Deeply, Desperately (9 page)

"Do you know what's going on?" Suz asked me.

"Nope." I shook my head emphatically. "Not a clue."

"What was going on with Sam?" Suz turned to me. "Saw him double-parked out front."

"The new receptionist needed to go to the hospital," I said.

Suz made the sign of the cross.

"What receptionist?" Preston asked. "What was wrong?"

I could see why she'd become a reporter. She was nosy. "SD Investigations' receptionist."

Suz said in a reverential whisper, "Sixth this month."

"Sixth?" Preston's blue eyes widened. "What's going on?"

"A curse," Suz said.

Preston laughed. "As if."

She had no idea.

Preston's attention returned to the window. "Maybe I should go down and see if there's a story there in the crowd." She craned her neck to get a better look at the commotion.

"No!" I cleared my throat. "It's just that ..."

They both stared.

"It's just ... What are you doing here anyway?"

A fire flickered in the fireplace, warming the chilly room. The heat must have been off in here too. I dropped into one of the russet-colored love seats, set the heavy duffel bag at my feet. I couldn't wait to go through it.

Preston wouldn't leave her post by the window. "I
was supposed to meet with Oscar, but apparently he's not coming in."

"I've had to cancel all Oscar's morning appointments." Suz sat in her desk chair, crossed her legs at the ankle. "Do you think Sam's new receptionist will be back?"

"You two are crazy," Preston said. "There's no such thing as curses."

Suz rolled her eyes. She knew all about Cupid's Curse too. It was hard to keep secrets when she was such an integral part of our lives.

"Why were you meeting with my dad?"

Preston flipped her hair. "About the articles. Look! The protesters are on the move. I'm going down."

"Wait!" I jumped up. I did not want to see Mum and Dovie on the front page of the
Beacon
. Sure, they were somewhat well known for their protest-loving natures (six arrests between them), but the family's run with bad press couldn't go on.

"What?" Preston asked. "Do you want me to help with your makeup? Because I can."

I might have to take her up on that offer. "Actually--" What the hell was I doing? "I'm going to Falmouth today. I'm going to see about Leo's class ring. Thought you might want to tag along. You know, for the article."

I felt queasy.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "
You
want
me
to come along?"

Really queasy. "Sure?"

Suz's jaw dropped.

"All right."

"Okay," I croaked. "Just give me a few minutes. Suz, can you see about getting one of SD's cars for me to borrow?"

"Sure."

"I can drive," Preston said.

Shit. I was going to be sick. "All right. Sounds good. A few minutes," I said, lifting the duffel.

"What have you got there, Lucy?" Suz asked.

"This? Nothing." I shrugged, shook my head, and sidled to the arch that led to the back hallway.

In my office, I dropped the duffel bag, picked up the phone. Marisol answered on the first ring.

"The eagle has landed," I said.

"Now you're getting into the spirit. I don't have to work tonight, so we're going to pick up his trail as soon as
he
leaves work. Where do you want to meet?"

"Uh," I said.

"Don't tell me!"

"I can't tonight. I'm meeting with a police client." I didn't mention my dinner with Sean. Marisol might not find that a valid excuse. But to me, there wasn't one more compelling. I was trying my best not to dissolve into a jealous hag, but it wasn't easy. "Sorry."

"You better be free tomorrow. Friday nights are prime prowling nights."

I didn't ask how she knew. I knew how she knew.

"I will be. Promise."

She heaved a sigh.

"I have everything you need. I'll leave it with Suz, okay?"

"Okay. I can swing by on my lunch break."

"You'll call me if you find out anything, right?"

"Possibly."

"Marisol!"

"Bye, Lucy." She hung up.

It would be just like her to leave me hanging. Well, I wasn't canceling my date with Sean, so there was no use stewing about it.

The coffee was drying on my black pants and thankfully the stains didn't show. I didn't have time to run home and change, so this outfit was going to have to do.

My cell phone rang. I checked the readout, answered immediately. "I was going to call you later," I said. "I need to stop by."

"Not a friendly visit, I suppose," Aiden said.

