He had to admit that she looked good. If he had just walked into the room, he'd have no idea that she was wearing a Speedo bathing suit and probably a small truckload of beach sand underneath her neatly conservative clothing. She looked sun-kissed and gorgeous as usual—her cheeks and delicate, slightly upturned nose a bit more rosy than the rest of her heart-shaped face.
Her short dark hair was probably salty from her trip to the beach, but it looked as if she'd spent quite a bit of time in front of the bathroom mirror with gel and a hair dryer to achieve that windswept look.
She looked every inch the professional, down to the yellow legal pad she'd pulled out of her desk drawer.
“Before we get into the details of your case,” she said, opening a file drawer in her desk and taking out what looked like a standard contract form, “I'd like you to understand what my rates are. Seventy-five dollars an hour, one hundred dollars for travel hours and time over twelve hours per day. Should you decide to sign a contract with me today, I'll require a thousand-dollar retainer. In return, I'll provide you with a full accounting of my time, efforts, and expenses, plus all information I uncover in the course of this investigation.”
Clayton Alan Quinn took out his checkbook, not batting an eye. “I'll write the retainer for five thousand,” he said, “because I suspect you'll need more than a few days to find the fellow I'm looking for. In fact, if you can manage to get the job done in one week's time, I'll give you a ten-thousand-dollar bonus on top of your fee.”
Simon heard Frankie's voice shake only a tiny bit. In fact, Quinn probably didn't even notice. “And if I get the job done in less than a week?”
Quinn laughed. “We'll work something out.”
Frankie nodded. “Who exactly are you looking for, Mr. Quinn?”
“Clay,” Quinn corrected her with a smile as he tore the check from his leather checkbook and placed it on the desk in front of her. “Please, call me Clay. I'm looking for a man named John.”
Frankie slipped the check into the top drawer of her desk, not even glancing in Simon's direction. He knew that ten thousand dollars was more than half of her last year's earnings. How had she sat there with a straight face discussing ten-thousand-dollar bonuses?
Yet Clay seemed to believe that she was worth it. The real test was to come—when she actually had to solve the case. In less than a week's time.
Simon watched as she made a note on her pad.
John. She looked up at Clay Quinn, her bottomless dark eyes wide. “John …. who?”
Clay chuckled ruefully. “That's the problem. I don't know the man's last name.”
Frankie sat back in her chair. “Maybe you'd better explain.”
“I'm the executor of my great-aunt's will. She owned a vacation home here on Sunrise Key.”
Frankie shot Simon a quick look, and he knew what she was thinking. They both knew everyone who owned property on the tiny island, and all of the homeowners were alive and healthy. Except for one ….
“Is your great-aunt Alice Winfield?” Frankie asked, sitting forward.
“Yes, that's right.”
“But she died more than eight years ago. We'd assumed her property here on the key had simply changed hands—”
“Eight years ago she had a massive stroke,” Clay told Frankie. “She never fully recovered, and last month she finally died.”
“She was alive until last month?” Frankie stared at Clay Quinn as if he were evil incarnate instead of the man who'd just handed her a five-thousand-dollar retainer. “Why was no one on Sunrise Key notified? Alice Winfield had friends here, Mr. Quinn—friends who would have written to her at the very least!”
Clay held up his hands as if to ward off a potential physical attack. “I'm sorry. I didn't even know Great-Aunt Alice had a house down here until after she was gone.”
Frankie turned to Simon, and he saw that she actually had tears in her eyes. Man, she was an emotional fireball. She always had been. Quick to accuse, quick to throw down a challenge, quick to the defense, quick to attack. But also equally quick to forgive and forget.
