Overnight

by EC Sheedy

  The boy was still staring at Julius’s outstretched hand. Finally he gave it an awkward pump. “You the plumber she’s been waiting for?”

  Deanne’s face reddened. “Dear God.”

  “No. I’m not the plumber.” Julius didn’t feel inclined to state the nature of his business.

  “Kurt,” Deanne said. “Thank you for bringing the mail, but Julius and I are—”

  “Busy. Yeah, I get it,” he interrupted. Again looking at Julius, the kid’s mouth thinned, as if he was pissed off. “No problem. I got stuff to do anyway.” He headed for the door, turned back when he got there. “I’ll come back later, give you a hand with the boxes.”

  “You don’t have to—” she started.

  If Minton heard, he ignored her, let the door slam shut behind him.

  Julius was tempted to go after him, shake the little bastard stupid and teach him some manners. None of your business, Zern. But there was something about the kid that made his gut clench—his dim and distant early warning signal. Trouble. He could smell it.

  “I’m sorry…” she said, rubbing her forehead. “And how many apologies does that make it now?”

  “It’s okay. Teenage boys aren’t usually long on charm,” he said, adding, “But it looks to me like you’ve got yourself an admirer.”

  “No. What I’ve got is my landlord’s son—with too much time on his hands. Kurt’s okay.” She went to the counter and poured two mugs of coffee. “Cream? Sugar?” she asked, raising one of the mugs, apparently determined to change the subject.

  “Neither, thanks.”

  They took their coffee into the living room and sat on the sofa facing Clancy West’s paintings.

  Deanne cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, nodding toward the art on the wall. “What do you think?”

  “I think they’re pure genius.” Julius balanced the mug on his knee and stretched his arm out along the sofa back. “But I’m curious about that neighbor of yours. What’s his name again? Kurt Minton?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Deanne, determined to get back to business, opted to ignore Julius’s second comment and concentrate on the first. “You’re right about Clancy being a genius—not to mention his work being a wise choice from an investment perspective. It will go nowhere but up.”

  “I agree.” The man couldn’t stretch out his long legs because of the coffee table, but with his arm resting along the back of the sofa, he managed to look as relaxed as a sunning cat. His thick dark hair gleamed in the morning light coming through the windows, a light that intensified the silver of his eyes.

  At least she’d got him off the subject of Kurt Minton. Not that she blamed him for asking—or being annoyed by all the disruptions to their meeting. He’d come to see paintings, not take a role in The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  God, what was wrong with Kurt anyway? Next time he came around she was going to tear a strip off him. Given new pups, her vet’s visit—and Kurt acting the monster teen from hell—this meeting with Julius couldn’t go any further off track. And, damn it, she couldn’t bring herself to say one more I’m sorry. She wanted to make this sale for Clancy.

  His show was in three days, and if it were known in advance Julius Zern had bought his work, it would encourage other buyers. And make Clancy’s naive belief in her pay off. She knew as much about selling art as she did about birthing puppies, yet he’d insisted she rep him, stating he only worked with people he trusted. So losing wasn’t an option—except in the case of my disastrous marriage. When that thought from nowhere knotted her stomach, she pushed it back.

  She got a grip and smiled at Julius, who, beyond agreeing Clancy’s work would go up in value, hadn’t said another word. Instead, he seemed lost in his own thoughts. She could only hope he wasn’t thinking about Kurt. “Maybe now, with all the interruptions behind us,” she said, her tone bright enough to light an airstrip, “we can start over. Concentrate on why you came here in the first place. Clancy’s work.”

  “You always do that?” He studied her from over the rim of his mug.

  “Do what?”

  “Smile when you don’t feel like it.”

  The question, bordering on personal, surprised her. “I suppose I do. According to my mother, a smile is a much better investment than a frown.”

  “Never thought of it that way. Smart mother.”

  Oh, yeah… “Does it bother you? My smiling?”

  “No, but using it to avoid the unpleasant subject of your neighbor does.”

