointed out.
“Perhaps not, but what sort of businesswoman would I be if I didn’t respect my customers’ wishes?” she asked.
Matt regarded her with a penetrating look. “Did someone ask you to keep quiet about those flowers?”
“To be honest, no,” she conceded. “I was just trying to make a point.”
Matt frowned at her.
“Okay, okay, the fact of the matter is that I have no idea who ordered those flowers,” she admitted. “I found a note tucked under my door when I opened that morning. There was a hundred dollar bill with it and a request that the flowers be delivered to the lakefront.”
“Did you save the note?”
“Of course,” she said.
Matt was holding on to his patience by a thread. “Val, m
ay I see the note?”
She regarded him with obvious reluctance, then relented. “I’ll get it, but it won’t do you a bit of good. It was written on a computer, then printed out. No handwriting, just a standard font, Times Roman, if I’m not mistaken.”
For all of her carefully contrived offbeat attire and the fortune-telling that went on in the back room, Val was a hardheaded businesswoman. It took her less than a minute to lay her hands on the piece of paper in her well-organized files. She handed it to Matt.
Val’s description had been perfect, right down to the font of the type. He knew because it was the standard setting on his own computer and probably about a thousand others right here in Winter Cove.
“Mind if I hang on to this?” he asked, already tucking it into one of the little evidence bags he carried in his pocket.
Val shook her head. “What if I said yes?”
“I’d argue with you, threaten to get a warrant. You’d be sensible and turn it over. I just bypassed all that,” he replied.
“I’d argue the legalities with you, but I don’t have the time right now. I have a client coming in for a reading in ten minutes and it will take me at least that long to fix up a bouquet of flowers for you to take to Cori, when you and Emma go for dinner.”
Matt groaned. “I do not want to know how you know about that. I do not believe in all this psychic mumbo jumbo you preach.”
Working with nimble fingers, Val tucked white tulips and calla lilies into a dark green vase in an arrangement that was both simple and elegant. Even Matt could appreciate the beauty of it.
“You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss what I see,” she told him as she handed him the flowers. “For instance, these are for Cori, but they’re Emma’s favorites. She’ll be impressed.”
“Why should that matter to me?” Matt grumbled defensively.
Val laughed. “Because you’re in love with her,” she said at once. “And trust me, it doesn’t take a psychic to read that one. It’s written all over your face every time the two of you are in the same room. Has been for years.” She patted his hand. “I’m not going to tell you how Emma feels. I think I’ll let you figure that one out yourself.”
For a moment, Matt considered threatening to have her subpoenaed to pry the information out of her, but she was probably right. It was better if he reached that particular conclusion entirely on his own, based on hard evidence he’d gathered himself. Sunday night would be a good time to start.
“Thanks for the flowers,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
“They’re on the house,” Val said. “I’m a sucker for a man in love.”
Matt rolled his eyes and headed for the door. He was almost out when something occurred to him. “Did Don buy flowers from you?”
“From time to time,” she said, her expression suddenly sad. “I had a standing order for Rosa’s birthday, for Mother’s Day and for their anniversary.” She lifted her gazed to meet Matt’s. “And before you ask, he never bought flowers for anyone else in here. I wouldn’t have sold them to him if he’d tried, but Don Killian loved his wife and no one else. I’d stake my professional reputation on that.”
This was one time when Matt wasn’t the least bit inclined to question Val’s certainty. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me, too.”
He hoped to hell they were both right.
11
Rosa knew she couldn’t hide out at home forever, but the prospect of walking into Flamingo Diner, where she’d spent more than two decades working side by side with her husband, was intolerable. She was afraid of coming completely unglued at the memories of Don standing at the stove, of Don grabbing her around the waist and kissing her thoroughly to the delight of their customers, of Don with Emma or Jeff or Andy in one arm, while he flipped pancakes with his free hand.
And then, more recently, of Don snapping at Andy and at her, of the startled looks on the faces of the regulars as his temper flared again and again. At the time she’d suffered pangs of mild embarrassment at the incidents. Now they loomed as monumental evidence of his distress, distress she had ignored with apparently tragic consequences.
Here in the shadows of her room, she could blank out everything but the good memories. The pills the doctor had given her to help her sleep kept her in a blessed state of semiconsciousness. Her mind drifted as the hours passed, recapturing a mental snapshot of Don in the pool with the kids, of Don surprising her on their tenth anniversary with a trip to Paris, of the pride on his face at Emma’s college graduation. At first with each image came a fresh flood of tears, hot, scalding, angry tears. Now, though, she remained dry-eyed. Increasingly, especially since her conversation with Emma about her belief that Don’s death was, in fact, a suicide, Rosa felt completely dead inside.
