Sharp Edges (8 page)

Daventry definitely had fit the profile.

Cyrus wondered if Eugenia and Nellie Grant had been rivals for Daventry's affections. Nothing beat a lovers' triangle for complicating a situation. Throw in an extremely valuable object such as the Hades cup, and you had a real sorcerer's brew.

Be a hell of a twist, he thought, if it turned out that Daventry actually had been murdered. But he'd already run that possibility through his brain and examined it from every angle. It didn't work.

When you got right down to it, shoving a man down a flight of stairs was simply not a reliable way to kill him. There was a high probability that the victim would only break an arm or a leg, instead of his neck. As murder went, it was sloppy and unprofessional.

If there was one thing Cyrus thought he could be nearly one-hundred percent sure about it was that anyone clever enough and resourceful enough to attempt the theft of the Hades cup would be a real pro.

No, Daventry's death had to have been an accident. It was the only thing that made sense. That meant that the odds were high that the Hades cup had not been stolen the night Daventry died. It might still be hidden here in Glass House.

He felt the adrenaline sleet a little more quickly through his blood. After three long years, he was closing in at last. He knew it with that certainty he always felt when a case was coming together.

He punched in the code and opened the door. Hoisting the duffel bag and the two red suitcases, he stepped aside to allow Eugenia into the hall. When he made to follow, he nearly collided with her. She had come to an abrupt halt on the other side of the threshold.

"Good heavens," she whispered, awed. "Daventry really did like glass."

Cyrus removed his sunglasses and examined the gleaming, three-story atrium hall. A monumental chandelier was suspended from the ceiling. It was a many-tiered waterfall of peridot green glass. The walls of the hall were mirrored from floor to ceiling. The mirrors reflected an elegant, curved staircase fashioned of glass bricks and stainless steel. There was an elaborate, decorative pattern traced in glass mosaic tiles beneath Cyrus's feet.

There was also a small, engraved sign just inside the hall.

Visitors are asked to kindly

remove their shoes.

A small stack of paper slippers sat next to the little sign.

"Yeah, I guess he did," Cyrus said.

"This is incredible." Eugenia put down her bags and stepped out of her shoes. She gazed around in amazement.

Cyrus was amused by her wonderstruck expression. "Looks like a very expensive carnival fun house, if you ask me."

"It's spectacular," she breathed. "It will make a fantastic inn."

"Each to his own, I guess."

He trailed after her as she walked slowly down the hall. When she reached the kitchen entrance, she halted once more and glanced inside with an apprehensive air. Then she visibly relaxed.

"Thank God," she said. "An espresso machine."

Cyrus looked over her shoulder. "Hot damn, an electric can opener."

Rain, the steady summer kind, struck shortly before midnight. Eugenia was aware of the time because she was sitting up on one side of her bed, gazing at the glowing numerals on the face of the French cut-glass clock that sat on the glass nightstand.

After nearly two hours of determined effort, she had abandoned the attempt to sleep. She was restless and strangely tense after spending the evening alone in the house with Cyrus. Leonard Hastings had not put in an appearance.

Given the atmosphere of watchful challenge that existed between herself and Cyrus, dinner had actually gone surprisingly well. Both of them had brought sacks of groceries. Hers had been filled with pasta, little jars of pesto sauce, bottled spring water, a loaf of good Seattle bread, and a couple of bottles of sauvignon blanc and zinfandel wine.

His had been loaded with a dozen cans of tuna fish, frozen microwavable dinners, and a couple of six-packs of Pacific Express beer.

"I probably shouldn't ask," Eugenia said, "but what do you intend to do with the tuna fish?"

"You'd be amazed." He removed a plastic-wrapped bag of sandwich bread from one of the sacks. "A little mayonnaise, some pickles, and a couple of slices of bread and you've got dinner."

"It sounds more like a tuna fish sandwich."

"Same thing." He eyed the package of pasta in her hand. "What are you planning to eat tonight? Macaroni and cheese?"

