Sighs Matter (7 page)

And now her sanctuary had been invaded. Why? And by whom?

She risked a quick glance back at the farmhouse, knowing Taylor was there, in the kitchen, doing everything he could to find some clue to who had hurt and robbed her. Rubbing her temples, she tried to settle her frazzled emotions.

Next to her, Adam seemed thoughtful, too. He’d flipped the edges of his jacket back and slid his hands in his pants pockets. Though his shiny black shoes had accumulated a patina of brown dust, he seemed not to notice.

“Are you sure you’re really okay?” he said as they reached the wooden arbor bench Claire’s grandfather had built decades ago. A profusion of wild red roses stretched up one side of the trellis and tumbled down the other, creating a shady spot from which to rest and enjoy watching the mallards drift like bathtub toys across the flat surface of the pond.

Claire edged onto the bench and folded her hands in her lap. Adam settled next to her, close enough for her to feel the heat from his body. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees.

“I’m sorry you were hurt. I care about you, Claire . . . care
for
you. I don’t think you realize how much.”

Studying his handsome profile, Claire bit her lip. She liked Adam. He was fun to be around, and they’d had some interesting conversations, but that was about as far as it went. Since her brief interlude with Taylor eight months ago, she’d dated a few men, but none had turned her inside out, the way he had. Not even Adam.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said, the trite phrase the best she could do at the moment. He was obviously interested in her, but she didn’t want to lead him on, so she chose her next words carefully. “I truly enjoy our friendship.” Okay, so it wasn’t exactly original, but it worked.

“Ah. I see. We’re
friends
.” He smiled. “Code words for
Sayonara, baby
. I know the drill, Claire.”

“I’m sorry, Adam. Listen, I . . .”

Flicking a glance toward the distant farmhouse, he said, “Is there somebody else?”

“No,” she said, but she knew in her heart it simply wasn’t true. Whenever she’d considered becoming involved with a man, an image of Taylor had shoved itself right into her brain and hung out there, as if he owned her.

It wouldn’t be fair to commit to a relationship with Adam, or any man, when she knew she was capable of much stronger feelings. Until she’d met Taylor, she hadn’t even been aware she could have such intense feelings, but now that she was, she’d be cheating any man she didn’t feel at least as strongly for.

“How much longer until you get your license?” she asked in an effort to divert the conversation.

He shrugged. “Any time now. I passed the boards of course, but there must be some foul-up with the paperwork. I hate not being able to practice medicine, but until the State of Washington grants me a license, I’m on an extended vacation. Not that I’m complaining,” he said, sending her a charming grin.

Claire raised her gaze to look past Adam’s shoulder. Still no Taylor.

Plucking a red rose from the vine, she cupped it in her palms. Leaning back against the white lattice, she said, “Will you be able to get your kids soon?”

Adam brightened considerably. “God, I hope so. I miss them so damn much, but I need to finish getting the house fixed up and arrange for school for them, of course. As soon as that’s done, I’ll drive down to Oregon and pick them up. Then we’ll be a family again.” He grinned and nodded his head, glowing with happiness.

She smiled, twirling the rose in her fingers. A sharp little thorn caught on her thumb, leaving a small dot of blood behind. She wiped it away with her free hand.

“You must miss them terribly,” she said. “Your kids.”

His smile faded, and a stark look crept into his eyes, altering his entire demeanor. Suddenly, he looked . . . broken.

“My kids are my reason for living,” he said quietly. “They’re the reason for everything I do, everything I think or feel. I hate being parted from them.” He straightened, brightened. “But soon. Just a few details to work out, and our separation will all be a faded memory. So, tell me all about the accident.”

In as few words as possible, she related the incident, then glanced at the house again. Still no Taylor. Why was he taking so long?

“Is there anything I can do?” Adam offered. “Get you a guard dog? Camp on your doorstep? Camp inside your doorstep? Camp at the foot of your bed? Camp in your bed—”

“I get the picture.” She laughed. “Thanks, but the police are handling everything.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, handing it to her. “You needed this?”

In the time it took Claire to check her messages, return three phone calls, and confirm her rotation at the hospital, evening had begun to creep across the sky, elongating the garden’s shadows, bringing up a cool breeze from the sea. One by one, frogs joined to form a throaty chorus, and high overhead, a hawk shrieked. The butterflies were gone, and most of the bees had begun to disappear as day meandered quietly into night.

