“I thought you didn't want the bad news,” Simon countered, following her into the house.
Clay went directly toward the back, toward the kitchen, as he continued to talk on his cellular phone. His voice echoed eerily in the stillness.
It was dark inside. And cool. The air conditioner was still in working order. It had chugged away for eight years, with only old Axel Bayard coming by periodically to give it a tune-up. Frankie stood for a moment in the foyer, letting her eyes adjust. She remembered this house. Alice Winfield had always kept the curtains open wide, letting the bright Florida sunshine in. Every surface had been scrubbed clean, every window gleamed. The old woman would have clucked her tongue at the years of dust and neglect.
“I was lying,” Frankie said. “Tell me the bad news.”
“My friend wasn't at the office. He was home.” Simon went into the front parlor and pulled open the heavy draperies. Sunlight streamed weakly through the grimy windows, illuminating the dust that hung heavily in the air. “He's got the flu. He won't be back at work until Thursday—at the earliest.”
“Oh, shoot.” Thursday. Today was Tuesday. Two whole days of waiting ….
“He also told me there was no guarantee that the information he had would be up-to-date,” Simon continued. The furniture in the room was covered by ghostly-looking white sheets. He lifted one and looked beneath it, then whisked it off. “Oh, man, would you look at this!”
Frankie looked. It was a boxy-looking sideboard-type table made of dark, grainy wood.
“Oak,” Simon said, awe in his voice. “That's oak. It's a Stickley piece. This thing must weigh a ton.” He took a tiny penlight from his pocket and scrambled onto the floor, on his back, sticking his arm and as much of his head as he could underneath the table.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “A red seal! This is great!“
“A red what …. ?”
“The older, more valuable pieces were built by Gustav Stickley,” Simon told her, pulling himself up off the floor, ignoring the dust that covered him. “They all had a label—a red seal that identified ‘em. The later pieces had a black seal. They aren't as valuable.”
He moved to pull another sheet off a hidden piece of furniture, but stopped, glancing up at Clay Quinn, who stood in the doorway, holstering his phone. “Do you mind?” he asked.
Quinn shrugged. “Not if you cover it up again when you're done.”
Frankie watched as Simon went quickly around the room. He pulled all the coverings off furniture made with that same dark wood in that same straight style and turned them over or looked underneath the pieces.
“It's all red-seal Stickley,” Simon said. “It's in perfect condition too.”
Clay's phone rang again, and he vanished in the direction of the kitchen. Simon tossed Frankie the pile of sheets as he raced into the dining room, eager to see what other treasures lay within.
Frankie put the sheets down on the back of a Victorian-era sofa. She'd shared many a glass of iced tea with Alice Winfield, right in this very room, sitting on this very sofa.
The parlor had been Alice's favorite room. It had a big bay window that looked out over the ocean. Together they'd munched homemade cookies and Alice would talk about her years teaching in a small town near Midland, Michigan. She'd actually taught in a one-room schoolhouse, and as a young girl Frankie had been fascinated by those stories.
Over in the corner was Alice's rolltop desk. Frankie pulled out the chair and pushed up the top. Everything was neatly arranged in the cubbyholes, just as Alice had left it. Blank stationery and envelopes were in one slot. A roll of Scotch tape and a tiny tin of rubber cement were in another. A small accounts book was in a third. Frankie took it out and opened it up.
Alice's handwriting was angular and familiar. She'd kept careful track of the money she'd spent on food and clothing while she was on Sunrise Key. Another page was devoted to telephone, electric, and gas bills.
There was no mention of neighbors, no personal information.
The desk drawers were filled with neatly stacked blank paper and other office supplies. Pens. Pencils. Rubber bands. Scissors. A small box filled with time-hardened erasers of all shapes and sizes. Twelve-cent postage stamps. Several neatly rubber-banded decks of playing cards.
