Ten Beach Road (15 page)

For the briefest of moments she allowed herself to imagine just heading down to the beach “as is,” but Nicole, who had relied every bit as strenuously on her God-given assets as Malcolm had, carried her makeup bag to the hall bath, also an ode to 1920s tile, and spent the next fifteen minutes applying her “armor.”

Treading gently so as not to wake the others, Nicole left through the side kitchen door and did her stretching on the pool deck, where she could enjoy the view and the early morning sun on her face and skin.

She took the path from the house, bypassing the jetty, where a lone fisherman baited his hook. The pelican and seabird audience had already claimed their spots; perhaps these were the early birds that hoped to catch the worm? Once on the beach she began a slow jog, sticking to the hard-packed sand just beyond the tide line. Her shoes crunched rhythmically on the nights’ deposit of broken shell; the warm breeze teased her hair and caressed her cheeks.

Just beyond the Paradise Grille the beach widened. A bit later the larger Gulf-front homes began. An old man on a bench up near a clump of sea oats watched her progress, his tobacco-colored skin attesting to years probably spent on that very bench.

Behind her the crunch of shell announced the presence of another runner and Nicole checked her speed slightly to let them pass. Instead the bulky shadow of the other runner melded with and then blotted out her own. Nicole glanced to her right and saw that it was Agent Giraldi, who’d matched his pace to hers so that they were, for all intents and purposes, running together.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, turning her gaze back to the beach in front of her as they ran.

“Just out for a little run,” he said beside her. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

Nicole kept her tone nonchalant. “It was.”

She could feel him smile, but he didn’t comment. Nor did he leave.

She sneaked a peek out of the corner of her eye to take a second look at the bare chest that triangled down to the trim waist and well-defined abs. A plain white T-shirt, which he had taken off and stuck in the waistband of his navy running shorts, bounced against one muscled thigh as he ran. Apparently the FBI still had certain physical requirements. His beak of a nose looked sunburned and his cheekbones carried early morning stubble. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses that did not look like government issue.

“So what are you doing in Florida, Agent Giraldi?”

“Same thing I was doing in New York, Ms. Grant,” he replied conversationally.

At the Don CeSar, the pool boys were setting up chairs and chaises while others carried cushions down to the wooden chaises lined up on the beach. A volleyball net bobbed slightly in the breeze. The thatched hut advertising parasail rides and Jet Ski rentals appeared open for business. Maybe she’d come down here later and have a drink by the pool and pretend she was in civilization.

“Pass-a-Grille’s not exactly your usual kind of stomping grounds,” Agent Giraldi observed as he ran easily beside her.

A stitch began to pull at her side and she was feeling just the tiniest bit winded, but the agent hadn’t sounded at all out of breath, so Nicole was careful not to let him see it. Without comment, she turned and began to run back the way she’d come. Agent Giraldi stuck by her side, not missing a step.

“I’m not here to stomp,” she replied though she’d intended to remain silent in hopes that he’d simply jog off and leave her alone. “And I don’t really appreciate being followed.”

They ran in silence for a few minutes, but Nicole was too aware of Giraldi to enjoy her surroundings.

“Your brother was photographed leaving a bank in the Cayman Islands last week,” he said. “Yesterday we caught a glimpse of him on a yacht registered to a dummy corporation in Panama.”

She managed not to respond, but it wasn’t easy. The stitch in her side was getting bigger; it was getting harder to keep her breathing silent.

“Your brother is living the high life, Ms. Grant. While you’re sleeping on a mattress in an empty house, which you are currently scrubbing like a maid.”

She knew he was just trying to goad her into action, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. She didn’t need anyone else rubbing her nose in her unfortunate situation—especially not this bare-chested baboon. “Where I sleep is my own business,” she bit out. “And I hope to hell the government’s best shot at finding Malcolm isn’t pinned on peering in his sister’s window. What were you before you joined the agency, Giraldi? A Peeping Tom?”

His features hardened slightly, which was pretty amazing since they’d already appeared carved from stone. But his voice gave nothing away. “We’re close to nailing down his location,” Giraldi said. “And once we do we’re going to want you to make contact with him.”

