Adelaide Upset (27 page)

“No,” I said, turning sour at the thought of
another cup of tea. “How about I just get to the point.”

He leaned back, twining his fingers together
over his gut.

“
You know David Smith.” It
wasn’t a question.

“
No,” he answered. “I
don’t believe I do.”

He wasn’t lying, so why
the hell had Smith sent me here?

“
He’s tall. And spar,” I
added, hoping to jog his memory. “Nice features, messy brown hair,
wears flannel, is any of this ringing a bell?”

“No,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I
don’t know anyone like that.”

“
You wouldn’t know him
now,” I explained. “He’s been dead for ten years. Maybe you knew
him from before?”

“Miss, ah—”

“Graves,” I supplied.

“Miss Graves, might I inquire as to why you
believe I know this man?”

“
He left me your name.
Well, actually it was the name of your store, Dusty
Antiques.”

“In a last will and testament, you
mean?”

“Something like that,” I agreed.

“
If this is regarding an
antique—”

And then I knew, blurting,
“The watch! He had this old watch, a pocket watch.” Why would he
bring it here? Oh, shit. “He didn’t sell it did he?”

Leslie watched me, looking
puzzle, and then all of the sudden he blinked. He was amazed,
amazed and excited. Tipping off the couch, he skirted a peeling
saddle and studded trunk on his way to the upright desk. It rolled
open, revealing pigeonholes, where he gently untucked a small
velvet case. He showed it to me with reverence, opening the box
like a clam, the timepiece inside his little pearl
treasure.

I shrugged. “That’s it?”

“I’ll refer to my records,” Leslie said,
“and confirm that the young man who left this in my care is your
David Smith.”

“Why did he bring it to you?”

Leslie sat down again,
still staring into the box. “The hinge needed a replacement pin. I
wasn’t in the repair business, but the watch was lovely,
is
lovely. Such
history,” he said to himself.

“
So he left it with you to
be fixed and never came back. Why didn’t you try contacting
him?”

Amy and Stephen had
thought Smith was a deadbeat dad for the past ten years, all
because of this watch.

“
I gave him my card and a
receipt. Honestly, I should have asked for his information, but it
never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be back. Who could forget
such a piece?”

I took the box from his
hands, afraid he’d start muttering about his precious. “It belongs
to his son now.”

Leslie reached over, pulling it back. “Not
until I check my records. You must understand, Miss Graves, that
this is a very significant item. Its history is remarkable, and I
won’t turn it over to just anyone.”

“You aren’t keeping it,” I stated.

He mistook it for a
question, rushing to reassure me. “Oh no, of course not! I’ll
deliver it to his son myself, in fact, I’d be happy to. It’s a
shame I never got to tell his father of its legacy.”

“
I wouldn’t mind hearing
about it,” I said, offering up a shallow smile to cover the
lie.

The long and short of it
was that Smith had descended from an earl, but hearing the
intricacies of his ancestry made my mind wander and I didn’t hear
much of what Leslie said after that. Instead I thought about
something Reed’s cook, Betsy Cross, had once told me. She believed
it was no coincidence that her divination through flour coincided
with her love for cooking. As if gifts were tailored to our
personalities.

I carried that theory over
to Leslie Hopper, thinking whatever his gift, it would have
something to do with antiques. “But how did you know that the
pocket watch originally belonged to an earl?” I asked, interrupting
him.

He was a little flustered
by the question, having enjoyed my silence for so many minutes.
“Well, I— I researched it.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” I said, watching
him shift uncomfortably on the stiff chair. “What’s your gift?”

He hadn’t thought I’d come
right out and ask. It was awkward there for a minute until he burst
out laughing. “The cheek of you young people today,” he observed.
“Well, Miss Graves, it’s not something I advertise, but since you
claim to be a friend of Nancy’s, I’ll tell you.” He straightened
up, sobering a bit. “My gift is psychometry.”