The children had given up trying to get her to come to the table for meals. Emma brought breakfast in before she left in the morning. An hour later, Andy took away the tray, the food untouched. Dinners came and went the same way. Rosa was too drained to care about the worried expressions on their faces or about the fact that she hadn’t seen Jeff at all and everyone seemed to be avoiding any mention of his name.
How had her life come to this? She was forty-six years old, and for the first time in nearly thirty years, she was on her own. She had always thought of herself as strong and capable, but she didn’t think she could bear facing the future alone. If only she could wake up and discover that all of this was nothing more than a terrible nightmare.
When her bedroom door opened, she blinked against the light that spilled into the room, then turned her back on it.
“Mama, you have company,” Emma announced, her tone determinedly cheerful as if she were about to deliver unwanted medicine to a reluctant child.
“I don’t want to see anyone,” Rosa mumbled. “Tell them to call ahead next time.”
“No, Rosa, that won’t do,” Helen said briskly, flipping on lights as she crossed the room. “Jolie and I are here now, and we’re not leaving until we’ve seen you. We brought cheesecake from Henderson’s Bakery. It’s strawberry, your favorite.”
“I’m not hungry,” Rosa insisted. That she wasn’t even interested in her very favorite cheesecake spoke volumes about the depths to which her spirits had sunk.
“Well, I don’t know how that can be,” Jolie said. “Emma says you’re not eating enough to keep a bird alive. Emma, can you bring some plates and forks?”
“Of course. Right away,” Rosa’s traitorous daughter replied.
“Don’t bother,” Rosa called after her. “Helen and Jolie will be leaving.”
“I’ll wait a few minutes, then,” Emma said, sounding defeated. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
Rosa heard her sigh as she closed the door behind her. Ignoring the wave of guilt that washed over her, Rosa retreated into sullen silence, but neither Helen nor Jolie seemed to be bothered by her attitude. Jolie sat staring at Rosa expectantly. Helen bustled around the room tidying up the piles of magazines Rosa had barely glanced at. Helen even snatched away the pillows on the bed and began to plump them, seemingly unconcerned about Rosa’s muttered protest or the fact that she was now awkwardly propped against the headboard.
“Are you quite through?” Rosa inquired tartly. Struggling to sit up, she scowled at her best friends.
Rosa knew that on some level they understood her loss. Helen had lost her husband when he was only forty-six. Jolie had been divorced for more than twenty years and had an active social life that involved flitting from man to man in search of some elusive quality. In general, though, they led rich, fulfilling lives. If they’d been envious of what Rosa had with Don, they’d certainly never shown it. They had both bounced back in a way that Rosa simply could not envision herself doing.
They were also as stubborn as any two mules on the face of the earth. Rosa had known from the instant they walked in tonight that they were out of patience. They were tired of letting her get away with hiding out here in her room. This time they weren�
�t going away until they got whatever they’d come for. She might as well find out what they were after. Maybe then, they’d leave her in peace.
“Why have you two come to pester me?” she inquired testily.
“Because we’re your friends and we’ve been worried sick about you,” Jolie said. “You haven’t taken our calls. You haven’t seen anyone. It’s not like you to shut yourself away from the people who love you. I don’t care what happened, we’re your friends. You should have more faith in us.”
Rosa shot a look at Helen, who merely shrugged. “What are you saying? What is it you think you know?” Rosa asked Jolie.
Jolie didn’t back down at her angry tone. “There’s been some talk—okay, a lot of talk—that some people don’t think Don’s death was an accident.”
Rosa covered her face. “Oh, God.”
Jolie reached for her hand. “It’s okay. We loved him and we loved you. How he died doesn’t matter.”
“Of course, it matters,” Rosa practically shouted.
Helen frowned at her. “If all that talk is right—and we don’t know that any of it is—do you think that people are going to think of you differently now? Is it pity you’re afraid of? If so, you should be ashamed of yourself. You know us better than that. We love you. We want to help you the way you’ve always been there for us. Not only that, we’re grieving over Don, too.”
“I am not grieving,” Rosa said fiercely. “I hate him for what he did.”
Jolie gasped at her harsh declaration. “You do not.”
“Of course, she doesn’t,” Helen chided. “She hates that he abandoned her. That’s what it is.”
“Don’t try to put words in my mouth,” Rosa retorted heatedly. “I meant exactly what I said. I hate him.” Her voice caught. “I do. I hate him.”
For a while now she had remained dry-eyed when the memories crept in. Now the sobs she’d held back burst forth as if a dam had broken. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and rocked back and forth.
Flamingo Diner Page 13
