by Deeanne Gist
He smiled. She even spoke in dog metaphors. “Then let me go with you, at least.”
“No. I need to do it. I . . . I want to do it. And tonight I’m going to give Toro a nice long walk. At least I still have him to take care of.”
“Okay,” he said. “But I want to see you. I have something for you.”
After they hung up, he stared at an e-mail from Seth asking for an update.
His phone rang. He grabbed it before the ring stopped.
“Honey, it’s Mom. I’m watching the news. It looks like the girl you told your father about has been released from jail.”
“Yeah.” He should have thought to call them earlier. He looked at his watch. “How ’bout I come by for dinner and get ya’ll caught up?”
“I’ll set you a place.”
After dinner, Dad pushed back from the table, leading Logan through the sliding doors out to the backyard. The cicadas outside were loud enough to drown out his thoughts. He wondered how he’d grown up without really hearing them. Maybe his brain had tuned out the familiar frequency. Now he couldn’t block them out.
“That was some pretty heavy stuff you laid on us,” Dad said. “I’d be lying if I said I still wasn’t a little concerned about this girl.”
Logan looked down into a sweating glass of iced tea.
“But if you’re serious about her . . .” Dad gave him a sideways look. “You are serious, aren’t you, son?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I am.”
Dad nodded and they wandered over to the fire pit, one of Dad’s more recent improvement projects. Logan sat on the stone wall ringing the pit, while his father gazed up at the pinprick of stars overhead. For a while, the communication was nonverbal.
Logan sensed Dad’s anxiety. Through the kitchen window, he could see his mother clearing the table, her movements sharp and deliberate. He couldn’t tell for certain, but he imagined her lips moving. Was she talking to herself or praying?
“What about Mom?” he asked.
“She’d like to meet the girl. We both would. And she’s naturally worried that you might be in over your head.”
Logan studied the ice in his glass. “Is that what you think?”
“Well, the days when I could just tell you what to do are long past. But I trust you to do the right thing, son. And whatever you choose, you know we’ll always support you. Just be careful, you hear?”
“I hear.”
When they went back inside, they found Mom standing at the kitchen island, a dish towel in her hands. “I meant to tell you how good it was to see you at church again, Logan. And you seemed to enjoy the message and seeing all your friends afterwards.”
“Yeah. Pastor Anderson’s sermons always challenge me. But I wasn’t visiting afterwards so much as drumming up some business for Rylee. Since the news broke, a lot of her clients bailed on her. She’s got her grandmother to support, and I know things have been tight. So I was seeing if anyone was looking for a dogwalker or pet sitter or something.”
Mom gave Dad a quick glance, then brushed a lock of hair from her face. “And you’re, um, sure she’s trustworthy?”
Leaning over, he gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m positive. Don’t worry, Mom. She really is a good girl. You’re gonna love her.”
He parked on South Battery and walked along to the monument where he’d first met Rylee. The time was right, more or less, assuming she hadn’t deviated from her schedule due to the sudden dearth of clients. He set the white box from Ben Silver on a bench. Then waited.
A couple passed by arm in arm, oblivious to his presence. Some time later, a group of men in Hawaiian shirts and straw hats strolled past, cigars trailing smoke behind them. He checked his watch again, suspecting the errand was in vain.
But the sound of rollerblades on uneven cobbles caught his attention.
He turned as she emerged into the light, the big dog charging ahead on its leash. Her cotton dress flapped in the wind, outlining her strong thighs. Her earbuds were in, and she gave no sign of recognition. As they drew closer, he expected her to pass him by. At the last minute, she gave the leash a graceful tug, then circled to a halt just in front of him.
“I’ve got half a mind to sic my dog on you—for old times’ sake,” she said.
“I’ve got half a mind to let you.”
She jutted out her bottom lip. He was tempted to snare it in his teeth. Not the most appropriate of icebreakers.
“You been waiting long?”
“I would’ve waited all night if I had to. Like I said, I have something for you.” He leaned over and opened the white box, turning it so she could see.
She rolled forward, eyes wide, hands pressed together, fingertips resting against her lip. “What’s that?”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like a dress. What’s it for?”
“This weekend, I’m going to a reception. I have to bring a date.”
She looped the leash around the bench’s arm, then bent over the box to take a closer look. She ran her hand over the green dupioni silk, then drew back. “This is for me?”
“Who else?”
She gave her mouth a skeptical twist. “How would you even know my size?”
He smiled. “I thought I could just sort of describe you.” He drew an hourglass in the air. “But that didn’t work out so good. So I called Liz and she told me. I hope you like it.”
She tucked her hands under her armpits, as if she were afraid to touch it. “No one’s ever given me a dress before.”
“I’ve never given anyone a dress before. Do you like it?”
She fixed her big eyes on him, saying nothing.
He angled the box toward her. “Have a look.”
After another few seconds, she finally reached for it, shaking the fabric free and pressing it daintily against her body. She pushed it close around the hips, imagining the fit. The silk shimmered in the dim light, swishing softly in the breeze.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
She rolled toward him, a smile on her lips. “I think we’re going to a party.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Instead of the stereotypical red roses, he chose a dozen pink ones, the petals delicate as hand-painted china. The aroma filled the car, making him light-headed.
