by Stuart, Anne
“I’ll do what I can for you. Chances are she’s using a phony name, and we don’t tend to cross-reference people by height. It’ll probably take me a while but I’ll get back in touch.”
“I appreciate it. There’s a bottle of Jameson’s in it for you.”
“Don’t go bribing a policeman, my boy, or I’ll have to report you to my superior. And he’ll make me share the bottle.”
“Now that would be a crime. Take care, Ray. Give my love to Connie.”
Good old Ray, Nick thought, sweeping away the remnants of last night’s psychic punch, draining his second cup of coffee and setting the dishes in the iron sink. It was handy to have a friend in the Boston Vice Squad. He’d gone to school with Ray’s elegant wife, Constance, and the mismatch of the century, Ray’s broad South Boston sturdiness and Constance’s Brookline breeding, had proved the marriage of the century. They had three great kids, and he was godfather to all of them. It was only when he was at their overcrowded ranch house in Newton that he thought about Adelle and the baby with any nostalgia.
Hell, he would have married her. Would have fathered her baby. And it would have lasted maybe till the kid was out of diapers, maybe not that long. Whatever they’d had, and it had been strong and intense, had died, leaving him alone, restless, a little empty, and leaving her with a yuppie husband, a home in the suburbs and a baby on the way.
One final, fading twinge, he thought, rinsing the dishes and setting them in the rack to dry. Even in their earliest stages they hadn’t talked much. Adelle had, of necessity, devoted all her time and energy to her career. Advertising was a demanding calling, leaving little time for home and hearth. When they did find the occasional time together, out of bed, they would find they had nothing to say to each other. It had been depressing, but they’d been busy enough so that those moments hadn’t come very often. When they had, the relationship faded and died.
He looked out the kitchen window at the forest behind the house. Just another cloudy day in paradise, he thought with a grimace. Flurries again, sifting through the gray sky and settling on everything in sight. Sure, it was beautiful, the crisp clean air, the tall, dark pines, the blue-gray haze of the mountains in the distance. It would be a hell of a lot prettier with the sun shining.
But here it was, ten-thirty on a Saturday morning, and he was bored, lonely and restless. Not to mention frustrated as hell. That little romp on the couch with Saralee Richardson had taken its toll on his sangfroid. Even in his sleep he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. “Obsession” was an ugly word, but it came close to describing his feelings about his unwilling neighbor.
He wandered back into the living room, crammed another piece of wood into the stove, then moved to the front window. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty to do; along with the spell books he’d brought home two of the oldest manuals on dowsing. He could sit down and start taking notes; in no time at all he’d get caught up in the subject.
It was getting started that was the problem. All right, if he didn’t want to spend the day at the kitchen table poring over dusty old tomes, he could do some of the fieldwork. Three of the finest water dowsers lived within twenty miles of Danbury, and he’d already laid the groundwork with letters. They were expecting him anytime he cared to show up.
He knew where they lived—all three had given him careful instructtions. Or at least he thought he knew. Maybe, just to be sure, he should check with Sybil. After all, he didn’t want to end up hopelessly lost on the spider’s web of back roads around here.
He could call her. She might even be willing to come along, if he swore it was purely business. Even better, he could take that long-delayed right turn at the top of his driveway and find her place for himself, come face-to-face with her killer dogs and see if he couldn’t wheedle a little hospitality from her. It was clear that any hostility in her nature was reserved for him. He knew as well as he knew his own name that beneath that hostility was a sensual awareness she was doing her damnedest to ignore, and he had every intention of making that downright impossible.
He was humming under his breath as he gathered notebook and pens together, all his lethargy and melancholy vanished. He’d even promise not to mention Leona. After all, he’d done all he could with that for now. He’d wait until Ray came up with something before broaching the subject once more.
Until then, he’d do his absolute best to be charming. It would take a lot of effort, but in Sybil’s case it just might possibly be worth it. No matter how much he tried to dismiss the notion, he had the funny suspicion that they might have a hell of a lot to talk about, in bed and out. And he had no intention of giving up on her until he found out.
SYBIL SAT IN HER kitchen watching the snow fall. There hadn’t been much she could say or do for Mary Philbert, nothing more than add to the litany of woe the other ladies of the Davis Apartments were reciting.
As for Mary, she was a tough old bird. She’d spent the first eighty years of her life on a farm, the last two in town in an apartment smaller than her old kitchen. She still had enough to stay in that apartment, she had enough to eat, and the government was supposed to take care of the medical bills for people her age. God willing, she wouldn’t have any, she said, but could just go quickly when her time came.
The Greek chorus of mourning old ladies each took her turn, telling of her own financial downfall. For the first time Sybil listened intently for details. But they had nothing, absolutely nothing in common. Once again she told herself Nick had to be half crazy or a victim of city paranoia. Maybe he just watched too many cop shows on TV.
What she needed was some distraction. What she needed was for Nick to come and take her away from all this, to needle her and argue with her and maybe kiss her just once more. Just to see if the potion was still having its disrupting effect. What she needed was Nick.
