But she must accept her share of blame for the past and move on. At her age, there wasn’t much of a future and the past, so long buried under the bustle of daily living, had begun to fill the horizon.
Connie let the ripples of guilt wash over her. Perhaps she could have saved Rosemary’s life if she’d stepped out from behind that tree—it was the not knowing that kept the faces of those long dead circling her in an endless parade.
A distant howl of a police siren caused Gatsby to yip in response. Connie tucked one arm through Harold’s, placing her hand in his warm grasp as he snorted in his sleep. She needed something solid to cling to.
Across town, Ross Stewart was just finishing the dishes, clad in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. The sweat beading his chest cooled his bare skin, but did nothing to alleviate the fever in his brain.
His stomach muscles ached from attempting five hundred sit-ups. It had been too long and a boy’s weight had become a man’s bulk. The driving force behind his compulsive exercising—standing up to his father—was gone, but the memories remained.
Covering the leftover pizza in plastic wrap, he paused at the refrigerator door.
“Forget it!” He slam-dunked the pizza in the waste-basket and turned out the kitchen lights, wanting no reminders of this disastrous evening.
As he showered, he pictured Abigail James, with her long, elegant legs and the porcelain perfection of her skin. The smooth oval of her face reminded him somehow of the Greek masks of comedy and tragedy. When she smiled, her eyes lit up and her face seemed to glow from within. But when he’d spilled his guts about his father, the expressive mouth had tightened, the spark of her personality dimmed, and she seemed to shrink from him.
First that talk about Dad and then bringing up Olivia—throwing another woman in her face. He couldn’t believe his gaucherie, too, in making a pass at her that a college kid would have been embarrassed to claim.
Ross rubbed himself dry with a towel and wished he could mop up the entire evening as easily as the drops of water. Yeah, you’re losing it, Ross, he told himself. Big-shot prosecutor, almost bawling like a baby in front of a woman you just met, then playing macho male until she practically runs out the door.
He flung the damp towel into the tub. Clichéd as it was, Ross had lost control the instant she slid into the chair at the Fox and laughed up at him, her hands touching the crowning glory of her hair.
He’d scared her and she planned to end the partnership—during his years in a courtroom, Ross had become expert at reading body language. He sensed a reserve in Abigail, an expectancy that he’d disappointed. Someone ought to tell her that this is real life, baby. No knights in shining armor, just dinged-up, rusting warriors with unhealed sores festering beneath the chinks in the breastplate.
Abigail’s area of vulnerability might be Rosemary’s death—she seemed fascinated, yet repelled by the woman who was the subject of the investigation. He knew he had to start pulling his own weight or lose her. Remembering the importance of keeping tabs on his partner, Ross reached for the phone and dialed a familiar number.
While he waited he studied his nude body in the mirror. His stomach was still washboard flat, the muscles well defined from years of weight lifting.
He made a fist. Thanks to some martial-arts training, his blow could kill a man, instead of just breaking a jawbone. The frown changed to a smile when a feminine voice chirped in his ear.
Ross slipped his index finger through a loop in the phone cord. “Hello, darling. It’s me.”
Chapter 17
Abigail welcomed the blinding brilliance of the sunlight spilling into her bedroom after the tension of a seemingly endless night. After the first shock of interpreting the bouquet’s message had passed, she didn’t know which made her angrier, the cowardly threat or her inability to shake off a thrill of fear each time she looked at the empty vase.
It had belatedly dawned on her that the stems of the plants might have been dipped in poison, but a vigorous scrubbing left her uncertain whether the reddened, tender skin was a result of an irritant or from having washed her hands more times than Lady Macbeth.
Her first thought had been to call Ross and report the incident. As she tapped the buttons of the telephone, however, her elbow knocked the herb book to the floor where it landed facedown. She leaned over, picked it up, and laid the open volume across her lap just when he answered the phone.
“Hello. Who is this?” His sleepy voice repeated the question while Abigail sat frozen in disbelief, staring at the book. Penciled sketches of snowmen were scattered down the margin of the left-hand page.
