“Oh, Adam,” she said. “I’m so sorry you’ve gone to all this trouble, but the truth is—”
“Not a problem,” he said magnanimously. With his hand at the small of her back, he guided her toward the kitchen door. “I can wait while you change. I promise it will be worth your while.”
Taylor moved to intercept them, but Claire put her hand on Thursby’s arm, stopping him as he reached for the screen door.
“There’s been an accident, Adam. This isn’t a good time.” Was it Taylor’s imagination, or did Claire look shellshocked by this guy?
“Accident?” A frown created no creases on Thursby’s forehead. “Are you all right? What kind of accident? When?”
She slid her hands into her jeans pockets and briefly explained the situation. “And since Taylor lives in Seattle, he was kind enough to give me a ride back to Port Henry.”
“Good God,” Thursby said, placing his palms on her shoulders. “So that’s how you got that contusion above the right orbital ridge. Are you sure you’re all right, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart. Taylor’s brain bent a little around that one. Did Dr. Bedpan always call her sweetheart, or was it simply for Taylor’s benefit?
Claire’s cheeks tinged pink as she smiled up at Thursby. “I’m okay . . . Adam,” she said as she gently pushed the man’s hands from her shoulders.
“I’d still like to take you out. It might help you to relax.”
“Actually, I’m pretty tired. All the excitement. Listen, I haven’t checked my voice mail since this morning. Why don’t you and I go for a walk down by the pond. I can borrow your cell phone, if I may, to check my messages.”
“Where’s your cell phone?”
“Um, the truth is, my purse was stolen.”
Adam looked thoroughly confused. “You were in a car accident, and you were mugged?”
“Yes.”
Taylor watched as Thursby put his arm around her again and began leading her off the porch. “Obviously you’re okay now, but I want to hear about it. I want to hear all about it.”
“While you’re taking your walk,” Taylor said, “I’ll do that job in the kitchen we talked about.”
“Job?” Adam stopped and looked back at Taylor. “Are you a carpenter or plumber or something?”
“Or something,” Taylor said, without elaborating.
“Wait here, Adam,” Claire said as she stepped off the porch. “I’ll be right back.”
When she was out of earshot, Thursby turned to Taylor.
“So you’re a sort of handyman, are you?” Intelligent gray eyes assessed Taylor as he waited for an answer.
“Handy enough.”
“You got your toolbox with you?”
“Yep.”
“Have everything in it, does it?”
“Crescent wrench, hammers, wire cutters, screwdrivers . . . the works.”
“Well, while you’re busy being handy,” Thursby drawled, his eyes narrowed on Taylor, “just make sure you don’t screw anything that belongs to me.”
Taylor looked off across the yard to where Claire was closing the passenger door of his truck. Her hair shone like satin. Her movements were graceful, like a dancer’s. And her mouth, plush and rose pink, looked ripe for a kiss—his kiss.
“Since I don’t see anything here that belongs to you,” he said casually, “I guess that won’t be a problem.”
Thursby visibly heated, but said nothing as Claire climbed the steps. Showing them a piece of notepaper, she said, “I’d made a list of calls I have to return this afternoon, and left it in the glove compartment. You ready for that walk, Adam?”
Claire led the way down the steps and out across the barnyard. They passed the chickens, strutting and bobbing as they searched with bright black eyes for leftover bits of grain. Gerty, the goose, flapped and honked, extended her neck as if to attack, then abandoned the strategy to waddle away.
Near the pond, plump bees, their dangling legs heavy with pollen, rose and dove from clover to columbine to daisy, while butterflies floated on the wind like white gossamer bows. Claire looked on the familiar scene with fresh eyes. As a little girl, this place had been her summertime playground. Then, as a lonely teenager, her haven of love and safety and peace.
And now her sanctuary had been invaded. Why? And by whom?
She risked a quick glance back at the farmhouse, knowing Taylor was there, in the kitchen, doing everything he could to find some clue to who had hurt and robbed her. Rubbing her temples, she tried to settle her frazzled emotions.