Returning Adam’s cell phone to him, she said, “I don’t know how serious this guy is about hurting me. I don’t want anybody else becoming a target, including you, so maybe it would be best if—”

“Don’t worry about me.”

Leaning forward, he scooped up a pebble from the garden and flung it into the pond. A plunk, a splash, and tiny waves rippled across the surface like an opening blossom.

“I don’t give a shit about some weirdo targeting me,” he scoffed. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Adam, I—”

“Come on, have dinner with me, Claire,” he coaxed. “I promise I’ll behave. I won’t tell you how attracted to you I am. I won’t tell you how special you are. I won’t even mention how crazy you’d be to pass up a great guy like me.”

He slid her a grin, and she smiled.

“I don’t want to give you a false impression—”

“No problem. But hey, everybody’s got to eat.” He blinked innocently at her. Yes, Adam Thursby was a very nice guy.

“All right,” she said, laughing. “On one condition. I pay for my own. This is not a date.”

“I’ll take it.” On Adam Thursby’s face, a smile was more than just a smile. With his movie star good looks and athletic build, that charming grin really was gilding the lily. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something . . . special.”

He didn’t go back to the house with her, but walked directly to his car. By the time she reached the kitchen door, the Mercedes was already speeding up the driveway where it turned onto Puget Road, and disappeared.

Claire crouched down to rub Agatha’s tummy, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake. Dinner with Adam, tomorrow night. She would keep it platonic, friendly. Their conversations were always lively, he seemed to have a fairly even disposition, and they had a lot in common.

Yet, as her fingers idly slipped through Agatha’s soft fur, when she tried to envision Adam sitting across from her tomorrow night, it wasn’t Adam’s face she saw. It was Taylor’s.

Doctrine
Physician’s restroom.

He stood in the kitchen, watching through the window as Adam Thursby roared off up the driveway. Checking out the crime scene—and finding little viable evidence—had left Taylor in a sour mood, but the thought of that arrogant ass in a relationship with Claire set his teeth on edge. Something wasn’t right about the guy, although Taylor certainly couldn’t find fault with the man’s taste in women.

Claire walked toward the house, her arm lifted in a wave of farewell to Thursby, a friendly smile curving her lips. She jogged up the steps, then bent to pet her cat. From behind the lace curtain, Taylor watched as she stroked Agatha’s fur and spoke in a low, soothing voice. The kind of voice a man longed to hear from a woman in the wee hours of the night.

He turned back to the table, cursing a blue streak, then checked to make sure the evidence bags were labeled. Closing the lid of his case, he snapped it, hard, envisioning Thursby’s jaw.

Shoving thoughts of the irritating surgeon out of his mind, he focused on the evidence he’d collected.

There were prints everywhere, but he had a sinking feeling none would belong to Claire’s attacker. He’d gotten other bits of trace evidence, too, including a light-colored hair, probably Claire’s.

That was it. Their perp had been very careful not to leave a thing behind.

Crossing the room to the kitchen door, he unlocked and opened it. She stood and faced him, her lovely brown eyes wide with curiosity.

“Did you find anything?” She nibbled nervously on her bottom lip, a trait he was beginning to appreciate very much.

“We’ll see,” he said, then gestured to his leather case sitting on the tile counter by the sink. “I’ve got to run this into the lab for processing. First I need to get a set of your prints and obtain a hair sample. Since Sadie isn’t here, I picked up some latents and hair evidence from her bathroom. If we eliminate the two of you, I may have lucked out and gotten something on our perp.” He gestured toward the door with his chin. “I see Dr. Armani took off.”

She folded her arms under her breasts in a typical gesture of defense. He followed her movements, admiring what he saw, then lifted his gaze to her eyes.

“I think you made it pretty clear you don’t like Adam,” she said in an admonishing tone. “You needn’t resort to name calling.”

“You’re absolutely right. He’s not around to hear it, so what’s the point? I’ll hold off until he’s within earshot.”

“You’re being juvenile.”

“Like I care. He’s a prick.”

She made a sound of exasperation. “You don’t even know him.”

He shrugged. “I’m a cop. Trained to observe and assess people and make quick decisions about them all the time. I’ve observed and assessed. Friday’s a prick.”

“It’s Thursby, and he’s not a . . . God, you are infuriating!”

“It’s a gift. I’d advise against seeing him again until we’ve figured all this out.”