Liz opened the door when he knocked. “Look at you. So dapper. And you brought flowers—they’re beautiful!”
She turned toward the bedroom door and shouted. “Rylee? Logan’s here.”
Liz stepped back, allowing him in. Also giving him his first glance of the fabled pirate barmaid outfit, consisting of a short, clingy shift and a bodice cinched tight enough to squeeze cleavage out of a tree trunk. There were knee-high boots, too, with skyscraper heels and a hundred yards of lacing.
She plopped onto the futon and started tying the laces. “The dress you bought her is perfect. She’s been so discouraged because no one would hire her, but now she’s floating on a cloud.”
He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, wondering whether Rylee had heard her shout.
“I told my manager about her,” Liz said, “and of course he said he’d hire her in a minute. Always room for another Yo-Ho-Ho.”
Logan gave the outfit another glance. Over my dead body.
The bedroom door opened and Rylee glided toward him. Her lips glistened, her hair shone with a dark gloss. The green silk dress wrapped her body with glove-like grace. Over the skirt, a filmy gossamer layer floated about her hips, shimmering as she moved. She’d gathered the sash to one side, the ends hanging down in a waterfall.
“You brought me roses?”
“I hope you like them.”
She gathered the flowers with a serene smile, inhaling the scent.
“I love them. Thank you, Logan.”
“You look . . . amazing.”
She held the flowers to one side and twirled for him. “You like?”
You have no idea. He nodded.
“I’ll
put these in some water,” Liz said, exchanging the flowers for a clutch purse. “You two get going.”
Rylee tugged one rose free, then touched her cheek to Liz’s.
“Thanks for everything.”
“It was fun. I love playing beauty shop.”
Logan opened the door, waited for Rylee to pass through, then turned back to Liz.
“Thanks for helping with the dress,” he said, giving her a thumbs-up.
“Thanks for helping with the friend.”
Her first five minutes in the condominium redefined the meaning of the word. Two stories connected with a sweeping staircase, a wall of windows looking out over the harbor at twilight, glittering dresses and clouds of perfume, air kisses and peals of laughter.
Live music wouldn’t have surprised her, but instead the party’s soundtrack came courtesy of a disc jockey by the impromptu bar, who spun the same throbbing European techno heard in the King Street designer boutiques.
The hostess greeted them with the kind of placid facial serenity that betokens an excellent plastic surgeon, living out her early fifties like a porcelain doll of herself at thirty, blinking eyes and a fixed smile. “Any friend of Lacey’s,” she said, patting Logan with an incongruously veined hand.
Rylee smiled, relieved the woman hadn’t recognized her from the news accounts.
Moving through the partygoers, she felt like Cinderella in the most beautiful dress at the ball. Hopefully, no one else would recognize her either. She clung tighter to Logan’s arm.
Talking over the music, catching half of what was said but nodding at everything, they wound their way deeper inside, heading toward the windows for a better look at the view.
“This is incredible,” she said.
He leaned closer, cupping a hand to his ear.
“I said, it’s incredible.”
“It’s funny to live here all your life, then feel like you’re seeing the place for the first time.”
She squeezed his hand in agreement.
He bent to her ear. “You having fun?”
She nodded. “I am.”
“Well, I tell you what.” He settled his hand at the lower curve of her back. “When all this is over and we can breathe again, I’ll take you to lots of parties—and not because I’m on assignment.”
She smiled. “I just might take you up on that.”
A hint of cigar smoke tickled her nose. She glanced over her shoulder. “Logan, look.”
He turned around. A group of men had circled up, all in tuxedos, with an assortment of cocktails in their hands. Among them was Marcel Gibbon.
“What’s he doing here?” Logan asked.
Gibbon looked up and narrowed his eyes at Logan, then cut them sideways for a leer at Rylee.
She brushed at her dress, pretending she hadn’t noticed.
Gibbon slapped the man beside him on the shoulder, then excused himself and made his way over, a cigar and whiskey pinched between the fingers of his right hand.
“They let you smoke in here?” Logan asked.
Gibbon ignored him. “Well, Miss Monroe, it’s always a pleasure.”
He stopped directly across from her, his eyes working their way from the ground up, as invasive as a touch.
She gave him a disinterested glare.
Grabbing her hand, Logan pulled her just behind his shoulder.
“You ditched us the other night. I want to know why. I’m guessing you had a reason to want us at the park?”
Gibbon stuck the cigar in his mouth, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. He obviously enjoyed the effect he had on her and the protectiveness he evoked in Logan. “I’d really like to be forthcoming and all, but I’ve learned over the years to be circumspect in my dealings. In other words, I don’t go shooting my mouth off. Who’s to say you’re not wearing a wire?”
“You want to check?” Logan started taking off his jacket.
Gibbon turned his full attention to Rylee. “How about you, Miss Monroe?”
Logan froze. “We’re not wired and you know it.”
“Maybe not, but you are writing a book.”
