To Catch a Leaf (20 page)

“The music room,” Marco said.

“This is the room I saw Virginia come out of when I was talking to Juanita.” I pointed to a pair of French doors. “See? She could have left the sitting room and come back inside through those doors.”

Marco walked over to the doors and tried one of the handles. The door opened without a sound. “Very possible,” he said, returning to my side. “Now we need to know whether any of this is relevant to our investigation. I'm still waiting for your hunch.”

“My hunch is that Juanita is having an affair with the art thief. Think about Virginia's words, Marco. What does, ‘Weren't you being discreet' mean to you?”

“That she was rash, reckless, careless . . . let's see, blundering—”

“Okay, stop showing off your vocabulary. You're turning me on. You'll have to experience Juanita for yourself to understand.”

“Are you sure that'll work? After all that intense grilling Juanita may be a shell of her former self.”

“Make fun, Salvare. But just to remind you, I won our bet, so don't push your luck.”

“I'll push whatever you want me to push,” he said, putting his arms around me, stirring up all kinds of delicious sensations. There was nowhere in the world I'd rather be than in Marco's arms.

“Have I ever told you what an adorable investigator you make?” Marco murmured in my ear.

“Yeah, well, tell that to Virginia.”

“Here's a better idea. Tell me how Juanita and her lover could be involved in the art theft and get away with it if Virginia knows about them.”

“I haven't worked that part out yet, Marco, and with your arms around me, I probably won't. So here's an even better idea. Kiss me. Hard. Right here, right now.”

He pulled me closer, his clean scent enveloping me in desire. “Are you calling this kiss your winnings?”

“It's only the beginning, Salvare.”

With Marco's lips on mine, I totally forgot where we were. His taste and touch were so familiar, yet, at the same time, still had the power to send thrills throughout my body. If anything, I was more in love with him now than ever before.

We were on the verge of looking for a handy broom closet when I heard the telltale tap of high heels on marble and glanced around to see the rash, reckless, blundering Juanita stepping swiftly in our direction. Her pink fingernails were tapping the keypad of her cell phone as she texted, so she hadn't noticed us yet.

“Here comes your opportunity,” I whispered to Marco.

Juanita's quickstep turned to a sashay when she glanced up and spotted Marco standing a mere few feet away. I had become invisible apparently because she seemed not to see me as she sidled up to my groom-to-be and said in a low purr, “Helloooo. Are you the private eye?”

“Marco Salvare,” he said.

She held out a hand that glittered with diamonds. “I'm
H
w
anEEtaaaa
.” She let it roll off her tongue, her lips curving into a seductive smile.

He took her hand. “Nice to meet you. This is my fiancée, Abby Knight.”

“We have already met,” she said, refusing to glance my way. “Is there anything I can do for you, Marco?” She trilled the
r
in his name as she batted thick black eyelashes at him.

There was something Juanita could do for
me
—back off. Now.

Never one to pass up an opportunity to question a suspect, Marco said, “Actually, there is. What's the easiest way to get outside? I want to see the grounds.”

She tucked her arm in his and, slanting her eyes, said, “The easiest way is to come with me.”

“Let's go, then. Abby, you might find Sergeant Reilly still in the basement. Be good while I'm gone.”

“Ditto.”

Be good.
Huh. Too broad to be effective.

I watched them head across the music room toward the French doors, then considered my options. I could shadow Marco and
H
w
anEEtaaaa
, or go to the car and call the flower shop to see how things were going. Or I could take Marco's hint to do more snooping. Okay, no to the first option—no matter how tempting. Marco was a person to be trusted even if Juanita wasn't. No to the second, too. If there was trouble, I would have gotten a call.

That left option three, so I turned and went toward the back of the house, where the sound of voices led me to the kitchen. There I found Mrs. Dunbar chopping tomatoes at the kitchen counter, while Reilly and his partner sat at the table dunking cookies in dainty teacups filled with a dark brew of either coffee or tea, obviously having finished scoping out the crime scene. Drat.

Spotting me, Reilly said, “There you are. Marco thought you got lost.” He glanced at his partner and rolled his eyes. “Surprise, surprise.”

“Shows you how wrong Marco can be,” I said, strolling over to the table. “He thought you were in the basement. Or wait. Maybe he said the doghouse.”

At his partner's snickers, Reilly said with a smug smile, “I
was
in the basement.”

“And I wasn't lost.” Well, this time anyway.

“Mrs. Connie didn't like the word
basement
,” Mrs. Dunbar said, bringing a plate of fudgy brownies to the table. “She said it was the lower level.”

“Thank you, Mrs. D.,” Reilly said with a smile, reaching for a dark chocolate square. How could he be on a nickname basis with her already?

“So, Sarge,” I said, “are you going back down to the lower level?”

“Nope.” He licked chocolate off his fingertips. Classy.

“May I go down for a quick look around?” I asked him, taking a cookie off the plate. “I promise I'll be careful.”

“Nope. Crime scene unit isn't finished.”

“Will that be all you need, Sergeant?” Mrs. Dunbar asked. “I should see to the laundry.”

“Before you go,” I said to her, then realized my mouth was filled with the most heavenly oatmeal-raisin cookie I'd ever tasted. “Oh, wow, that's good!” I mumbled.

Those cookies could go toe-to-toe with Grace's oatmeal-raisin scones any day, not that I would tell Grace that.

