Treasure Me (27 page)

“Maybe.” On impulse, he took a stab at bolstering his rationalizations about betraying Birdie’s trust. “Have you noticed any cash missing from your wallet?” He nodded toward Delia’s purse, one of those blue jean things covered in spangles. “A few bills, or a twenty missing? Anything like that?”

The waitress brought a stick of gum from her pocket and slowly unwrapped it. “Not lately.” She chewed, considering. “But a few weeks ago, I was missing ten bucks. Really pissed me off. Of course, I’d been to Bongo’s. You know how it goes when you’re drinking.”

Hugh flinched. “I have an idea.” An extended drinking spree, the type to leave him unconscious for hours, was tempting about now.

“Maybe I spent the money there. But I don’t think so. See, I preorder my Jell-O shots to make sure I don’t overspend. Only way I know how to stick to a budget.”

“Sensible.”

“How’d you know I was missing cash?”

“I didn’t.”
Birdie
. “I’m just asking.”
She’s a common criminal,
w
hich is why I’m justified in breaking my word.
Hugh dug into his magic and smiled in a way that made women melt. “What about Ethel Lynn and Finney? Have they been coming up short?”

“No… but one of the customers complained right before Thanksgiving. She swore someone took twenty bucks from her wallet while she was in the ladies’ room.”

“Do you remember her name?” He should be writing this down.

“She was someone’s niece—Mrs. Park’s? I can’t remember. She was in town visiting relatives.”

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.” The waitress rose from the spell he’d cast. “What’s with the questions? A robber wouldn’t come to Liberty, at least not to The Second Chance. Finney would pound him with her skillet.”

Her quaint assessment was amusing. “Then let’s hope there isn’t a robber in town.”

Maybe he was doing Birdie a favor by sparing her the danger of Finney’s skillet. But with the hunt for the rubies off, would she stay? Bad odds, that. He stifled his anguish, but not before it knotted his heart.

“Give this to Birdie.” Delia said, drawing his attention back to her. She handed over the bag. “Everything she asked for is in there.”

Opening the bag, he was accosted by the photo of a simpering blond on a purple and gold carton. “What is this?”

“Hair coloring, dufus. Birdie promised to fix me up.” The waitress twirled a lock of her lime-blond hair. “I keep trying for something golden but I screw it up. She’s going to get rid of the green.”

“You think she can color hair? Don’t count on it, sweetheart.”

Grinning, Delia smacked his forearm. “She says she can. I believe her.” Angling her hip, the waitress added, “By the way, have you called her? She’s left a zillion messages on your cell. She’s really worried about you.”

“It’s on my ‘to do’ list.”

Returning her calls meant hearing her voice. It would be enough to make him question his motives, something he couldn’t afford. Not that putting off the inevitable made much sense either. Eventually there’d be a confrontation. They
were
roomies.

“Put it at the top of your list,” Delia said. “She needs to hear from you.”

* * *

Birdie tightened her seatbelt as the Cadillac swerved into the snow-packed Square. “Everything you said about Justice last night… it was a lie,” she said, and the stringy muscles along Theodora’s jaw twitched. “You made it all up, didn’t you?”

The Cadillac coasted to a stop before the darkened restaurant. Rosy threads of daylight spread across the hood of the car. A giant plow swept past, hurling sheets of white like so much ice spun from a snow cone machine.

“Are you referring to the story of her thievery?” Theodora opened her satchel and withdrew her corncob pipe. “You skedaddled from the table so fast, I thought you weren’t enthralled with my story.”

“I was sleepy.”

In truth she’d been dumbstruck when Theodora made the announcement about Justice. A thief wasn’t worse than a murderer, no matter what the old woman thought. Yet a sticky sort of guilt had clung to her all night while she tossed in bed and wrestled the question: If a thief betrayed the people who trusted her, was that worse than cold-blooded murder?

Not possible. Still, the old woman’s assessment bothered her.

Now she’d ditched the hurt and was just plain suspicious. The story dovetailed too closely with her life of petty crime. It must be a sailor’s yarn.

Theodora struck a match, and Birdie waved her hands like a traffic cop. “Don’t smoke in here. I can’t open the window. It’s freezing outside.”

“I always smoke in the morning.”

