Connecting Rooms (2 page)

Owen wiped his sweat-dampened forehead with the back of one muscular bare arm. “That should be sort of obvious.”

“Well, it’s not obvious to me.”

He gripped the top of the drooping gate and contemplated her with narrowed eyes. “No, I can see that.”

“I don’t know what this is all about, nor do I have the time to find out. If you’re not going to accept my case, I’ve got to find someone else. Please excuse me.”

Amy tried to open the gate. Owen took no notice of her effort. Instead, he leaned heavily back against it and folded his arms across his chest. He looked annoyed but resigned.

“Okay, tell me about it,” he said.

“Tell you about what?”

“This problem of yours. The one that requires an investigator.”

Amy fixed him with a frosty glare. “It’s a confidential matter. I see no reason to discuss it with someone who is not going to be working for me.”

“Hell, I’ll take the case. Now tell me what’s got you in such an uproar.”

“I don’t think that I care for your unprofessional manner.”

“Sorry, it’s the only manner I’ve got.” He considered her thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then he came away from the gate and took her arm. “Come on, let’s go inside.
I’ll make you a cup of coffee and you can tell me all your problems.”

“I’m no longer sure that I want you handling my case.”

“Don’t be silly. A few minutes ago you were practically begging me to take your precious case.”

“I was not begging you. And furthermore, I’ve changed my mind.”

“So have I.”

Amy thought about digging in her heels, but her options were extremely limited. It would take time to hunt up an investigator in Seattle. And money. She did not possess unlimited quantities of either. She allowed Owen to lead her up the steps.

The interior of the house was as run-down and abandoned-looking as the garden, but at least nothing appeared to be actually growing on the walls or springing up through the floorboards.

Threadbare velvet curtains that had faded to a peculiar shade of maroon flanked the grimy windows. An atmosphere of gloom and decay hovered over the front parlor. Several pieces of heavy, claw-footed furniture clustered near the black-marble fireplace. There was very little paint left on the walls and the wooden floors were raw and scarred.

A pang of guilt went through Amy, temporarily erasing her irritation. “I did try to warn you that this was a fixer-upper.”

“A fixer-upper?” Owen gave her a derisive look. “It’s a life sentence. Wiring’s shot. Plumbing’s rusted out. Roof needs repair. I’ll have to replace the furnace before winter sets in, along with all the appliances.”

“Don’t you dare blame me. I made you read every single word on the seller’s disclosure statement. You knew what you were getting into when you bought this place.”

“Did I? That’s debatable.” But Owen appeared perversely satisfied with his
purchase. “Have a seat.” Not ungently, he pushed her toward a high-backed, velvet-covered sofa. “I’ll get the coffee.”

Amy sat down gingerly and surveyed the shabby interior of the parlor. She shook her head in amazement. It was true that she had sold him the house, but she had no idea what he was doing here in it. Why had he come here to Misplaced Island? she wondered.

Owen reappeared a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with a French press coffeepot and two cups. He set his burden down on the battered old coffee table.

“All right, tell me what this is all about.” He sank into the depths of one of the massive wingback chairs.

“It’s a very straightforward case,” Amy said crisply. “My aunt, Bernice Comfort, has recently announced her engagement. I want you to investigate her fiancé, Arthur Crabshaw.”

Owen looked up as he poured coffee. “Why?”

“Because there’s something about Crabshaw that I don’t quite trust. I met him a couple of weeks ago, and I have the distinct feeling that he’s hiding something. He appeared out of nowhere a few months after her husband, Uncle Morty, died, and immediately swept Aunt Bernice off her feet.”

“You write romance novels, don’t you? I would have thought you’d have approved of Crabshaw’s technique.”

“If you’re not going to take this case seriously, please tell me now so that I can find another investigator.”

“I’m serious. You have no idea just how serious.”

She glowered at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it. Why are you suspicious of Crabshaw?”

“My aunt was left quite comfortably well off after Uncle Morty died two years ago,” Amy said carefully. “She lives in a small town on the coast. Villantry, Washington. Know it?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s the sort of town where everyone knows everyone else. Crabshaw lived there himself at one time, but he left the place some thirty years ago. Now he’s back.”