“Thank you,” she said, giving me a nervous smile. She didn't appear to be used to smiling.

“What I started to say was, would you mind answering a few more questions?”

Both Reilly and his junior partner stopped chewing. “Abby, what are you doing?” Reilly asked.

“Okay, Reilly, did you miss the part where I asked if she minded answering questions?”

He put down his brownie. “Are you getting smart with me?”

Pressing my fist playfully against his shoulder, I said, “Come on, Sarge, you know me better than that. How many cases have we worked on together?”

“Then show some respect, all right?”

“Sure. Sorry.” Wow. Someone was touchy today. Reilly used to enjoy our back-and-forth bantering. It was part of our special relationship.

“Mrs. Dunbar, do you recall hearing any unusual activity or noises late at night or early in the morning?” I asked.

“I've already asked that,” Reilly said.

“Great,” I said. “We can share notes.”

Reilly gave me a scowl, which I interpreted to mean,
Continue.

“Thank you,” I said. “Mrs. Dunbar?”

“As I told the officers here, I've always been one to hear creaks and bumps in the night.”

“So, no unusual noises in the last month or so?”

As though she suddenly noticed a smudge on the tabletop, she lifted the hem of her apron and started to polish the surface. “That's right.”

Reilly and his partner grinned at each other and went back to eating. But I wasn't satisfied with her answer. It sounded like one of those avoidance maneuvers Marco had trained me to watch for. Maybe I needed to refine my question.

“Just to clarify,” I said, “you stated that you're used to hearing creaks and bumps. What about beeps?”

She stopped polishing for a split second. “Beeps?”

“Like the beeps of an alarm system being shut off,” I said.

“Are you asking if I've
ever
heard beeps?” she asked.

“Let's narrow it down to the past week,” I said.

She polished the same spot over and over, as though not aware of what she was doing. Finally, she said, “I really shouldn't tell tales out of school.”

Oh, great. She liked to bake cookies and brownies and sprinkle her conversation with old sayings. I was dealing with the American version of Grace. “What does that mean exactly? You don't like to gossip?”

“That's right,” she said. “Idle gossip is the devil's workshop.”

I took it back. Grace would never mangle a quote. I followed Mrs. Dunbar to the sink. “I understand your dilemma, Mrs. D., but your information could help us find Mrs. Newport's killer.”

She pursed her lips as she washed and dried a paring knife and put it into a drawer. Finally she said, “I suppose I've heard some beeps.”

I knew from experience that whenever a person used the word
suppose
, they were admitting to something without actually saying so. “When do you suppose you heard them?”

She waited a long time before answering. “Early . . . Before the sun was up.”

“Did you hear this happen on more than one occasion?”

“I suppose.”

“After you heard the beeps, did you hear someone come in or leave the house?” I asked.

“Well,” she said slowly, “maybe both.”

Reilly swiveled to stare at her. “What was that? You heard someone come into the house?”

“Do you think it was the thief moving paintings in and out?” I asked, ignoring him.

She shrugged. “That wasn't the thought that crossed my mind.”

She was being very cagey all of a sudden. “What thought crossed your mind?”

She wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the sink partition. “That something else was going on.”

My inner antennae were up and waving at me. I had a strong feeling I was about to get confirmation on what my gut had been telling me. “Like what?”

The housekeeper shrugged again. “Lust.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“W
ait, what?” Reilly asked, scooting his chair back. “You didn't mention any of this earlier.”

Seeing the alarm on Mrs. Dunbar's face as he strode toward us, I turned to squint my eyes at him, telling him silently,
Don't scare her!
“Mrs. Dunbar, by lust, are you saying someone in this house was sneaking out for a tryst?”

With Reilly and me gazing at her expectantly, Mrs. Dunbar turned red in the face and beads of sweat popped out on her upper lip. “I—I never should have said that. I don't like to say anything bad about the family. It's not my place. Can I please do the laundry now?”

“You need to answer the question first, Mrs. Dunbar,” Reilly said, reverting to formalities. “Who did you hear leave the house?”

“I don't know who,” she said, wringing her apron. “All I know is that someone was using the back door early in the mornings.”

“How do you know that?” Reilly asked, flipping open his little notepad.

“M-my room is right next to the kitchen. I c-could hear the beeps when the alarm was turned off and the latch click when the door was opened.”

“Can you be certain it wasn't someone removing paintings?” Reilly asked.

“N-no, sir, I can't be certain,” she said nervously, still twisting her apron, “but sometimes a body just senses things.”

“I get that, Mrs. D.,” I said, “because I sense that you're basing your conclusion on something tangible, like a voice, a familiar footstep, a smell . . .”

At the word
smell,
the housekeeper shut her eyes and shook her head, setting her chins to trembling. “I don't remember.”

Reilly and I exchanged glances. Mrs. Dunbar knew who it was—and so did I.

“If you have any information that could help with this investigation,” Reilly said, “you need to let us know now. I mean, you need to let
me
know.” He frowned at me as though his blunder was my fault.

She picked up the dishcloth and began wiping the kitchen counter, making tight little wet circles with it, her lips pressed firmly together.

“If we find out you withheld information,” Reilly said, “you'll be charged with hampering our investigation. You don't want that to happen, do you?”

“Please, Mrs. D.,” I said, as Reilly's young partner swaggered over to join us. “Work with us. The person you heard leaving the house could be involved with the art theft or the murder, or both. You'd be a big help if you could give us more information.”