And the Plutarch.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. It was still there. That didn’t rule out Gabriel as the intruder, of course, but I knew it wasn’t him.
I paced around, wondering whether Vinnie and Suzie were home. But they’d had enough of my traumas lately. I didn’t want to wear out our neighborly relationship. I’d never minded being alone until this moment.
I knew who I wanted to see. Summoning up a few more ounces of courage, I found the business card and made another phone call.
He answered on the first ring. “This better be good.”
“It’s Brooklyn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Someone broke into my house.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I stared at the phone, hearing nothing but a dial tone.
Having taken some action, I felt more relaxed. I looked down at my threadbare pink kitty jammies. Robin would be appalled. I needed to change into something normal.
As I rounded the bar toward my bedroom, I heard the floor creak behind me, then something hard and heavy smashed into my head. My thoughts evaporated as I crumpled to the floor.
“That’s it, baby. Come on, open your eyes.”
I drew in a breath and smelled the most delicious scent of leather and forest and springtime rain.
My eyes flickered open, then closed again.
“That’s it, you can do it,” he whispered, his voice warm and rich like whiskey sweetened with caramel-flavored hot chocolate.
I was either dead and gone to heaven or suffering serious brain damage, because I vaguely recalled waking up to that same voice in my ear once before.
I mentally surveyed my situation and surroundings. I wasn’t dead. That was a good thing. I was on my couch. The cushions felt like clouds under me. My head felt as if a train had collided with my skull. A cold cloth covered my forehead.
I opened my eyes. Derek held my hand and stroked my cheek. I was safe.
“Thirsty,” I managed to whisper.
“I’ll get you some water.”
I opened my eyes, saw him cross the living room to the kitchen, then return a moment later with a glass of water.
“I brought you a painkiller. I found the prescription bottle on top of your refrigerator.”
“Thank you.” I still had some Vicodin left over from the evil dentist I’d seen last month.
He carefully lifted my head and held the glass for me to drink. “There you go.”
“Thanks,” I said again, then focused beyond him. The coffee table was at a right angle to the couch and the overstuffed red chair was pulled into the space. He sat there, about two inches away from me. “Did you rearrange my furniture?”
“Yeah.”
“Odd.”
“I take liberties where I can.”
He helped me lie back down until I jolted from something icy on the pillow.
“It’s a bag of frozen peas,” he said. “Lie down.”
“I have peas?”
“Surprisingly, yes. I found them in your freezer behind several dozen packages of pizza and ice cream.”
“Don’t judge.”
“Lie back. The peas will help with the swelling.”
“Good news.” The thought of my head swelling up was not appealing. I carefully laid my head down on the frozen package. It was cold, but after a few seconds it began to numb the pain.
“Better?” he asked.
“Seems to help.” Trying not to move my head, I squirmed around to adjust the cushions and yank the hem of my pajama top down until I was more comfortable. Figures I was still wearing my provocative pink kitty jammies. “How’d you get in?”
“Good question,” he said, sitting back and filling the big red chair nicely. “Your door was wide-open.”
“I was afraid of that,” I whispered. “Did you call the police?”
“They’re already here.”
“Good. Maybe my neighbors saw someone.”
“I take it you saw no one.”
“No, of course not.”
“The door to your front coat closet was open.”
“I checked all the closets.” But that closet was stuffed with coats, so I supposed someone could’ve hidden themselves behind them.
I struggled to sit but gave up as soon as my head started to pound. “Did you find my baseball bat? They might get prints off it.”
“Still playing at crime-busters, I see.” But he said it mildly, without a hint of sarcasm.
“I guess,” I said wearily.
“I’d better make my report, then.”
“What report?”
He held up his hand. “First off, the blood you found on the book belonged to Abraham.”
“Oh.”
“The fingerprints found in Abraham’s studio were his.”
“No one else’s?”
“No. And the only prints found at Baldacchio’s house were his own.”
“Oh.” My shoulders relaxed. “I guess that’s something.” And the fact that he’d shared that information caused my heart to beat somewhat erratically. Or maybe it was the frozen peas.
“Indeed, it is.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and took hold of my hand. Warmth spread up my arm as he said, “Now, why didn’t you call me last night when your place was ransacked?”
I frowned, and the small move caused shards of pain to skitter across my skull. “Feels like so long ago.”
“It was less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“Right.” So much had happened since then. I’d almost been killed in a noodle house. I’d almost been killed in my own house. And what about the mysterious Gabriel? Good guy? Bad guy? Good Samaritan? Clever opportunist? Had he left me a red rose or was that the killer’s calling card? My head was spinning. “I should’ve called you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No need to rub it in. I admit you’re right.”
“Ah, music to my ears.” He twisted his lips in that annoyingly attractive way I’d grown used to, which usually meant he was trying not to laugh at me. “We’re in this together, remember.”
“We are?” I didn’t see him wearing a bag of peas on his head.