"Not exactly." She put the pasta down on the counter and reached back into the sack. "It's been a long day. I think I'll just whip up something quick. Maybe some fresh asparagus and pasta with pesto sauce."

"Fresh asparagus, huh?"

The wistful note in his voice made her glance up quickly. She frowned when she saw the way he was looking at her asparagus. "Don't get any ideas."

"Your asparagus is safe." He sounded hurt. "I promise I won't steal any of your pesto, either." He turned to stack his tuna fish cans in a cupboard.

Eugenia flushed. If he had tried to make her feel churlish, she thought, he had succeeded. "I suppose there's enough asparagus for two."

"I wouldn't think of taking some of it. Besides, I don't know any recipes for tuna and asparagus."

She glared at his broad back as he continued to stack cans of tuna. "Oh, what the heck. I've got enough pesto sauce for both of us. If you like, I'll cook dinner tonight."

Cyrus paused, a can of tuna in his hand. He did not turn around. "That's real nice of you."

"But you have to clean up afterward."

He finally turned to face her. He looked sincere and grateful, but there was a suspicious gleam in his green eyes.

"Deal," he said.

She wondered if she had just been had.

At the end of the meal, he had surprised her with his apparently genuine appreciation. She was tempted to ask him when he'd last had a good, homecooked meal, but she had ruthlessly crushed the nurturing instinct. Her intuition warned her that she must not show any weakness around Cyrus Colfax. He would be quick to take advantage.

They had broken bread, her excellent chewy sourdough, not the cheap, aerated white stuff that he had brought with him, in relative harmony. After two glasses of zinfandel and a couple of cans of Pacific Express, they had reached the mutual decision to delay a detailed exploration of Glass House until the following day.

Eugenia had gone to bed exhausted, but she was too keyed up to sleep.

She got to her feet and went to the massive armoire on the far side of the room. The black jeans she had unpacked earlier were draped over a hanger inside. She took them down and stepped into them. Next she pulled on a black top and slipped her feet into a pair of black ballet-style slippers.

She reached inside a suitcase for the small flashlight she had packed. Better not to turn on any lights, she thought. Cyrus might wake up and start asking questions.

The truth, she thought wryly, was that she had no idea what she was doing. She did not know how to conduct an inquiry into a murder. She only knew that she had to start somewhere, and that Glass House was the obvious place.

It was ironic that she found herself sharing the house with a professional investigator, but she did not dare ask Cyrus for help.

Cautiously, she opened her bedroom door and walked to the balcony rail. She looked down into the atrium. Darkness cascaded in waves down the staircase.

For a moment she hesitated, uncertain how to satisfy the restlessness that had kept her from sleep.

She remembered that Nellie had once mentioned in passing that she had used a room on the third floor of Glass House as a studio. If she had left her mark anywhere in this house, it might be there.

It was as good a place to start as any other.

Eugenia turned and walked along the balcony toward the staircase. Her slippered feet made no noise as she tiptoed past Cyrus's door.

She had almost reached the staircase when she saw that the darkness down below was not nearly so absolute as it had been a moment ago.

At first she thought that her eyes had adjusted to the tomblike atmosphere. But her instincts did not buy that easy explanation. Neither did her common sense.

A chill shot through her.

She switched off the flashlight and went to the railing to peer down. There was a slender wedge of light angling from a crack in the door that opened onto the basement stairs.

Even as she watched, the light shifted slightly. Someone with a flashlight was standing at the top of the basement stairs.

Anger poured through her. There was only one other person who could be creeping around Glass House tonight. Cyrus had waited until he thought she was asleep, and then he'd set out to explore on his own.

She'd known from the beginning that he was up to no good.

She leaned as far out over the railing as possible. "What do you think you're doing, Colfax?"

The light from the basement winked out abruptly. Whirling, Eugenia dashed to the staircase.

"How dare you sneak around like this in the middle of the night?" she yelled as she pattered swiftly down the stairs. "I knew you had something up your sleeve."