  Damn, the man was a mule. She sighed, set her coffee on the table. “Look, Kurt’s okay. He’s just not…very well mannered. I’d much rather talk about Clancy’s work.”

  “Nothing to talk about. West is a genius. I’m buying.”

  “Without asking the price?” She sounded stunned and knew it, and yes, that was her heart in her throat. She resisted the urge to leap to her feet, punch the air with her fists and shout, Yes! until her throat collapsed.

  “Are you planning to take advantage of me?” A fleeting smile, as if at an inside joke.

  “No. Of course not.” And of course Julius wouldn’t worry about the price. Not only was he known for his generosity toward emerging artists, he damn near trumped Trump in the money game. Family money, Deanne knew. And after what happened to them, he was the sole heir. Deanne never thought about the Zern family without the familiar stab of guilt, the smear of if-onlys and should-haves that blurred her mind and slowed her heart. All of it so long ago…But beyond her outdated personal knowledge, her research on the Julius Zern of today hadn’t yielded much other than his passion for art—no doubt inherited from his mother, Jane—and that he traveled a great deal. According to Clancy he’d come back to Seattle five years ago and now lived on the old Zern estate. Alone. She remembered the house so well.

  And she remembered Julius swimming, always swimming. The water god, that’s how she’d thought of him. And dreamed of him…

  Realizing she was staring, she quickly added, “Although I do have to ask if you’ll mind leaving the paintings with us until after Clancy’s show. It’s his first, and he’s promised the gallery fifteen pieces—” she lifted a hand toward where his paintings hung on her fresh white wall, “—he’ll need these to make the count.” And I want to mingle with the crowd and let it be known Clancy’s been picked up by Julius Zern. “Will that be all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Thank you.” She held back on the smile, used her most businesslike voice. She was beginning to feel like a B actress in a bad play.

  “Then we have a deal.” He let his fingers play on the back of the sofa, stroking the leather behind her head. After a pause, he added, “You sure you don’t want to talk about Minton?”

  “Really, I just don’t think it’s—” About to insult, irritate or otherwise rile the man now holding Clancy’s future in his hands, not to mention her own fresh start, she shut her mouth. Damn Kurt Minton anyway.

  “Any of my business?” He finished for her.

  “I was going to say Kurt isn’t…relevant. To our business today.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe not.” His fingers stopped moving behind her.

  Curious now, she asked, “Why do you care anyway?”

  “Not exactly sure, but there’s something off about that kid.”

  Had he touched her hair? No. She’d imagined it—that gentle stroke, that soft tug—had to have. “He’s all right. Really. Other than not respecting personal boundaries,” she said, “he’s harmless enough. Before she left Kurt and his dad, this—” she lifted a hand, waved it to encompass the room, “—used to be his mother’s studio. Add to that his dad’s away on business. He’s lonely, is all, so he’s been dropping by a bit more than he normally does.” Like two, three times a day.

  Julius nodded, gave no clue about what he was thinking.

  She added, “But obviously not enough for me to teach him the necessary social skills.”

  “You did it again,” he said.

&nb
sp; “What?”

  “Smiled when you didn’t feel like it.”

  A thread of annoyance tightened in her chest, annoyance she couldn’t afford to show. And she was getting a bit unhinged under his scrutiny. She smiled wider. “It’s that investment thing. Just can’t shake it.” And the truth was, the smiles were hard-won; she’d been far too long without them. No way was she going back to bitter days and sour thoughts. Been there, done that. After two years of wearing depression like a scratchy, ill-fitting cloak, it was sunshine time.

  “Hmm.” With that noncommittal murmur, Julius got to his feet and walked toward the paintings. “When is West showing?”

  “Next Tuesday night.” She stood, tried not to study his broad straight shoulders, his strong back. Failed.

  “Where? I’d like to see more of his work.” He faced her now.

  “The Cherry Gallery. On Forty-first.”

  He looked as if he were checking his mental GPS.

  She bent to the coffee table and picked up a brochure advertising Clancy’s show and handed it to him. “It’s in the University District.”