Next to her, Adam seemed thoughtful, too. He’d flipped the edges of his jacket back and slid his hands in his pants pockets. Though his shiny black shoes had accumulated a patina of brown dust, he seemed not to notice.
“Are you sure you’re really okay?” he said as they reached the wooden arbor bench Claire’s grandfather had built decades ago. A profusion of wild red roses stretched up one side of the trellis and tumbled down the other, creating a shady spot from which to rest and enjoy watching the mallards drift like bathtub toys across the flat surface of the pond.
Claire edged onto the bench and folded her hands in her lap. Adam settled next to her, close enough for her to feel the heat from his body. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees.
“I’m sorry you were hurt. I care about you, Claire . . . care for you. I don’t think you realize how much.”
Studying his handsome profile, Claire bit her lip. She liked Adam. He was fun to be around, and they’d had some interesting conversations, but that was about as far as it went. Since her brief interlude with Taylor eight months ago, she’d dated a few men, but none had turned her inside out, the way he had. Not even Adam.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, the trite phrase the best she could do at the moment. He was obviously interested in her, but she didn’t want to lead him on, so she chose her next words carefully. “I truly enjoy our friendship.” Okay, so it wasn’t exactly original, but it worked.
“Ah. I see. We’re friends.” He smiled. “Code words for Sayonara, baby. I know the drill, Claire.”
“I’m sorry, Adam. Listen, I . . .”
Flicking a glance toward the distant farmhouse, he said, “Is there somebody else?”
“No,” she said, but she knew in her heart it simply wasn’t true. Whenever she’d considered becoming involved with a man, an image of Taylor had shoved itself right into her brain and hung out there, as if he owned her.
It wouldn’t be fair to commit to a relationship with Adam, or any man, when she knew she was capable of much stronger feelings. Until she’d met Taylor, she hadn’t even been aware she could have such intense feelings, but now that she was, she’d be cheating any man she didn’t feel at least as strongly for.
“How much longer until you get your license?” she asked in an effort to divert the conversation.
He shrugged. “Any time now. I passed the boards of course, but there must be some foul-up with the paperwork. I hate not being able to practice medicine, but until the State of Washington grants me a license, I’m on an extended vacation. Not that I’m complaining,” he said, sending her a charming grin.
Claire raised her gaze to look past Adam’s shoulder. Still no Taylor.
Plucking a red rose from the vine, she cupped it in her palms. Leaning back against the white lattice, she said, “Will you be able to get your kids soon?”
Adam brightened considerably. “God, I hope so. I miss them so damn much, but I need to finish getting the house fixed up and arrange for school for them, of course. As soon as that’s done, I’ll drive down to Oregon and pick them up. Then we’ll be a family again.” He grinned and nodded his head, glowing with happiness.
She smiled, twirling the rose in her fingers. A sharp little thorn caught on her thumb, leaving a small dot of blood behind. She wiped it away with her free hand.
“You must miss them terribly,” she said. “Your kids.”
His smile faded, and a stark look
crept into his eyes, altering his entire demeanor. Suddenly, he looked . . . broken.
“My kids are my reason for living,” he said quietly. “They’re the reason for everything I do, everything I think or feel. I hate being parted from them.” He straightened, brightened. “But soon. Just a few details to work out, and our separation will all be a faded memory. So, tell me all about the accident.”
In as few words as possible, she related the incident, then glanced at the house again. Still no Taylor. Why was he taking so long?
“Is there anything I can do?” Adam offered. “Get you a guard dog? Camp on your doorstep? Camp inside your doorstep? Camp at the foot of your bed? Camp in your bed—”
“I get the picture.” She laughed. “Thanks, but the police are handling everything.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, handing it to her. “You needed this?”