Frankie closed the desk and crossed to the bookshelf where Alice had kept her photo albums. Frankie had loved to pull them down and look at the seemingly ancient photographs of old-fashioned people in their outdated clothing. It was a window to the past. She loved the picture of a young, laughing Alice, her face wrinkle free as she stood arm in arm with her handsome husband.
Alice kept the photo albums in chronological order on the shelf, always adding a new one every three or four years or so. Frankie found the latest and pulled it free. The top was covered with dust and she carefully wiped it clean as she carried it to the sofa. She set it on her lap as she sat down and opened it.
Alice, standing outside, next to her garden. Frankie had taken that picture. Alice's face may not have been smooth, but her smile was still young and her eyes sparkled with girlish pleasure.
Frankie flipped back a few pages, and there, carefully glued to the black paper of the book, was a photograph of Alice, Frankie, and Jazz.
Jazz's stepfather—the man Frankie believed was the mysterious John—had taken the photo.
Dear Lord, Frankie had been so young back then. She'd been barely eighteen, and the world had seemed so full of promise. Her future had seemed so crystal-clear. Jazz had said he loved her, and she had no reason to believe that their love wouldn't last until the end of time—until they both were even older and wiser than Alice Winfield.
Boy, had she been wrong. Jazz had left Sunrise Key, never to return. Alice Winfield had disappeared some years later, kept by her poor health from ever again returning to her beloved house on the island. Frankie's eyes filled with tears.
Eight years. Alice had been alive for eight years, and nobody had bothered to tell Frankie.
She would have written. She would have sent pictures of the ocean and the sky. She would have come to this house and done battle with the dirt and dust. She even would have traveled up to Michigan to visit the old woman.
She turned the page to a picture of Alice standing at the gas grill on the back porch, waving at the camera—waving at Frankie, who had taken the picture, and her tears overflowed.
Alice had probably thought Frankie hadn't cared.
“Hey, Frankie, are you okay?”
Simon sat down on the sofa next to her, his eyes dark with concern.
She hastily tried to wipe her face, but the tears wouldn't stop. She swore, closing the photo album, afraid of getting it wet, afraid of Simon's gentle pity. “I'm fine.”
He knew she wasn't. He reached out, gently touching the back of her head, softly stroking her hair. His hand was warm, and when she glanced up at him, his eyes were soft.
“I'm not fine,” she admitted. “Alice Winfield was special to me.”
Simon nodded. There was nothing mocking in his gaze, nothing but gentleness in his slight smile. “That's what I like about you, Francine,” he said quietly. “You know every single person who lives on this island—and everyone who's ever lived on this island. And to you, each of them is special in some way.”
He glanced away from her, out the dirt-streaked windows at the brilliant blue of the sky. “Alice Winfield was no angel,” he continued. “She was outspoken and blunt to the point of rudeness. She was also pretty damn miserly. But you focused on her good side.”
“She was careful with her money. When she was growing up—”
Simon cut her off with a smile. “Hey, I'm not attacking her.” He shifted toward her on the couch, reaching out to touch her hair again. “I'm just marveling at the way you can overlook the negative and always find some redeeming quality in just about anyone.”
Frankie had to look away. The sensation of his fingers in her hair and the quiet warmth in his eyes was nearly overwhelming. Bu
t she couldn't pull away. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the gentleness of his touch.
“How about me, Francine,” Simon said softly. “What do you see when you look at me?”
He was leaning in, closer to her, his breath warm against her ear. If she turned her head, his lips would be a whisper away from hers. If she turned her head, he would kiss her, and Frankie knew without a shadow of a doubt that that single kiss would lead to much more.
What did she see?
Suddenly, with extreme clarity, Frankie saw a vision of the woman in the pink dress, the woman Simon had spent the night with. It had probably been only hours since he'd left her bed. Ap parently, now that Simon had gotten his “previous commitment” taken care of, he felt he could concentrate once more on Frankie.