  He took the brochure. “Then I’ll see you there.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. And thank you, Julius. Clancy will be beyond happy to be included in your collection.”

  At the door, she offered her hand and he took it. His hand was big, his grip firm, but instead of shaking her hand, he held it, and gave her a steady, speculative look.

  Deanne’s nerves jumped. His look was too long, too thorough. Had he recognized her? Impossible after all these years.

  Yet, there was something in his eyes, an odd warmth, a glow. A very sexy glow…

  Or is the sexy thing my overheated and underused imagination working overtime? Or worse yet, wishful thinking. Could she be so stupid…? Yes, she could. For Julius.

  Abruptly, as if he’d become aware he was staring, still holding her hand, he released it. “Tuesday, then.”

  She nodded and curled her fingers into a loose fist, holding his heat. “Tuesday.”

  At the door, he stopped. When he looked at her this time, the sexiness was gone, replaced by a cool intensity. “In the meantime, do me a favor, will you?”

  She waited.

  “Keep a close eye on Minton.”

  CHAPTER 4

  In the big house, Kurt stood at the window in the third-floor turret. Holding the dusty curtain back from the tall window, he looked down at the sleek silver Mercedes SL600 in Deanne’s driveway and waited for its asshole owner to come out of the house. Fucker had been in there an hour.

  This wasn’t going like it was supposed to. First the slashed dog shows up—Wheeler’s sick idea of showing Kurt what he’d do to him if he didn’t do what he was told. That dog was a seriously bad idea. Kurt couldn’t even look at it without wanting to throw up. Now this guy shows up. A guy who looks like he has titanium bones and starts his day with six stainless-steel bowls of Honey Nuts, Bolts and Rivets. Kurt knew he was no damn plumber. Not with wheels like he was driving.

  What if he started hanging around?

  Jesus!

  Kurt rubbed his face, brushed his lank, greasy hair off his forehead and tried to settle down. This whole business was seriously fucked. But he had to keep it together. Had to keep telling himself that when it was all over, they’d leave him alone.

  His cell rang. “Hey,” he said, fixated on the Mercedes, when it would leave.

  “How’s it goin’?”

  Dev. Shit. He didn’t need him right now. “Good.”

  “You know what I’m talkin’ about, right?”

  “Yeah.” Kurt sucked up a breath. “I just came back from her place. We’re tight.”

  “Tight’s good. I like them tight.” Dev laughed. “So when do we start the camera rolling?”

  Kurt’s stomach lurched. “You got the roofies?” Say no, Dev, say no…

  “Yup. The lady won’t remember a thing. Probably won’t feel much either. Oh, yeah, and Wheeler says your place would be best.”

  “Here? How am I goin’ to get her here?”

  “I don’t know. That’s your problem. But it’s something about evidence or something.”

  And so I’ll be totally on the fuckin’ hook! “Wheeler said her place. That’s what he said.”

  “He changed his mind. It’s what Wheeler does. You got a problem with that, talk to him. I’m sure as shit not arguin’ with him.”

  Kurt said nothing. Nobody argued with Wheeler. Unless he wanted his balls barbecued.

  Dev went on. “Doesn’t matter anyway. The thing’s simple enough. We slip her the pill. We make sure she’s out. Wheeler does his thing, I film. We dump her back home in her own bed. She’s not even going to remember we were there. The roofie will make sure of that.”

  Rohypnol was ten times more powerful than Valium; within thirty minutes Deanne would be fuckin’ comatose. Out of it for six, maybe eight, hours. He didn’t want to think about Deanne or how she smiled at him. How…sunny she was. It confused him. Made him feel bad. But like Dev said, she wouldn’t remember anything. “I guess.” He sounded lame, hated himself for it.

  “That’s it? ‘I guess’?” A pause. “Don’t you go getting icy feet, dickhead. ’Cause if you are, Wheeler isn’t going to be happy.”

  “No. I’m good. Everything’s good.”

