Grace Takes Off

by Julie Hyzy

  Maybe this had been a bad idea, after all.

  Thank goodness for the dim lighting. My face had gone hot.

  All the perfect phrasing I’d come up with earlier as I’d envisioned this moment was lost when my words came out in a blurt. “I miss talking with you.”

  The pain in his face dissolved. “I’ve missed talking with you, too.”

  We suffered an awkward moment where we each took sips of our drinks and then both started talking at the same moment.

  “How was Europe?”

  “What’s going on with you?”

  We did that “laugh, No-you-go-first” thing. I insisted, and Jack asked me again about Europe. I frowned.

  “You didn’t enjoy yourself?” he asked.

  “We had an incident on the way back,” I said. “Probably better if I tell you about it another time.”

  Concern jumped into his eyes. “Incident? Was anyone hurt?”

  I nodded, realizing how good it would feel to be able to tell him about all that had happened. “I think Bennett may be in danger.”

  He stared. “You can’t say something like that and leave me hanging.”

  My heart raced. I struggled to come up with the right way to ask if he’d like to come back to the house to talk, or at least go somewhere quieter, when he interrupted. “Maybe you could stop by the office again one of these evenings. Or I could visit you at Marshfield.”

  That wasn’t the sort of date I’d been hoping for. His eyes had taken on a dark melancholy. I didn’t know why.

  “Sure,” I said, knowing my disappointment showed.

  “Grace,” he said, and the end of all my hope was in his voice. “I would love to talk more about this . . .”

  He was about to say “but,” when a slim, tanned arm snaked around the back of his neck. The owner of the arm pulled him close. “Jack,” she said. “Who’s your friend?”

  There was pain in his expression. Embarrassment for me, probably. Not like I needed any help in that department. Mortification rose up as “Back off, he’s taken” vibes rolled off her like steam out of an iron. She’d read my intentions, and she was clearly staking her claim.

  Curvy, with her extra weight in all the right places, she loosened her pull on Jack, but stayed close enough so their shoulders touched. Her hair was short and spiky, her dark eyes hot with curiosity. She wore tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a gauzy white blouse over a bright pink tank.

  “Becke, this is Grace. Grace, Becke.”

  “Oh,” she said, stringing out the word into two syllables. “I should have guessed. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  So much for all my high hopes. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” I said, getting to my feet. Thank heavens I hadn’t ordered anything. No need to fumble through my wallet to settle up. “Here. You can have my seat. I was getting ready to leave anyway.”

  She tilted her head. “That’s not how it looked to me.”

  “Becke,” Jack said quietly.

  There wasn’t a lot of room between us, so when she took a step forward, we were almost nose-to-nose. She was about my height, but outweighed me by at least thirty pounds. “Jack’s moving me into his house this weekend. Did he tell you?”

  My face practically pulsed with heated humiliation. All I wanted to do was get out. Now.

  Barely aware that Jack had jumped off his stool and was speaking to Becke, chastising her, it seemed, I drew on every reserve to force a smile. I might feel absolutely stupid right now but there was no way I was going to let her think she’d had anything to do with it. Nope. I’d managed to pull that off myself.

  “I hadn’t heard. How wonderful. Congratulations to you both.”

  Jack’s angry glare at Becke made me realize that he, at least, had hoped to spare me this public degradation. Too late. Ignoring Becke, I faced him. “When you have time, let me know. I’d still like to get your input on that other matter. But don’t bother”—I sent a pointed look toward his companion—“unless you’ll be able to keep it confidential.”

  With that, I turned away and walked with purpose to the front door. Let Becke chew on that for a while.

  Stepping out into the evening air was like jumping into a dark pool on a hot night. As Hugo’s door swung shut behind me, I held a hand against a light post and stared up at the sky, filling my lungs with the fresh, humid air. “Why do I do these things to myself?” I asked rhetorically.

  Letting go of the post, I started for my car. The streets were busy with tourists wandering in and out of the Main Street shops. As was my habit, I rehashed the conversation, realizing that I was a little bit proud of myself for not backing down under Becke’s withering gaze. “Let her have him,” I said aloud.

  “Do you mean that?”

  I spun to find Adam right behind me. As was obvious from his breathless question, he’d run to catch up. “What are you—?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step back. “It’s just—” He jerked a thumb toward Hugo’s behind us.

  “You weren’t in . . .” I felt my face go red yet again. “You didn’t . . .”

  He met my gaze, straight on. “I was having dinner. You obviously didn’t see me.”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t hear anything. Honest. The body language, though.” He had the decency to look ashamed. “I take it that’s the guy you were hoping to connect with?”

  Although it was none of his business, I had no oomph left to tell him so. “That obvious, huh?”

  Adam threw a scathing glance back at the restaurant. “He’s a fool.”

  My pride was hurt, my guard was down, and I knew that continuing this line of conversation with Adam was a bad idea. “Or very, very smart.”

  Adam looked confused.

  “I have terrible taste in men,” I said. “Consider yourself officially forewarned.”

  He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I mean, seeing as how you don’t seem particularly smitten with me.”