An instant flashback to the Fox on the Green, where the man seated opposite Abigail had doodled snowmen on his napkin as they talked—she remembered the vivid contrast between those masculine fingers gripping the pen and the corncob pipes and jaunty top hats of his creations.
“I’ve had worse crank calls than this.” Ross’s voice in her ear brought her back to the reality of her lamplit bedroom and the crushed rose on the nightstand. Her thoughts raced on—she had told him that she planned to look up the newspaper articles; he knew she’d end up at the library and receive the book with the chart.
“If you don’t identify yourself, I’ll—” She dropped the receiver as if it had turned into a poisonous snake, cutting him off in midthreat.
A night of consideration hadn’t made any sense of the puzzle. Why would Ross send the bouquet and the book? They were the acts of a disturbed person and he seemed stable enough, except perhaps where his father was concerned.
The herbs had a definite tie to Belle’s area of expertise and the woman had already demonstrated her hostility to Abigail. Harold Pringle was also familiar with plants, but he wouldn’t have had time to get the bouquet made up and delivered to the office after the interview. But Connie had known Abigail was coming—had someone warned her the subject under discussion would be Rosemary?
Standing barefoot on a chilly kitchen floor, she shivered as her coffee maker burped and dribbled out a cup of steaming liquid. Fortified by a sip, she carried the cup and the phone book back into the bedroom and curled up against the pillows.
Her first call woke Debbie. “What’s the time? Am I late?”
“My flowers, Debbie. Who delivered them?”
“Flowers?” A long pause. “A messenger in a blue uniform. I assumed he was from a florist’s shop.”
“What color was his hair? Would you recognize him again?”
A smothered yawn. “He wore a cap pulled over his eyes. Didn’t really get a good look at him because Paul was dancing around my desk like he’d dropped a bee down his pants—wanted me to get some attorney on the phone. Why?”
Telling Debbie to go back to sleep, Abigail cradled the receiver and ripped a page out of the ad section of the phone book. Jumping out of bed, she went to the oak chest of drawers and unearthed a pair of faded jeans. The time to strike back was now, while the sender expected her to still be reeling from the shock of the first punch. If only she had some idea of the identity of the other fighter who’d entered the ring.
Abigail visited three greenhouses without results. The fourth visit, however, rewarded her perseverance. The owner of Dale’s Nursery was a burly man who looked as though he would have been more at home wrassling steers than peddling begonias. Wiping his nose on the sleeve of a cotton work shirt, he shouted at the hulking teenager unloading potted plants. “You’re not bouncing basketballs, Adam—take it easy!”
With the sigh of a martyr to incompetence, Dale unwrapped the bouquet. He fingered one of the unscented geraniums. “Yeah, I sold these herbs yesterday. See this nick in the stem? My knife’s got a notch like this in its blade.”
Brushing back the wisps that kept falling across her eyes because she hadn’t taken the time to braid her hair, Abigail opened her notebook. “Can you describe the buyer?”
The nursery owner handed the plastic-wrapped arrangement back to her, scooped up a fifty-pound sack of fertiliz
er, and tossed the bag across his shoulder like a cape. “An elderly woman, stooped, wore a hat with a veil.”
“Did she have any distinguishing features?”
Dale looked out over the rows of plants nodding in the freshness of the morning breeze. His glance paused on a man talking with his assistant who was now watering the potted plants. “I got customers, lady, and Adam ain’t too good at anything ’cept basketball stats and digging holes. You I’d remember, with that red hair of yours, but this old dame yesterday was just an average garden clubber.”
He started to move away, but Abigail grabbed his sleeve. “Please, anything else? It’s very important.”
For a moment she thought he might shrug off her plea, but he merely shifted his stance, his broad forehead wrinkled in thought. “Near as I can recall, she was on the tall side. I noticed her feet, they seemed big enough to fit into Adam’s clodhoppers. Never spoke—handed me a sheet of paper listing what she wanted.” A frown furrowed his Thor-like brow. “One more thing.”