She didn’t hear a sound. Some instinct alerted her and she looked up, out the kitchen window to her dooryard, just in time to see a dark green Jaguar pull silently into place. There were too many coincidences for her peace of mind, she thought, staring out at the elegant vehicle in shock, the elegant driver climbing out of the driver’s seat and heading for her front door. With a shiver of apprehension that wasn’t all unpleasant, Sybil headed for the hallway, the dogs romping around her feet, barking cheerfully in anticipation of a treat.
Chapter Ten
HE HEARD THE dogs barking long before the door opened. They sounded like a pack of braying hounds, like something out of Arthur Conan Doyle, hounds of hell ready to rip his throat out. For a brief moment he considered the final indignity of racing back to seek shelter in his car, then resolutely stood his ground. For all that Sybil called them killer dogs, Dulcy had assured him they were harmless. While he didn’t think he could trust what either of them said, at least Dulcy was more likely to be straightforward in the matter.
The door opened, and for a moment his eyes rested on Sybil’s small, slim figure. Then that vision was obscured by a blur of black-and-white and liver-and-white fur, as a dozen furious dogs leaped at him.
“Kill,” Sybil ordered cheerfully.
He wasn’t knocked flat on his back, but it was a near thing. Dogs were leaping and prancing over his feet, licking his hands, sitting back and howling a melodious welcome. It took him a moment to sort out two grown dogs and four puppies, none of them with an ounce of dignity.
“Hey, guys,” he said in a low, crooning voice, squatting down to their level. Their joy increased as they wiggled and danced around him, uttering little yelps of glee.
“Calm down,” he murmured, and slowly they obeyed, now and then butting a silken head beneath his hand for a caress.
He rose to his full height, meeting Sybil’s dazed eyes. “Killer dogs, eh?”
She didn’t even blush, just held the door open for him. He was nearly knocked over once again by the wave of dogs rampagin
g through around him, but he held his ground. “You’re good with them,” she said grudgingly.
“Dogs know who’s trustworthy and who’s not.”
She snorted. “Tell me another one. These critters love everybody under the sun. They’d welcome Jack the Ripper with open arms.”
“Yes, but could he calm them so quickly?”
“Oh, I admit you have a certain hypnotic effect on dumb creatures,” she said.
“Including you?”
“Don’t push your luck, Fitzsimmons,” she warned. “What are you here for?”
They were still standing in her slate-floored hallway, snow melting around their feet. Charm, he reminded himself. He had some, even if he hadn’t bothered to use it in years. “I was bored and lonely and I decided I ought to visit my dearest friend in Vermont.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
That threw her. “Nick, with friends like me, you don’t need enemies.”
“Come on, Sybil,” he coaxed. “Invite me in, give me some coffee and listen to a proposition I have to offer.”
“You’re propositioning me?”
“Not that way. Though we can, of course, discuss that, too.”
“Never mind,” she said. “Go into the living room and I’ll bring you some coffee. How do you like it?”
“Why don’t you dowse it and see?”
“Why don’t you . . .” It took a great deal of effort for her to bite back her no-doubt colorful suggestion, but she did so, reminding him that if she could do it so could he. “Cream and sugar,” he said quickly, repenting.
She looked at him for one long, suspicious moment. “Cream and sugar,” she repeated. “I’ll be right with you.”
He liked her living room. It was small, cluttered and bright, with lots of windows, an old sofa with a beautiful quilt tossed over it pulled in front of the wood stove, colorful and artistically hideous paintings on the white walls and books everywhere. Even the surfeit of ridiculous Christmas decorations only added to the charm. There was something oddly endearing about a scowling woman who loved Christmas and all its accompanying kitsch.
The books were tucked in corners of the couch, piled under tables, balanced on windowsills, there looked like enough books to stock a small library. He sat down on the comfortable couch, jumped up and pulled a small tome from underneath him, then sank back down with it in his hand. Past-Life Regression, it said in tiny gold letters. Leaning back, he opened it, searching for some logical explanation of his and Sybil’s twin fantasies.
The book was snatched out of his hand. “Do you mind?” she said in her most frigid voice. The coffee she placed in his hand was almost as cold, and she moved to the chair opposite him, perching on it as if she were ready to jump up and escape at any moment. “What did you have in mind?”
He paused for a moment, looking at her sitting there, small and defiant. Her dark blond hair hung in one thick braid down her back, and wisps were escaping, curling around her narrow face. Her brown eyes were staring at him stonily, but that pale mouth of hers looked curiously vulnerable. Infinitely kissable.
But that wasn’t what he was supposed to be thinking of, he reminded himself, or he’d be trying to get her on this comfortable sofa with him. Taking a drink of the cool coffee, he controlled a shudder of distaste. “I thought I’d do some fieldwork,” he said. “And I wondered if you wanted to go with me.”
He’d managed to surprise her. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t something as innocuous. “What kind of fieldwork?”
“You have three of the best water dowsers in the country within twenty miles of Danbury. I’d planned to visit them, find out how they operate, and today seemed as good a day as any.”
“Perley Johnson, Lester Maclntire and Julius Collier?”
It was his turn to be surprised. “How did you know?”