“And you think he returned because he heard that your wealthy aunt is available?”

“Let’s just say that there’s something about Crabshaw’s appearance on the scene that smacks of opportunism,” Amy said.

“What exactly is it about Crabshaw that worries you?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Amy frowned. “He seems nice enough, and Aunt Bernice is obviously mad about him. But I sensed something a bit shifty beneath the surface.”

“Shifty.”

“Yes.”

“
Shifty
is a rather vague term, Amy.”

“I can’t be any more specific. I just know that there’s something not quite right about that man. I have very good people instincts, you know.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, it is,” Amy retorted. “Look, I’m going to drive to Villantry this afternoon. Just a social visit, as far as Aunt Bernice is concerned. I’ll be staying at the Villantry Inn for a couple of days, because my aunt is having her house remodeled. I want you to come with me.”

Owen looked baffled. “What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“Check out Arthur Crabshaw, of course. Surely you don’t need me to tell you how
to conduct a simple investigation.”

“You’d be amazed at what I need.”

Amy scowled. “I want you to rummage around in Crabshaw’s background. Find out if he’s on the level. But I don’t want my aunt to realize what you’re doing. If he’s legit, I’d rather she didn’t know that I hired you. It would be embarrassing and awkward.”

“Embarrassing and awkward.” Owen nodded sagely. “That’s me.”

Amy blushed. “I didn’t mean that as a personal remark.”

“Right.” Owen leaned back in his chair and stuck out his legs. He crossed his booted feet and regarded Amy with a truculent expression. “I’m supposed to go to Villantry with you, but no one is supposed to know who I am or what I’m doing there, is that it?”

Amy gave him an approving look. “Precisely.”

“Villantry is a very small town. I’m not going to be able to hide very easily.”

“I don’t intend to keep you hidden.”

“Just how do you plan to explain my presence?”

Amy smiled a trifle smugly. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll pass you off as my fiancé.”

That evening Owen sat next to Amy in the restaurant of the Villantry Inn and wondered what the hell had come over him. But the question was strictly rhetorical. He knew the answer. Amy Comfort had come over him. Or, to be more precise, he sincerely hoped that their acquaintance would develop to the point where that eventuality became a distinct possibility.

He’d wanted Amy Comfort from the first moment he’d seen her. He would never forget that shattering instant of acute knowledge. He had walked into her parlor office, intent on purchasing the old Draycott place. The moldering pile of timber and stone had appealed to him on sight. He had been determined to possess it, regardless of the price.

He’d felt the same way about Amy, although there was nothing moldering about her. Just the opposite. She was fresh and vital and alive. Her chin-length hair was the color of honey and her intelligent eyes were a mesmerizing shade of ultramarine blue.

She was not beautiful in the classic sense, but there was an appealing quality in her firm chin, high cheekbones, and straight little nose. There was something else there, too, an indefinable essence that he suspected an older generation would have labeled strength of character.

She reminded Owen of the wild roses in his garden. She would not fade when the going got tough, the way his first wife had. Amy would endure and flourish, just as the flowers in the Draycott garden had endured and flourished. Owen was not sure how he knew that, but he was very certain of it.

The extent of his desire for Amy had astounded him, because he’d assumed that he was well past the point when passion and desire could dazzle his senses and shake up
his world. He was within spitting distance of forty, after all, and he had not gotten this far the easy way. One broken marriage and a checkered career that included a stint in the military and later as a private investigator had taught him that the world was painted in shades of gray.

But the day he had met Amy, Owen had started viewing life in living color again for the first time in years.

He had decided upon his goal in a heartbeat, but years of training had taken over at that juncture. He was, by nature, a careful, methodical man. He had told himself that he had to approach Amy in a subtle manner. Misplaced Island was a very small community. If he moved too quickly, there would be gossip. Amy might be embarrassed. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off.

It was clear to Owen that she led a busy but largely solitary life. He had established immediately that she had not dated anyone since her arrival on the island. That meant the path was clear for him.

