He turned off the ignition. Time for a little subtle interrogation.
“I’ve seen some of your aunt’s old movies,” he said. “She was really beautiful.”
A smile tilted the ends of Claire’s mouth. “I think Aunt Sadie is still beautiful.”
“Does she miss Hollywood?”
Her smile broadened. “Probably. She talks about the old days a lot. Sometimes it seems she has a little, um, difficulty letting go of the grandeur.”
“You mean, like Norma Desmond?”
Claire snickered. “Nothing so dramatic as in Sunset Boulevard, but it must be hard to have been so famous, so glamorous, the toast of the town, and then one day give it all up to—”
She stopped herself. Licking her lips, she said, “Basically, I think she’s pretty grounded in reality. Mostly anyway. I know she misses the old days.”
“That’s not what you were going to say. Why did the fabulous Sadie Lancaster leave Hollywood?”
Shrugging, she avoided his eyes. “Long story. Emotionally, I don’t think she’s ever left. She’s virtually memorized every line of dialogue she ever heard.” With a lopsided grin, she said, “Sadie and Hitch make quite a pair.”
“Is that her boyfriend?”
“Hitch?” She laughed at that, her eyes closed, her neck arched, and he found he wanted to grab her, say something, do something, anything to keep her laughing. The Claire he’d known once upon a time.
Shifting her body in his direction, she said, “Sadie’s fiancé’s name is Mort. Hitchcock is Aunt Sadie’s African Grey parrot. She brought him with her when she left Hollywood twenty years ago. She keeps him in his cage in her room when she’s gone, but when she’s home, Hitch has the run of the place.”
“A parrot, huh. Does he talk?”
She chuckled. “Getting him to talk is easy. It’s shutting him up that’s the trick.”
“What about Mort?”
“He talks, too.”
“Very funny.”
“You won’t think so once you’ve met Mort.”
Jumping into the tiny opening she’d given him, he said, “Don’t you like this Mort guy?”
Claire tilted her head as she unfastened her seat belt, taking her time to consider his remark. Her brow furrowed slightly.
“I think it’s nice Aunt Sadie’s involved with a man her own age. She’s been a widow for twenty-five years. I’m sure there are times when she’s been . . . lonely. Mort is somebody she can talk to, share common generational memories with.”
Her words were supportive, but her tone and body language told a different story.
“But . . .” he drawled, waited.
As though deciding what to share with him, she nibbled on the corner of her bottom lip. He let himself watch her. Just . . . watch her. It was easy to do. Claire was one of those rare women who was beautiful without being obvious about it. Everything about her was understated, which was why, the first time he’d looked into her eyes, he felt like he’d been zapped with a stun gun. Now, at this moment, it was all he could do to keep his mind on business and his hands to himself.
“Mort owns a funeral home and a crematorium,” she said slowly. “Mortimer’s Mortuary, downtown.” She smiled. “Now, I know it sounds judgmental of me, and I’m sure most funeral directors are regular people just like you and me . . .”
“Yet . . .”
“He gives me the creeps.” She slapped her thigh with her open palm. “There. I’ve said it. I’m a bad person, I know, but I swear, Mort could be a grocery clerk or a jet pilot or a stockbroker, and he’d still give me the creeps.”
“Mort the mortician gives you the creeps?” Taylor chided. “Other than the fact his name is Mort, how do you mean?” He kept it light, casual, simple curiosity, that’s all.
She smiled at him as though she had a secret. Her eyes sparkled like mellow sherry, and long dimples appeared in her cheeks. She looked more like the woman he’d met a year ago, the one he’d found so irresistible, the one he’d danced with half the night, and made love to the other half.
“Yeah, Mortie the mortician,” she snickered. “He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Apparently it’s a longstanding family trade, passed from father to son.”
“Hmm. I guess when his dad told him to grab a cold one, he wasn’t talking about beer.”
Laughter bubbled from deep in her throat. It was a thoroughly sexy sound, and he felt himself respond.