“Of course,” he said. “It’s all connected, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.” Maybe it was the crack on the head or maybe it was the way his blue dress shirt fit his muscular torso, but I completely agreed with him. “It’s all connected to Abraham’s murder.”
“So we’re agreed.”
“Yes.”
“And where does the wilted red rose on your pillow fit in with the story?”
My eyes widened. “That’s why I called you. I found it on my pillow and it freaked me out.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s rather Gothic, isn’t it?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Before I conclude that our killer left it as a warning of some kind, I suppose I should ask if there’s someone in your life who might’ve left it as a romantic gesture.”
I thought of Gabriel. If he’d wanted to break in and steal the Plutarch, he would’ve done so without playing the rose-on-the-pillow game.
Derek coughed. “Was that a yes?”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, coming back to the room. “No, there’s absolutely no one I know who would leave a rose on my pillow.”
“All right.”
“That’s why I called you,” I explained. “I was scared.”
“And when the studio was ransacked last night, who did you call?” he asked, not ready to let go of that point.
I waved my hand lamely. “Last night I ran to my neighbors’ place; then Robin showed up and we drank a lot of wine and I spent the night at her house.”
“I see.” Was it possible he was genuinely hurt?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t call you because it didn’t cross my mind that you might be…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
He could. “Interested? Co
ncerned? Insane with fear for your safety?”
I bit back a smile. “Insane? Really?”
“You needn’t sound so pleased about it.” He placed his hand over his heart, but his blue eyes shimmered with mirth. “I’m suffering clear to my soul.”
“Oh, please.” I laughed softly. “That’s probably heartburn.”
His eyebrows went up. “Smart mouth. As soon as you’ve recovered sufficiently, remind me to punish you.”
I laughed again. “I’d like to see you try.”
“You’re in no condition to bait me.”
“I hate that you’re right.” The surge of energy brought on by our friendly bantering was dwindling. My brain was losing the battle of wits and my eyelids were giving up on their fight with gravity. “Well, thank you for being here tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night.”
“You’re forgiven,” he murmured, moving closer to the edge of his chair as he traced lines along my fingers and the palm of my hand.
The sensation of his touch went straight to my solar plexus. I watched him watching me and knew he knew exactly what he was doing to me. If I were in better shape, he wouldn’t stand a chance. For tonight, though, I had to cop out.
“I think you might’ve saved my life.” I hated being so weak. I was used to saving my own life, thanks. Or better yet, not having to save or be saved in the first place.
He patted my hand. “It’s all part of the job.”
“Yes, of course. The job.” Right. He had a job to do. So much for our little flirtation. What had I been thinking?
He continued some kind of massaging thing up and down my arm that was starting to affect my ability to concentrate. And the Vicodin was definitely kicking in.
“I told you from the start I’d be watching you like a hawk,” he said. “Did it slip your mind?”
“Everything’s slipping my mind,” I admitted. “Except I do recall that you said you’d be watching me because you thought I’d murdered Abraham.”
“Only for a moment,” he insisted.
“More like a week,” I nitpicked.
His lips curved. Then he nudged some ayurvedic energy point on my inner arm and I lost track of the conversation.
“… and then there was the fact that you were behaving rather suspiciously,” he was saying. “What else was I to think?”
I yawned. “Sorry.”
He tilted his head at me. “You need to sleep.”
“Yes.”
“You probably won’t remember much tomorrow.”
“I’ll remember you’re the hawk.” Had I said that out loud? How silly.
“Yes, remember the hawk.” He moved off the chair and knelt on the carpet next to the couch. “Before you drop off to sleep, there’s one thing I must do.”
“Yes?”
“Highly inappropriate behavior on my part,” he said, putting his hand on my cheek. “But it seems it can’t be helped.”
“Well, if it can’t be helped…”
But his lips were already brushing mine. His tongue outlined my bottom lip and electricity shot straight through me. My eyes glazed over as he moved his mouth along my chin, nibbling, planting light kisses, grazing my jaw, my ear, my forehead, with his lips as though he were memorizing the shape of my face. A nip here, a tiny lick there. It was torture. It was heaven.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and I tensed, then tried to sit up, but Derek stopped me.
“It’s all right,” he murmured.
“Commander,” an officer said. “We’d like your opinion out here.”
“Yes, of course.” He ran his finger along my jaw, then stood. “You’ll sleep now.”
“Could you… would you stay for a while?”
“I had no plans to leave.”
I awoke slowly, opened my eyes and was completely disoriented. I recognized the red chair, but why was it cockeyed? My table was out of whack, too. Plus, I hurt everywhere and wanted to cry.
But wait, I smelled bacon. Maybe life was worth living after all.
I pulled back the fuzzy blanket and sat up. And immediately lay down again. My head was about to explode.
“Oh, that’s not good.” The night before came back in a rush. The attack. Derek. The police. The kiss.
Oh yes. The kiss.
I let out a breath and tried to sit up again. So far, so good. I waited a few seconds, then pushed myself up to stand. I had to hold on to the arm of the couch for a minute, but I took halting steps and finally made it across the room.
