Glass Houses

by Stella Cameron

  “You like him, don’t you?” Aiden said.

  “I’m British,” Olivia told him.

  He nodded, and chuckled. “And that’s all the answer I should need, of course.”

  Just being near him started a weak feeling in her legs. His long, lean, strong body had an aura that was tangible to Olivia. He didn’t have to touch her to make her feel touched. The fragile, exposed sensation crept into her belly and sought out deep places.

  But she would not allow him to decide what was best for her. Her seat on the evening’s one flight to London was booked. So was the taxi that would wait for her on the street above the Talons’ property.

  While Aiden watched, Boss swam, snatched the stick between his teeth, and headed toward shore. Aiden shouted, “Attaboy.” Olivia might think it the most normal thing in the world for her to be comfortable with the animal, but Boss made most people nervous. She met the dog and wrestled over the stick until Boss decided to let her have it. He started back out and she threw the stick again.

  “I’m going to walk a bit,” Aiden said. “Will you come?” She kept her face to the water, but nodded, and eventually joined him. He threaded her hand beneath his arm and held it tight to his side.

  “How can you look so well turned out in someone else’s sweatsuit?” she asked. “These togs make me into a sack.”

  “They don’t fit you. The sweatsuit does fit me—more or less. And I like the way you look. I like it that you don’t fuss over yourself.”

  “I do sometimes,” she told him. “I can quite enjoy dressing up on occasion.”

  Aiden smiled to himself. In other words, he was not to jump to conclusions about her. “I’m sure you can. I hope you and I can get dressed up and go somewhere special before too long. Like regular human beings.”

  She didn’t answer. Boss’s arrival gave her an excuse to shift the attention from herself. “You are a wonderful dog,” she told the self-satisfied, wet fifth wheel. “You can do anything. And you are so handsome.”

  Panting, for all the world as if he was preening himself in the glow of Olivia’s praise, Boss pranced ahead. He stopped every few strides to make sure they were following, then ran up the steps to the boathouse.

  “The boathouse,” Aiden said, taking Olivia’s fingers to his lips and nibbling her knuckles. “No fool, my dog. He can probably smell traces of passion.”

  “Don’t,” Olivia said.

  Aiden ducked to see her bowed face and put an arm around her. “You’re embarrassed,” he said, swaying her against him. “I keep thinking I’ve turned you into a woman of the world, but it doesn’t stick. I guess you need more lessons.”

  “Aiden.”

  “Aiden,” he mimicked, observing how Boss ran in and out of the boathouse, showing his teeth all the way to his considerable molars, and panting encouragement. “He wants us to go in there.”

  “We’re not,” Olivia said firmly. “Get down here, Boswell. Cover your teeth, they’re blinding me.”

  The dog disappeared inside again. “Now look what you’ve done,” Aiden said. “You’ve embarrassed him, too. I’ll just have to go up and see if I can soothe his feelings. He’s not as young as he used to be.”

  Olivia wanted to go, too. With every step Aiden climbed, she longed to climb with him, but if she did, the outcome was inevitable. They might not actually make love, given the fact that Sonnie was up and about in the house—and because there were serious plans to pull off in the near future—but they wouldn’t be able to resist each other completely.

  Aiden went inside the boathouse.

  For several moments Olivia stood at the bottom of the steps, several moments before she followed him.

  He stood at the lake end of the building, looking over the polished steel water. The sun hadn’t stuck around, and although the fog had dissipated, a swell rose but never broke the surface, creating a mysterious softness that threatened to become fuzzy again with the already fading light.

  Olivia peered around. “Where’s Boswell?”

  “Swimming,” he said. “It’s cold. Go on back to the house and get something hot to drink. Sonnie needs company, too.”

  His abrupt change in mood didn’t go unnoticed by Olivia. “Sonnie’s resting, I don’t feel like going in yet.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I told you to go inside.”

  Olivia felt shocked. She also felt annoyed. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Probably nothing. Please do as you’re told. It’s for your own good.”

