by Mary McBride
“Satisfied?” he asked, holding out an open hand for the return of his wallet.
Laura closed it and plopped it in his palm. “I guess so.” Relieved was more like it, she thought. “Now I should probably ask where you’re taking me.”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than he slowed the truck and hit the turn signal. “We’re almost there,” he said, turning the big Blazer left onto a shaded and narrow gravel road.
Laura’s first thought was that this was probably the rural equivalent of a dark, deserted alley, that proverbial place where you never wanted to meet anybody, but before she was able to feel properly hysterical, she found herself quite overwhelmed by the beauty of the scene.
Big trees along both sides of the road formed a green, sun-dappled canopy high overhead, and through the trees to her right Laura could see a pasture brightly carpeted with wildflowers where horses and cows were grazing contentedly. A white wooden fence ran along the edge of the road, and birds—blue ones and red ones and black ones with red-spotted wings—perched atop every other fence post as if they’d been hired by a landscaper for decorating duty.
“This is lovely,” she said, opening the window all the way and sticking her head out to take in a deep breath of the fresh, clean country air. “I haven’t been out here in years. I’m pretty much a city girl.”
She sighed as she edged down the hemline that had crept several inches up her thigh when she leaned out the window, and just for good measure she gave her bodice an upward tug. “You can probably tell.”
“I can tell.” Now he swung the car into another, narrower canopied lane, then put on the brakes in front of one of the most enchanting Victorian houses that Laura had ever seen.
It was two stories of pristine white clapboard and dark green shutters, of spooled archways and gingerbread eaves, all of it nestled into a deep wraparound porch. There was a porch swing with dark green cushions. Oh, and a trellis fairly groaning with bright yellow roses in the sideyard, and not too far from that a wonderful blue gazing ball that mirrored the entire, incredible scene.
“Oh, this is just absolutely gorgeous! I love it!” Laura exclaimed. “What is it? A bed and breakfast?”
“Nope.” Sam Zachary turned off the ignition and plucked out the key. “It’s home,” he said. “Come on.”
Sam went into the kitchen after doing a quick inspection of the rest of the house. The important rooms—the living room, guest room, and both baths—looked fairly decent, much to his relief. It had been a while since he’d had anybody in to clean. Although why he was worrying about Laura Mc-Neal’s first impression of his house was beyond him.
On the drive from the city, he’d pretty well concluded that she was a hooker. She had to be. Nobody else would dress that way in the middle of the day. Nobody else would dress that way period.
He’d left her on the porch swing, happy as a three-year-old, smiling while she pushed the big wooden swing back and forth with the pointed toes of her impossibly high, rhinestone-studded heels. She struck him as unusually carefree for a working girl who was obviously out of work for the duration.
Unless she thought that he…
Sam had just opened the refrigerator door, but now he slammed it shut. He must be nuts, bringing this woman here. It had seemed so obvious, so perfect. An ideal hideout where he could keep a casual watch out for her while carrying on with his own life. What was he thinking?
Shaking his head, he opened the door again and grabbed two cans of diet cola. She was still blissfully swinging when he walked out on the porch. Fine host that he was, he popped the tab on her cola before he handed it to her.
“We need to talk, Miss McNeal. We need to get a few things clear.” He slung a hip up on the porch rail, staring down at her, blatantly ignoring her long shapely legs and world-class ankles. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”
“Why don’t you just call me Laura?”
“Okay, Laura. But that still doesn’t answer my question. Are you single? Married?”
“Single,” she replied, and Sam felt a sudden, inexplicable, almost goofy sense of relief. He immediately relegated it to the fact that he didn’t like working domestic disputes which tended to be ugly if not downright dangerous. People who loved each other could be the very worst of enemies.
“So you’re not trying to get away from an angry husband, then, I guess.”
“No.”
Sam sighed. He felt more like a dentist pulling teeth than a P.I. eliciting details from a client. “Who, then?”
“A man.”
He stared out at the yard a moment, courting patience, taking a break from the sight of her lovely legs. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, Miss, uh, Laura,” he finally said, “if you want me to help you with this situation.”
“A man who wants to marry me even though he barely knows me.”
Okay. So she wasn’t running away from her pimp. That still didn’t mean she wasn’t a hooker. One of her johns got emotionally involved no doubt. Somehow that didn’t surprise Sam. Laura McNeal was a beautiful woman. She had a face like an angel and a body custom-designed for sin. His own body, as a matter of fact, was acutely aware of hers at the moment. He took a swig from the soda can in the hope of cooling off.
“This man,” he said. “He’s a john, I assume.”
“No,” she answered, after a quick, confused blink. “He’s an Artie.”
Then it was Sam’s turn to blink. “Excuse me?”
She kicked off one shoe, then the other, and tucked about six miles of slender leg beneath her. “The man who hit me, the one who wants to marry me, is named Artie.”
“I meant, is he one of your customers?”
She shook her head, frowning. “No. Artie’s never…” Then her velvety blue eyes sparked with sudden comprehension. “That kind of john!” she exclaimed. “You think I’m a…a prostitute?”
