by Pamela Clare
Roofies. Rohypnol. Date rape drug. Her heart tripped over into double time, and her muscles screamed for flight, but somehow her brain prevailed. She held her ground. “Thank you,” she said, managing to sound normal. “That’s very good advice.”
He nodded once, then brushed past her to climb the steps to the deck.
Suzannah released her breath in a rush. What was that about? Public safety bulletin or subtle threat? She was certain he must have seen the fear in her eyes, but he hadn’t seemed unduly disturbed by it.
Of course, that didn’t make him her stalker. As far as most of these guys were concerned, she was the enemy. He’d probably just seen a chance to score a few points off her outside of John’s earshot and taken advantage of it.
Or maybe he was just a good guy passing along a friendly warning. A socially-challenged good guy.
Belatedly, she realized she was still standing where Constable Newman had left her. Collecting herself, she continued across the lawn to inspect the beds she’d admired earlier.
The beds were largely perennial, she saw, though the plantings were relatively immature. Happy Shasta daisies, succulent sedums and glorious black-eyed susans in the full-sun areas, tall monkshood, striking beardtongue and leafy hostas in the shady corner.
There, just what she wanted, against the back fence. A stand of heliopsis. She made straight for the cheerful clump of false sunflowers. They were purported to be hardy enough to withstand anything nature threw at them. Hopefully, that included the occasional splash of quality Burgundy, with or without Rohypnol. With a twist of her wrist, she tilted the wineglass, spilling the contents among the hardy flowers.
“You must think me a terrible hostess.”
Suzannah turned to find Grace Morgan crossing the lawn to join her at the edge of the flower bed. If she’d seen Suzannah’s surreptitious dumping of the wine amidst the heliopsis and the bee balm, she was too polite to mention it.
“Not at all,” said Suzannah smoothly. “Your husband said you had something to take care of, something work related.”
“I try not to take it home with me too much, but I’ve been chasing this guy forever for an interview. I might have predicted he’d pick tonight to return one of my many messages.”
“Your husband did a credible job of subbing for you, though the men remarked he didn’t look nearly so good.”
Grace smiled, but it was automatic reflex. The look in her eye told Suzannah the other woman’s thoughts were racing. Probably re-running the interview in her head. Lord knows, she’d done that often enough herself, going over testimony.
“Do you realize that in direct discourse with me, you’ve yet to refer to my husband as anything but your husband?”
Suzannah blinked, trying to decide whether or not to be offended by Grace’s observation. “Really?” she managed stiffly. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“No, I don’t imagine you did. But I couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t call any of the guys by their first names, except for my friends from the paper.”
Suzannah blanched. Could that be true? “Really?”
Grace nodded.
“Oh, great,” she muttered.
“I wouldn’t sweat it. They probably didn’t notice.”
“Yeah, probably not. It’s not like they’re particularly skilled at observation or anything.”
Grace laughed. Not a chuckle, not a titter, but a real belly laugh. “Oh, I like you, Suzannah Phelps.”
Suzannah found herself relaxing. “Well, I’m relieved someone here does.”
Grace’s face sobered. “You’ll have to cut the guys some slack. They’ll get used to the idea of you and John, but it might take some time to settle. They have enough respect for John that you won’t get any flack from that quarter.”
Maybe, thought Suzannah. She looked down at her empty wine glass. Or maybe not. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “I don’t suppose that extends to the wives?”
“Are they giving you a hard time?” Grace said, her expression sharpening.
“Oh, no, nothing like that. They just seem a little … I don’t know … closed?”
“Tell me about it,” Grace said, taking a swig of her vodka cooler.
Suzannah eyed the younger woman. “What do you mean? You’re part of the sorority, aren’t you?”
“Technically, yes. The guys socialize so much with each other, I couldn’t not be a part of it, but I think I’ve been relegated to the periphery.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Suzannah noticed John watching her with a quiet intensity from his position on the deck, even as a man from the newspaper talked animatedly into his ear. Ignoring the flutter in her stomach, she switched her attention back to Grace. “I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”
Grace smiled. “Actually, I think it’s more my doing than theirs. You see, my husband –”
“Ray,” Suzannah supplied quickly.
Grace laughed again. “See, that didn’t hurt, did it?”
“Hardly at all.”
“As I was saying, Ray goes out of his way to protect me from the uglier side of what he does, what he sees. The other wives,” she gestured toward the laughing group on and around the deck, “I think they sense that, and it makes me not quite one of them. They always include me, but I always come away thinking there’s some secret handshake I don’t know.”
“Wow, tough crowd.”
“Maybe,” she conceded, plucking absently at the label on her bottle. “But you know what I think? I think if you and John were to hook up, you wouldn’t face that obstacle. They’d give you credit for having been in the trenches yourself.”
“Yeah, but they’re hardly likely to overlook the fact that the particular trench I’m in is the opposing one.”
“There is that,” Grace acknowledged, “but it’s not insurmountable.”