Frankie stood up. “I see someone who's been my friend for a long time,” she told him as she crossed to the big bay window. “Someone who's about to make a really bad mistake.”
“It might be a mistake, but I'm not sure it's such a bad one.”
She turned to face him. “It is. Absolutely.”
He didn't move. He just gazed into her eyes as if he were looking for answers, searching for hidden truths. “How can you be so positive?”
Frankie wasn't positive. She wasn't positive about anything when it came to Simon Hunt. Especially when he looked at her that way. But she steadily returned his gaze, and without a tremor in her voice she said, “Si, I'm on the verge of finding Jazz Chester again, and I feel like this could be a real important milestone in my life.” She was trying as much to convince herself as she was to convince him.
“What if he's not as great as you remember him to be?”
“What if he's better?”
Simon was still watching her intently, and Frankie forced herself to stare back at him. He didn't quite believe her, and rightfully so. But what was she supposed to tell him? That she couldn't risk acting on this sexual attraction that had suddenly ignited between them? That she couldn't risk giving in to the temptations that her body desired because it wouldn't take much for her heart to become involved?
Shoot, her heart already was involved. When she daydreamed about Simon, she wasn't dreaming about a sexy bed partner. She was dreaming about a lover. And that was where fantasy and reality became hopelessly entangled. She dreamed about someone who did more than fulfill her passionate physical fantasies, someone who satisfied her emotional needs as well. Someone who used sexual intimacy as a means to express his deepest feelings of love rather than someone—like Simon—who played at love to achieve sexual gratification.
Frankie could pretend to be a willing participant in the kind of casual, no-strings relationship that Simon was so good at having. She knew she would enjoy the physical intimacies she saw promised in the heat of his eyes. In fact, a good part of her was tempted ….
Jazz, she reminded herself. It was only a matter of time before she found Jazz Chester again. Compared to Jazz's deep sensitivity, Simon would seem frivolous and shallow.
“Alice liked Jazz too,” she told Simon. “She was so certain that we were going to end up together, you know, get married. When Jazz didn't come back to Sunrise Key, Alice was almost as upset as I was. She told me that she wished she could wave a magic wand and make him appear. She said she'd do anything to get the two of us back together. She didn't manage to do it while she was alive, but she just might be able to pull it off now that she's gone.” Simon finally looked away, and Frankie knew that she had won—this round at least.
And she herself was starting to believe her own words. Finding Jazz was going to be good.
Simon glanced up at Frankie again as she moved toward the bookcase and slipped the photo album onto the shelf. Damn Jazz Chester. He'd disliked what little he'd known about the boy, and those feelings held true for the man.
Simon had seldom had rivals when it came to a woman's affections. This jealousy he was trying hard to curb was an uncomfortable sensation. He didn't like knowing that he couldn't even compete with a man that Frankie hadn't seen for twelve years.
But that didn't mean Simon was going to give up.
“I think you're holding out for a dream,” he told her. Even if Jazz weren't married, he couldn't possibly be as perfect as Frankie remembered. No way. The flowers and poetry had to be part of some cheeseball act designed to make it easier to worm his way onto a young girl's beach blanket.
She glanced at him, her dark eyes unreadable and finally dry. Man, when he'd come back into the parlor to find her crying, his insides had twisted, and all thoughts about the incredible antique treasures he'd found throughout the entire house had fled.
“So what if I am?”
So what, indeed? Jazz was going to be a disappointment, and Simon was going to be there to pick up the pieces.
Frankie finished her perusal of the bookcase and headed out of the room toward the stairs leading to the second floor of the house. Simon trailed after her.
Clay Quinn was still on the telephone, his voice muffled behind the closed kitchen door.
“What's the furniture like in the dining room?” Frankie asked, climbing the stairs, pointedly changing the subject.
“Perfect. It's all red-seal Stickley oak too. In fact, I've been searching for a dining room set just like it. I have a client who has an end-of-the-month deadline, and if I don't come up with something, he's going to go with inferior pieces from another broker.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Isn't the end of the month—”
“Next Monday. We need to find this John guy before next Monday, or you don't get your bonus and I don't make this deal.”