He was no ladies’ man, but he was determined to woo her with all the finesse at his command. Carefully planned trips to the post office, the grocery store, and the bookshop had netted him a series of seemingly casual encounters. He had told himself that she was getting used to him. She certainly seemed happy enough to run into him several times a week.

He had been encouraged with the results of his invitation to coffee last week. He had been consumed with plotting a dinner invitation when she’d blindsided him with the offer of a job this afternoon.

He had been dumbfounded when she had strolled into his wild garden and offered him a case. He had also been chagrined to learn that weeks of cautious maneuvering had
been for naught. After all his painstaking efforts, she apparently viewed him only as a man who happened to have a useful expertise. She wanted to do business with him, not go to bed with him.

Owen stifled a silent groan. His only hope now lay in the fact that he had managed to get connecting rooms here at the Villantry Inn. There was something about adjoining rooms that created a sense of intimacy, he told himself.

To hell with delicacy and masculine finesse. It was obvious to Owen that the time had come to take a more aggressive approach to the business of courting Amy Comfort. Subtlety was lost on the woman.

“I do wish you two could have stayed with me,” Bernice said for the fourth time. “But what with the remodeling and all, there’s just no place to put you. The house is a mess, isn’t it, Arthur?”

“Afraid so.” Arthur Crabshaw, a sturdy man with gray hair and friendly eyes, smiled at Amy. “You know how things are during a remodel. Chaos and destruction. And I don’t have room at my place.”

“The Inn is perfect for us,” Amy said quickly. “Isn’t that right, Owen?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Owen was vividly conscious of the fact that the curve of Amy’s thigh, demurely draped in a flowing hunter-green silk skirt, was less than six inches from his leg. Wistfully, he considered the connecting rooms one flight above. “Perfect.”

Arthur Crabshaw forked up a fried oyster with gusto. “The Inn’s got the best food in town.” He winked fondly at Bernice. “With the exception of Bernice’s cooking, that is. Nothing compares to that.”

Bernice, a robust, athletic-looking woman in her mid fifties with lively eyes and short, upswept hair that had been dyed a pale gold, blushed. Her eyes sparkled as she
smiled at Owen.

“Amy’s quite a gourmet cook herself,” Bernice confided to Owen. “But I’m sure you’ve already discovered that.”

Owen felt Amy stiffen next to him. He slid her a sidelong glance and was amused to see the barely veiled panic in her gaze. She was apparently not accustomed to subterfuge. She was on the verge of coming unglued at the first mild probe into their relationship. Gallantly, he stepped in to fill the breach.

“So far I’ve done all the cooking,” he said, thinking of the pot of coffee he’d made that afternoon.

“Oh, then you must be a vegetarian also,” Bernice said brightly.

Owen heard Amy’s fork clatter loudly on the wooden table. He glanced down at the chunk of halibut that sat squarely in the middle of his plate. “I make an exception for fish. Health reasons.”

“Well, Amy eats fish on occasion, too.” Bernice waved that aside, as if it were common knowledge. “Now, then, the two of you must tell us everything. How did you meet? I swear, Amy, when you told me that you were going to move to that little dinky island, I was extremely worried about your social life.”

“I know you were, Aunt Bernice,” Amy said.

“I realized you were burned out after that dreadful incident last year,” Bernice continued. “And I knew you wanted peace and quiet so that you could devote more time to your writing. But I never thought you’d be happy for long in such a small, isolated community.”

Amy shot Owen a quick, unreadable glance. “Misplaced Island suits me. I’ve been very happy there.”

“So I see.” Bernice bubbled with enthusiasm. “Imagine, after all these years, you’ve finally discovered the man of your dreams on Misplaced Island.”

Amy turned pink. “Uh, yes, well, you know what they say. Love is where you find it.”

“The name of the island says it all,” Owen said dryly. “I guess Amy and I weren’t fated to find each other until we both got ourselves misplaced in the same place.”

“I’m not so sure it’s any harder to find love in a small town than it is in a big city.” Crabshaw chuckled. “Just look at Bernice and me. If I hadn’t come back to Villantry after all these years, I never would have found her.”