  A splashing preceded the appearance of Boswell, who bobbed up from beneath the planking that stretched above the water inside the boathouse. Instantly, Aiden dropped down and stretched out until he could hold the dog’s collar and take something from his mouth.

  Olivia advanced slowly, step by step. “Is he all right? I’m not a ninny, you know. Let me help with him.”

  Aiden stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Please, go to the house and call Chris. Ask him to come. Say I could use his help.”

  A cell phone stuck out of Aiden’s back pocket. “Do you know his number by heart?” she asked.

  “Yes. But it’s beside the phone.”

  “I’ll use your cell phone and you can tell me what number to call.”

  That earned her another hostile stare. “Okay, have it your way. Sit on that bench and don’t move. Don’t say a word until I tell you it’s okay.”

  Olivia sat down.

  Almost as quickly, she stood up again. What Aiden had taken from Boswell’s mouth was a loop of rope. At a command from Aiden, the dog clambered from the water and shook himself mightily, never taking his attention from his master.

  Aiden hauled on the rope, making slow progress. He peered beneath the decking, reached underneath, and struggled with something. He hauled again.

  Into sight came a sodden, rounded heap. Boswell ran back and forth, setting up a howl that chilled Olivia to the spine. An unearthly howl.

  “I want you to get out of here,” Aiden said. “For me. Please.”

  She didn’t even let him know she’d heard him. Instead she knelt beside him and reached out to take hold of the rope that encircled the dark, shiny mass. “Two are stronger than one,” she said. “I can pull, too.”

  Aiden’s response was to push her aside roughly enough to send her sprawling. He dragged on the line, towed in what it secured, stood up, and braced his legs to heave the burden out of the water.

  “Oh,” Olivia said. “Oh, Aiden. It’s—it’s covered with blood.” The water that gushed onto the wood spread a rusty stain. The shininess she’d seen was congealed blood spread over a big sack tied at the top.

  “There’s a body in there,” she whispered. “A dead body. I’m sure of it.”

  “If you get bludgeoned—maybe—stuffed in a bag and submerged in water for however long, I guess you might be dead.” He sounded different, cold and calm. “Now are you ready to get away from here?”

  “I’m ready to have you stop treating me like an hysterical female. Turn it over. We don’t have time to waste here. This is sad, but let’s deal with it and move on. It’s nothing to do with us.”

  His next stare held amazement, but he did turn the body over. The sack had been secured over the head, and even though it was sodden, it was evident that whoever was inside had done a lot of bleeding.

  Aiden gave Olivia his phone. “I’m tampering with evidence, but I don’t know this is a death until I see it, do I?”

  “Of course not,” Olivia agreed. Her gag reflex was kicking in.

  He wrenched the rope from the top of the bag and peeled it down.

  Olivia couldn’t remain standing. She slid to sit on the dock.

  Aiden used his hand to carefully wipe mud and blood from the corpse’s face and short gray hair.

  Fats Lemon’s eyes were open.

  The phone rang as they entered the house. “Yeah,” Aiden said into the mouthpiece.

  “It’s Vanni. Get to the computer.”

 
“I’m on my way.”

  He ran up the stairs with Olivia pounding behind him. He’d left Chris’s computer on, and he dashed into the study to refresh the screen.

  “You there?” Vanni said.

  “Yeah. Bringing it up.”

  “We’ve got two choices. Either you get back here to New York, tell the truth, and pray they believe you. Or you keep out of sight until you can get on that plane in a few hours— and pray you aren’t stopped. We need breathing room to try to salvage you, friend.”

  “Is there any talk about knowing where I am or what my plans are?”

  “No. They’re still looking for you in the Chicago area. See the post?”

  “Got it.” He opened a piece of mail from Vanni and saw the same setup as before; Ryan quoting MustangMan and adding his own cryptic comments:

  “I warned you what would happen if I didn’t get what I want, Ryan,” Aiden Flynn had supposedly written. “I didn’t, and it has. You’ll be working solo now.”

  Olivia smothered a cry, and Aiden would have liked to give a good yell himself. “I get it now, partner,” he said. “I choose the second option. Wally Loder will be on that plane for London tonight, thanks.”

