Cold Comfort (10 page)

"I don't think so. I'm not ready to crawl under the covers and hide."

She had that nun's voice again. She was a lot tougher than she seemed.

"Yeah, so I figured, but these people aren't playing. You need to be careful." He circled a few blocks, checking behind them and getting the feel of the Fiat. "Smooth. It's been cared for," he admitted.

"I love it and take good care of it. I took a class in auto maintenance right after I bought the car. My mother thought I'd lost my mind."

"Smart woman." He turned onto Francis Street toward the historic district. No one followed them. A row of tall bushes screened most of the big parking lot. He found a slot on the back row beside a silver Lincoln and whipped into it. Williamsburg wasn't exactly a metropolis. Someone riding around could spot the distinctive red Fiat. Unlikely, but possible. The Lincoln hid it from the street.

At least Claire wasn't wearing her fancy shoes. Her low-heeled boots ought to get her across the lot and to the tavern yard.

"It's a nice night. Have you heard a weather report? How long before the snow?" Her breath fogged the air. "It's beautiful when it first falls. I love the silence."

"Not long. I think we're in for a little rain and sleet first, but soon."

They were early, so Riley led her up the torch-lit street where she could check out the houses. Claire studied the Christmas decorations with professional interest, offering an occasional comment. "Williamsburg at Christmas is lovely."

The warm glow from Shields Tavern spilled onto the street, attracting passersby to its doors. Riley and Claire wound through the crowd and climbed the steps. He held the door for her, enjoying the rich aromas wafting out to greet them. A waitress in colonial garb led them to a small wooden table near the fireplace, where flickering light added to the rustic charm. Riley took Claire's coat and noticed several lingering glances from the males in the room. Did she know the effect of that dress?

They ordered and a waiter brought their wine.

Claire accepted a glass and sipped. "What is it?"

He held up the bottle of medium red so she could read the label. "Nice on a winter night, but it won't fight with your oysters." He took a drink and sat back, watching her pat her lips with her napkin and then take a quick bite of bread. The fire and candlelight bathed her face in pale gold. He absorbed the colors, the vivid red of her dress, her cheeks still rosy from the cold.... He wished again he were a portrait painter. If he could memorize this moment, he just might
—Christ. What was he thinking?
He took a deep breath and turned to a safer subject. "So, what did your doctor say? Having any problems with your head?"

"No, it wasn't anything medical." She reached down for her purse. "The receptionist came into Mistletoe today and said this company contacted them about my insurance. I did
not
authorize this." She withdrew two folded sheets of paper and handed them to him.

He examined the form letter giving permission to release her medical records. The second paper, a standard request form, came from Capitol Medical Life, a Washington-based insurance company according to the letterhead. "This isn't your signature?"

"No, I never signed anything. I never heard of that company, either."

"Have you ever had any unusual illnesses or injuries? A rare blood type?" He didn't see how it could possibly be a clerical error. "Why would your medical records be of interest to anyone?"

"I don't know. I haven't been in the hospital since a tonsillectomy when I was four, unless you count the other night. I'm healthy, have A-positive blood, and of no medical interest. I even asked at the doctor's office." She tossed back the rest of her wine. "There's absolutely nothing interesting about me."

His brows rose at her tone.
What brought that on?
Before he could pursue it, the waiter approached with his peanut soup, placed it on the table, and turned to another table.

"Here," Riley said, sliding his soup bowl across the table. "Try it
—
it's good." He tucked the letters into his inside pocket, wanting Claire to forget her problems for tonight.

Gamely, she leaned forward and dipped her spoon into the creamy broth. She savored the flavor, holding it in her mouth for a second. "It's not going to be my favorite, but it's not bad." She passed the bowl back to him. "Thanks."

At the table next to them a young couple, giggly with excitement, ordered wine. Riley thought they might be in high school. The waiter must have had the same idea because he asked for their identification. The girl said, "Gosh, I forgot my purse. My driver's license is in it. I don't have any identification."

"Maybe you'd better have something else to drink tonight," the waiter said, his tone discreet.

Poor kids.
Riley remembered some of the tricks—

"That's it! My birth certificate. The whole file folder's missing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, positive
—
unless someone put it in another place. But why would anyone want my birth certificate?"

"Curiouser and curiouser. Was Blanche your natural mother? Were you adopted?"

"No, of course not. I wasn't adopted." But the faintest doubt crept into her voice.

Riley caught her fleeting frown. In a flash of intuition, he said, "That's what this is all about. Something to do with your birth or who you are."

"I know who my family is
—
or was. I'm the last on my mother's side. She named me Lindsey for her family." The momentary doubts disappeared from her face, and she turned to the colorful plate the waiter set in front of her. "I'm ready for this. It smells so good," she said, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply.

Riley cut into his pork and let her enjoy the meal without bringing up her birth again. He continued to nod and comment while his mind churned. What secrets lay buried here? Her life seemed straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

He didn't know how it all tied together, but someone, he believed, would benefit from Claire's death, and these incidents were connected to her birth. He'd check it out himself—fast.

Chapter 7

Once again, Riley paid for dinner. She probably expected it to be itemized on his bill. When they left the restaurant, she was singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" and didn't notice his perusal of the streets around them.

She sang well, had a pretty voice if not spectacular. He watched her spin around in the street, arms outstretched. Her impromptu performance amused him—dinner and wine loosened her up, let her relax. He guessed she rarely drank.

Claire shouldn't be driving, so he left his truck parked near Mistletoe and drove them to her house in her sardine can, which meant he'd be spending another night on her couch. He wanted to talk to her but glanced her way and decided tonight wasn't the time.