“Too late,” she said, watching him closely. “I’m having dinner with him tomorrow night.”

He glared into her eyes. “Wrong answer, dumpling. Until we get this house secured and find out exactly who’s behind the attack on you, and whether he plans more fun and games, you’re going to keep a low profile, and have police protection.”

“Meaning you, I suppose.”

“Meaning me. Strictly business, by the book.”

She straightened her arms by her side and doubled her fists, but before she could verbally tear into him, the sound of yet another car interrupted them.

“I thought the country was supposed to be so damn quiet,” he snapped. “Hell, this place is like Grand Central.”

As Claire preceded him out the kitchen door, the black Cadillac Deville skidded to a noisy stop, sending plumes of dust and gravel chips ten feet in the air. The driver side door flew open and a man bolted out, his bald head shining like a beacon in the waning light of early evening.

Though Taylor recognized him instantly, he said to Claire, “Who in the hell is
that
?”

She frowned. “It’s Mortie, Aunt Sadie’s fiancé. But I don’t see Aunt Sadie . . .”

By the time she’d stepped down from the porch, the old guy had come panting across the yard to halt in front of Claire. She wasn’t that tall, but she and the mortician stood eye-to-eye.

“Mort?” Claire said, sending a worried glance at the car. “Where’s Aunt Sadie?”

Mortimer dabbed at the perspiration beading his brow, then shoved his handkerchief haphazardly into his breast pocket. It hung over the edge like a wilted flower. Rubbing the back of his neck with one pudgy hand, he swallowed. “Well, gadzooks, ain’t she here? Figured she’d come straight here.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you two were going to spend the weekend in Victoria. Why would she be here?”

Taylor watched as Mort lowered his head, shaking it slowly and jutting out his bottom lip like he’d been a very bad boy.

“We had a . . . difference of opinion, you might say,” he said with a sniff. “She got agitated. Came back early. You know how difficult Sadie can be, big movie star and all.”

Claire fisted her hands on her hips.

“Aunt Sadie’s the most even-tempered person I’ve ever met,” she accused, her tone one of irritation mixed with frustration. “If she’s not with you, and she’s not here, then where in the hell is she, Mortie?”

Taylor moved down off the porch and went to stand at Claire’s side. She glanced up at him, worry darkening the color of her expressive brown eyes.

With a helpless shrug, Mort said, “Okay, we’re on our way home when we stop at the Arco a few miles back, you know the one I mean, on the corner there by the senior center? And Sadie goes into the ladies’ room to splash a little cold water on her face, but . . . well . . .”

“But what?” Claire demanded. “
Out
with it, Mort.”

The mortician’s dark eyes shifted to the right, then the left. He blinked a few times, and stuck that lower lip out once more.

“The way of it is,” he mumbled, “she goes into the ladies’ room, but never comes the hell out. I wait a while, then go and knock, then take a peek inside. But she ain’t there! There’s not a soul around getting gas, so I ask the guy in the office, and he says he ain’t seen no lady. So I’m thinking she might have taken off to hike home.” The look on his face was one of a defiant hog. “Expected her to be here. Didn’t see her on the road. If something bad’s happened to her, for Pete’s sake, it sure as hell ain’t my fault!”

Former screen idol and disinclined senior citizen Sadie Lancaster trudged along the side of the road, furious with herself.

“Of all the gin joints in all the world . . .” she muttered as she took another step. She’d intended to call a cab as soon as she got clear of the service station where she’d left Mortie stewing in his own juice, but so far, she’d been unable to locate a pay phone.

She kicked a small stone out of her way. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry. Lies. The old poop.”

Except for the irksome arthritis in her knees and hips, she was in fair-to-middling shape, and home was only a few miles away. If the stiffness got the better of her, she would just curse Mortie’s misogynistic hide all the way back to the farm.

What had she ever seen in the little pipsqueak, anyway? “He’s not
worthy
,” she scoffed to the toes of her shoes.

Behind her, a car slowed, then rolled past her to stop a few feet ahead. A woman with short brown hair leaned out the passenger window.

“Ma’am?” the woman called. “Are you all right? Would you like a ride?”

Smiling sweetly at the nosy nincompoop, Sadie said, “Thank you for your concern, my dear. However, I am fit as a fiddle and simply out for a little stroll.”

The woman said something, gave her a thumbs-up and a wave. The car moved away from the curb to continue on up the modest incline.