“Yes, I am. And you need to decide whether you want to be one of the good guys or the bad guys.”
“One of the bad guys, certainly.”
“The kind people love, or the kind they hate? Or the kind they love to hate?”
Gibbon gave him an indulgent smile. “If you think I’ll spill everything out of a desire to come off well in this book of yours, well . . . you’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself.”
“You told me if I connected the items Robin Hood is stealing, I would find the perpetrator. Well, I’ve connected them. They all belonged to Jon Monroe and were sold off by Grant Sebastian.”
Rylee gave Logan a sharp look.
Gibbon swirled the drink in his hand, clinking the ice against the glass. “Ah. We’re getting warmer, I see.”
“Grant’s also living in the Monroes’ house.”
Rylee sucked in her breath. Logan squeezed her hand in reassurance.
Gibbon gave him a speculative look. “Well, well. I’m impressed.”
“I can’t help thinking you’re mixed up in this. First, you were running interference for George. Then you set up this bogus meet—”
“Bogus?” Gibbon smiled. “I’d have kept our date, Logan, if you’d shown up alone.”
“You told me to bring her.”
Gibbon looked at Rylee. “It’s not her I’m talking about.”
“Then you’d better enlighten me.”
He took a pull on the cigar, his eyes piercing Logan’s with a meaning Rylee couldn’t hope to decipher.
Logan reared back. “Are you saying we were followed?”
“I’m not saying anything.” He started to walk away, then paused. “By the way, I’d prefer to be the kind of bad guy people love to hate.”
He made his way up the stairs, slipping past the guest of honor, who gazed moodily into his champagne glass, looking as if he would have preferred to be anywhere but a society party. On the second floor, Gibbon lost himself in the crowd.
“What did you mean about Mr. Sebastian living in my house?”
Rylee asked. “You can’t mean the one on East Battery. The one he’s lived in for as long as I can remember. The one I’ve been in and out of this whole time I was walking Romeo. Was that my house, Logan? The one I was born in?”
“Logan?” The curator from Gibbes Museum approached with a smile, her brown hair bouncing attractively at her shoulders. “Have you decided to give up crime reporting for the art section?”
“Angela. Good to see you again.” Logan introduced Rylee to the young brunette who’d given him a crash course on Charles Fraser.
They spent the next hour mingling and gathering sound bites for the article Logan had been assigned. Rylee smiled and nodded, but heard nothing other than Logan’s words to Gibbon whirling round and round in her head.
She constantly scanned the crowd for Marcel, but the man had completely disappeared.
When they finally broke free of their obligations, she steered Logan toward a quiet corner. “I want to know what’s going on.”
He pulled her close for a quick kiss, concern creasing his face.
“Let’s get out of here and I’ll explain everything.”
Emerging into the balmy night, he pulled her down the sidewalk, looking at her every few seconds.
What did he expect to see, she wondered. Her breaking down and crying, shrieking at the moon, confessing she didn’t know who she could trust anymore?
She slowed her stride. Slower, slower, until they were barely moving.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She inhaled the sultry night air. “Is Mr. Sebastian involved with Robin Hood?”
He stopped and pulled her against him. Held her.
“Logan?” Her voice came out in a squeak.
His hand touched the back of her neck, her head, pressing her tight into his shoulder.
&
nbsp; How much time passed? She didn’t know. When she pulled away, his jacket was wet.
They walked to his car, fingers twined together, bodies swaying side by side. She could feel him thinking, searching for words. Instead of opening her car door, he settled against the hood, drawing her between his knees.
“How much do you know?” he asked.
“That the statue for sure and possibly the violin, the brooch and maybe even the jewelry casket are pictured in Nonie’s albums.”
“The jewelry casket? Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything. I have the album in my trunk. I can show you.”
He brought their hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “Did you know Grant brokered the estate sale for your grandmother after your parents . . . were gone?”
“Yes. But I didn’t know he was living in my house. Nonie never said a word. Maybe she was waiting until I got older and by the time I was, she’d stopped making sense. Whenever she does talk about the past, though, it’s always the distant world of her own childhood, not mine.”
The party began to break up, guests streaming past, paying them no mind.
She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “Surely you don’t think Grant Sebastian is mixed up in all this? He wasn’t even here.”
“He’s got something to do with it, Rylee.”
“He’s been nothing but good to me, Logan. He’s taken care of me when there was no one else.”
He said nothing.
She smoothed the silk at her stomach and hips, obsessively stroking the shimmering fabric. “Do you think that, that my dad is involved?”
He reared back. “Your dad? I don’t know. The thought hadn’t occurred to me.”
She nodded. “Logan, Marcel mentioned your book. He made it sound like it was about the Robin Hood burglaries. I thought your book was already written. That it was about past crimes and you were shopping it around for a publisher.”
He stroked her hair, rubbing its short ends between his fingers.
“The Robin Hood burglaries play a role in the book.” He moved his gaze to hers. “A pretty big role.”
“And me?” she asked, holding her breath. “Do I play a role in your book?”
“No. No, you don’t.”
