by Irene Hannon
He erased the message and weighed the Blackberry in his hand. They did need to compare notes, and a phone call would suffice.
But he was tired of spending his Friday nights at the office working overtime or at home doing chores. Yes, the grass was due to be cut and the driveway needed to be sealed and one of the loose rails on the deck was becoming a hazard. And yes, he needed to put in some time on a couple of background checks for their newest client.
On the other hand, the world wouldn’t end if he kicked back for one night and enjoyed some conversation with a lovely woman.
Without laboring over the decision, he scrolled down to Moira’s number, pushed dial—and tried to rationalize his decision. This might be a pro bono job, but it was still a case. In a way, this would be a working session.
Yeah, right.
Even he wasn’t buying that pretext.
But he hoped Moira would.
Ken tapped in his home security code, pulled the back door shut behind him, and crossed the lawn toward his neighbor’s house.
He was not in the mood for this cocktail party.
The sound of laughter wafted over the hedge that separated his property from Ted’s, and he paused in the shadows to psyche himself up for social pleasantries.
It wasn’t easy.
How could he paste on a smile and make small talk when children were suffering in Guatemala because the supplies purchased with his personal loan were barely trickling in through the compromised transportation infrastructure? When he’d just left a distraught mother whose child’s life hung in the balance after a bicycle accident? When he was busy formulating plans to deal with Verna Hafer on Sunday?
For an instant, he was tempted to turn around and go home. Ellen would make some excuse for his absence. She’d become an expert at that after his many no-shows these past few years.
But Ted had been a valued and generous friend for twenty years. And he’d taken advantage of the man’s hospitality more weekends than he could count over the past two decades, borrowing his cabin in the country whenever he’d needed a mental break. Not so much in the past two or three years, though. There’d been no downtime. But often enough to be forever in the man’s debt.
Plus, the place had come in handy recently—for reasons Ted would never know, even if he happened to wander around the property. Ken had seen to that, and the rain had been his ally. Ted hadn’t been out there more than a couple of times in the past four years, anyway. Not since he’d hacked himself while cutting wood, then almost bled to death before the paramedics could respond to his 911 call. Ken couldn’t blame Rose for extracting a promise from her husband not to go there alone anymore. He was eighty-two, after all.
Sometimes Ken thought the man held on to the place just for him, knowing what a haven it had once been when he’d needed an escape from the stresses of his life-and-death job. And you didn’t repay a friendship like that by saying no to an Opera Theatre fund-raiser—or blowing off a party.
Straightening his shoulders, Ken slipped between the arborvitae bushes that separated their properties.
The guests had gathered on the terrace on this balmy night, and the flickering candles, the muted laughter, the fragrance of the roses in their first, profuse bloom of the season should have created a calming ambiance.
But the soft strains of the familiar classical music in the background turned his stomach.
Vivaldi always had that effect on him.
On the other side of the lawn, Ted lifted his hand in greeting and crossed the expanse of lush grass between them.
“Glad you could make it, Ken. I know how busy you are.”
“Never too busy for old friends.” Ken returned his firm shake.
“I bet you haven’t had dinner yet.”
Ken lifted one shoulder and managed a smile. “Some days, eating takes second place.”
“Well, I’m afraid Rose ordered that namby-pamby finger food, as usual. But I did put my foot down and ask for some heartier fare for the gents.” He scanned the crowd, then signaled to one of the tray-bearing waiters who was passing out hors d’oeuvres. “This tidbit should help tide you over for at least a little while.”
The man approached them and proffered a tray. The scent of grilled meat from the tenderloin kabobs wafted his way, and though it set off a rumble in his empty stomach, it also made him nauseous.
He tried to tune out the Vivaldi.
“Put a few of those under your belt.” Ted handed Ken a napkin and piled several in his palm. “We’ve got some meatballs floating around somewhere too. I’ll round them up for you.”
“No!” The rejection was more adamant than he’d intended, and at the man’s surprised expression, Ken dredged up a smile to soften his refusal. “This is plenty for now. I’m more tired and thirsty than hungry.”
“I understand. I know you’ve had a long week. Ellen mentioned the earthquake and the problems at the clinic. I was sorry to hear about that. Doesn’t seem right, with all the effort you’ve put into that project. I’ll tell you what, you find yourself a seat on the terrace and I’ll round up a drink. What would you like?”
“You don’t have to wait on me.”
“Of course I do. I’m the host. Let’s see . . . bourbon and water?” The man shot him a mischievous look.
“You know me better than that.”
“Indeed I do. Can’t recall the last time I saw you drink hard liquor. How about a glass of cabernet? I do believe I’ve seen you indulge in that on occasion.”
“Sounds perfect. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
As the man took off for the bar, Ken wandered toward a patio table off to the side, away from the clusters of guests congregated closer to the food and drink. He’d force down some food. Sip half a glass of wine. And make his escape as soon as he could politely manage it.