Didn’t recognize me
, Sadie mused in mild irritation as the car disappeared over the crest of the hill.
Well, nobody does anymore. I guess that’s just the way of it.

She straightened her shoulders and trudged on.

Puget Road was narrow and winding and mostly uphill, unless you were going down to town, which, of course, she was not. There was no sidewalk to speak of, so she stayed as far to the right as she could without getting lost amid the thick stand of Douglas firs that stood like mute soldiers along the road.

The walk would do her good. Nothing better to clear away the cobwebs or mend a broken heart. Not that her heart was actually broken. Mortie had
never
had the power to do that.

“I’m walking here,” she mumbled in defiance. Then, a little more gusto, “I’m walking here!” She’d built up quite a head of steam listening to Mortie’s ranting and raving, and no better way to vent her anger than by walking away from him, leaving him in the proverbial dust.

He hadn’t loved her after all. He’d only wanted to use her to advertise his funeral home. He’d even come up with some wretched slogan:
When the Director yells cut and I take my final bows, I’ll rest in peace with Mortimer’s
.

Mort wasn’t only vile, he was . . . well, he was sure no Raymond Carver!

She heard another car slow, and watched as it moved a bit past her and stopped. From the looks of them, a passel of teenagers in a faded blue VW camper. The window squeaked as the passenger cranked it down.

“Dude.” A freckle-faced, red-haired boy stuck his head out. “You want, like, a lift or something?”

Dude?
She was a sixty-five-year-old woman, for cripe’s sake—though she would never admit to that age in public. And she was walking, briskly for the most part, not crawling along like a one-legged slug! What was wrong with these people?

“No thank you, young man,” she stated, though her breath was a bit harder to catch this time. “I’m doing quite well.”

The kid shrugged, said something to one of the other boys in the car, and they sped off up the hill leaving a whirl of dry leaves skittering behind them.

Kids these days.
They
most certainly didn’t remember her. She could say her name outright and they’d simply blink at her like one of those vapid MGM script girls, or one of the pimply-faced teens who asked if you wanted your meal super-sized. Bah!

She shifted her shoulder purse to keep it from banging her thigh as her thoughts returned to Mortie. What an annoying little turd. It would serve him right to sit in that gas station for hours waiting for her to come out of the restroom.

She hadn’t taken the road he’d assume she’d take, either. No sir. She’d cut over to Puget and would follow it all the way back to the farmhouse. And when he did finally show up? Well, she would refuse to speak to him!

Another car buzzed past her, then another. One going up the hill, one coming down. They’d both had their headlamps on. She raised her face to the sky. My, was it that dark already? Must be close to eight.

She stopped to catch her breath. Funny, she’d driven this route for years and never realized how steep it was until now. It wasn’t that she was old and her muscles and bones weren’t what they’d once been. No, no, no. Why, in the old days, she could dance all evening, make mad love all night, and still be able to put in a full day at the studio with her lines memorized and her marks down pat. It was Spencer Tracy who’d taught her about professional behavior. Such a dear man. Gone now, like so many others.

She eyed the hill before her. Well, she’d just take it slow. Slow and steady won the race.

By the time she was halfway up the hill, the sun had dropped close to the sea far behind her, painting the Northwest sky a brilliant red. But soon the light would be gone and she still had a mile or so to go.

Cursing her stubborn pride for not accepting one of those rides, she took a deep breath and soldiered on.

Another car behind her slowed, then moved up and kept pace with her. Late-model station wagon of some kind. While she watched, the window lowered. The passenger side was empty, but she saw the man behind the wheel lean toward her. She stopped walking—huffing to catch her breath. The car stopped, too.

“You trying to prove a point, Sadie, or you want to get in?” His voice was deep, almost melodic. A little Gable with a touch of Mitchum. She didn’t recognize it, but she liked the sound of it.

Bending a mite, she looked into the open window.

Nice-looking gent, plaid flannel shirt, crooked smile, light eyes, maybe blue, gray hair, and plenty of it. Around sixty or so, fit, and handsome, too. Joel McCrea with a hint of Sean Connery.

She considered him for a moment, then said, “Have we met?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you a serial killer, sir?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do I appear to be in difficulty?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, smiling. Yes, definitely Sean Connery. “But daylight’s about gone and you’re wearing dark clothing. Another fifteen minutes, and you’re going to be invisible. Hate to see the first lady of the silver screen reduced to roadkill.”