Sharp Edges (3 page)

Tabitha spoke up before he could respond. "I thought we could send him along as your assistant."

"My
assistant?
" Eugenia swung around in her chair. "Trust me, Tabitha, no one is going to believe for one moment that Mr. Colfax is an assistant curator or anything else involved in the museum business."

Cyrus glanced down at the palm trees on his chest. "Is it the shirt?"

She refused to acknowledge the question. She kept her pleading gaze fixed on Tabitha. "This is not going to work. Surely you can see that."

Tabitha pursed her lips in thought. "He does have a certain eccentric style, doesn't he? Perhaps we could pass him off as a photographer hired to take pictures of the Daventry glass collection. Photographers are inclined toward eccentricity."

"I have never," Eugenia said between her teeth, "met one who looked this eccentric."

"A photographer cover is too complicated, anyway," Cyrus said. "I'd have to bring along a lot of fancy equipment that I wouldn't have time to figure out. Furthermore, there's always the risk that a real photographer on the island might want to talk shop. In which case I'd probably give myself away in the first five minutes. I'm not real good with gadgets."

"Good grief." Eugenia closed her eyes. "It's hopeless."

"Cheer up," Cyrus said. "I have an idea that I think might work."

"Lord spare me." Eugenia cautiously opened her eyes. "What is it?"

"We can go to the island as a couple."

She gazed at him, uncomprehending. "A couple of what?"

"Of course." Tabitha bubbled over with excitement. "A
couple
. That's a wonderful idea, Mr. Colfax."

He gave her a modest smile. "Thanks. I think it has possibilities."

Eugenia froze. "Wait a second. Are you talking about you and me? Together? As a
couple?
"

"Why not?" He gave her what was no doubt intended to pass for an innocent, earnest expression. "It's the perfect excuse for us to spend some time alone together at Glass House."

"Oh, you won't be entirely alone," Tabitha said helpfully. "There's a sort of caretaker-butler on site. The lawyer said his name is Leonard Hastings. He used to work for Daventry. The estate kept him on to look after things, especially the glass collection."

Eugenia knew the name. The box she had received that contained Nellie Grant's clothes and personal effects had been sent back to Seattle by someone named Leonard Hastings.

She planted her hands on her desk and pushed herself to her feet. "This is beyond ludicrous. It's insane. Anyone with a slice of brain can see that it will never work."

Tabitha tilted her head. "I don't know, Eugenia, I think it's a very clever plan."

"Simple, too," Cyrus said. "I'm a big believer in keeping things as simple as possible."

Eugenia realized that the situation was deteriorating rapidly. "It's simple, all right. Simpleminded."

"Everyone's a critic," Cyrus said.

Eugenia tried hard not to grind her teeth. In spite of the abundant evidence to the contrary, she was very sure that whatever else he was, Cyrus Chandler Colfax was not simple.

Her eyes met his, and for a few seconds everything came to an abrupt halt. A frisson of awareness brought all of her nerve endings to full alert.

She knew this sensation. It was the same feeling she got when she looked into one of the first-century
B.C
. Egyptian glass bowls on display in the Ancient Glass wing of the museum. There was power here. It drew her even as it set off alarms.

In fairness to a civilized society, Colfax should have been required to wear caution flags and a lot of flashing red lights to warn the unwary against approaching too close. The Hawaiian shirt did not do the job.

She was certain that Cyrus's laid-back ways were a facade. She knew that as surely as she knew the difference between fourteenth-century Islamic glass and Chinese glass from the early years of the Qing dynasty. His strong, ruthless hands and enigmatic green eyes told the real truth. Even as she tried to assess him, he was sizing her up with a hunter's focused interest and intelligence.

She was sure that he did not intend for her to learn anything more about him than he wanted her to know.

Two could play at that game, she thought.

Which meant they had a standoff.

She made one last stab at warding off the inevitable. "Tabitha, you can't possibly expect me to work under these conditions."