Gazing into her emotion-moistened brown eyes, Simon found himself wondering not for the first time what Frankie would be like in bed. Not for the first time? Hell, not even for the first time today. What it would be like to make love to Francine Paresky was something that he'd wondered almost every single day for the past twelve years. And lately it seemed as if he were wondering it with more and more frequency. Like when she startled him by stripping down to her bathing suit right in front of him, the way she had upstairs not more than a few minutes earlier. Like when he saw her walking toward him on Ocean Avenue. Or when she smiled. When he heard the husky sound of her laughter or the velvet-soft rise and flow of her southern accent. When he woke up in the morning. When he fell asleep at night ….
“You remember Alice Winfield, don't you, Si?” she asked.
He could picture her in that sexy-as-hell black dress, the soft fabric clinging to her lithe body— an incredible body she was careful always to keep hidden beneath baggy T-shirts, loose shorts, and utilitarian bathing suits. He could picture her without the dress—her mouth hungry, her fingers in his hair, her body eager beneath his ….
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat. “Alice Winfield. Of course I remember her.” More precisely, he remembered that she owned that huge Victorian house on Pelican Street, the one he'd suspected was loaded with the kind of well-cared-for, impeccably made old furniture that was the staple of his diet as an antiques dealer. He'd been dying to get inside that house for years. He should be thinking about that, not focusing on insane sexual fantasies. “She used to be a schoolteacher, right?”
“I used to go over and help her weed her garden,” Frankie said. “I took care of it for her in the summer, when she was up north. She was the sweetest, kindest lady. If I had known she was still alive, I would have kept in touch.”
“I didn't know her that well myself,” Clay Quinn admitted. “But her husband apparently left her quite a fortune when he died, and she invested it well. Her estate is substantial, and she's been quite generous in distributing it among her relatives. She had no children of her own, you know.”
Frankie nodded, her full attention on Quinn.
Simon caught himself staring at her again. Man, what was wrong with him? Sure, she was extraordinarily pretty—despite the fact that she usually dressed like a longshoreman. But so what? Hundreds of pretty women were walking up and down Sunrise Key's crescent-shaped beach right that very moment. And maybe that was his problem. Maybe it had simply been too long since he'd wined and dined—and seduced—one of the lovely visitors to this island. Tonight he'd go to the restaurant up at the resort, find himself a dinner date, and he wouldn't give Francine Paresky another thought.
“Alice wrote in her will that the property here on Sunrise Key be given to a man named John,” Quinn was saying, “who vacationed down here for two weeks each spring for a period of about seven years in the late 1970s, early 1980s. Ac cording to Alice, he rented one of the cottages near her house on Pelican Street. Apparently, while his wife spent time on the beach, he helped Alice with odd jobs and repairs. She wrote that he never took a dime for all the work he did for her, and that he used to drop by in the evenings and play gin rummy. Alice wasn't sure she ever even knew his last name. She thought his wife's name was something like Lynn or Lana, and he had a son with some kind of slangy nickname. Biff or Buzz or—”
“Jazz?” Frankie asked.
Simon had to laugh. Didn't it figure? Maybe the notion of Frankie Paresky being a private investigator wasn't such an absurd one. After all, she knew everyone on the island—and apparently everyone who had ever visited the island too.
“I knew a boy named Jazz who vacationed here every spring for a number of years,” Frankie continued. “I think I first met him when I was, I don't know, maybe twelve. The last time I saw him was the year I turned eighteen. He was on spring break from colle
ge—Boston University, I think it was. His family always rented one of the houses on Pelican Street.”
“I can't believe you can remember some kid who was here only two weeks out of the year,” Simon said.
Frankie flashed him a look. “Jazz was …. memorable. I don't recall his last name, but I'm sure I've got it written down somewhere.”
Jazz. The name—and the expression on Frankie's face—suddenly brought forward memories of an uncommonly good-looking teenage boy with sun-streaked brown hair and the wiry phy sique of a marathon runner. In fact, Simon could picture Jazz running along the beach, hand in hand with Frankie, laughing and gasping and collapsing on the sand to kiss her—long, slow, deep kisses that were heart-stopping even to watch. And God knows Simon had watched. That was the summer Frankie had turned eighteen— the summer Simon had realized that his little sister's best friend had grown from a scruffy kid into a dazzlingly beautiful woman. He couldn't keep his eyes off Frankie—even when she was with Jazz.