I turned on my computer. A quiet hum filled the air. "Another letter."

I heard him inhale. "You didn't open it, right?"

"No. Put it into a plastic bag like you told me."

"Good. That's the second one this week."

I figured he was talking more to himself than to me, so I didn't confirm. We made plans for me to stop by the DA's office where his detective unit was stationed on my way home from work.

"I heard you're meeting with Sarah Loehman's mother tonight."

I sat in my desk chair, swiveled. My window overlooked the alley behind the building. Great view of the Dumpsters and the brick building directly across, but little else.

"At five."

"Did she tell you about the ankle bracelet?"

A pigeon landed on the roof of the building across the alley. "No, but it's a good lead."

"We need one. We don't have enough circumstantial evidence to pursue a case against the husband. We need a body, Lucy."

The background noise of his office carried through the line. Raised voices, blips and bleeps of computers, filing cabinets. Silently I reviewed the circumstantial evidence. The hints of abuse, Scott Loehman unable to prove where he was that day, rumors of an unhappy marriage.

Aiden went on. "Loehman disputes all allegations from Sarah's mother that he was too controlling. He says Sarah didn't like her family, and that she no longer had anything in common with her old friends once she settled down into family life and they didn't."

"Could that be true?"

"Doubtful. All abusers know how to double-talk." The phone jostled. "I gotta go, Lucy. See you this afternoon?"

The letter was tucked in my tote bag. "Yeah. And Aiden?"

"Something else?" he asked.

I was about to say something about Em, something gooey and sappy and melodramatic like "Don't give up hope," but I couldn't do it. Finally I said, "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

There was a long silence. "Have you been drinking, Lucy? A little early, isn't it? See you later."

I hung up, stared at the pigeon. It suddenly spooked and flew away.

I checked my e-mails, powered down the computer, and gathered up my tote bag. In the reception area, Suz was telling Preston all about the curse put on SD's receptionists. Preston was taking notes.

Great. Although I supposed it was better than having her nose pressed to the window.

"Suz, Marisol is going to be stopping by later to pick up the duffel bag in my office."

"Okay," she said.

Preston shoved her pencil behind her ear. "Marisol Valerius? Your best friend."

Uneasiness settled in my chest. "How do you know Marisol?"

She laughed, that tinkling, pleasing sound that didn't match her personality. "Lucy, your Fruit of the Looms would be all in a twist if you had any idea how much I know about your family."

"How long have your parents been married?"

A cowbell jangled as I pulled open the front door of Falmouth's Ye Olde Antique Shoppe. The town center bustled with activity. A jovial Santa had a tent set up on the green, and shoppers were out in full force, bundled against the cold.

"I thought you knew everything about my life?"

"Are you always so literal?" Preston asked.

"Are you always so annoying?"

"Yes," she said, cracking a smile.

The ride down here hadn't been too terrible. Actually (though I'd never admit this aloud), I'd had fun. We'd sung the whole
Mamma Mia!
soundtrack at the top of our lungs. Seemed Preston and I were both Broadway-musical fans.

Genetic? I wondered, stealing a glance at her. Really, I couldn't see any resemblance. Not to me--or my father.

"Thirty years?" Preston guessed.

Fidgety, I unbuttoned my coat. This was dangerous territory.

"Twenty-nine years."

Despite their separation, my parents remained friends, sometimes lovers, and were great, if not a bit odd, parents. Right after Dad moved out, Mum threw herself into a home renovation, converting the carriage house into a music studio, and began offering music lessons. It kept her occupied during those years when she was trying to adjust to living without Dad. And eventually music had grown into her true love.

Trying to coax warmth, I rubbed my hands together as I entered the shop. We'd had to park in a lot down the block near the marina, and the stiff wind blowing off Nantucket Sound sliced the air temperature in half. At least.

My phone rang, a welcome distraction. I answered before the second verse of "Deck the Halls."

"How's it going?" Sean asked.

"Preston and I just got here."

"Preston?"

"Long story."

He laughed.

I lowered my voice. "Not funny."