She reached the floor of the hall and raced to the basement door. It was closed now. She yanked it open and stumbled to a halt at the top of the steps. Thick darkness severed only by the beam of her own flashlight greeted her. Cyrus was lying low in the shadows.

"Come out of there, Colfax. I knew Tabitha should never have trusted you. I don't care what the Daventry estate lawyer said."

She groped for the wall switch and found it. But when she turned it on, nothing happened.

She started cautiously down the steps, her flashlight trained on the floor below.

"Don't you dare try to frighten me, Cyrus. It won't work. I want to know what's going on here. What do you think you're doing?"

A large, powerful hand closed around her shoulder from behind. Eugenia was so shocked, she could not even scream.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," Cyrus said from the step above her.

"Cyrus." She froze and then turned around so quickly she hit him in the midsection with the flashlight.

"Umph." His hand went to his ribs.

He had obviously just gotten out of bed. His hair was tousled and his chest was bare. She could not help but notice that it was a very broad chest. The triangle of curling hair on it tapered down over a flat, hard stomach and disappeared into a pair of chinos.

Eugenia stared at him, eyes widening. "Oh, my God. If you're up here with me, then that means someone else is down there."

"Brilliant deduction." Cyrus snapped the flashlight out of her hand as he moved past her. "Stay here."

He plunged down into the darkness at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh, no, you don't," Eugenia muttered. "You're not going anywhere without me. I don't trust you one bit, Colfax."

Six

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H
e would have enforced his instruction to Eugenia to stay put in a more emphatic manner if it had not been for the cold draft that swirled through the cavernous basement. It told Cyrus his quarry had already escaped.

He came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and braced himself as Eugenia, hard on his heels, plowed straight into him.

"What in the… ?" She recoiled from the collision and grabbed the wooden bannister. "Why did you stop? He'll get away."

"You don't follow orders very well, do you?" He found a second light switch and snapped it. This one worked. A fluorescent tube winked on overhead, revealing a long passageway between rows of storage rooms. "I told you to wait at the top of the stairs."

"I've always felt that following orders showed a sad lack of creativity."

"Or common sense."

She ignored that as she straightened and swept a sultry mass of hair out of her eyes. "Where is he?"

"Gone. Whoever he was, you scared him off." Cyrus surveyed her with a sidelong glance.

She looked more than ever like a cat burglar tonight. Her jeans fit her as if they had been hand-tailored. The denim fabric hugged her hips and nipped in at her waist, emphasizing her sleek frame. He wondered what kind of store sold tailored jeans. A very expensive one, no doubt.

Her black pullover looked just as pricey as her jeans. Trained, experienced investigator that he was, he noticed immediately that her firm breasts shifted easily beneath the fabric.
Ah-hah, Watson. The lady is not wearing a bra
.

That observation immediately raised the issue of whether or not she had bothered to put on a pair of panties beneath the snug jeans. That was the thing about his chosen career path, he thought. In his line of work one question always led to another.

She had apparently used only her fingers to comb her thick, dark hair. It billowed, soft and loose, around her shoulders.

Not just any cat burglar, he decided. A very sexy cat burglar.

"How can you be sure the guy is not hanging around here somewhere?" she demanded, staring past him down the hall.

"Feel that damp air? It's from outside. The door at the far end of the basement is open." Cyrus walked forward along the passageway. "He went out through the pantry."

"Damn." She hurried after him. "I'll bet he was after my glass."

"
Your
glass?"

"The Daventry glass belongs to the Leabrook now," she said austerely.

"That doesn't make the glass yours."

"You know what I mean."

"I'm getting a fair idea," he said. "Are you this possessive about everything you consider yours?"

"There's no need to get sarcastic just because I take my job seriously." She frowned. "We'd better check the glass vault."

"I want to take a quick look outside first. Just in case."

"Just in case what?"

He glanced back at her. "Just in case he was dumb enough to hang around."

"Good lord." Her eyes widened. "You can't go chasing out of the house after him. It's past midnight. There's nothing but forest out there, and in case you haven't noticed, the rain is still coming down very hard."