Simon had actually asked Frankie out that summer, but she didn't seem to notice him. She was totally wrapped up in that bastard Jazz— despite the fact that the kid had been gone for nearly two months.
“Is that where you intend to start the search?” Quinn asked. “By tracking down the son?”
“I think we're going to have to,” Frankie told him. “If I remember correctly, Jazz was living with his mother and his stepfather. Jazz and John—if Jazz's stepdad really is the man we're looking for—wouldn't have the same last name.” She took a manila file folder out from a drawer and wrote “Quinn” on the tab. “I'll also check with a friend of mine who works at the real estate office. Ten or twelve years is a long time ago, but she just might have rental records that go back that far for the houses on Pelican Street. Maybe we can find John's last name that way.”
Quinn nodded. “I'll be staying at the Seaholm Resort until my flight out tomorrow evening. Let me know if you find anything.”
“You're leaving so soon?”
He smiled ruefully. “I could stand a good vacation, but unfortunately, I've got business back home that won't wait. I didn't even have time to call you before I left Michigan. I apologize for showing up unannounced.”
Frankie put her notes into the file and closed it. “Not a problem.”
Clay Quinn glanced at his Rolex watch. “Would you mind calling a cab for me?”
Frankie froze. “Umm.”
Simon knew what she was thinking. She was thinking that the island's one cab was parked over on the next block. She was thinking that even if she ran upstairs and changed back into her T-shirt and shorts and baseball cap, there was no way that Quinn wasn't going to recognize her as the cabdriver this time.
Simon came to her rescue. “I've got my Jeep right outside. Why don't you let me give you a lift up to the resort?”
“Well, thank you, I'd appreciate that.” Quinn stood up, gathering his luggage and overcoat. He turned back to Frankie. “I forgot to mention— I'm going over to the house on Pelican Street tomorrow morning, if you'd like to come along. I'm not sure if there'll be any clues inside, but who knows?”
“What time?” Frankie asked.
“Nine o'clock?”
“I'll meet you over there.”
“I'll be there too,” Simon said.
Frankie smiled sweetly at Simon. Much, much too sweetly. “May I see you in the back room, please?” She turned to Clay. “Will you excuse us for just a moment?”
“Of course.”
Simon followed Frankie down the hall and into the kitchen, watching as she closed the swinging door behind them.
“I appreciate your giving Clay Quinn a ride to the resort,” she said in a low voice, “and I'll love you forever for being here for me this afternoon, but you are not my assistant or my sidekick or my anything. Unless, of course, you want to help with the less glamorous work—like digging through the real estate records …. ?”
“Nine o'clock tomorrow morning, the doors to number six Pelican Street are going to be opened for the first time in years.” Simon tried to keep his voice low too, but he couldn't keep his excitement hidden. “Think of the treasures that could be inside!”
“It could be nothing but junk, Si.”
“It could be priceless. It could be exactly what one of my clients is looking for.”
“And it all belongs to this mysterious John,” Frankie pointed out.
“You find this man John,” Simon said, “and I'll get him to sell me Alice Winfield's antique furniture.”
Frankie was looking up at him, the expression in her eyes unreadable. What was she thinking? He had no trouble with other women. Other women he could read like a book. But Frankie …. she was a mystery.
“Look.” Simon hoped he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. “All I want is to get into that house and take a look around. Let me show up tomorrow morning, and we'll be even. Clean slate. Full payback.”
She didn't say a word. She just looked at him.
“Okay,” he said. “I'll also go over to the real estate office with you this afternoon, help you sort through rental records. Then we'll really be even.” He paused. “Please?”