The other woman’s tone was so genuine, so earnest, so concerned, that Suzannah felt a pang for the deception she and John were perpetrating. She wished quite fiercely to come clean, but that was out of the question. Instead, she contented herself with downplaying the long term potential of the supposed relationship. “I don’t think it’s going to be a problem, actually. John and I … well, put it this way—I don’t see it getting serious.”
Grace smiled, her face lighting with a gentle amusement that made her seem older and infinitely wiser, when she was clearly Suzannah’s junior by half a decade or more. “That’s the trouble with this stuff,” she said softly. “You never see it coming until it’s too late.”
*
From his vantage point on the deck, Quigg watched Suzannah and Grace, talking and laughing against the backdrop of Grace’s flower-lined picket fence. At least he didn’t have to pretend to pay attention to Denny White. The copy man had wandered off in search of a more attentive audience, leaving Quigg free to look his fill. And look he did. Damn, she looked good in that too-fancy dress.
Yeah, the dress. He’d watched her carefully, seeing the precise moment when she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was overdressed. Her initial suspicion had been allayed when their hosts had come out to greet them. But Ray and Grace always looked like they stepped straight out of a catalogue. Then she’d met the crowd in the back yard.
She’d tried to make the best of it, he’d give her that, but her manner was too formal, her carriage too regal. To make matters worse, she obviously knew squat about the topics that dominated the ladies’ conversation. She couldn’t join in the discussions about Billy Bob’s latest movie, Enrique’s latest music video, or yesterday’s episode of Oprah. Her pop culture education seemed to have stopped at “Columbo”. Between her natural reserve and the social differences, she’d come across as cool and superior, and she knew it.
Quigg shifted, feeling an unexpected pang.
This was the friggin’ plan, man. Payback for her dragging him to those mind-numbingly staid gatherings.
“Would you say we were men of average intellige
nce?”
From long practice, Quigg managed not to jump as Ray glided up beside him. He turned a reproving gaze on his host. “I’d say one of us is. The other can’t seem to remember basic rules of etiquette, such as stealth is not a skill to be practiced in a social situation.”
“Okay, but would you say between us we have the combined IQ of at least a garden slug?”
“Razor, what are you talking about?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Hell, yeah, I think we’re at least as smart as a slug. Though, if you think about it, they can produce electricity, not to mention slime trails –”
“Enough about the snails already. My point was –”
“Slugs.”
“Slugs, snails, whatever. My point is, why are we standing here while my gorgeous wife and your beautiful date are standing way over there?”
Damn, Ray was right. As the man who had allegedly breached the heretofore unassailable castle walls, he should be glued to Suzannah. Suddenly, the idea had appeal above and beyond the role he was supposed to be playing. Strong appeal.
“Ray, buddy, that’s the most astute thing you’ve said in recent memory.” He drained his soft drink and handed the empty to his friend.
Both women looked up as he approached.
“John, we were just talking about you.”
He cocked an eyebrow suspiciously at Grace as he came to a stop beside Suzannah. “Yeah?”
“I was just telling Suzannah what a soft touch you are when it comes to animals.”
Ah, hell. “Not this again, Grace. I keep telling you people, I only took the damned dog home because the SPCA didn’t have room for him. I’m sure a kennel will open up any day.”
Grace laughed. “That was two years ago,” she confided to Suzannah, who also laughed.
“Oh, by the way, Grace,” he said, “Ray’s looking for an excuse to get you alone. He says to ask isn’t there something needs doing in the kitchen?”
He had the satisfaction of seeing her face color as her gaze flew to her husband.
“In that case, I’d better run along,” she said. “After all, how could I turn down such an eloquent invitation?”
“I like her,” Suzannah said, as they watched Grace cross the lawn to join Ray.
“I knew you would.”
“You also knew I was dressed all wrong.”
Quigg glanced at Suzannah to find she was now watching him closely. He widened his eyes. “Hey, wait a minute, this is me, here, remember? You think I’m qualified to make judgments in matters of dress?”
“What’s the story with Bruce Newman?”
The rapid change of subject threw him for a minute, but he wasn’t about to complain. “What about Newman? Did he give you a hard time?”
“No.”
Her answer was unequivocal, but it was just a second too long coming. He searched her face. “You sure?”
“He was perfectly polite. I just wondered about him, is all. I didn’t see his wife here.”
“You interested?”
She made a disparaging sound which coming from anyone other than Suzannah Phelps he might have called a snort. “Yeah, like I need another cop breathing down my neck.”
Her words were like a scalpel, slipping effortlessly between his ribs. The unexpected pang couldn’t have shocked him more than if she’d actually stuck him. He masked it with a smile.
“Hey, sweetheart, you know how to get this cop off your back. Just ride with me down to the station house right now and make a report on your schizophrenic flower boy.”
“No.” Her answer was automatic.
He shrugged, as though it was six of one, half a dozen of another. “What do you say we get out of here?”
She glanced at the group on the deck. “The party’s still in full swing. Won’t it raise some eyebrows?”
He closed his hand around her arm to pull her closer, and her gaze flew up to meet his. “Honey, it would raise eyebrows if I don’t whisk you away.”