"Nonsense." Tabitha's shrewd eyes burned with the fires of excitement. "Where's your sense of adventure? Why, if I didn't have so many commitments here in Seattle during the next few weeks, I'd be tempted to go in your place."

Not a chance, Eugenia vowed silently. She had no intention of allowing anyone, not even Tabitha Leabrook, to go to Frog Cove Island in her stead. But she needed to be free to pursue her own plans, and that meant she had to be in charge of the situation. From what little she had seen, Colfax did not appear to be the easily managed type.

She picked up the plump, 1930s-era fountain pen she used to sign official correspondence and lounged back in her chair. "What happens if I simply refuse to cooperate in this fiasco?"

"Easy." Cyrus shoved his hands into his pockets and smiled benignly. "I tell the Daventry estate folks that you won't assist the investigation."

She waited for the other shoe to drop. When Cyrus did not say anything else, she rolled the fat pen between her palms.

"That's it?" she asked.

"Well, not quite," Cyrus said slowly. "After I tell the estate executors that the Leabrook was uncooperative, they will probably instruct their lawyers to tie up the assets of the Daventry estate as long as possible."

Eugenia closed her eyes.

"I figure that a good legal team could probably arrange to keep the Daventry glass collection out of the hands of the Leabrook for four or five years," Cyrus continued. "Maybe longer."

A cold chill went through Eugenia. She opened her eyes and sat very still.

Tabitha's mouth dropped open in shock. "My God, we can't risk that. We must have that glass. It's an incredible collection."

Eugenia watched Cyrus closely. "He's bluffing, Tabitha."

Cyrus raised his brows.

He was not bluffing, Eugenia thought. If she did not cooperate, he would convince the executors to tie up the estate. The Leabrook could wind up spending a fortune fighting for the bequest in court.

"That's blackmail," she said.

"Eugenia, really, that's going much too far," Tabitha chided. "Mr. Colfax is not issuing a threat. He's merely telling us what the executors' reaction will be if he isn't allowed to conduct his investigation."

"Like heck he is. He's threatening us, Tabitha."

Tabitha made a tut-tutting sound. "You're overreacting, my dear. And it's all moot in any case. I've already agreed to assist him, and not just because it will please the Daventry estate."

"I know, I know," Eugenia said wearily. "You're worried about me."

"I'm being cautious." Tabitha's expression turned serious. "If there is a possibility that Adam Daventry was murdered, the motive might very well have had something to do with his art collection. I do not want you staying alone with all that valuable glass and only that caretaker person for protection."

Eugenia knew when she was beaten. "All right, Tabitha, if you insist, I'll go along with this idiotic scheme."

Tabitha beamed. "Thank you, my dear. It will be a tremendous load off my mind to know that you'll have Mr. Colfax with you at Glass House."

"There is one small stipulation," Eugenia added gently.

Cyrus's gaze sharpened fractionally. "What's that?"

"I get to choose the cover story we use," Eugenia said briskly. "Given the extremely limited range of options, I'll have to settle for the one in which you pose as my assistant."

There was a beat of silence.

"Don't think that one will work real well," Cyrus said.

"Too bad." She glared at him. "It's the only one I'm prepared to consider."

Cyrus nodded. "Mind if I ask why you chose that one instead of the one in which we pose as a couple on vacation?"

She eyed his shirt. "I would have thought it was obvious. It's going to be difficult enough to pass you off as my assistant. But I can absolutely guarantee that never in a million years would it be possible to convince anyone that we were a couple."

"I get it," Cyrus said. "You're trying to tell me that I'm not your type."

She thought about the unsubtle threat he had issued a moment ago. "No," she said. "You're definitely not my type. And there's one more thing I want clear here. I don't know much about private investigators, but I've noticed that on TV they always carry guns."

"I'm a real-life investigator, Ms. Swift, not a TV private eye."

"I trust that means you don't actually carry a gun around with you. I absolutely refuse to share a house with a strange man who carries a gun. I detest guns."

"So do I." Cyrus moved his left shoulder slightly. "I once had a nasty experience with one."

