The Secret Brokers (7 page)

She held up the frozen dinner tray in her hand. “Do I look like a woman who spends a lot of time in the kitchen?” She turned and quickly left the room.

Dallas shook his head and began searching through the cabinets by the stove for a mixing bowl. When he found a glass one, he had to rinse the dust from it before he could use it for cooking. As he started to crack the eggs into the bowl one by one, he went over his conversation with Gwen. Everything she said seemed like such a contradiction to what he found in the house. How could she not know where she kept her bowls when she admitted she liked to cook, but then lived on frozen dinners?

Dallas tried to make sense of the woman he was sent to protect. He wasn’t sure how much of what Gwen
had
told him was fact, or something she
’d
made up to distract him. He
’d
had other targets in the past try and baffle him with false impressions of their nature to keep him from getting too close or learning too much. But with this woman everything felt different. What she told him did not match what he found in the house, and that frustrated him. And Dallas hated being frustrated by anyone.

***

After eating his chicken and cheese omelet at the island in the kitchen, Dallas stepped into the living room to see Gwen seated at her desk in the study. She was intently reading something on her computer screen as he walked over to the beige couch in front of the massive stone hearth. He observed the logs
on
the hearth
,
and was debating the benefits of starting a fire when
he
spotted a selection of books stacked at the edge of the coffee table in front of him. He began going through the pile of books, and was about halfway into the collection when he spotted the familiar green cover of
Painting Jenny
.

Dallas’s fists clenched as he looked down at Nicci Beauvoir’s tale of her time with the artist David Alexander. He placed the book to the side, and then his heart heaved when he saw the next book sitting in the stack.
Unfinished Business
by Nicci Beauvoir was her second novel about the search for David Alexander’s killer in post-Katrina New Orleans. Nicci had based the main character, August Daniels, on Dallas. He picked the book up in his hands and sat back on the couch, staring at the pale blue cover and thinking of the hours he had watched Nicci writing the novel. He thought of Nicci’s auburn hair against the pillow next to him, the smell of her pale skin, and the feel of her in his arms.

“Good book?” Gwen asked beside him, rousing him from his recollections.

Dallas turned to her, trying to sequester his thoughts safely away from her prying eyes. He looked back to the copy of
Unfinished Business
in his hands.

“I, ah, read it a while ago,” he replied as he set the book down on the coffee table.

Gwen came around the side of the couch and leaned over the coffee table, perusing the cover of the book. “Hard to think you would be interested in something like that. Figured you to be more of a crime and murder reader, not romantic suspense.”

Dallas sat back on the couch. “I knew the author,” he softly said.

Gwen gave him a brief going over with her eyes. “Nicci Beauvoir? I heard she was seeing an art dealer I knew and was somehow involved in his death.”

Dallas nodded. “She and Greg Caston had some kind of lover’s spat and she shot him. Then she turned the gun on herself.”

“From what I remember of Nicci, she was never the kind to kill herself. She was a very practical and intelligent young woman. I thought the whole murder-suicide scenario sounded just a bit contrived.”

Dallas stared at Gwen in astonishment. “You knew Nicci Beauvoir?”

“When I was married to Doug, I met Nicci a few times. Like I told you before, I know Lance and I had met his brother, Bill, when he and Nicci attended a few of the social functions in town.” She paused and studied Dallas. “And how did you know Nicci?”

He waved his hand to the books on the coffee table. “We met in New York when she was promoting her first book,
Painting Jenny.
”

“I never pegged you for a romantic, Dallas.” She sat down next to him on the beige couch. “From the look on your face, I would say you and Nicci were pretty close.”

Dallas stood from the couch and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “There was nothing between Nicci and me. We met, I helped her out of a tight spot, and then she went on with her life.” He moved away from the couch and headed for the stairs.

“From the way I heard it, you two shacked up together in Connecticut after she shot that shrink, Michael Fagles.”

Dallas paused and turned back to her. “How did you know that?”

“New Orleans is a real small town, Dallas.”

“Like I said, there was nothing between us.”

“You know the problem with secrets, Dallas?”

Dallas cast his eyes to the floor, scowling. “No, but I guess you’re going to tell me.”

“Secrets have a price. You keep something bottled up inside of you long enough and eventually it takes its toll. I would say you’re a man who keeps a lot locked away inside of you.” She smiled as she got up from the couch. “And by the looks of it, I’d say you are paying a hell of a price.”

“And what price are you paying, Gwen? From what I hear, you have a hell of a lot locked away inside of you. Your mother’s death, your husband’s sexuality…should I go on?”

She moved toward him. “Good boy,” she said, clapping her hands. “You did your homework on me. Sorry to disappoint you, Dallas, but I’m not irrevocably damaged by my mother’s death. She was a sick woman who had enough of the world and ended her life. Whatever secrets were there, she took with her.”

Dallas folded his arms over his chest. “I find it hard to believe that you weren’t scarred by witnessing such an act. You were six when she shot herself. I don’t care how self-assured you may pretend to be.” He leaned in closer to her. “Somewhere deep inside of you there has got to be a lot of pain associated with such a traumatic memory.”

“And what are you going to do, Dallas? Heal me, or try to use my past as an opening to worm your way into my trust?”

“But you don’t want to trust me, do you, Gwen? You don’t want to trust anybody. You don’t want to let anybody in.”

“And how are you any different from me? I’d say you don’t trust many people either.”

“Not trusting people is one way to stay alive,” he curtly replied.

“Is that your professional or personal opinion, because I’m still not convinced that you’re just a bodyguard, Dallas. I get the impression that you have an ulterior motive for being here.”

Dallas grinned at her. “And what about your ex-husband, Doug? What were your ulterior motives for marrying a man you knew could never be a real husband to you?”