“Don’t be naive. It’s not latent psychic power; I happen to be the secretary of the Water Witches. I know every dowser around here.”
“Of course.” He’d only been rattled for a moment. A moment, however, that she’d noticed and been highly amused by. “That makes even more sense, then. I’ve written to the three of them, and they told me they’d be glad to see me, but I might be more welcome if I brought you along.”
“I’d be more than happy to go with you,” she said, “but there are problems. Three of them, to be exact. Perley Johnson’s already gone to Florida for the winter and won’t be back till after mud season, Lester Maclntire’s hunting mad and he’s gone to Maine to try to push the season a bit, and Julius Collier’s over in Burlington at the hospital recovering from surgery. None of them is around.”
“What’s wrong with Julius?”
“Hemorrhoids,” she said succinctly.
“Clearly he didn’t try the potion for those of a dangerously costive disposition.”
She tried to keep from grinning, then lost the battle. “Guess not,” she said finally.
“Any other dowsers of their abilities around?” he ventured.
“Not really. Not right now. I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
He did his best to look pathetic. “Does that mean you’re going to send me back to that cold, lonely house?”
“It’s not cold if you know how to work the wood stove,” she said. “Or you can turn up the electric heat. Maybe John Black’s ghost can keep you company.”
“La Belle Dame sans Merci,” he said. He remembered her fluent French followed by her schoolgirl incompetence. “I suppose you don’t know what that means, either.”
“Sure I do.” She smiled that wicked, beatific smile that was three times more powerful than any ancient love philtre. “The beautiful lady who never says thank you.”
“No, it’s—”
“Spare me, Nick. You don’t have to know French to know it’s the beautiful woman without mercy. However, you’re wrong. I’m neither beautiful nor without mercy. If you can’t stand your own company anymore, and I can’t say I blame you for that, you can come shopping with me.”
“Shopping,” he echoed faintly.
“Shopping. Food shopping, Christmas shopping. I’ll even go all the way and treat you to lunch at McDonald’s.”
He eyed her warily. “I should have known you’d like junk food,” he said with a sigh.
“You should have known,” she agreed. “Are we on?”
He was going to have a hard time making another pass at her if they were driving around from store to store. Then again, he’d have plenty of time to try it later, and in the meantime he could pump her for information about her good buddy Leona. He hadn’t given Ray much to go on, and the more stuff he came up with the better chance he stood of getting results. “We’re on,” he said. “My car?”
“My car. And I drive.” She dared him to object.
He shuddered delicately, setting down the half-drunk cup of coffee on the pile of books in front of him. “Morituri te salutamus,” he murmured.
“We who are about to die salute you,” she translated blithely. “My Latin’s better than my French. Don’t worry, Nick. I always consider my passengers when I drive.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said faintly.
IF THERE WAS A prize given for stupid ideas, Sybil thought, this one had to take the cake. Here she had the entire weekend stretching out in front of her, a weekend free of Nick Fitzsimmons’s disturbing presence, and she’d been fool enough to invite him along. It wasn’t as if she even wanted company. There was nothing worse than trying to buy Christmas presents with someone tagging along. They always wanted to linger around auto parts, browse through videos or price washing machines.
When Sybil shopped for Christmas she was organized, fast and efficient. No peeking at the nightgown she’d alwa
ys wanted, which was now miraculously on sale, no looking at novels or pricing new cars. And she certainly had no time for anyone else’s more haphazard style of buying presents. Half the fun of the holidays was going overboard and buying too many presents and not caring, and she wasn’t going to let her companion spoil her day.
But Nick had been a pleasant surprise. He’d gone where she’d gone, been ready to leave when she left, and had even come up with one or two excellent suggestions concerning her brothers-in-law. He’d been patient as she’d fiddled through her coupons at the grocery store, enthusiastic when they stopped at the state liquor store, and tolerant at McDonald’s, despite the presence of two birthday parties and a busload of Girl Scouts jamming the seats. She noticed he hadn’t hesitated when he placed his order, hadn’t wasted time looking overhead at the menu, all of which bespoke a certain familiarity with the fast-food restaurants he disdained. But with their newfound, temporary accord she refrained from teasing him about it. She realized as they were heading back on Route 2 that she’d actually enjoyed herself, despite her doubts. For a moment she was sorry she couldn’t think of an excuse to extend the day.
Her only delay was a dangerous one. She ought to drive him back to her house, get rid of him and finish her last errand. But it was two and a half miles out to her house, another five if she were to go back and forth again, and the early dusk of mid-December had settled down around the icy road. The fitful snow seemed to be coming down in earnest. Bold as Sybil was, she really didn’t feel like traipsing around any more than necessary.
“Does it snow every day in Vermont?” Nick asked lazily. He’d even been tolerant of her driving, moaning only once when she nearly hit a pickup truck. All in all, he’d been a charming companion, and her suspicions were fully aroused.
“Only in months with an ‘r’ in them,” she said. She hesitated, then made her decision. She wasn’t going to spend the evening driving all over creation. She’d simply have to trust Nick, even if it seemed tantamount to trusting a snake. “I have one more stop to make.”