  “I think you should come in.”

  “And face murder charges? I don’t think so. I need to be where I can take Ryan Hill down. I’m being framed for killing Fats Lemon.”

  Twenty-six

  “I thought this client was Japanese,” Rupert said. “You always said he was.” He had waited to see if the coachman in charge of the horse-drawn carriage they’d hired would help them aboard. He hadn’t, so Rupert was climbing in.

  Winnie gave him a good poke in the rear from behind and said, “Keep your voice down, you twerp.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you a twerp is a pregnant fish, Winnie? Your powers of recall are failing.” Rupert flopped down on a cracked, black-leather seat beneath a telescoping hood that reminded him of the type one saw on British babies’ perambulators.

  Puffing mightily, Winnie clambered up to join him. His face very red, he leaned over Rupert. “You foolish little man. Do I care if I occasionally give you an opportunity to parade what small, completely insignificant scraps of trivia you manage to retain? This is entirely your fault. If you had done what you should have done in the first place, none of this unpleasantness would have happened and we wouldn’t be staring into the jaws of financial ruin—if not of the grave.”

  Rupert refused to be intimidated. There was no longer a hierarchy between Fish and Moody. They were both heading for disaster. “I thought we were going to meet a Japanese gentleman at The Dakota, not take an evil-smelling carriage drawn by an evil-smelling horse presided over by a most probably evil-smelling keeper, or whatever he is. And then go searching for someone who absolutely is not Japanese. And when it’s getting dark. In Central Park!”

  The huge coachman, wearing a bowler hat and long, black coat, heaved himself into a driver’s seat intended for someone much smaller. He perched there with his knees jackknifed, like a vast toad. He had long, shiny black hair that flowed over his coat collar, and a glossy green feather looked incongruous tucked into his hatband.

  “Imagine,” Rupert said, “wearing a feather in a bowler hat.”

  “Commence, if you please,” Winnie said loudly. “Make your way to Tavern on the Green but be prepared to stop if you’re told to do so.”

  Rupert stared at the back of the man’s head. “Damndest thing,” he murmured. “You’d think he didn’t understand a word. Don’t tip him, Winnie.”

  Winston turned up the collar on his jacket, crossed his arms, and tucked his hands into his armpits. “You don’t know this man we’re meeting isn’t Japanese, you know. Damn, it’s cold. I hope he shows up quickly.”

  “When was the last time you met a Japanese called Fanelli?”

  Winston flapped a hand. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Might think it makes it easier to do business here with a name like that. Or Fanelli may be a go-between for the Japanese.”

  “Mr. Hasaki wouldn’t call himself Fanelli. And he wouldn’t send someone with the name of Fanelli without explaining why. I say we get out of this thing now and catch the next flight home.”

  Winnie clapped a pudgy hand to his brow. “And lose this wonderful opportunity to explain that we do business in good faith and that we’re as much the victims of criminal activity as he is? And that we hope to put everything right very soon?”

  Sometimes Winnie made remarkably good sense. “There is that, old chap. I say, keep steady up there, will you? You’ve got the horse wandering all over the place.”

  The man didn’t reply and the horse continued to wander. “I could walk faster than this,” Rupert continued. “Say something to him, Winnie. Remind him he hasn’t been paid yet.”

  “Have you looked at the size of him?” Winnie said. “I’m not telling him anything.”

  They’d caught the carriage on the East Side, at 59th Street, and had already traveled a fair distance into the park. He wanted this over with. “There’s a mounted policeman, Winnie,” he said through his teeth. “Do you think he’s looking for us?”

  Winston shook his head slowly and took off his glasses to clean them. “No, I don’t think so. I think he’s too busy expecting people to be looking at him.”

  “Bloody great horse,” Rupert noted. “Poor devil, being lumbered with that.”

  “I imagine mounted officers get the animal they’re given.”

  “I was talking about the horse.”

  “Ah.”

  “That fellow’s enormous and covered with creaking leather. Probably thinks he’s a ruddy storm trooper. Boots and all. Oh, my gawd, he’s wearing a gun in plain sight, on a horse. An outrage, that’s what it is.”