He circled the block before turning into her driveway, saw nothing odd.

"We're home," she said, a little surprised. "Oh, we forgot your truck. Should we go back for it?"

"No problem. I'll stay here and ride in with you in the morning." Her face went through a series of expressions he couldn't decipher. "If you're not comfortable with that, you can drive me back later tonight. What's wrong? Will the neighbors care if I stay?" He bet one of them would.

"I doubt they'll notice. You can use the other bedroom tonight."

"The sofa's fine. I'm not a guest
—
don't fuss over me." He knew he sounded churlish, but this domestic situation made him uneasy. He didn't want to get any closer to her. The situation flashed "danger" in neon. He might have to kill Ray before this job was over.

"Don't mistake civility for fussing," she said. "Sleep on the porch if you'd be more comfortable."

The faint, surprised hurt in those damned blue eyes made him add, "I just don't want you to go to any trouble for me."

"Trust me, I won't." She let herself out of the car. On the way in, she picked up her mail.

He went straight to the alarm and turned it off. "You have to remember to turn it off and then reset it every time you open the door. If you don't, it will give you a memorable reminder." This morning he'd turned it on for a second. Anyone who didn't die from shock would wake up instantly.

"I forgot." She squinted at the little box on the wall. "Show me how it works."

He led her through it, pointing out the reed switches on the doorframe, explaining how to set the system. "If anything disturbs the doors or the windows on the ground floor, you'll hear a loud, wailing sound. You should warn your neighbors."

"What if the power goes off?" She went down on one knee to see the switch under the table.

"You mean what if someone cuts your electricity from the outside? That's why this is here." He led her to another box behind a chair in the living room. "This is a car battery
—
it's big enough to support the siren. It'll kick in and keep the system going for some time."

"Thank you for setting it up. How much do I owe you?" She took her checkbook from her purse and turned to him, pen in hand. "I'd prefer to keep things like this current."

"I'll have to add it up." He could see she wanted to get it done, so he took the receipts from his wallet and handed them to her. "Here. You can do it."

Claire leaned over the coffee table, barely glancing at the cash register tickets before writing out her check. "I don't have any idea what your labor is worth, and I know you won't tell me, so I guessed."

"Shopkeeper's mind. You totaled those receipts at a glance, no hesitation at all." He tucked the check in his shirt pocket without looking at it. If she knew his hourly consulting rate, she'd keel over. If she insisted on paying for his labor, he'd just deduct it from whatever he decided to give her for a final bill. He hoped to find a reasonable amount that would allow for her pride but not break her.

She put her mail on the desk, idly sorting it. One listed Brent Littlejohn, her attorney, on the envelope. She slit it with a brass letter opener and scanned the single sheet. "Oh my. I had no idea."

"What is it?"

"Brent's retiring and Lloyd's taking over his practice. Poor Brent." She slid the letter back into the envelope and dropped it in the pile. "Their baby daughter drowned in a neighbor's pool a couple of years before we moved here. His wife never got over it. Lloyd said she's worse. I guess Brent needs to spend more time with her."

"Lloyd who was at Mistletoe today?" Christ. Why did he care? Stick to business, he reminded himself. Worry about the father first. He could always find out about the son if he needed to. He shied away from what qualified as "need."

"Yes." She stiffened and glared at him. "
That
Lloyd. What's the matter with you? He's a friend. He didn't do anything, and you came out of nowhere like some thug. What were you thinking?"

Uh-oh. He shouldn't have reminded her. "You were pushing him away and he didn't let go." He aimed for an innocent look. "I just gave him a little encouragement."

"Not only was it unnecessary, but you embarrassed me. Don't do it again. I mean it." Her cheeks flushed with anger, and her eyes narrowed.

He sure as hell didn't intimidate
her
. Time to change the subject. "Has this Brent handled all the income and outgoes from your mother's death?"

"Yes."

Still mad. He needed a stronger distraction. "Could he have mismanaged anything? Siphoned anything off the top?"

"Absolutely not. There was nothing to siphon. Besides, he and Mother have been friends ever since we moved here. I've known Lloyd since we were children."

Now she was indignant because he'd questioned the integrity of her friends. He shoved his hands in his pockets and followed her into the kitchen, keeping his gaze off the damn dress.
Shit—the windows
. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt. "Wait. You don't want to be a target through the window, and I don't want anyone to know I'm here. We weren't tailed, and it's a little early for anyone to break in, so I should be a surprise. You need to crouch down and make sure all the curtains are pulled, blinds closed, whatever."

Her eyes rolled but she did what he asked. "Have I missed anything?"

"No. That's it." At least she'd forgotten the lawyer. Taking a place at the table, he wondered if he could get someone else to take this job. He'd explain the situation to Ray.

She puttered around the kitchen, pulling stuff out of the cabinet. "I'm going to make some coffee." She filled the pot and set out two mugs, lifted the cover from the cake. "Do you want a piece?"

Maybe he could handle another couple of days. "Yeah, thanks. I usually drop a few pounds when I'm working. This time I'll have to buy bigger clothes." He couldn't resist the cake. There hadn't been anything like it in his kitchen since he'd left home and his mother's table. Nanette lived on a diet of tasteless, no-calorie food, and pills, and he never cooked. Some days, Spike's cat food looked better than his dinner.

Claire handed him a small plate with a slice of cake and then poured the coffee, taking the chair across from him. Holding her mug in both hands, she said, "I need this. I think I drank a little too much wine. But thank you for a lovely evening."