Simon followed Frankie into a room that must have been Alice Winfield's bedroom. The heavy curtains were drawn and the room was only dimly lit by the light from the hall.
“I don't think we should count on my friend at Boston University coming through with a current address for Jazz,” Simon continued. “I think we need to go through those rental records we copied and try to find John's last name that way.”
Frankie turned to face him, her delicate features mysterious in the gloom. “We?”
“Let me help you find this guy,” he said.
She didn't say anything. She just looked at him.
“All private eyes have sidekicks,” Simon continued. “Sherlock Holmes has Watson. Spenser has Hawk. Rockford has his dad. Inspector Clouseau has Kato …. “
She finally spoke. “You don't think I can find John on my own.”
“No! That's not true! That's not what this is about at all,” Simon hastily assured her.
“What is it about?”
“It's the old two-heads-are-better-than-one thing. My schedule is light for the next few days, and”—she was still watching him, her face damn near expressionless—”and I have to confess, Francine, I'm still holding out hope that I'll be able to get you into bed with me.”
She looked surprised for the briefest fraction of a second, and then she laughed. “Finally, something that rings with truth.”
Simon lowered his voice, suddenly aware of the quiet dimness of the room, of the big antique bed in the corner, covered by a protective sheet. “Just think how incredible it could be.”
Something shifted in her eyes, something that told Simon that she, too, had imagined the nuclear heat the two of them could generate. “You're probably right.” She turned away from him and crossed to the windows, pushing aside the curtains. “But I can tell you right now, Si, it's not going to happen. So if that's your motivation for helping—”
Simon squinted slightly in the sudden brightness. “I'm having fun, Francine. That—and the thought of making a very important client happy—is my motivation.”
“I was serious about what I said before, about you and me being a bad mistake.”
“I know. And you're probably right.”
“I'm definitely right. No means no. And if you repeatedly overstep those bounds—”
“I won't. I promise.”
<
br /> “I'm really sorry,” Clay Quinn said from the doorway, and Simon nearly jumped with surprise. “But the manure has hit the fan back at my office and I've got to go. I've called the airport, and my charter flight is ready to leave as soon as I can get there. You're welcome to stay here in the house as long as you like. I'll leave you the keys—they're still down in the door.”
Frankie nodded.
“Oh, and I'll give you my brother's phone number, in case I can't be reached.” From his pocket Clay took a little notepad with the Seaholm Resort logo on the front. He scribbled a name and phone number on a sheet of the linen-blend paper, then tore it out and handed it to Frankie.
She glanced at it, folded it, and pocketed it. “If you don't mind, I'll let Simon—my assistant— drive you to the airport.”
Her assistant. She was going to let him help.
Simon knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't seem to stop. Frankie met his eyes only briefly, but it was long enough to send him a silent message: If he came on too strong, he'd be outta there.
Okay. He could play by those rules.
“Have a good flight,” Frankie said to Clay.
“Thanks. I'll be in touch.”
“I'll be back,” Simon told Frankie, following Quinn out the door.
SIX
HERE'S ANOTHER TWO-WEEK rental for John Marshall.” Simon reached for his notebook computer and deftly typed the information into the file they'd started. “April 1974.”
“Great.” Frankie looked over his shoulder. “How many names do we have now?”
“Fifteen Johns,” Simon said. “Five of them have now rented on Pelican Street two years in a row.”
The photocopies of rental records that they'd made were spread out across Frankie's kitchen table.
“Why couldn't his first name have been Percival?” Frankie mused.
“Or Fenton.”
She snickered. “Or Beauregard.”
“Dudley.”
“Or Oscar?” Frankie shook her head, her laugh ter turning to frustration. “Anything but John. This is taking forever.”
The Kissing Game Page 5