Preston motioned that she was going to browse around. Two other customers roamed the shop, lifting, inspecting, tsking. I breathed deep. There was nothing like the scent of an antiques shop, that mix of old dust and history.

"Is the test done already?" I asked.

"Not yet. We're still waiting. I should probably go and see Andrew. I think he's still in the emergency room."

It wasn't funny, but I couldn't help the smile. "What's wrong with him?"

"Looks like his appendix."

Ouch. "Poor kid. Who won the pool?"

I heard the reluctance as he said, "You did."

"Are you ready to apologize to Rosalinda?"

"This has to be a coincidence, Lucy."

"Right."

He coughed. "Maybe I should look up her up, just in case."

I smiled. "I knew you'd come around. Oh!"

"What?"

My feet cemented to the floor in front of a small burl-elm and fruitwood dining table, magnificently crafted, early nineteenth century. I skimmed my hand over the dimpled surface of the table, worn by time. An inlay of acorn and oak leaf circled the outside. The finish was original and generous waxing had brought out the wood's natural glow.

"Lucy?"

"It's gorgeous," I breathed.

"What is? Me?"

"That goes without saying."

"I like to hear you say it."

"Are you flirting with me, Mr. Donahue?"

"Who, me? Never. That would be inappropriate in a hospital waiting room, Ms. Valentine. Don't you think?"

"And you're never inappropriate."

He laughed.

"Actually, I was talking about a table. A gorgeous table. Here in the store. It's the most beautiful thing ever."

"I'd disagree."

Suddenly warm and gushy, I smiled like a fool. "I better go."

"We're still on for tonight?"

"You tell me."

"Thoreau and I will be there."

"Grendel will be beside himself." He had a thing for Sean's Yorkie. No one pretended to understand it.

I slipped my phone back into my bag and found Preston standing under a large oil portrait of a weathered seafarer. It was a lovely piece, but dust and dirt had muddied the surface, dulling its beauty. Someone could do a lot with it.

"Sean?" she asked.

"How'd you know?"

"The oopy-goopy look on your face while you were talking."

"It could have been from the table," I said, wandering back to it, drawn like a moth to flame.

An old woman, stick thin, appeared next to me as I crouched down to eye the detail on the table's edge.

"You have an excellent eye. It's an Austrian piece," she said, her voice warbling, as some voices did as they aged.

"It's lovely. Truly lovely." I'd been looking forever for the perfect table for my small dining room. This one appeared to have been custom made for me. I flipped the dangling price tag, and tried not to suck in a deep breath. Three thousand dollars. "But a little beyond my budget."

Creased eyes took me in. Wrinkles, like rings on a tree, lined her face. Short curly white hair hinted that this woman, eighty if a day, had decided to live life
to its fullest. She wore a black track suit, sneakers, and a fifties-era apron around her waist. "How far?"

"Unfortunately, miles. But it is lovely."

Preston snorted. "Budget? You?"

"Guess you don't know me as well as you think."

Confusion swept across her face as the cowbell rang as the other customers headed back into the cold.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" the old woman asked.

It pained me, but I forced myself away from the table. "Buttons."

"You were right about miles," she said with a small crackly laugh. "Over here."

Preston and I followed. The woman had a long stride for being such a petite little thing. "Can I ask a question?"

"Indeed!"

"How do you collect your inventory?" I picked up a jar of buttons, poked around them. Preston's eyes were wide as they watched my fingers sort.

"Estate sales, auctions, consignments, off-the-street sales."

"Would you happen to remember where you would have gotten a jar like this?" I picked up the Mason jar that held Leo Epperson's ring hidden among the many buttons.

She flipped the tag tied round the mouth of the jar. "Estate sale."

"Do you happen to know whose?" Preston asked, jumping in.

I glared.

She ignored it.

"For provenance?" the woman asked.

I shoved the jar of buttons into Preston's hands to occupy her. "Something like that."

She pulled a leather-bound log from behind the counter. Her blinding white eyebrows rose. "That lot came in eighteen months ago. The David Winston estate."

Preston gasped and nearly dropped the buttons. Her amazed gaze met mine for a second before she said, "Sorry, too much caffeine this morning."