Nicole didn’t respond because there was nothing to say. And because she now needed to breathe through her mouth as well as her nose.

“We know you pretty much raised him, that you put him through college after your mother died, and that you helped fund his first start-up. Frankly, I’m having a hard time believing that he stole everything you have and that you couldn’t reach him if you really wanted to.”

That made two of them.

“In fact, the more I learn the more I have to wonder if this”—he gestured as he ran, presumably encompassing her, the house, the beach—“isn’t some elaborate ruse. That you’re just pretending poverty and an inability to reach him until we give up looking for him and you two can meet up and share the loot.”

Nicole kept her gaze straight ahead and tried to breathe through her nose. “I have sold most of my favorite clothes right off my back, Agent Giraldi—and they didn’t come from Target. That is not something I would do if it weren’t completely necessary.” Nicole refused to look at him. “You clearly have a very rich fantasy life,” she said, careful not to huff or puff though her lungs couldn’t seem to get all the air they wanted. “Perhaps you should consider writing novels.”

He still didn’t sound the least bit winded, and she suspected if she actually looked at him, he wouldn’t have broken a sweat, either. She could feel the sheen of perspiration forming on her forehead and beneath the allegedly moisture-wicking spandex.

“You’re the one living in fantasyland if you think we’re ever going to stop watching long enough to let you make contact with him without us knowing.”

“Well, I hope you’ve got the patience of Job and a good supply of sunscreen, Agent Giraldi,” she replied sweetly, “because I have no way of contacting him and I’m not in on any scheme.”

They passed the Paradise Grille, which was now teeming with customers who sat at the picnic tables sipping coffee and protecting their breakfasts from the seagulls. A few more yards and the jetty would be in sight.

Several women followed the bare-chested agent with their eyes. Her own chest felt like it was going to explode. Had she protected her little brother too much? Had she allowed him to grow up without suffering enough consequences? Had she been so intent on creating a better life for herself and convincing Malcolm he could do the same that she’d failed to teach him right from wrong?

“Oh, I’m a patient man, Ms. Grant,” Giraldi said when they finally reached the jetty and she slowed to a walk, though she did not fall to her knees or even bend at the waist and gasp for breath as she would have liked to. “Patience is just part of my job description.”

He flashed a toothpaste-ad smile. “If you have a change of heart or manage to locate your conscience, give me a wave. I’ll be the one lolling around on the beach while you’re working your ass off.”

One more smile and he was heading to the boardwalk. The sun that had sweat trickling down between her breasts and soaking her back just made his broad shoulders look a little bit more bronzed.

 

 

Avery lay in bed, make that on her mattress, half dozing long after Nicole left. She’d been up on and off all night listening to the rustlings in the attic and the unmistakable scurrying sounds that were made by little rodent feet. She heard Madeline get up and go into the bathroom across the hall and then the creak of the back stair that led to the kitchen.

The rolled-up bathing suit smell had not yet been completely vanquished, but a steady stream of fresh air and large quantities of the cleaning products Nicole had deemed “perfume-like” had rendered it somewhat less gut-wrenching. Soon the smell of coffee stole up the stairs and tickled her nose, displacing a few more of the less pleasant aromas.

Despite the fact that she was lying on the floor and pretty much broke, the house itself thrilled her. Situated at the southeast corner of the house, across the hall from the master and overlooking the pass and the bay, Avery’s room was spacious, with beautifully textured walls that had once been a ripe shade of peach. The wrought-iron curtain rods were faded and peeling, but they looked to be Art Deco with an arrow at one end and circles of flaking gold leaf banding the other. With a final stretch and yawn, Avery got up, then walked through the dressing area with its wall of listing closet doors. Though dull and scratched, a fabulous old brass heat register sat beneath an oversized window through which shards of sunlight penetrated pockets of grime.