In the time it took Claire to check her messages, return three phone calls, and confirm her rotation at the hospital, evening had begun to creep across the sky, elongating the garden’s shadows, bringing up a cool breeze from the sea. One by one, frogs joined to form a throaty chorus, and high overhead, a hawk shrieked. The butterflies were gone, and most of the bees had begun to disappear as day meandered quietly into night.
Returning Adam’s cell phone to him, she said, “I don’t know how serious this guy is about hurting me. I don’t want anybody else becoming a target, including you, so maybe it would be best if—”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Leaning forward, he scooped up a pebble from the garden and flung it into the pond. A plunk, a splash, and tiny waves rippled across the surface like an opening blossom.
“I don’t give a shit about some weirdo targeting me,” he scoffed. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
“Adam, I—”
“Come on, have dinner with me, Claire,” he coaxed. “I promise I’ll behave. I won’t tell you how attracted to you I am. I won’t tell you how special you are. I won’t even mention how crazy you’d be to pass up a great guy like me.”
He slid her a grin, and she smiled.
“I don’t want to give you a false impression—”
“No problem. But hey, everybody’s got to eat.” He blinked innocently at her. Yes, Adam Thursby was a very nice guy.
“All right,” she said, laughing. “On one condition. I pay for my own. This is not a date.”
“I’ll take it.” On Adam Thursby’s face, a smile was more than just a smile. With his movie star good looks and athletic build, that charming grin really was gilding the lily. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something . . . special.”
He didn’t go back to the house with her, but walked directly to his car. By the time she reached the kitchen door, the Mercedes was already speeding up the driveway where it turned onto Puget Road, and disappeared.
Claire crouched down to rub Agatha’s tummy, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake. Dinner with Adam, tomorrow night. She would keep it platonic, friendly. Their conversations were always lively, he seemed to have a fairly even disposition, and they had a lot in common.
Yet, as her fingers idly slipped through Agatha’s soft fur, when she tried to envision Adam sitting across from her tomorrow night, it wasn’t Adam’s face she saw. It was Taylor’s.
Chapter 7
Doctrine
Physician’s restroom.
He stood in the kitchen, watching through the window as Adam Thursby roared off up the driveway. Checking out the crime scene—and finding little viable evidence—had left Taylor in a sour mood, but the thought of that arrogant ass in a relationship with Claire set his teeth on edge. Something wasn’t right about the guy, although Taylor certainly couldn’t find fault with the man’s taste in women.
Claire walked toward the house, her arm lifted in a wave of farewell to Thursby, a friendly smile curving her lips. She jogged up the steps, then bent to pet her cat. From behind the lace curtain, Taylor watched as she stroked Agatha’s fur and spoke in a low, soothing voice. The kind of voice a man longed to hear from a woman in the wee hours of the night.
He turned back to the table, cursing a blue streak, then checked to make sure the evidence bags were labeled. Closing the lid of his case, he snapped it, hard, envisioning Thursby’s jaw.
Shoving thoughts of the irritating surgeon out of his mind, he focused on the evidence he’d collected.
There were prints everywhere, but he had a sinking feeling none would belong to Claire’s attacker. He’d gotten other bits of trace evidence, too, including a light-colored hair, probably Claire’s.
That was it. Their perp had been very careful not to leave a thing behind.
Crossing the room to the kitchen door, he unlocked and opened it. She stood and faced him, her lovely brown eyes wide with curiosity.
“Did you find anything?” She nibbled nervously on her bottom lip, a trait he was beginning to appreciate very much.
“We’ll see,” he said, then gestured to his leather case sitting on the tile counter by the sink. “I’ve got to run this into the lab for processing. First I need to get a set of your prints and obtain a hair sample. Since Sadie isn’t here, I picked up some latents and hair evidence from her bathroom. If we eliminate the two of you, I may have lucked out and gotten something on our perp.” He gestured toward the door with his chin. “I see Dr. Armani took off.”
She folded her arms under her breasts in a typical gesture of defense. He followed her movements, admiring what he saw, then lifted his gaze to her eyes.