  I laughed. A genuine laugh. “Touché.” I started for my car again. “Thanks for that.”

  He fell into step next to me. “Happy to oblige.”

  “I’m going home now,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint.

  “I’ll walk you there.”

  “I’ve got my car.”

  He made a noise that sounded like “Mmm,” but kept up with me.

  Logic told me I should be wary of his attention. After all I’d been through, how could I not be? Yet, the streets were teeming with happy, Friday-night tourists, and I had to admit, I didn’t feel especially vulnerable or unsafe. Chatting politely, I pointed out Amethyst Cellars and bragged a bit about my roommates’ success there.

  Despite the fact that my gut told me that Adam was harmless, the logical part of my brain reminded me that I’d been wrong before. I kept alert as we continued to the next block, paying less attention to my surroundings than I did to him, worried he might try for a whole-body grab and stuff me into a nearby vehicle within full sight of all the people around us.

  “This is a pretty town,” Adam said. “I can see why you love it here.”

  “I never said that I did.”

  He gave me a shy grin. “Not in so many words.”

  If I was stuck with him for another block, I figured I might as well push for more information. “I plan to get in touch with Detective Williamson as soon as I can. I’m hoping he can shed some light on everything that happened. Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Please do. I’d be happy to help if I can.”

  “Would you mind sending me Matthew’s contact information? I have to believe he knows more about Pinky . . .” I’d been about to say “than he admits,” but realized that might sound accusatory. Instead, I hedged, �
�. . . than he actually realizes.”

  “I can do that,” he said. “I’ve got your cell phone number. I’ll call you with the information.”

  “Let me give you my personal e-mail address, too. Sometimes that’s faster.” I stopped walking to dig out pen and paper from my purse. Thinking it would be easier to write on the hood than balancing the items in my hand, I gestured, “Maybe we should do this at my car.”

  That’s when I saw the man standing next to my little Civic. Familiar, though out of context. Less than a second later, I remembered. Startled, I instinctively grabbed for Adam’s arm. “That’s Rudy.” Paper crumpled in my fist, I pointed with the pen. “That’s him. Isn’t it?”

  As the words tumbled out of my mouth, it hit me that both men appearing here on the same day was too strange to be coincidental. I jerked my hand back. Realization made me jump away, closer toward the street. Away from Adam.

  “Why is he here?” I asked with dripping accusation.

  Looking as shell-shocked as I felt, he didn’t seem to notice my tone. Instead, he started forward after Rudy, moving fast. “Hey,” he called.

  But in the three heartbeats it had taken for us to react, Rudy had turned away, immediately swallowed up by the crowd in the dark. Streetlights, designed more for ambience than for bright illumination, didn’t help as Adam gave chase, with me not far behind.

  At the next intersection, however, I stopped short. What if that had been the plan? Get me to follow. Separate me from the crowd?

  Out of breath, more from alarm than from exertion, I gave up pursuit, feeling a peculiar sense of déjà vu.

  I hurried back to my car, eager to get away. I’d just unlocked the driver’s side when Adam appeared next to me. Sweat beaded above his lip and along his hairline. He rested an arm along my car door’s frame, effectively blocking me from getting in.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Oblivious to my question, Adam said, “I called Rudy’s name, but he didn’t turn. Do you think we were mistaken?”

  “I think you should get your sweaty arm off my car.”

  He stepped back, looking confused. “Why are you angry?”

  “Why do you think?” Simmering resentment—at myself for being so gullible—shot my words out unchecked. Empowered by the crowds, knowing he couldn’t harm me if I created a scene, I advanced on him. “Do I have a neon sign over my head? Is that it? How does Rudy figure into this equation? Huh?”

  His bottom lip went slack.

  I took another step forward. “Huh?”

  “I don’t know what you think.” Adam’s voice was low. “I’m just as surprised to see him here as you are.” He closed his mouth and scratched the side of his head. “I can’t speak for Rudy, but I can tell you that I came here to see you. That’s it.” He gave a self-conscious shrug. “I like you. Whatever I did to make you angry, I’m sorry.”

  He offered a half-hearted smile, and for the second time that day said, “See you around.”

  Chapter 24

  ADAM DISAPPEARED INTO THE NIGHT AS EASILY AS RUDY HAD. I SHOOK MY HEAD, STARING down the block, my breath coming in short gasps, my heart beating a rhythm that was at once panicked and furious.

  When I finally managed to get myself under control, I drew in a deep breath of the muggy night air, and congratulated myself on handling that as well as could be expected. With a precautionary glance in all directions, I finally opened my car door and slid behind the wheel.

  A folded piece of paper sat under my wiper blade, one corner lifting up in the faint breeze as though waving hello. Wanting to be noticed.

  I clambered back out, grabbed the white sheet and opened it. On it was written: Rudy (flight attendant) and a local phone number.

  I remembered having offered a blanket invitation to come visit if he was ever in the area. I hadn’t expected him to simply show up without calling, of course.