Her bathroom had a honeycombed black-and-white-tile floor with a border laid in a cube-like stair-stepping pattern. The walls were covered in white tiles with black and pink accents. The old tiles were inconsistent, not perfectly matched like they would have been if they’d been manufactured today. The glass niches and the beautifully angled trim took her back to the hours spent in antique stores as a child following in her mother’s perfumed wake. There Deirdre Morgan would negotiate with the shop owners on her clients’ or her own behalf. And while her items were written up or wrapped, she would walk Avery through the shop, pointing things out, explaining each piece’s distinguishing features. “This is Art Nouveau,” she might say, running a hand down a leg or over a curve of inlaid wood. “And this is Queen Anne. Or Mission style. Or . . .”

As Avery got older, her mother would simply point to a piece or a detail and wait for Avery to classify it properly. Avery had learned to recognize a huge range of styles and periods in an effort to please her mother, but her own interest had always been piqued by the clean lines and rounded shapes of Art Deco. Even now Avery found it difficult to pass a piece of furniture or a lamp or a figurine of this period without being drawn to it or wanting to own it. Her mother had fled; Avery’s love of all things Deco had not.

After pulling on an old pair of shorts and an even older
Hammer and Nail
T-shirt, Avery washed her face and brushed her teeth in the hall bath, then followed her nose to the kitchen. There she helped herself to a cup of coffee, sugared and creamed it, then pulled a granola bar out of the huge box of them they’d purchased at Sam’s.

“Morning,” Avery said as she plopped down in a kitchen chair next to Madeline, who was busy clipping coupons and articles from the Sunday paper. She peered at them more closely; one was a book review for a new release titled
Life After Layoff
. Beside it lay an article with the headline, “You Are
Not
Your Job.” A stamped envelope addressed to Steve Singer sat near Madeline’s elbow.

“Good morning,” Madeline said, folding the articles and sliding them out of sight. Methodically, she began to file the coupons in an alphabetical file folder. “How’d you sleep?”

“Okay.” Avery finished off the granola bar in a few quick bites and went back for another cup of coffee. “But I haven’t slept that close to the floor since my college drinking days. It’s not exactly conducive to deep sleeping.”

“No, it sure isn’t,” Madeline agreed. “I woke up today feeling like a hundred and ten, which is more than twice as bad as I’m supposed to feel.”

“I hope I look as good as you when I hit fifty,” Avery said, meaning it. Madeline Singer didn’t have Nicole’s flashy good looks or killer vintage wardrobe, but she was attractive in a well-groomed, I-care-about-but-am-not-obsessed-about-myself way. As far as Avery was concerned, she looked and acted like a mother was supposed to.

“Thanks. But I have to confess I’m kind of glad the mirrors in this house are so cloudy. Fifty-two can be hard to look at straight on.” She smiled. “I would, however, like to see more clearly through the windows on the back of the house. Do we have time today to wash them?”

“Yep,” Avery said. “These first few weeks are all about getting rid of as many layers of dirt as possible. Then we should be able to move on to stripping and refinishing and re-glazing and . . . well, there’s not much in this house that doesn’t need something.” She sighed and looked around her. “And then there are the rooms that need practically everything.”

“What are we going to do about this kitchen?” Madeline brought the coffeepot over and topped off Avery’s cup.

“I don’t know,” Avery said as they contemplated the room together. “I like what they did with the space; this area was probably originally a butler’s pantry and the way they integrated these older cabinets into the plan is cool.” She pointed toward the run of painted wood glass-fronted cabinetry on the opposite wall. “But it needs to be updated with top-of-the-line appliances and countertops and all.”

Footsteps sounded out on the loggia.

“The Realtor said Dyer got a great buy because so much work had to be done, but he must have been too busy stealing to do the renovation.”

They looked up to see Nicole in the kitchen doorway. She wore what had to be designer running clothes and shoes and though those clothes were wet from exertion and her skin glowed with perspiration, her makeup was still intact. She had an odd, almost wary, look on her face.

“What did I miss?” she asked, pulling a bottled water out of the fridge and raising it to her lips.

“Just talking about the kitchen,” Avery said, watching her. “And working up the energy to start washing windows.”