“Yes?” Abigail had a flash of hope that he’d copied the license plate number of the mystery woman’s car or perhaps she’d dropped a charge card with her name on it, but Dale only had another grievance to impart.
“Right after she left I noticed someone had snipped off the heads of the Ruby Delight roses I was raisin’ as an anniversary gift for the missus. You can’t trust nobody these days—and old dames are the worst for making off with cuttings and free flowers. It’s them big pocketbooks they carry—you could hide a body in one.”
Abigail stepped over the puddles made by Adam’s hose and skirted wooden tubs filled with daisies on the way back to her car. The only older women so far in the investigation were Flora and Connie, and neither could be described as tall. The crushed rose had been the crowning touch by a spiteful mind. A dead rose for a dead Rosemary. She swiped angrily at the hair across her eyes and started the engine.
Tall, large feet, features concealed by a veil. Belle could be the mystery woman, but why go to a greenhouse when she had a garden full of herbs? Abigail switched on the radio, her fingers freezing to the knob as she realized that Dale’s description might also fit a man in disguise. A vision of Ross in a wig and carrying a body-sized handbag brought nervous laughter bubbling up in her throat as she backed the car and pulled out onto the highway.
Paul was thunderstruck when his usually well-groomed associate strode by his open door in jeans, a T-shirt that proclaimed Lawyers Wear Briefs, and muddy half boots.
“Hold it!” he bellowed.
Abigail retraced her steps to stand in the doorway and he noted with disbelief that instead of a burnished braid coiled around her head, she had also sprouted an unruly mane of red hair.
“Abigail James! What have you been doing?”
She struck a provocative pose, one hand on her hip. “Test-driving motorcycles—can’t decide between a chopper or a hog. But don’t worry, I promise not to wear the helmet in court.”
Paul’s hand went to the jar of candy like a heart patient reaching for his nitro pills. “Sit down, Abby. Let’s talk.”
Abigail tossed her denim jacket on the floor, plopped her rear into one of the client’s chairs, and propped her feet on the corner of his desk. Scooping up the deck of cards, she did a rather inexpert shuffle. “I’m listening.”
Debbie stuck her head in the door. “Abby, you look hot! That hair, those jeans. Can I start dressing like Abby, Paul?”
Paul slammed both fists down and his Mickey Mouse paperweight jumped. “No! And why aren’t you at your desk?”
“I came to tell Abby that Ross Stewart is on the phone.” Debbie pouted. “Why do I always have to miss all the fun?”
“Get back to the reception area!”
Debbie vanished and Paul turned to the woman in the chair.
Her fingers had faltered at the mention of the caller’s name and the cards showered across her lap. Brushing them off, she swung her feet off the desk. “Ross and I’ll be checking out a few of the waterfront dives tonight. Hope his leather jacket’s back from the cleaners.”
Paul’s eyes were popping, but Abigail was out of the room in a few long strides humming “Born To Be Wild” and he was left sputtering to empty air.
“Lincoln City doesn’t have a waterfront!” He popped a caramel into his mouth, wishing it were an antacid tablet.
In her office, a sobered Abigail stared at the blinking light on the phone and drew a deep breath. “A good attorney is the theater’s loss,” she quoted one of her law professors and picked up the receiver.
“Red! Clear your calendar. I made an appointment for us to talk to my aunt Terrell this afternoon.” His voice still sent shivers down her spine, but this time the tingle stemmed from fear.
“Your aunt?” Her voice was hoarse.
“Terrell was at the dance that night. She should be able to supply details about Rosemary and—”
Her fingers knotted the phone cord, her throat raw with tension. “Wonderful, but I’m keeping a client waiting. Can we talk about this later?”
“In the car—I’ll pick you up at two o’clock.”
He hung up before she could refuse. She glanced at her watch and blew out the breath she was holding. Four hours to become presentable and compose herself enough to pretend that she wasn’t being stalked like a deer through a snow-covered field. “Lil’ Red Riding Hood, you may have just accepted a ride with the wolf to Grandmother’s house.”