Her lips parted on a gasp of surprise, and Quigg couldn’t resist skimming his palm up and down the warm silk of her bare arm. He felt her involuntary shiver at the light contact, but she didn’t back off.
“I suppose you’re right.”
Her voice was a husky dream as she made the acknowledgment.
“Kiss me.”
“No!” She glanced around to see if anyone were watching.
He sighed. “Then I guess I’ll have to do all the work.”
Before she could pull away, or maybe before he could reconsider, he lowered his mouth to hers. It was a light thing, the merest brush his lips against hers, but he felt the moist heat of her breath, tasted the temptation. The need to go deeper, past the pleasant taste of her perfect lipstick to the dark secrets of her mouth, surged in his veins. He lifted his head abruptly. “Let’s go.”
“Let me get my purse.”
*
Suzannah sat quietly on the ride home, nurturing—despite her better judgment—a small flame of desire.
She should crush it. She knew that. But it was so sweet, and it had been so long since she’d felt anything remotely like this. She glanced at John, who kept his eyes on the road, his face unreadable in profile.
It wasn’t real, of course, this feeling he stirred in her. How could it be? She just wasn’t the passionate type. Or if there was any passion in her, it was too deeply buried, too thoroughly inhibited to show itself. Except when she looked at him, when she felt that energy that fairly crackled around him, she could almost believe that he might be able to call those buried passions to the surface.
John signaled and pulled over to the curb, the sudden maneuver dragging Suzannah out of her reverie. Before she could ask what was going on, why he’d pulled over on the thoroughfare, she heard the wail of an approaching siren. Twisting in her seat, she saw a fire truck bearing down on them. When it had passed, John signaled and moved back into the roadway.
She settled back in her seat, adjusting her belt. “So, does that make the adrenaline kick up when you hear those sirens?”
He shot her a grin. “Damn straight.”
There it was, that jump of the pulse again, just because he’d smiled at her. Would he kiss her again when he dropped her off? Probably not. No audience to impress. Usually, he followed her in for a suitable interval, long enough for anyone watching the house to form their own conclusions, after which he’d leave, whistling and walking with a spring in his step that suggested they’d been doing more than catching up on current events in front of CNN. But maybe tonight –
John swore.
“What is it?”
“That fire truck we saw? I think it was going to your place.”
Suzannah grasped the door handle as he cornered hard onto her street. Omigod, the pumper was at her house. And a second fire truck and a police car. John pulled up behind the police cruiser. Suzannah released her seatbelt and leapt from the car almost before it came to a stop.
“Oh, my Lord, my car.”
John rounded the Ford to join her on the sidewalk. Her BMW was no longer burning, but the acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air and the car was little more than a blackened husk. Water streamed down her driveway into the gutter.
“My car,” she said again.
“Stay here,” John ordered. “I’ll find out what happened.”
She grabbed his arm. “No, I’m not going to wait here. It’s my car and –”
She was interrupted by a uniformed officer, who approached them with his arm outstretched. “Folks, I’m going to have to ask you to back off.”
“Hey, Jules, it’s me,” John called. “John Quigley, Detective Bureau.”
“Quigg?” The officer drew closer. “How’d you get here so fast? They just got the fire out.”
“I was with Ms. Phelps. She’s the property owner,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “And that’s her Beemer smoking in the driveway.”
The constable’s eyes widened. “You’
re with her?”
“Yep.”
Suzannah stepped forward, tired of being discussed as though she weren’t present, and extended her hand. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Constable Julian Lambert.”
The young constable shook her hand. She thought he might have blushed, but it was impossible to tell with the blue and reds strobing in the deepening dusk.
“Can you tell me what happened here?”
“Well, ma’am, your car was pretty much engulfed when we got here. I understand one of your neighbors tried to put it out with a fire extinguisher, but backed off when he became concerned the gas tank might blow. Funny, they always worry about the gas tank, but nine times out of ten, the real danger comes from the hydraulic stuff blasting off. That’s why the firefighters position themselves ahead or behind the vehicle, never beside –”
“Right,” said Quigg, cutting off the explanation. “So he backed off and called it in?”
“Got his wife to make the call.”
“How’d it get started?” she asked.
“Can’t say yet, ma’am.” The radio on his belt crackled, and he paused to turn the volume down a notch. “A lot of the car fires we see are electrical, but they tend to be old beaters, not late model BMWs. I don’t suppose you have any reason to suspect someone might want to lash out at you?”
John stepped closer. She felt his tension through the layers of air separating them. Lifting her gaze, she met his. Tell him, his eyes said.
“You’re right,” she said, as though he’d spoken the words aloud. “It’s time.”
“Ma’am?”
She turned back to the constable. “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I think somebody might have done this deliberately.”
Chapter Six
It was after ten o’clock before everyone cleared out. An increasingly astonished Constable Lambert had taken her statement, a process expedited by the thorough notes she’d kept in her diary. Dates, times, even the results of her own investigations with the florists. Her burned-out car was towed away for forensic examination. Her neighbors had been canvassed about what they might have seen. Her driveway was mopped up. Finally—finally—she closed the door on the last investigator and she and John were alone again.