“
Psychometry,” I repeated.
“Is that some sort of divination?”

“
Not quite,” Leslie said,
and I could feel him happily preparing for another lecture. The man
sure did love to talk. “Divination is centered in the future, while
my gift is all about the past. When I touch an inanimate object I
see, well, I can see many things. Who touched it, owned it, where
it’s been, maybe how it got damaged, or the events transpiring
around it.”

“
Is it like watching a
movie?”

“
With a movie the viewer
retains their own thoughts, but psychometry is more personal than
that. Here,” he said, turning to point at something on the wall. It
was a spoon, the design intricately carved with a delicate heart
wrapped in twisting wooden lines. “It’s a Welsh lovespoon. A few
hundred years old, though I couldn’t tell you the exact date of its
creation. When I touch it I see a young man, he’s whittling it at
night, by the fire. His hands hurt from hard labor, but he’s set
his eye on a girl and he wants to please her. It was a tradition in
Europe,” Leslie said, his emotions all soft.

“
So you don’t just see
things,” I said, and unlike most conversations I found this one
quite engaging. “You feel the owner’s emotions too?”

“
I feel whatever has
imprinted itself on the object. Once I touched a helmet from the
Second World War. Its owner had already perished, and yet I felt
things, terrible things, as if the whole bloody battle had left its
mark.”

“Gruesome,” I said, making a face. “And here
I thought you talked to animals.”

He laughed, which had been
the point. His emotions were starting to wear.

“Knew a man once who could do that,” Leslie
said. “Worked at a zoo.”

“
So it’s true then, a
person’s gift is aligned with their life’s work?”

“It’s certainly true in my case,” he said
with a smile. “I’m sure you can understand why I love antiques.
They have the most interesting stories to tell.”

After a botched character
analysis of Bill Shrader that had almost gotten me killed, I’d had
my misgivings about following another Smith-related lead. I’d been
arrogant in my empathy, relying too heavily upon it, and now my
confidence was shaken. But despite my initial apprehension, I was
glad to have met Leslie Hopper.

And despite his best
attempts to bore the life out of me, he was interesting. When I’d
asked for a demonstration of his psychometry, he’d gladly obliged,
grabbing a snuff box. Even as he remained in his seat, I had
watched him disappear, eyes falling shut, body going slack as his
mind travelled elsewhere. And after a short time he came back,
lurching forward in the chair, eyes popping open as he breathed in
deep. He then told me of the snuff box and the elegant era of
aristocrats that came with it. He described an assembly room in
detail—men in stockings and knee-breeches, women wearing arm
gloves, the white-wigged servants and candle chandeliers—he painted
a picture and I felt like I was there. He enjoyed the regency life,
many of his antiques from that period. He showed me a pair of bent
spectacles, confiding that they’d belonged to a stuffy matron whose
imprints he particularly enjoyed. He was amused at the
recollection, calling her an entertaining fusspot.

I would have chatted with
him longer, but I sensed that he was growing curious in turn,
wanting me to reciprocate and share the details of my own gift. So
after giving him Stephen’s contact information and extracting a
promise that he not mention me or my visit to the Smiths, I left.
He’d been both puzzled and disappointed, but expressed neither, a
real gentleman as he waved me off. That was Tuesday, almost a whole
week ago. What had I been doing since then?

Avoiding Lucas, and not much else.

It was Monday before
something happened, stirring up the monotony. I went into the
office, one o’clock sharp, and Ben was waiting behind the front
desk. Being on time, I had to wonder why I was about to get yelled
at. But all he said was, “Stephen’s off today.” And then I knew—the
Smiths had learned the truth.

“
I’ll clean rooms,” I
said. “You watch the desk.”

He grunted and shrugged,
but was secretly surprised to hear me offer; no doubt assuming the
task would be put off until however long it took for Stephen to
recover, believing he was merely sick. I knew that wasn’t the case.
What I didn’t know was how long it took a boy to mourn the loss of
his father, a father he never really knew. And how unfortunate for
me that the bed sheets weren’t going to wash themselves in the
meantime.