“Maybe it was his mother who passed along the trade,” she said wryly. “What would you call a lady mortician?”
Taylor paused for effect. “Mummy?”
She let her head fall back on the seat as she laughed until her eyes were moist and her cheeks rosy. “I hate it when you do that,” she said to the ceiling.
“Bowl you over with my wit?” he ventured. “Captivate you with my humor? Impress you with razor-sharp retorts?”
“I don’t know that I’d call them razor-sharp,” she drawled, “but, well . . .”
She let her words trickle off. Sitting up again, she studied her fingertips, fiercely avoiding eye contact. “Listen, Taylor. I . . . um, we . . . what I mean is . . .” Finally, huffing out a long breath, she said, “Oh, hell. Never mind.”
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Me, too.”
She looked over at him, her expression unreadable. Apparently, they’d leave things at that. No use rekindling a dead fire.
“You were telling me about Mort,” he said, shoving the conversation back in the direction he wanted it to go. “What is it about him that bothers you?”
She relaxed her shoulders, obviously relieved to let the topic shift into more neutral territory. Reaching up, she fiddled with her earring.
“Aunt Sadie told me that he has very extravagant tastes and spends money like a drunken sailor. The engagement ring he gave her is over three carats.”
“Is that a lot?”
She shook her head and looked at him with pity in her eyes, as though he’d just asked whether the Earth was round.
“Yes, Detective Tiffany, three carats is a lot. He wears imported silk suits, owns several high-end automobiles, travels to Europe all the time, and throws catered parties that rival celebrity victories on Oscar night.” She lifted a shoulder. “Of course, he has a steady supply of, um, customers, if you will, but Port Henry isn’t that big, and his isn’t the only mortuary around. He just seems to spend a lot more money than he makes.”
Taylor feigned minor enthusiasm over Claire’s remarks, but the reality was, everything she said fit the profile of a man who was using his legitimate business as a front.
Before he could ask another question, Claire laid her hand on the door handle. “Well, nature calls,” she said. “I need to go in now. I’d offer you some iced tea or lemonade, but—”
“Great!” he interrupted. “I could use some.”
Before she could protest, he’d already jumped out of the truck and was halfway around to her door. She climbed out, glared up at him, and seemed to resign herself to inviting him in and fixing him a cold drink. “I guess it’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”
Silently, she trudged up the steps to the kitchen door. Agatha looked up sleepily from under the rocking chair, yawned until her tongue curled, shifted position, and dozed off again.
Taylor nearly bumped into Claire as she stopped dead in her tracks.
“Great,” she muttered, patting her pockets. “The Seattle PD still has my keys.”
Bending, she picked up the edge of the straw door mat and picked up the shiny brass key lying there.
“Tell me I didn’t just see you do that,” he scolded. “A key under the mat, Claire? Why don’t you just leave the doors wide open with a big sign that says, Intruders welcome. Steal me blind!”
Her mouth flattened as she opened the screen door and curled her fingers around the door handle. “Aunt Sadie and I trust—”
She stopped. The handle turned, but she hadn’t unlocked the door yet.
<
br /> Taylor straightened his spine. As he nodded for Claire to step back against the wall, he moved in front of her, reaching under his jacket for his .38. Grasping the butt of the weapon, he turned the brass doorknob.
“You sure your Aunt Sadie isn’t home?” he whispered.
She nodded.
His heart hammering inside his chest, he slowly shoved the door all the way open. It creaked on its hinges as it swung into the room and banged against the wall. The hollow sound echoed for a moment, then all was silent.
The square room was large and airy. Sunlight spilled in from two lace-covered windows onto the wood and glass cabinets, blue tile countertops, mellow hardwood floor. The rose-striped wallpaper was pretty, and copper pots in a variety of sizes hung in a neat row above the enamel stove. A calendar on a nail fluttered in the slight breeze made by the opening door. It was a typical country kitchen, cute and quiet and comfy.