At six-thirty that evening, Eugenia poured herself a glass of chilled sauvignon blanc and went to stand at her living room window. Her condominium was located midway up in a high-rise building in the heart of the city. She had paid extra for the view of Elliott Bay, but she considered the money well spent. Something about vast expanses of water was soothing to her soul.

She had spent the last four months engaged in a major remodeling project, which was finally complete. She had ordered the architect to tear down every wall except those needed for privacy in the bath and bedroom. The background color was white, a perfect foil for her growing collection of West Coast studio glass art. The contemporary glass sculptures glowed on carefully lit pedestals arranged around the room.

An arched entry divided the hall from the white-carpeted living room. A low, white sofa and white leather chairs together with some glass tables comprised the furnishings.

The only color in the room besides the brilliantly hued glass sculptures was around the gas fireplace.

Eugenia studied the hand-painted amber and green tiles that formed the fireplace surround. Nellie Grant had designed them for her.

The last time she had seen Nellie was here in this very room. The remodeling had been in its final stages. The wall beside the fireplace had still been open and tiles had been stacked on the floor, when Nellie appeared at the front door. That had been the morning after Adam Daventry had fallen to his death.

Rather than wait for the private ferry that served Frog Cove Island, Nellie had used Daventry's launch to get to the mainland. She had rented a car and driven an hour and a half into Seattle.

She had definitely not been grieving.

You were right, Eugenia. He was a bastard. I should have listened to you. I'm not sorry he's dead. I know that sounds awful, but it's the truth. I have to return to the island this afternoon to get the rest of my stuff, but after that I never want to see the place again.

Eugenia glanced at the painting above the recently completed fireplace. It was one of Nellie's works, the first in a series called
Glass
, she had explained. It depicted a late-nineteenth-century French vase from the Daventry collection. Nellie had captured the rich, vibrant colors and the enthralling effects of light shining through the glass.

Daventry said that since he had no children for me to paint, he wanted me to do some portraits of his favorite glass pieces. I did four of them before he died. Now that he's gone, I figure they belong to me. I want you to have this one, Eugenia. Sort of a housewarming gift. You've been terrific about encouraging my work.

Nellie had been eager to get her career as an artist under way. Eugenia suspected that was one of the reasons she had fallen victim to Daventry's charm. He had convinced her that he could introduce her to the right people and get her work hung in the most prestigious galleries.

Eugenia walked, slipper-shod, across the new white rug. She paused beside a pedestal and gazed into the swirling green depths of a whimsical glass sculpture that had been created by a young artist in Anacortes.

Watching the play of light on beautiful glass always helped her to clarify her thoughts.

After a moment she reached for the phone on the table beside the sofa. She flipped open a card file and found the home number of her friend at Mills & Mills, the firm that handled the Leabrook's security.

The same intuition that she relied on so heavily when it came to art was sending small warning signals concerning Cyrus Chandler Colfax. It told her that he was not what he seemed.

"Sally? Eugenia. I need a favor from you."

"It's nearly seven." Sally Warren sounded startled. "Are you still at the museum?"

"No, I'm home." Eugenia sank down onto the arm of the sofa. "I'm going out of town the day after tomorrow. I need some information."

"Finally going to take a vacation, huh? About time. I'll bet you can't even remember the last one you took."

Eugenia frowned. "Of course I do. I went to England two years ago."

"And spent all of your time in the glass collections at the Ashmolean and the British Museum. But we'll let that pass. What do you need?"

"Mills & Mills has been in the security business for a long time, right?"

"Thirty years," Sally agreed.

"You must know all of the other major security firms on the West Coast."

"Probably. Why?"

"I met one of your competitors today. Cyrus Chandler Colfax. Ever heard of him?"

There was a short, startled silence on the other end of the line.

"Colfax?" Sally sounded distinctly cautious.

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"I've never met him, but I've heard about him. I wouldn't call him a competitor. He doesn't go after the same business. Mills & Mills specializes in museum security. Colfax usually does corporate and private stuff. Very exclusive. Very expensive."

Eugenia tightened her grip on the phone. "What can you tell me about him?"