Only one wheel on the
housekeeping cart actually rolled, the other three just squealed in
protest. Stephen had made mention of this fact, too scared to
confront Ben and hoping that I might plead his case and request
that we order a new one. Well I never did, and for that I was being
punished. The cart was a nightmare, and I more or less had to drag
it from the shed out back. I suppose shouldering Stephen’s workload
should have made me more appreciative of his efforts, but since my
sympathy tended to be few and far between, all I felt was glad.
Glad to have my job and not his.

After cleaning two rooms I
found my rhythm, a nice routine of stripping sheets and scrubbing
toilets. That was where he found me, room thirteen, the door
propped open, reaching down a toilet’s gullet, white bristle brush
in hand.

“And this is the job you find preferable to
my employment?”

Don’t turn
around
, I chanted to myself, even as
his voice made my stomach flip and clench.
Don’t turn around
.

“Yes, exactly,” I replied, my hand still
scrubbing under the rim. “I’d rather clean shit than work for
you.”

I could feel the gentle
touch of his dissatisfaction, next would be frustration. The
negative emotions kept me grounded, helping me battle his euphoric
charm.

“
I flew eight hundred
miles to see you, so kindly turn around and let me look.” His voice
was like a song, smooth and lovely, pulling me in. If not for the
predictable irritation that flowed with them I wouldn’t have been
able to resist his request.

“
I’m not hiding the diary
under my shirt, since I know that’s what you’re here for,” I said,
scrubbing the porcelain harder. “You shouldn’t have come, I don’t
have it.”

The plastic toilet brush
clacked to the floor as I was hauled upright. Turned to face the
mirror, I could see him, Reed Wallace, standing behind me, a hand
planted on each of my shoulders, holding me in place. His face was
more harsh and beautiful than I remembered, hawkish in its
intensity. His blue eyes burned, staring into my reflection while
his thumbs inched up, sketching circles on my neck.

“
The diary is only one of
my concerns,” Reed said. I could barely hear him, the reflection of
his face hidden as he talked into my hair, the words spoken low.
“And not nearly as troublesome as you.”

His fingertips traced
along my collarbone, gently teasing the skin as his hands ringed my
throat, a possessive necklace.

I let go. I let go of
everything—my breath on a sigh, my body tipping into his,
encouraging his touch. I wanted more, a consuming something, to be
enveloped, wrapped over in Reed.

“
Confide in me,” he urged,
his lips skimming my neck, placing a trail of kisses behind my ear.
“Your trust is all I want.”

“
Yes,” I gasped, trying to
talk over my own breathing. It had become loud and labored.
“Whatever you want.”

He pivoted around my body, blocking the
mirror as he twisted to stare down at me. “Tell me about Marks and
Shrader. How are you involved with them?”

“
I— I know them...” I
swallowed, trying to clear my foggy brain so I could speak. “They
killed—”

“
Oh,” someone cut in,
their surprise louder than words. “Sorry, mate.” I blinked, looking
past Reed to see Tim standing outside the bathroom door.
“Adelaide?” he asked, his surprise doubling when he saw me. “I was
looking for Stephen, didn’t mean to interrupt you and your
boyfriend.”

It was like suddenly
seeing normal after a long bout of tunnel vision, my senses
flooding back to life. I shoved Reed first thing, pushing him away
before backing into the bathroom counter. “He’s not my boyfriend!”
I called after Tim. I don’t think he even heard, having slipped
away after catching us doing... whatever that was.

“
How unfortunate,” Reed
said, with an unrepentant half-shrug. “I was hoping to get more out
of you.”

“
More information?” I
asked. “Or maybe you were just hoping to get laid,” I suggested,
acid in my words.

“
Ah,” he said, feeling
bored. “Here comes the woman’s scorn. How conveniently you forget
the part where you quite enjoyed it.”