“I think you made it pretty clear you don’t like Adam,” she said in an admonishing tone. “You needn’t resort to name calling.”
“You’re absolutely right. He’s not around to hear it, so what’s the point? I’ll hold off until he’s within earshot.”
“You’re being juvenile.”
“Like I care. He’s a prick.”
She made a sound of exasperation. “You don’t even know him.”
He shrugged. “I’m a cop. Trained to observe and assess people and make quick decisions about them all the time. I’ve observed and assessed. Friday’s a prick.”
“It’s Thursby, and he’s not a . . . God, you are infuriating!”
“It’s a gift. I’d advise against seeing him again until we’ve figured all this out.”
“Too late,” she said, watching him closely. “I’m having dinner with him tomorrow night.”
He glared into her eyes. “Wrong answer, dumpling. Until we get this house secured and find out exactly who’s behind the attack on you, and whether he plans more fun and games, you’re going to keep a low profile, and have police protection.”
“Meaning you, I suppose.”
“Meaning me. Strictly business, by the book.”
She straightened her arms by her side and doubled her fists, but before she could verbally tear into him, the sound of yet another car interrupted them.
“I thought the country was supposed to be so damn quiet,” he snapped. “Hell, this place is like Grand Central.”
As Claire preceded him out the kitchen door, the black Cadillac Deville skidded to a noisy stop, sending plumes of dust and gravel chips ten feet in the air. The driver side door flew open and a man bolted out, his bald head shining like a beacon in the waning light of early evening.
Though Taylor recognized him instantly, he said to Claire, “Who in the hell is that?”
She frowned. “It’s Mortie, Aunt Sadie’s fiancé. But I don’t see Aunt Sadie . . .”
By the time she’d stepped down from the porch, the old guy had come panting across the yard to halt in front of Claire. She wasn’t that tall, but she and the mortician stood eye-to-eye.
“Mort?” Claire said, sending a worried glance at the car. “Where’s Aunt Sadie?”
Mortimer dabbed at the perspiration beading his brow, then shoved his handkerchief haphazardly into his breast pocket. It hung over the edge like a wilted flower. Rubbi
ng the back of his neck with one pudgy hand, he swallowed. “Well, gadzooks, ain’t she here? Figured she’d come straight here.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you two were going to spend the weekend in Victoria. Why would she be here?”
Taylor watched as Mort lowered his head, shaking it slowly and jutting out his bottom lip like he’d been a very bad boy.
“We had a . . . difference of opinion, you might say,” he said with a sniff. “She got agitated. Came back early. You know how difficult Sadie can be, big movie star and all.”
Claire fisted her hands on her hips.
“Aunt Sadie’s the most even-tempered person I’ve ever met,” she accused, her tone one of irritation mixed with frustration. “If she’s not with you, and she’s not here, then where in the hell is she, Mortie?”
Taylor moved down off the porch and went to stand at Claire’s side. She glanced up at him, worry darkening the color of her expressive brown eyes.
With a helpless shrug, Mort said, “Okay, we’re on our way home when we stop at the Arco a few miles back, you know the one I mean, on the corner there by the senior center? And Sadie goes into the ladies’ room to splash a little cold water on her face, but . . . well . . .”
“But what?” Claire demanded. “Out with it, Mort.”
The mortician’s dark eyes shifted to the right, then the left. He blinked a few times, and stuck that lower lip out once more.
“The way of it is,” he mumbled, “she goes into the ladies’ room, but never comes the hell out. I wait a while, then go and knock, then take a peek inside. But she ain’t there! There’s not a soul around getting gas, so I ask the guy in the office, and he says he ain’t seen no lady. So I’m thinking she might have taken off to hike home.” The look on his face was one of a defiant hog. “Expected her to be here. Didn’t see her on the road. If something bad’s happened to her, for Pete’s sake, it sure as hell ain’t my fault!”
Former screen idol and disinclined senior citizen Sadie Lancaster trudged along the side of the road, furious with herself.
Sighs Matter Page 7