“Well, I… You know.” He gestured to her minuscule dress and the discarded shoes. “The clothes and all.”
The swing started to rock back and forth with her laughter. “Oh, Sam. That is so funny. You thought I was a prostitute!”
He glowered now, feeling foolish, not to mention pretty inept in the deductive reasoning department, and nearly shouted, “Well, why the hell else would you wear a getup like that?”
“Because I own a vintage clothing store, that’s why.”
Sam thought she might have ended with “you idiot” but he wasn’t sure because, laughing as hard as she was, Laura could hardly get the words out clearly.
“This…” She touched the skimpy skirt of the dress. “…is because I was trying on some new merchandise when Artie showed up this morning. Then, after he hit me, I was out of there. I didn’t take time to change.”
“That was smart,” he said, hoping the praise would make her forget that he’d insulted her.
“Not smart so much as scared. Especially when he said, ‘If I can’t have you, then nobody else will, either.”’
Sam didn’t like the sound of that one bit, but he didn’t want to frighten this woman more than she already was. “And you think he means it?”
“I know he means it.” She touched her bruised eye, wincing slightly. “Oh, boy, does he mean it.”
“Artie what? What’s this creep’s last name?”
For an instant, she looked blank. Then her lips compressed and her gaze cut away from his for the briefest moment before coming back. “Jones,” she said. “The creep’s name is Artie Jones.”
Sam nodded and murmured, “Okay,” then took a long and thoughtful sip of his cola, all the while wondering why this woman felt compelled to lie to him—and badly, too—about her assailant’s name. And if that was a lie, he wondered just how much else about Laura McNeal he should allow himself to believe.
Chapter 2
Oh, good one, Laura!
Jones! She felt like smacking the heel of her hand to her forehead. If she intended to make up a different surname for Artie, couldn�
��t she at least have come up with something a little bit more original? Jones! She might as well have said Smith. The only thing the fake name had going for it was that she’d probably be able to remember it if Sam Zachary asked her again.
He probably would, too. She was sure of that. The private investigator had gone a little thin-lipped and slit-eyed when she’d answered his question, but there was no way on earth she was going to tell him the truth when the mere mention of the name Hammerman tended to make people sweat and develop uncontrollable tics. Even people as big as Sam Zachary.
For every one of his reputable businesses, Art “the Hammer” Hammerman probably had two or three disreputable ones. He was a landlord whose buildings often inexplicably burned down. He was a land developer whose notion of eminent domain included threats, poisoning family pets, and if necessary a well-aimed rifle shot through a kitchen window. A labor leader who had an endless supply of thugs to do his bidding and just enough cops and judges so he never got caught, or if caught, he certainly never went to jail.
But worst of all right now in Laura’s view, the Hammer had a son who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
She was following Sam into the house now after he’d told her it would be a good idea if she stayed here at least for a day or two until he could come up with a more suitable plan. That had sounded reasonable to Laura. She was even relaxing a bit, having come to the conclusion that if Sam had intended to assault and rape her, the man had already had ample opportunity and hadn’t made even a remotely devious or lecherous move. At least none that she was aware of.
Anyway, she wanted to stay.
The inside of the house turned out to be even more inviting than the exterior. The ancient hardwood floors had been lovingly cared for. So had the lace curtains at the windows, although they did look as if they could use a quick little dip in some bleach. There was a Victorian sofa with a carved mahogany back and fabulous claw feet, which was heaped with at least a dozen plump tapestry and needlepoint pillows into which Laura could’ve done an immediate swan dive.
Everywhere she looked were wonderful knick knacks and gewgaws and bits of kitsch. They sat on shelves, on crocheted doilies atop tables, on the antique what-not in the corner. Paperweights and porcelain figures. Vases and glass animals and Kewpie dolls. They marched across the mantel and formed chorus lines on all the windowsills. It was a collector’s paradise.
“I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Laura heard herself saying. “Look at all this magnificent stuff!”
Sam, with one foot already on the bottom step of a staircase, came to a standstill, then slowly turned to face her. “What? All this junk?”
“It’s not junk,” she said, almost indignantly. “What a marvelous place. It’s like living in…”
He snorted, interrupting her. “Secondhand Charlie’s Garage and Used Furniture Outlet.”
Laura shook her head. “No.” Her voice sounded disembodied, almost dreamy, even to her. “No, it’s like living in my Nana’s house. It’s perfect.”
“Perfect,” he muttered. “You’re kidding, right?”
She shook her head again. “It’s wonderful, Sam. How long have you lived here?”
“All my life.”
Edging back one sheer lacy curtain, Laura lifted a small white pot of violets from the sill and inspected its five, no, six deep purple blooms. She had a sudden vision of her grandmother’s fingers, stiff with arthritis and freckled with age, poking into the soil below the dark, velvety leaves of African violets. She could almost hear Nana’s chirpy voice. Don’t let their little feet dry out, Laura, honey.
Only then did she notice that there was moisture in the saucer attached to the pot. Sam Zachary, Pri vate Eye, watered African violets! Why that pleased her so much, Laura couldn’t have said. It was just…well…sweet somehow and far more domestic than she ever would have given him credit for, especially considering his ratty, run-down office in the city.