  “All the police are armed in this country.”

  “I know that.” Rupert shrank as far into the corner of the seat as possible while the horse and rider passed. “Animals are sensitive to these things. They smell fear and danger. Don’t tell me a gun doesn’t give off an odor of threat.”

  “Drop it. And stop stuffing those crumbs into your pockets. It’s a disgusting habit.”

  Very deliberately, Rupert bit on the baguette he was carrying. He chewed and while he did so gathered crumbs from his trouser legs and popped them into a jacket pocket.

  Winnie sighed, but his nostrils twitched and Rupert took pleasure in the thought that his partner was salivating at the odor of fresh bread.

  The carriage made a sharp right turn and set off at a brisker pace.

  “Is this the right way?” Winnie said to Rupert. He pulled out a small map of the park and studied it. “No, it is not. I say. You up there. Turn around at once. You’re going the wrong way.”

  The man’s response was to hunker down low between his splayed knees and slap the reins against the horse’s back to make him break into a trot.

  Rupert tried to see ahead, but the horse continued to weave his way, only much faster. The effect was disorienting.

  Another abrupt turn, this one to the left, and they were on a narrow track between dense, wintry-looking undergrowth fronting leafless oaks.

  The dusk was deepening. Winnie grasped Rupert’s hand.

  The wheels ground more slowly; the horse mounted a verge and came to a standstill. And a tall, exceedingly thin man stepped from the cover of some bushes. “I’m Fanelli,” he said, and got into the carriage. He sat on the same seat with Winston and Rupert, forcing them to huddle together, and said, “You know where to go, Moroni. All the way in, then sit tight till I say.”

  Rather than set off up the track again, Moroni set a veering course into a gap that didn’t look wide enough. It wasn’t, but they forced a path and drove away from what civilization they’d left behind until they broke into a clearing. In the center, the trunk of a single massive old oak rose to naked and gnarled branches.

  “Out,” Fanelli said.

  “Out?” Rupert and Winston echoed, looking at each other. They
turned to see Fanelli and repeated, “Out?”

  Fanelli’s response was to raise an evil-looking gun made of a pale metal that resembled stainless steel.

  Rupert made to get out of the carriage but was stopped by Winston, who pushed him against the back of the seat, scrambled over him, and fell to the ground. He leaped up with his hands raised.

  “You’ve dropped your specs,” Rupert told him.

  Fanelli barked out, “Where you’re goin’ you don’t need no specs, fatty. Keep your hands up. Now you, bread man. Out.”

  Still clutching his baguette, Rupert did as he was told.

  “You, too, Moroni.” Fanelli followed and circled them slowly. “You don’t look like much.”

  “We’re not,” Winston said in a rush. “We’re not a thing, really. But we’re honest, upright businessmen who—”

  “Got took,” Fanelli finished for him. “Where did I hear that one before, Moroni? You heard that one before?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  The formerly mute mountain had lumbered from the driver’s seat and stood a few feet distant with his feet spread and his gloved hands crossed in front of him. He had a full, red face, bushy brows, and large, eerily soulful dark eyes.

  His voice was high-pitched.

  Rupert filled his mouth with bread and munched. Fanelli’s face looked like a skeleton’s with yellowish skin stretched over it. His almost-black eyes protruded, and he rolled a toothpick from one side of his thin-lipped mouth to the other.

  “Mr. Fanelli,” Winston said, “I am a man under siege. My misfortune is my kind heart. If I had not gone against my better judgment by continuing to champion this ungrateful oaf, we wouldn’t be standing here today.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Most certainly. I took him in and gave him a chance when he couldn’t get a start anywhere else. But he turned on me. It pains me to say this, but I would understand if you found it necessary to punish him.”

  Rupert bit and chewed, bit and chewed. Winston couldn’t possibly mean what he was suggesting. There had to be an escape plan he was trying to pull off—for both of them.

  “What did he do, exactly?” Fanelli asked.

  Winston spread his fingers. “I sent him to the woman to… buy… er, something.”