“It’s not a good plan. It’ll kill you one day.”

Theodora leered, the rising sun catching the hills and valleys of her face. “Bring it on.”

Annoyed, Birdie rolled down her window. “About Justice. You were telling me a fable.” She dared a glance through the plume of smoke. “It was some kind of a Sunday school lesson. You made up the story to fit what you thought I needed to learn.”

“Justice
was
a thief.” Theodora turned up the heat in the Cadillac then settled back. “The man who picked her up outside Marion and gave her a ride to Liberty? He was a notions seller. She hid in the back of his covered wagon.”

“What’s a notions seller?”

“A man who sells everything from bolts of fabric to hammers and nails. Small towns didn’t have hardware stores back then. He traveled through Ohio selling his wares. He sold clothing too. While they were bumping along those country roads, Justice noticed shoes in one of the crates. Nice, sturdy leather shoes.”

Who’d blame a runaway slave for snagging a pair of shoes? “She walked hundreds of miles in her bare feet. Lifting a pair of shoes doesn’t qualify as theft. She was desperate.”

“Stealing is stealing, child. Mind you, Justice was burnin’ with guilt over what she’d done. Once she was earning a living in Liberty, she sent money back to the man to pay for the shoes.”

Uneasy Birdie crossed her arms, as if the action might shield her from the remorse dogging her whenever she lifted money from a wallet. Especially after she’d snitched cash from the baker, Natasha Jones. She was still trying to figure out how to return it.

If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d learned at Meade’s office that Wish had oozed her way through Liberty. Her mother had done a number on Landon Williams, and good. Birdie tugged her coat tighter, but she couldn’t banish the icy realization—she was a thief like her mother and just as loathsome.

“The point is,” Theodora was saying, “folks make mistakes all the time. They can put things straight.”

“You
were
trying to teach me a lesson.” Shame tweaked her false indignation. “Not that I’m a thief.”

Theodora sucked languidly on her pipe. “Of course not.”

She huffed out a breath. “So Justice took something. So what? Someone who steals isn’t so bad,” she blurted, the words gushing out in a nervous ramble. “I’m not talking about holdup men. They don’t care who they hurt. But your everyday pickpocket? Maybe he’s tried going straight, but he’s not sure how to pull it off. Try sticking to a nine-to-five life after you’ve grown up in a world without alarm clocks. It’s a bitch.”

Theodora cocked her pipe in the corner of her mouth. “See this?” She rubbed her index finger and thumb together. “I’m playing the world’s smallest violin.”

Offended, Birdie shifted in her seat, the sticky feeling returning. “So you aren’t big on sympathy. All things considered, it’s no surprise.”

“No surprise at all.”

“Just admit a guy who steals to get by is light years better than someone who’d kill. I mean, if you kill someone, they’re dead.”

“Obviously.”

“You killed Alice. Did the beast deserve it?” She was firmly on the groundhog’s side. “She ate some carrots and nipped your bushes. Is it enough reason to spill blood?”

“Alice had it coming to her.” A smoke ring popped from Theodora’s lips. “She’d been warned.”

“Great! Clear the woods of wildlife! Just don’t aim your BB gun in my direction.
My
glass house is just fine, thank you very much.”

“So you say.”

“I’m not a thief!”

Not for much longer, anyway
. She’d find the rubies and cash them in. Afterward she’d ditch life on the run.
Won’t I?
Greasy doubt settled in her stomach, banishing her self-confidence.

Frustrated, she yanked open the passenger door. “Thanks for the ride, and dinner last night. You’ve destroyed my image of squirrels as cute little creatures. Now I’ve got them stuck in my head as a chunky kind of stew.”

With that, she marched toward the door of the restaurant and banged on the glass. The crunching of snow beneath tires, and the Cadillac hydroplaned away into the white.

Finney should’ve answered by now. Her teeth chattering, Birdie snapped up her wrist. Shit—it wasn’t even seven A.M.

She marched around back with her darkening mood making her strides uneven. Sliding through a thick layer of slush, she stumbled into the hallway. By the time she trudged upstairs, she’d worked herself into a fine fury.

To her surprise, Hugh was camped out in bed with his attention glued to his laptop. He looked like he’d been working there for days. Notepads and balled up sheets of paper were tossed out across the comforter.