  “When then?” Dev pressed. “Wheeler wants to know. He’s already found a buyer.”

  Kurt swallowed. “My dad’s coming home for a couple of days this week,” he lied. “So it’ll have to be after that. Like next Friday night.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Okay. Then the Saturday after that we’ll be all over the Web. Do. Not. Fuck. Up. You got that?” He hung up.

  Kurt stared at the phone and tried not to heave.

  This thing was really going to happen.

  A week from today, one of the worst rat faces at his school was going to fuck—no, rape—Deanne Moore on video, just so a bunch of online pervs could watch and drool in their beers. All because he’d mentioned her name at school, said how smokin’ she was. And there was nothing he could do to stop it—if he tried, his fucking life was over. Wheeler would do exactly what he said he’d do, cut him up and burn down his house. Lost in his ugly thoughts, he caught movement in Deanne’s front yard.

  Big Man was coming out, walking to his car. At last. Kurt watched him look up at the sun, then shift his stance and take a good long look at the big house, like he was memorizing it or something—the look put a sack of tacks in Kurt’s soft belly. Finally, the guy took off his jacket and tossed it on the passenger seat.

  Kurt swiveled his gaze to Deanne’s porch.

  If she was standing on the porch watching Big Man go, he’d puke.

  Nope. He settled down a bit. Maybe this Zern guy was a customer, someone looking to buy that Clancy guy’s art. Maybe he was gone and would never be back.

  Jesus, he didn’t want any complications.

  The Mercedes pulled out of her driveway, and Kurt was working his way to being good with his idea of the customer thing, when the cottage door opened.

  Deanne came out, looked up at the sun—the way the asshole had—then leaned against a porch post and set her eyes on the road Zern had driven out on. He didn’t like the way she stood there, sort of cuddling herself and looking all dreamy.

  Kurt ignored the heat cooking his chest and the equally weird sense of longing burrowing in with it.

  If a girl looked like that about him, he’d hang around for sure. Like it or not the big man was in the game. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

  Deanne stayed on the porch, staring at the road Julius had driven out on for a good ten minutes. Her thoughts hovered over the past, circling like aircraft looking for landing space, and finding none either smooth or hospitable.

  To get to Julius, her memories of him, she had to fly over her failed career, failed marriage, failed life—to arrive at Amanda Zern, her best-ever friend, i
n a friendship fired in the vitality and drama of young girls’ hearts. Tweeners is what they’d be called now, but even applying that silly label didn’t make their bond of less consequence. Her and Amanda’s friendship was forged by superlatives, grand promises and their deathless oath to be “friends forever and ever!” Back then everything was said in exclamation points.

  Their birthdays were in the same month—a fact they considered a sisterhood of sorts—so they’d planned to celebrate their thirteenth birthdays together. In London. It was going to be so-o-o exciting!

  It never happened.

  Herein lies Amanda Mary Zern. My very, very best friend! Forever! Age 13—almost.

  That was what Deanne put on the cover of the scrapbook she’d made in the weeks following Amanda’s death. Then she’d filled its pages with photos, stories, splotches of lipstick in Amanda’s favorite color—deep pink—and anything else she could think of that meant something to her. She remembered holding the scrapbook to her budding breasts and shouting at the sky. “I’ll never forget you, Amanda. Never! Never! Never!”

  She never had. Nor had she forgotten she was supposed to be with Amanda on that fateful day. If the memory was still terrible for her, it must be horrific for Julius, she thought. Barely seventeen…and in one blazing, blinding instant, he’d lost both parents and his only sister. His entire family. And from what she’d heard—for years following, he’d lost himself.

  The Zern family were three of eleven people killed while sitting in an open-air café having lunch. A bomb. Murder for public spectacle. Murder in the name of peace. Murder to make the six o’clock news. News the bomber wouldn’t live to see for a cause no one understood. News to break hearts and ruin lives. And, if Deanne had arrived in London as expected, news that would not have included the Zern family. They’d have been at Heathrow picking her up, not sitting in a London café a day earlier than they’d planned.