Frankie smiled. “I'm wondering, if I just keep standing here, not saying anything, will you eventually offer me the deed to your house.”
“I don't think taking a look inside Alice Winfield's house is quite worth the deed to mine,” Simon said. “But I'd appreciate it if you could give me a few minutes to think it over.” He paused for one tenth of a second. “All right, I'll throw that in too.”
Frankie laughed, shaking her head. “You're impossible to refuse.”
“You were doing a damn good job of it a few minutes ago.”
Frankie pushed open the kitchen door, gesturing for him to lead the way out. “I'll meet you at the real estate office in half an hour.”
THREE
THE RENTAL RECORDS weren't computerized until 1989,” Maia Fox told Frankie, pulling down several file boxes and a great deal of dust from the real estate office's basement storage shelves. She carried one of the boxes to the large table set up under several rows of bright fluorescent lights. A copy machine stood ready and waiting nearby. “The previous owner recorded everything by hand, in record books. This box holds the books dated 1971 to 1975. I'm not sure how complete they are, or if they'll even have the information you're looking for. But if the house was rented through this office, there should be some record of a payment transaction in these books. Those from 1976 to ‘80 and ‘81 to ‘85 are over there.”
“Thanks, Maia,” Frankie told the sweet-faced real estate agent.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Maia said with a smile. Her smile faded as she looked at Simon. Giving a little sniff, she went up the rickety basement stairs.
Frankie turned to Simon, one eyebrow raised.
Simon opened the file box and pulled out the first account book, pretending to be intrigued by its fake leather cover.
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” Frankie asked. “Or am I going to have to guess?”
Simon knew enough not to play dumb. He smiled ruefully. “She hasn't forgiven me.”
“Should I even bother to ask why?”
“We had something of a short-lived affair a few years ago.”
“Oh, Simon, you didn't.”
Simon actually had the good grace to look ashamed. “She came by with a casserole and some comfort after Dad's funeral. I wasn't thinking clearly—I passed on the casserole and took the comfort. I should have done it the other way around, because she was looking for something a little longer-term. I can plead not guilty by reason of temporary insanity due to grief, but it's true, I should have recognized that Maia was a mistake right from the start.”
“Is there anyone in town that you haven't slept with?” Frankie asked. “No—forget it. I don't really want to know the answer to that question.”
She sat down and began leafing through the second account book.
The pages were organized by month. The rental properties were listed down the left-hand side. There were four on Pelican Street that were rented with any regularity. And— hip hooray!—the renters’ names, addresses, and telephone numbers were listed in neat spidery handwriting in the right-hand column.
“Here's how we're going to do it,” she said. “We'll make copies of the pages dated February through May that list any Pelican Street rentals. Highlight in yellow the Pelican Street lines on the photocopy and make sure the month and year of the rental are clear on the page. And if the renter is named John, mark it with red.”
“You know, Francine, I haven't slept with everyone in town.”
Frankie looked up. He was still standing there, holding the ledger book, his face serious as he watched her steadily. She stood up and crossed to the copy machine, lined up the page on the glass surface, closed the lid, and pushed the start button.
“It's really not my business if you have.”
“I know it seems as if I use women—”
“Seems? Something tells me Maia would laugh if she heard you say that.”
“I don't,” Simon protested. “At least I don't mean to. I've never made a woman any promises— and I certainly never made any to Maia. For God's sake, it wasn't as if she didn't know me. Did she honestly think that one night with her was going to change my entire life?”
“Yeah,” Frankie said wryly. “She probably did. And I hate to break it to you, but there's probably more than one woman out there who interpreted your actions as unspoken promises.”
“ Unspoken promises?” Simon let out his breath in a half-laugh of exasperation. “Well, that's their problem.”
“It's your problem too.” Frankie flipped through the account book and found May. “Maia thinks you're the kind of man who breaks his promises. I'm sure she's not alone in her thinking.”
The copy machine whirred again.
The Kissing Game Page 2