I checked the kitchen and found bacon strips wrapped in paper towels and aluminum foil, sitting inside the warm oven. Coffee was made. A yellow sticky note was stuck to the refrigerator that read “Stay home and recuperate.” It was signed “The Hawk.”
I smiled as I poured a cup of coffee, then padded to the bathroom, where I took two pain relievers and stepped into the shower.
The hot water revived me enough to dress myself. The Hawk-Derek-was right. I’d already planned to work at home today, finish the Faust restoration and maybe get a head start on some other projects that I was behind on.
I dressed for comfort in jeans, a T-shirt and a warm sweater. Wool socks and my Birkenstocks completed the ensemble.
As I munched on bacon and read the paper, I couldn’t help smiling. The Hawk kissed like a dream. Remember the hawk, he’d said. I wasn’t likely to forget him any time soon.
“Remember the hawk,” I said, and chuckled as I took another bite of bacon and turned to the sports page.
Remember the devil. The words popped into my head unbidden.
“Whoa.” Something clicked and I jumped up. A spasm of pain vibrated across my skull and I sank back into my chair and clutched my head in my hands.
“Oh God.” I had to breathe through the pain. But the words began to spin around. Remember the hawk. The devil. Remember. Remember.
Remember the devil.
“Oh, you dimwit.” I stood more slowly this time, then walked as fast as I could to the studio, straight to the bookshelf where the blue leather cover shone like a beacon.
Wild Flowers in the Wind.
I pulled it from the shelf. The soft leather felt cool in my hands. I splayed the covers and the book fell open to page 213.
Pilosella aurantiaca. Hawkweed, otherwise known as the devil’s paintbrush.
Remember the devil.
Old memories came rushing back as I groped for my desk chair and sat. I was eight years old and I’d chosen the wildflower book from a shelf full of decrepit tomes Abraham kept for the purpose of practicing craft. He’d scoffed at my choice and had begun reading out loud the descriptions of some of the more noxious flowers as I’d gathered tools to start my work. I’d laughed with him, agreeing that it was silly that someone actually considered these ugly-looking plants to be flowers. But I’d still wanted to work with this book because the title was so pretty.
Wild Flowers in the Wind.
Abraham had regaled me with the shortcomings of the dreaded Pilosella aurantiaca. Its stiff leaves and petals were covered in short, rigid hairs, its stems and leaves were black, and the flower itself was the color of rust. And it smelled bad.
“No wonder the devil uses it for a paintbrush,” he’d said with a laugh, and succeeded in charming his too-serious, rather needy eight-year-old apprentice.
The poor devil plant hadn’t deserved our derision, I supposed. But it was one of those shared moments between teacher and student I would always treasure.
“Some treasured memory,” I said, mentally flogging myself, wondering why I hadn’t remembered it until this minute.
My mother would’ve told me the truth wasn’t meant to be revealed until this moment, but that dubious bit of wisdom didn’t assuage my remorse.
I shook it off. My feelings didn’t matter. The fact was, I’d just found what I’d been searching for since Abraham was killed.
Chapter 18
I ran my fingers over the aged, deckled paper. There, wedged between pages 2
12 and 213, next to the fuzzy photograph of the devil’s paintbrush, were several pieces of notepaper, thinned and yellowed with age.
My hand shook as I pulled the pages out and unfolded them. It was a three-page letter, written in German.
The date written on the first page was 8 September 1941. The ink was faded but the handwriting looked feminine to me. I checked the last page and saw that the letter was signed “Gretchen.”
This had to be what Abraham meant by GW1941. But who was Gretchen?
Perhaps after reading the letter, I would know. Beyond excited, I found my bag, pulled out the English-German dictionary I’d bought to help translate Faust and settled down at the worktable to decipher the correspondence.
The letter was addressed to “Sigrid” and at one point in the text, Gretchen referred to her as “liebe schwester” or “dear sister.”
Forty minutes later, I closed the dictionary and pushed away from the table. My excitement had turned to distress. I powered up my laptop and spent a few minutes online, Googling additional information. Then I walked around the room, lost in thought. After a few minutes, my stunned silence grew to vocal anger and I pounded the worktable a few times.
“Gretchen, you stupid coward.”
Saying the name aloud gave me a jolt. In Goethe’s Faust, Gretchen was the virtuous young woman destroyed by Faust, but her real name was Marguerite. As I’d just learned, “Gretchen” was a common German diminutive for Marguerite. A nickname.
Heinrich Winslow’s wife’s name was Marguerite. Also affectionately known as Gretchen. But unlike her fictional namesake, Heinrich Winslow’s wife was all too real and completely responsible for so much destruction.
And no wonder someone was willing to kill to keep these papers hidden.
My translation abilities weren’t perfect, but they were close enough. I hadn’t mistaken the words or the sentiment.
It definitely explained why Abraham had been killed. Not that the explanation was fair or acceptable, but it certainly clarified things.
Such as, who the killer had to be.
Homicide in Hardcover Page 21