Chapter 18
Exhilaration sang along his nerves as Austin examined a block of wood with sensitive fingertips. This magic happened only when his instincts were in tune with the grain and shape of the wood and in this piece, he could sense a duckling struggling to escape its rough-hewn prison. Whenever he felt the vibrations of a bird fluttering against his fingers, he knew his purpose in life—to release the terrified creature.
The comforting scents of his workshop enfolded him, the carving tools in their satin-lined boxes and the shelves holding a selection of stains and natural wood-toned paints a vital part of the ambience. He took up a position at the workbench and closed his eyes. Sitting motionless, the wood cradled in his hands, images of various poses passed through his mind’s eye in the pastel parade of storybook illustrations: ducklings bobbing on the ripples of a stream, fluffing downy feathers, having a tug-of-war over an ear of corn, a tiny head nodding as a duckling drifted off to sleep.
“Austin!” Julia’s voice sent her brother’s head jerking back. “You’re supposed to be working on your speech.” She advanced into the room on spike heels that ground feathery curls of wood shavings into sawdust.
Austin laid the wood down on the bench. “Speech?” he repeated.
“Don’t look so blank. I’m talking about the one you’re supposed to make to the Chicago Bar Association next week. You haven’t put pen to paper.”
“I found this choice piece of wood—” he began, but Julia was in no mood to empathize with an artist’s enthusiasm.
“You’re about as ambitious as one of your precious tree limbs. If it weren’t for Father, you wouldn’t have even made it to college. Make an effort, dear brother—I haven’t worked this hard to let the family name fade into obscurity.”
Her breast heaved and her voice choked on the last word as Austin regarded her with despairing eyes. Julia always treated him like clay tossed on the potter’s wheel, a inert, insensate lump to be punched and shaped into a design of her choosing. But to him this house, the prestige of the Kyle name, the social engagements—each was only another heavy link in the chain forged on the anvil of family honor and hung around his neck to force him to his knees.
Swallowing a protest, he followed her into a book-lined study where a volume by Oliver Wendell Holmes rested in the exact middle of the desk blotter. A fresh legal pad and a Cross pen lay beside the volume. He took his place in the chair as Julia watched, the hand stroking her throat the only outward indication of self-imposed strain. The thick cluster of rubies and diamon
ds on her right hand gleamed under the study lights and Austin realized she intended to stand there until he began to work.
He reached for his pipe and when her breathing rate accelerated sharply, he jerked his hand back and turned a few pages of the book. Julia turned away and began to pace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her rub her index finger along one of the shelves.
“Dust everywhere. Must I stand over all of you with a whip and a chair?” She left the room, striding with the vigor of a much younger woman.
Unconsciously she’d classed him with the servants. The irony brought a wry smile to his lips. He hoped Lizbeth wouldn’t quit after Julia’s attack; the maid had a knack for straightening his workshop without wreaking havoc. Leaning back, Austin picked up his pipe and fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. His father’s actually, and if it had been left up to him, the lighter would have been thrown out the day of Lawrence Kyle’s funeral, but Julia had insisted he carry it, as though in some bizarre fashion his using their father’s personal belongings would bring back the parent she had adored.
With Julia out of the room, Austin felt as if a dark mist had lifted from his mind; his sister had the uncanny ability to read his thoughts, and at the moment, they were far from the wry wit and elucidations of Justice Holmes…
The V–12 LeBaron Club Brougham with its rich interior of maroon and black leather had been purchased by Austin’s father as a status symbol, not a gift of love or reward. God forbid the Kyle heir should ride around in a Studebaker.
The moonlight admitted by the windscreen spilled white radiance on Rosemary’s glorious hair and the butter softness of the leather seat murmured in protest as Austin slid closer.
“Happy to be here with me, Rosemary?” He asked the question with a wondering tenderness at the miracle of his having captured this exotic butterfly.
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