He gave no reaction when she stood fuming at the base of the bed. If she’d been an ax murderer, he would’ve blissfully gone to his death typing away on his friggin’ laptop.

Hurling her coat on a chair, she searched for patience and came up empty. “Where the hell have you been?” Not the best greeting, but there was a bottle of Scotch on the nightstand beside a coffee mug and Hugh looked woozy. “I thought you were in a car wreck. I was thinking about calling every hospital in the area. Would it really have put you out to let me know where you were?”

He topped off his mug then sipped. “It’s nice to see you too, Celery,” he replied, flourishing the mug in the air.

“You’re a shit, Hugh.”

“I try. Thanks for noticing.”

“I notice you’re starting your day with eighty-proof.”

“Lay off.” His flannel pants were endearingly rumpled and his tee-shirt showed off his pecs to good effect. Not that it mattered. “If you’re curious, I got back last night.”

“Why didn’t you return my calls?”

“Because you’re not my mother.” He smiled devilishly, then resumed typing.

Fine. So he was playing the mystery card. No skin off her back.

Shivering, she stared at the bed with longing. She’d spent weeks bunking on the apartment’s couch with Old Man Winter rattling the windows. The night at Theodora’s, nestled in a bed she’d swear was stuffed with feathers, made her appreciate the finer things in life. Like a mattress large enough to sprawl out on and a comforter big enough to burrow down in.

“How’s it going with the hunt for the rubies?” he asked, and something in his tone put her on alert. Or maybe it was the way his gaze refused to meet hers. “Found them yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you gone back down to the storeroom?”

“Twice,” she admitted, kicking off her shoes and shrugging out of her jeans. “I don’t think I’ll find anything else down there. The key must be it. Maybe there’s a clue on the key, something I’ve overlooked.”

“You heard what Theodora said. Justice used the rubies for collateral to build the restaurant. She didn’t bury them.”

“She buried them later. There were two bags of rubies, remember? I think she buried one of the bags for Molly.”

“Who’s Molly?”

“My great-grandmother. Or great-great grandmother.” She gave up trying to figure it out. “Lucas Postell’s daughter.”

“Your theory about Justice’s motives is pure speculation.”

“Think what you will.” She stalked around the side of the bed and yanked back the comforter. Balls of paper toppled to the floor. “The rubies
are
buried. I’ll find them.”

Hugh darted a sideways glance when she slid beneath the covers. “What are you doing?”

“Getting some rest. I don’t have to wait tables for another four hours.”

“Sleep on the couch. You’re distracting me.”

Now
he was able to look at her fully. Or rather her breasts, outlined beneath her camisole, since she’d tugged off her sweatshirt and flung it to the floor.

She gave the pillow a few good jabs and lowered her head. “I’m sick of the couch. If I try to roll over, I fall off.” He gulped down a slug of booze and she added, “Why are you drinking at first light? It’s not a good plan.”

Grimacing, he yanked his attention from her breasts. “It was a good idea at the time.”

“You lost your job, didn’t you?”

Stone-faced, he returned the mug to the nightstand. The muscles in his back tensed and she caught his scent—musky, warm. It was enough to lure her fingers down the hard bumps of his spine. Her touch froze him for the fraction of a second. Then he drew his back rigid.

“I’m serious, Birdie,” he growled ridiculously at the nightstand. “Sleep on the couch. I’m not making love to you. Given the booze I’ve ingested, it might not even be possible.”

She pulled the comforter to her chin, realized she was too warm, and threw it off. “You’re not drunk. For some reason, you’re avoiding me. But I’m the one who should be angry. You never returned my calls.” She punched low on his spine so he’d turn around. When he did, his brows lowering, she flopped her hand through the air. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Seventeen.”

“You’re the most perverse man I ever met.” She rolled onto her side, away from him. “Keep the typing down. I’m going to sleep.”

She waited for the clackety clack of his obstinacy, but it wasn’t forthcoming. With something between a snarl and a curse, he reached down and rolled her onto her back.

Hugh looked like a man suspended between St. Peter’s gate and Dante’s inferno. Fuming after he’d flopped her onto her back, Birdie wondered at the conflict waging on his face. Doubt warred with the desire warming his features.

To her horror, it appeared the desire had won out.