Then he focused on the kitchen table, on what was on it.
“Houston,” he said under his breath. “We have a problem.”
Chapter 6
Secretion
Hiding something.
Claire placed her palms on Taylor’s broad back and peeked around his shoulder. When she saw what he saw, her hands flew to her mouth to stop a startled gasp.
Across the room, in the middle of the kitchen table, sat her leather purse. Arranged in a circle around it, like moons orbiting Jupiter, were her wallet, cell phone, pager, hairbrush, comb, notebook, makeup case, a roll of postage stamps, several pens, her prescription pad, business cards, tissues, and the little Swiss Army knife Betsy had given her for her birthday twelve years ago. Loose change stood stacked like chimneys—one pile each for pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters.
Taylor turned, curving his fingers around her arm, tugging her away from the open door. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone. Handing it to her, he murmured, “Get in my truck. The keys are in the ignition. Lock the doors. If I’m not back in five minutes, or if you hear shots fired, get the hell out of here, phone the PHPD, and request backup. Do not hang around, and above all, do not come in after me.”
Though the words had been quietly spoken, his tone held an air of unequivocal authority. His blue eyes had cooled, sharpened, and gone deadly serious. His grip on her arm was firm, his muscles taut. He seemed poised, as though he might have to take off at a dead run at the snap of a twig. Every word, every movement emphasized how Detective Taylor McKennitt expected to be obeyed without question.
Toward the back of her heart, hidden among the shadows of grief and loss and uncertainty, where, a year ago, she’d locked away her tender feelings for Taylor, she felt the deadbolt softly rattle.
“Could he still be in there?” she whispered.
“I doubt it, but I’m not going to assume anything.”
He released her arm, and she did as he asked. Once she had snapped the locks inside the truck, he nodded and turned toward the open kitchen door. His weapon in his right hand, he eased himself inside the screen door and into the kitchen.
In Claire’s hand, the cell phone grew warm and sticky. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. Rolling her wrist, she checked the time. Five thirty-three. He’d said five minutes . . . three hundred seconds . . . three hundred heartbeats. An eternity.
Her gaze glued to the empty kitchen doorway, she tried to keep her breathing steady. Where was he now? Probably through the dining room, and on into the living room. He’d check the closet in the foyer, stop and look in the office, then go up the stairs to the bedrooms.
Her bedroom was first, he’d go in, open the closet to find the pile of underwear to be laundered she’d left on the floor. But he wouldn’t notice that, would he? Then into her bathroom. She cringed again. She’d hand washed two bras and left them hanging over the shower stall door to dry. But he wouldn’t notice those either. Probably.
He’d move down the hall to Aunt Sadie’s room. Hitch would be in his cage. He’d blink and probably say something inane. Hitch, not Taylor.
Hmm. Then again . . .
After he’d finished with Aunt Sadie’s closet, he’d move into the hallway and check the other two rooms. Then back to the hall, and down the stairs to the kitchen to the door and . . .
As she thought it, Taylor pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. The door squeaked as it eased shut.
Her breath whooshed out of her lungs and tears stung her eyes. He was all right. No shots fired, no officer down. And whoever the guy was who’d broken into her house was gone.
Flicking the locks, she shoved the door and jumped out, hurrying to stand beside him on the porch.
She swallowed. “Everything okay?”
He nodded. A strange light shone in his eyes.
“What?” she choked. Was there a dead body in the parlor?
“Pretty underpants.” He waggled his brows.
She made a gushing sound with her throat. “Pervert.”
He shrugged. “A man’s got to take his pleasures where he finds them.”
Glancing around the yard and up the drive, he blew out a long breath. “The gravel won’t show any tire tread or shoeprints, even though I doubt he drove right up to your door. Nice of him, though, to put the key back under the mat.” His blue eyes bored into hers. Meaningfully. “Your prints on it probably obliterated his, if he left any.”
Taylor extended his hand, palm up, and she placed his cell phone in it. Punching in a number, he put the phone to his ear. As he waited for the call to ring through, she said, “Are you calling for a CSI team?”