“You should probably feed this little guy, too,” she said almost to herself, putting the pot back on the sill, then turning to the man who was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. “All your life here. What a lucky, lucky man you are.”
Sam started up the stairs, listening to each familiar groan and creak, testing the give in the banister, thinking that he’d never felt like a lucky, lucky man. Ever. Well, not lately anyway. Not since Jenny Sayles’s car had slid through a guardrail on Highway A-14 and then crashed in the icy underbrush along Cabin Creek. When Jenny died, all his luck, both good and bad, had perished with her, and Sam had lived in a sort of luckless limbo ever since.
He turned left at the top of the stairs, then opened the door of the spare room which his mother had also used as a sewing room. The clutter inside rivaled that of the living room downstairs. Laura McNeal ought to be in hog heaven up here, he thought.
“This should be fairly comfortable,” he told her. “As far as I know, the bed’s hardly ever been slept in.”
She made a beeline for his mother’s ancient Singer sewing machine, still parked on a card table, and ran a hand over its worn black surface. He’d seen women look at diamonds or fur coats the same way, their eyes a little glazed, their faces touched with an in effable longing. But a sewing machine? Sam was half tempted to tell her to take the damned thing with her when she left, but then he was leery of whatever form her expression of gratitude might take.
“Well, I’ll just let you get settled in,” he said. “Bathroom’s just on the right. I won’t be in your way.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to keep out of your way, too.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m going to go take a look in the freezer and see if I have a nice little steak I can thaw out.”
“I really don’t expect you to feed me, too,” she said.
Sam lifted his index finger to touch his eye. “A medicinal steak.”
“Oh. Does that really work?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
He winked at her as he stepped back into the hall, and then descended the stairs muttering to himself. Winking! Good God. He never winked. Guys in polyester suits with gold chains around their necks winked. So he convinced himself it was just a sympathetic twitch, brought on no doubt from the pitiful sight of the woman’s purple shiner.
Laura only meant to test the bed. She woke up three hours later, startled at first by her strange surroundings, then comforted by the sight of the sewing machine. She stretched beneath the soft warmth of the granny afghan, then stopped midstretch, suddenly realizing that Sam Zachary must have come in and covered her with it while she was sleeping.
The Big Ben clock on the nightstand told her it was almost six o’clock. Her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since Artie Hammerman smashed his fist into her half eaten glazed doughnut this morning just before he’d smashed it into her face. She lay there for a moment, refusing to even contemplate her predicament, while from somewhere downstairs came the clattering of pots and pans and the metallic rattling of silverware and the occasional thud of a refrigerator door.
She smelled coffee, too, and lay there imagining the beguiling fragrance wafting up the staircase like wavy banners in a cartoon. Her stomach growled. Hadn’t Sam Zachary said something about a steak?
For lack of a comb, she ran her fingers through her hair, at the same time deciding not to get anywhere near the oval mirror above the antique dresser for fear of sending herself into a deep depression. If her eye looked anything like it felt, which was awful, she didn’t even want to see it.
Laura had trotted halfway down the staircase, still listening to kitchen noises, when it suddenly occurred to her that it might not be Sam Zachary who was making all that decidedly domestic racket. He had inquired about her marital status, she recalled, but she hadn’t asked him if he was married, had she? Instead she’d just assumed—maybe even vaguely hoped—he wasn’t.
“Stupid,” she muttered, wrenching her tight skirt into line and tucking in her chin to check for any undue ex
posure. She did the best she could to disguise her cleavage, then sighed. It probably didn’t matter. As a private investigator’s wife, Mrs. Sam Zachary had no doubt seen her share of weirdos and woebegone people. Laura was feeling a bit of both when she reached the bottom of the stairs and turned left, past the dining room, in order to search out the kitchen.
Sam was standing at the sink, his back to the door while his wide shoulders almost blocked out the light from the blue gingham-curtained window. Gingham apron strings from a big floppy bow in the center of his back dangled over his decidedly iron buns. Sam Zachary in an apron! If there was a Mrs. Zachary, Laura thought, the woman definitely belonged in the matrimonial hall of fame.
“Hey,” she said, stepping into the room.
“Hey.” He turned sideways just enough to give her a glimpse of the ruffles on the apron’s bib. “You fell asleep.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to.”
“No problem. Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Good,” he said. “You’re in charge of the salad.” He picked up a white plastic colander and held it out in her direction. “The garden’s out the back door to the left. There are tomatoes and onions and radishes, a couple of early peppers, and maybe even some endive left.”
Laura grasped the colander, trying not to let her expression betray the fact that she hadn’t the vaguest idea what endive looked like. Especially on the hoof, so to speak. Jeez. Didn’t they have supermarkets around here?
“Back in a jiffy,” she said as she pushed open the screen door and stepped outside where she inhaled a long draught of the clean country air ever-so-slightly tinged with roses. It was nice, she thought, not to breathe bus fumes and three-day-old garbage. She was going to enjoy this little vacation.