Lowering himself into the chair, he surveyed the crowd. At the far end of the terrace, Ellen was engaged in conversation with the new neighbors across the street, a young couple with whom he’d exchanged no more than a few words since they’d moved in three or four months ago. Fellow was a lawyer, as he recalled. On the fast track, according to Ellen.
God help him.
That kind of commitment and drive could be all-consuming, as he well knew. Not that he harbored any regrets. The work had been worth it. But it was a lonely life. More than anyone could ever understand.
Except maybe his dad.
The Vivaldi once more wormed its way into his consciousness.
Though he met with some success as he tried to tune out the music, thoughts of his father remained.
Alan Blaine, too, had had a deep passion for his work, sometimes to the exclusion of his family. In his younger days, Ken hadn’t fully appreciated his father’s priorities. Had resented them at times, even. His mom had too, much as she’d loved his dad. He could recall a few occasions when she’d tried to mask her displeasure behind a strained smile after his father canceled out on some important family commitment.
In the end, though, he’d recognized that a gift like his father’s had to take precedence over everything. Light was not meant to be hidden. The Bible said as much. It was a gift, and it had to be shared.
No matter the sacrifice.
“Doesn’t look like you’re making much headway on those kabob things.” Ted stopped beside him and handed over a glass of wine.
Ken glanced at the skewers in his hand. The grease was soaking through the napkin, and the meat no longer felt warm. He set them on the table beside him, swallowing past his revulsion.
“I was waiting for the wine.”
“Well, have at it.” Ted leaned closer. “I’d stay and chat, but Rose gave me firm instructions to mingle.”
“Trust me. After the week I’ve had, I’m more than content to sit and veg for a few minutes.”
The man smiled. “I hear you. But if you need anything else, let me know.”
As his host disappeared into the deepening dusk, Ken sho
ved the pile of meat away from him. He’d find somewhere to ditch it before he made his escape.
“Dr. Blaine?”
A sixtysomething woman holding a glass of white wine and a plate piled high with a variety of appetizers approached him. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
And he wasn’t in the mood for company.
“Yes?” He hoped his polite but cool tone would discourage her from conversation.
No such luck.
She stopped in front of him and smiled. “I thought that was you. Elizabeth Williams. We met at the Opera Theatre gala in April, though I’m not at all surprised you don’t remember me. We were at the same table, but we’d hardly said hello when you were called away. Such is the life of a doctor, I suppose.”
A vague recollection of the woman stirred in his mind. Very vague. He’d had too many other things to think about that night.
Be polite, Ken. She must be a friend of Rose or Ted.
“I do remember you. I’m sorry we didn’t have more of a chance to get acquainted.”
“Well, I suppose we can remedy that to some degree tonight. Do you mind if I join you? I love these skinny high heels, but I’m afraid my feet don’t. Despite my husband’s warning that this would be a stand-up-and-mingle party, I couldn’t resist wearing them.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, she settled into the chair beside him and dived into her plate of food.
Stifling a sigh, he eyed the hedge on the other side of the terrace. If he excused himself to top off his drink, he might be able to slip away into the shadows and . . .
“. . . ever get hold of you?”
He refocused on the woman beside him, catching only the tail end of her question. “Excuse me?”
She smiled, wagged a finger at him, and took a healthy sip of her wine. “You’re as distracted tonight as you were at the gala. But I suppose a doctor always has a lot of serious things on his mind.” She tapped the base of his wineglass with her finger. “Have some. It will help you relax. Anyway, I was asking if that nice man who called me about the MontBlanc pen ever got hold of you. I told him I thought it might be yours.”
At the non sequitur, he frowned. “What MontBlanc pen?”
“The one that was found near our table at the Opera Theatre benefit. The man who called was hoping to locate the owner.”
“I don’t have a MontBlanc pen.” What on earth was the woman going on about?
“Then I guess it wasn’t yours.” She giggled and took another sip of wine. “I do hope that nice man found the owner, though. He seemed so anxious to return it. Did he call you?”
“Not that I know of. Unless he left a message at my office.”
“Funny. I’m certain he intended to get in touch with you, especially after I told him how you took a call and had to go deal with some emergency. I thought you might have used your pen to jot down a number.”
An alarm began to flash in his mind. “You told him I left?”
“Yes. And I praised your dedication. You missed a wonderful evening. The entertainment was—”
“When did this man call you?”
She blinked, apparently thrown by the interruption, a mini quiche suspended halfway to her mouth. “Well, now, let me see.” Pursing her lips, she furrowed her brow. “I believe it was last week. Yes . . . yes, it was. Friday. I remember because I was getting ready to meet my aunt. We’ve been having lunch once a month for years. She’s a wonderful woman. When my uncle was alive, they . . .”
Ken tuned her out.
Why had someone from Opera Theatre waited a month to try and track down the owner of a high-end pen?
Unless the man hadn’t been from Opera Theatre at all—and he was more interested in the whereabouts of a certain doctor that night.
Or was he being paranoid?
Maybe.
Yet he was getting unsettling vibes about this. Especially in light of his encounter with Moira Harrison only a few days before that.
Had she asked someone to check out the alibi he’d offered her?