  Misery and embarrassment settled on my shoulders like an itchy blanket that I wanted to throw off but couldn’t find the strength to lift. I’d all but accused Adam of conspiring with Rudy. I rubbed my clammy forehead, ashamed to realize that I’d behaved a lot like Flynn. Accuse first, ask questions later.

  Still standing outside my car I stared down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of Adam. Did he deserve an apology? I wasn’t sure.

  Why did I feel like such a jerk?

  • • •

  I WAITED UNTIL THE NEXT MORNING TO CONTACT RUDY, LEAVING A VOICEMAIL FOR HIM AT what turned out to be his hotel. In my message, I expressed surprise at his visit and I encouraged him to return the call.

  Bootsie watched me putter around the kitchen, winding between my legs as I soaped up the morning mugs and dunked them under the warm running water. She wasn’t used to me being home—both because I’d been out of the country with Bennett for so long and because I’d spent most of the week at Marshfield catching up. “It’s Saturday,” I said to her.

  She sat on the dark rug we used to protect the kitchen’s wood floor from wild sudsy splashes. What difference we thought it made to the scarred oak was anyone’s guess, but it made us feel proactive. That was my new mantra these days. No longer would I accept situations or people at face value. In order to protect myself, I needed to maintain a shield. My blemishes might not be as visible as my floor’s, but the scars ran much deeper.

  I finished tidying the kitchen, showered, and, once I’d decided it was respectably late enough on this weekend morning to bug Detective Williamson, I pulled out his card and dialed.

  His clipped “Williamson” interrupted the first ring.

  “This is Grace Wheaton,” I began.

  “You got my message then?” he asked. “I was afraid I’d called too late last night.”

  He must have left a message at Marshfield. “As a matter of fact, I’m calling because Adam from SlickBlade told me you’d discovered information about Pinky. Is that true?” I half expected Williamson to react in surprise, to discount Adam’s assertion. That would prove once and for all that the lead singer of SlickBlade had made it up.

  “He came to tell you about that in person?” Williamson said. The disbelief in his voice, coupled with the implied substantiation of Adam’s story, made me frown, despite the fact that information on Pinky was exactly what I wanted right now.

  “You mean you found her?”

  “That Priscilla alias slowed us down for a while but we found her. Diane Waters. But the info about her living in Brooklyn didn’t change.” He rattled off her birth date. A little quick math. Pinky had five years on me. I would have guessed ten.

  “Who was she working for?”

  Williamson snorted. “That’s the thousand-dollar question. Born and raised in the city, she lost her share of jobs before picking up and relocating to Europe about ten years ago.”

  “She was living in Florence, then?”

  “This Diane was a nomad. We’re still backtracking. I can’t say where she was living. Not yet.”

  This wasn’t sounding promising. “What did she do to support herself?”

  “Odd jobs. Maid. Office work when she could get it. We’re still investigating. No solid career path, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I asked Williamson if Pinky might have had any connection to Vandeen Deinhart here in the States, or Cesare, the art expert, in Florence. He hedged.

  “I left that message for you out of courtesy, Ms. Wheaton.” His voice strained for patience. “There’s no proof that she was working for anyone. She may have simply cracked. This Diane was clearly a disturbed individual. Let’s not imagine conspiracies.”

  I wasn’t imagining, but I bit my tongue rather than risk his wrath. At this point keeping the lines of communication open was paramount.

  Changing the subject, I injected perkiness to my voice. “By the way,
remember Rudy? The flight attendant who ultimately killed Pinky?”

  Williamson grunted the affirmative.

  “He’s here.” I waited a beat to let that sink in. “In Emberstowne.”

  Williamson started to reply. I cut him off. Maybe if I fed him a few details he’d come up with conspiracy theories of his own. With any luck, they’d match mine. I kept my tone light. “He showed up the same day Adam did. Isn’t that a weird coincidence?”

  “You saw them? Together?”

  “Adam came to see me at Marshfield. Rudy left me a note.”

  Through the phone line I heard the paper shuffling. I waited until he spoke again. “Did they say what they wanted?”

  My cheeks grew hot and I was grateful Williamson couldn’t see my blush through the phone. “Adam asked me out on a date,” I said quickly. “I have no idea about Rudy. I left him a message. Haven’t heard back yet.”

  “You think he’s there for romantic purposes as well?”

  “I’m not the sort of woman who inspires men to traverse the globe to ask me out.”

  He made a noise. I couldn’t discern its meaning. “Thank you, Ms. Wheaton. If you talk with either of these men again, please ask them to call me.”

  I started to say, “Will you let me know—” but he’d already hung up.

  • • •

  MY DOORBELL RANG LESS THAN AN HOUR later. Bootsie scampered ahead of me, curious as always. We had a small living room adjacent to the front door, set off from the foyer by oak pillars set atop rectangular dividers. She leapt up onto the top of the base nearest the door and lifted her white-splashed nose in the air, waiting for me to allow our visitor in.

  “Hillary?” I said. Unable to prevent my shock from showing, I struggled to find a polite way of asking what she was doing on my front porch. “What a surprise,” was the best I could manage.