“I’ve got everything I need in the truck.”
“Just you? Doesn’t Seattle have a unit?”
“Sure, but we only use it on homicides or violent assaults. It appears any wounds to your purse are only superficial. So all you get . . . is me.”
His words rumbled inside her skull as she tried to ignore their double meaning.
While Taylor reported the incident to the PHPD, she watched him as he stood, legs braced, head down, focused. Her own personal knight gallant.
Would that be so bad? she asked herself. Men like Taylor McKennitt didn’t come along every day. But then, her Nagging Little Voice chimed in, men like her father and brother didn’t come along every day, either, and look what had happened to them.
The lightweight leather jacket Taylor wore emphasized the breadth of his shoulders; his faded denims, the lean line of his hips. His dark hair was cut short, yet there was enough there to run her fingers through. It looked soft to the touch, and she knew for a fact that it was.
Taylor McKennitt was a very masculine man. The way he walked, his sexy baritone voice, the sharp look in his eye, his obvious strength, athleticism, and confidence all combined to make a woman feel safe, protected.
It was nature’s design that a female respond to a male who displayed all the manly virtues. She was simply reacting to feminine programming, but that didn’t make him any easier to ignore.
But you will, warned that Nagging Little Voice.
He finished the call, closed the cell phone, and shoved it into his pocket, but before he could say anything, the sound of squealing tires in the driveway made them both turn to see a silver Mercedes SLR McLaren roar down the driveway and slide to a stop behind Taylor’s truck.
Immediately putting himself between her and the newcomer, Taylor shoved Claire behind him.
“Anybody you know?” he growled.
She looked around his shoulder as the car door swung open. “Yes,” she said, feeling a little confused. “He’s a colleague of sorts. An orthopedic surgeon. His name’s Adam Thursby.” But what was he doing here?
Without turning, Taylor said, “Your boyfriend?”
“No.” She should say yes, just to see the look on his face, but it wouldn’t be fair to use Adam like that.
“Don’t tell him I’m a police officer,” he ordered in a low voice.
“I understand,” she agreed, setting a smile of gr
eeting on her face for Adam as he crossed the yard and approached the porch.
Adam Thursby was tall, toned, tanned. He appeared to be forty-something, had an athletic build and sun-streaked brown hair. He wore expensive dark glasses and a blue silk suit that made him look like a fashion model. As he stepped up onto the porch, he whipped off the glasses and sent her a brilliant smile—which faded considerably when he shifted his gaze to Taylor.
“Hello, Adam,” she said, moving around Taylor to greet him. Halting in front of her, Adam slipped his arms around her waist and tugged her close. Her breath caught and she automatically put her palms on his chest to keep him at a distance.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he murmured, giving her clothing the once-over. “Hey, you’re not ready. You haven’t forgotten about our date, have you?”
Taylor sized up Adam Thursby. So this was the competition, huh? Well, if Claire liked a guy who looked liked Plastic Surgeon Ken—emphasis on the plastic—she need look no further.
As she introduced them, Thursby granted Taylor a smile. His teeth were so white and straight, he looked like a baleen whale sucking in krill.
Thursby released Claire and offered his hand.
Taylor shook it. Hard.
The two men smiled coolly at each other.
Thursby might look like the Used Car Salesman to the Stars, Taylor thought, but he had one hell of a grip.
“How do you know Claire?” Thursby said to Taylor. The question was innocent enough, but he heard the underlying message loud and clear.
Before Taylor could answer, Claire interrupted.
“Not that it’s not nice to see you, Adam,” she said with a rather iffy smile. “But what are you doing here? I’m sure I mentioned that I was going to be in Seattle this weekend.”
Dr. Dingledick’s face crumpled in disappointment. “Did I screw up? I thought you meant next weekend. Well, as long as I’m here, let’s have dinner anyway, okay?”
Sighs Matter Page 6