But who could she enlist?
If she’d gone to the police, and if they’d listened—both long shots—that wasn’t how law enforcement operated. They would have been much more up-front with their questions.
Could she have come up with a ruse and had a friend make the call?
Possibly. She was a reporter, after all.
At this point, though, the whys and hows were irrelevant. The more important fact was that if she had somehow orchestrated that call, she now knew his alibi had a great big hole—and he’d lost his gamble that she’d accept his explanation for that evening at face value.
On the other hand, he could be wrong. This could be as innocent as Elizabeth Williams seemed to think.
But if it wasn’t, he’d just been handed a new crisis to deal with.
He rose abruptly, and the woman shot him a startled glance, once again stopping mid-sentence.
“Sorry.” He groped for his cell phone and pulled it off his belt. “No rest for the weary.”
She sent him a sympathetic look. “My. I don’t envy you being on call at all hours. Are you ever able to enjoy a social event without interruption, or finish a meal?” She gestured to his untouched food and wine.
“On occasion. But not tonight. Excuse me.” He jabbed the talk button, put the phone to his ear, and strode toward the hedge as he pretended to carry on a conversation.
Once safely on the other side, the voices and laughter and music muted by the shrubs, he slowly slipped the phone back on his belt and took a deep breath.
It didn’t stop the tremble in his fingers.
He balled his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets as he started toward the house, his mind racing.
It was important not to overreact. People made mistakes when they did that. And he didn’t make mistakes. He couldn’t afford to. The clinic depended on him, and he refused to put that operation at risk by taking chances. Olivia had been an anomaly, a problem caused by timing, not mistakes. But he’d fixed that problem.
And he didn’t intend to let it resurface.
Ken entered the house, deactivated the security system, and headed for his study. The brandy had helped calm him the day Moira Harrison had shown up in his office. Another drink couldn’t hurt.
At the bar, he poured himself a scotch. Good thing Ted couldn’t see him now. But he’d never display such atypical behavior in public. That would be a mistake.
The kind he didn’t make.
As Ken settled into his chair with his drink and slowly sipped the fiery liquid, he began to distill two clear thoughts from the muddle in his brain.
He had to follow through on his plans for Verna Hafer on Sunday. The situation in Guatemala was getting more urgent by the day, and the clinic required funds ASAP.
But in the meantime, he needed to get a handle on the activities of a certain reporter who was too nosy for her own good.
And if he discovered anything to suggest she was trying to thwart his plans, he’d figure out a way to make certain she didn’t succeed.
15
Steering wheel clasped in her left hand, Moira twisted her wrist to check her watch as she turned onto the Kirkwood street Phoenix Inc. called home. At the same time, she stuffed the last of her fast-food burger into her mouth with her other hand.
It was already 7:30—far later than she’d planned.
What a day.
She whipped into a parking spot across the street from Cal’s office and set the brake. If she’d had any idea her last interview was going to run so long, she’d never have accepted his invitation to meet after work to discuss their separate reconnaissance missions. She didn’t expect the man to give up his Friday night for a nonpaying client.
Yet he hadn’t backed out when she’d called to give him an update on her timing and offered to reschedule. Nor had she pushed him to. A Friday night in Cal’s company was far better than one spent surfing the net, zoni
ng out in front of the television, or even reading the latest bestseller she’d picked up at the bookstore last weekend.
She fished her lipstick out of her purse. Too bad he hadn’t suggested they meet at his house again instead of at the office. Or offered to host another pizza party instead of so readily agreeing to her proposal that they deal with dinner on their own.
With a quick swipe, she outlined her lips, recapped the tube, and dropped it back in her purse. Oh, well. She wasn’t going to let that minor disappointment ruin her evening.
After stuffing the wrappers from her dinner back into the bag, she wadded it into a ball and slid out of the car.
As she crossed the street toward the Phoenix office, the door opened and Cal smiled at her.
“I saw you pull up.” He flicked a glance at the crumpled bag bearing the familiar golden arches logo. “Nikki would disapprove.”
She slipped past him. “She’s not into fast food?”
“If it’s not organic, it’s on her cease and desist list.” He closed the door behind her and set the locks. “I’ll get rid of the evidence for you.”
She passed it over when he extended his hand. “Are we meeting in the conference room again?”
“Yes.” He held his access card over the panel beside the door to the private offices, then pushed it open and stepped aside to let her pass. “I’ll grab my notes and join you in a minute.”
Moira continued down the hall as he turned left into his office, chose a seat on the long end of the rectangular table, and pulled her own notes from her lunch at the Woman’s Exchange out of her purse.
He rejoined her sixty seconds later, carrying two cardboard cups.
“You got ice cream?” She smiled as he set one of them in front of her.
“I picked it up when I ran out for dinner.”
She pried the lid off hers. Mint chocolate chip. He’d remembered.
Some of her disappointment evaporated.
“Thank you.”
“Hey, it gave me an excuse to indulge too. So from what you said on the phone, it sounds like you had an interesting lunch.”