“Oh, you’re good. Where did you learn that little interrogative technique? Quantico?” She moved closer to him. “Don’t be so quick to judge people you haven’t taken the time to get to know, Dallas.”

“Gwen, stop trying to bait me. It won’t work.” He glanced around the living room. “So tell me, are the missing pictures on the walls your way of keeping me from learning more about you, or are you trying to hide something from me?”

She took a moment before she responded. “Maybe that is another secret you can try to worm out of me.”

He shook his head. “I can see this is getting us nowhere.” Dallas turned his attention to the front door. “I’ve checked the doors and windows downstairs, so don’t go outside unless you take me with you. I’m going to check the rooms upstairs, and then I suggest we call it a night.”

“I turn in early and I’m up before sunrise,” she informed him.

“Fine.” He walked toward the stairs. “I’ll come back down when I’m done with my sweep and turn out the lights.”

“I usually have a night cap before turning in,” Gwen admitted behind him. “I’ve got a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka under the sink. Care to join me?”

Dallas turned to her. “Really? I pegged you for a Johnny Walker Red drinker.”

“I am, but I was told to buy you a bottle of vodka. Just wanted to let you know it’s there if you need it.”

“Lance tell you anything else about me?”

Gwen smiled as she started up the stairs. “Oh, I learned plenty, and not just from Lance.” She eased passed him. “Good night, Dallas. I hope you and Lawrence will be comfortable together.” As she started back up the steps, she paused, and turned back to him. “Oh, and one more thing. Lawrence snores,” she added with a delighted grin.

***

Dallas found out that Lawrence did actually snore in his sleep, sounding more human than feline. After ten minutes of listening to the cat gurgle, snort, and sigh next to him in the bed, Dallas took a pillow, blanket, and his gun downstairs to the couch. Dressed in his blue pajama bottoms, he wrapped the cotton blanket around his shoulders to stave off the chill in the house as he made his way to the stairs. When he passed Gwen’s bedroom, he checked her door to find she had locked it securely behind her.

After he had settled on the couch, Dallas found he could not sleep. The strange day with the woman was still eating at him. Looking for a diversion, he scanned the books on the coffee table until he found the copy of
Unfinished Business.
As pale moonlight filled the living room, Dallas stared at the back cover photograph of Nicci until he felt that uncomfortable pain in his chest return. He angrily tossed the book aside and got up from the couch. The restlessness inside of him was too much to bear. He needed something to take the edge off. Then Dallas remembered the bottle of vodka Gwen had told him was waiting underneath the sink in the kitchen. Determined to get a handle on his emotions, Dallas headed for the kitchen sink.

Two straight shots of vodka later, he felt his nerves begin to settle down. As he put the bottle back beneath the sink, a thought occurred to him. One by one he began going through the cabinets. She had a fancy eggbeater, a pasta press machine, some intricate molds for cakes, cookie cutters, several cookie sheets, and a wide array of other culinary devises shoved into drawers or placed on shelves. For someone who did not claim to cook, Gwen Marsh sure had a lot of paraphernalia around for baking and cooking.

He went back to the couch, feeling more confused than he had before. He glanced over at Gwen’s study and decided he had better have a look around. When he flipped on the lights in the room, he saw row upon row of equine veterinary books, as well as books on horse behavior, neatly stacked on the bookshelves. Thrown into the mix were several cookbooks and a few books on the care of orphaned and injured wildlife. On the desk, Dallas found invoices for feed and hay, and one veterinary bill from a Bill Spindel for worming several of the horses. The rest of the paperwork seemed in line with running a small horse farm, and nothing out of the ordinary struck his attention.

He sat back in the chair next to her desk and peered out the window in front of him. In the distance, slivers of silver moonlight illuminated the barn and storage shed. Below the window, Dallas spotted Harley stretched out on the grass and looking dead to the world.

“Great guard dog,” Dallas muttered.

Within seconds, Harley jumped to attention. Dallas immediately caught sight of what had spooked the dog. By the gate entrance a car had just pulled up. The car had turned off its headlights, but the interior lights still streamed out into the darkness. Harley stood and trotted across the property to the gate. Dallas jumped up and went over to the couch to get his gun.

Once outside on the porch, Dallas spied the car parked along the road just past the front gate. Harley was there, standing outside of the passenger side door and wagging his tail. Dallas took the safety off his gun, quickly went down the steps, and crept along the brush covering the side of the house until he came to the clearing before the gate. He stopped just as two men got out of the car. One of the men walked over to Harley, carrying something in his hand. Dallas quickly ran from the cover of the brush to the edge of the property. As he drew near, he could see the men were dressed in suits. When Dallas rounded a small group of trees, he came around behind the two men, his gun out in front of him.

“What are you doing here?” Dallas called out.

The men spun around to face him. The chicken wing in the hand of the man closest to Harley dropped to the ground. Harley snatched up the wing in his mouth and trotted off to the side.

“And who are you?” the man standing beside the car demanded as he reached his hand inside of his jacket.

Dallas raised his gun. “I’m the one asking the questions right now,” Dallas stated in a calm voice. “Why are you here?”

The man by the car raised his hands in the air. “Take it easy, buddy. We’re federal agents with the FBI assigned to protect Ms. Marsh.”

Dallas lowered his weapon. “So you’re the feds.”

“I’m Taylor,” the man by the car said, pointing to his chest. “And that’s my partner, Agent Hickman.” He waved to the man next to Harley. “So who exactly are you?” he probed.

“Dallas August. Friend of the family.”

Taylor looked to the house. “You the owner of that red Mercedes parked out in front of Gwen’s place?”