04 - Shock and Awesome (21 page)

 
   
Strangely enough, I had no problem with that. I didn't want to be rich and draped in jewels or able to buy expensive art at a whim like David — not that I would turn it down if the cash were handed to me — I was content with my life as it was. Pretty much. I had a job, a new house, family, friends. Really, what else did I need?

 
   
Probably new shoes.

 
   
I gave my hair a quick wash, rinsed and, with a sigh, shut the water off. Toweling dry, I wondered if Ben was still behaving himself downstairs... if Solomon still watched his every move. I wondered what Justin was doing and if he missed home. Then I thought about my date with the fourth suspect this evening, and thanked every deity I could think of that there were only four suspects, and one had already been eliminated in a baptism of fire. I wondered just how I would get rid of two more so I could hand the thief over to the cops and allow my life to return to normal. Although... looking around the luxurious bathroom, maybe I could get used to this kind of normal... so long as I didn't have to live next door to Solomon and the supermodel.

 
   
By the time I was dressed, hair blown dry, and downstairs, Ben looked bored. "Ready?" he asked, smiling at me. "Of course, you are. You look gorgeous."

 
   
"Same. You that is. You look really handsome."

 
   
"And we'll make a charming couple at brunch. I've found a place I'd like to try on the road to Boston. It's a little drive, but I think we'll enjoy it. I hope you're hungry."

 
   
"Starving."

 
   
"Then let’s go eat."

 
   
Ben was right. The drive was beautiful, especially when the top of the Mercedes came down and he handed me a pair of sunglasses to match his own. If it weren't for Delgado and Fletcher tag-teaming our tail all the way, I'd have had a fabulous time. As it was, I settled for merely great as brunch turned into a picnic lunch and afternoon at Fairmount Park.

 
   
I even forgot about my cell phone in my purse until Solomon walked past, purposefully bumping into me at the park. "Excuse me," he said, stepping around us and walking on. Only after he left and Ben went to get us take-out coffee did I get to read the note Solomon slipped into my hand. “Leave,” it read, “date at seven. Emailed details.” All too soon, I had to make my excuses and leave Ben and our impromptu, day-long date behind. The only thing that boosted me was the hope that maybe the next guy would slip up and Ben would be off the hook as a suspect. If only I were that lucky.

 
   
Chapter Eleven

 
   
Once upon a time, Marty
Tookey
was cute. Unfortunately, that was fifty pounds and a receding hairline ago. Right now, his face was a little doughy, his cheeks too pink, and his nose a little too squashed. But he had potential. If he were real estate, he would have been a fixer-upper. I don't know if he dressed himself or hired someone with style, but the slacks and sweater, with shirt lapels neatly folded over the sweater’s collar, were crisp and stylish, though the extra belly didn’t complement the outfit. I wasn't sure how old his photographs in the agency file were, but they definitely weren't recent. Shame. He once was attractive, albeit a good several years younger.

 
   
"I have a stylist," he told me, when he saw me eyeballing his clothing. "Do you?"

 
   
"No, I'm naturally stylish."

 
   
"Oh. That's very honest of you. Your dress is pretty and I like your bag. Claire loved bags."

 
   
"Claire?" I prompted. Not that I didn’t want to hear how good I looked — I told myself a bunch of times already that I looked great in my ankle-length pants and sweet collar blouse, changed into with only minutes to spare, and I wasn't even being vain — but dropping a female name within a minute of our date’s introduction was a really bad start.

 
   
"My ex," said Marty.

 
   
Yep, bad start. While waiting for him to get uncomfortable with the silence before breaking it, I checked out his hair. A full head, thinning, but no bald spots. Also receding, but not too obviously. No visible hair products. A good sign. All the same, I edged the candle on our table away. One could never be too careful.

 
   
"She's so beautiful," he continued. "One in a million. Very stylish. Like you."

 
   
"Um... thank you. I think." Way to go on the compliments, Marty. Here was a guy who knew how to make a woman feel like a million bucks. I checked out my reflection in the restaurant's curiously mirrored wall. Heck, who needs Marty? I could inflate my own ego just fine. I gave my hair a quick smooth and blew myself a little kiss.

 
   
"We broke up six months ago. That's when I joined the agency," Marty explained, never noticing me fluttering my eyelashes at myself. "Claire wouldn't approve. She thinks dating agencies are too artificial. She thinks everyone should meet naturally. Fate. We met in a park. We were both admiring the roses. She gardens, you know."

 
   
"How
lov
..."

 
   
"She can grow anything. Do you have a garden?"

 
   
"I..."

 
   
"Claire thinks everyone should grow something."

 
   
I wondered if she thought Marty should grow a backbone, but I didn't say it. One of us had to be the polite date. It was like good cop, bad cop, except we were good date, crap date. I discreetly yawned and fanned the menu, wondering if it was impolite to eat and run. Maybe Solomon or Flaherty could take over for dessert? Then I could go home and become a nun, if this was the quality of the agency's offerings. The one good learning experience that came out of this case for me, was the knowledge that I couldn't settle with a man just for his money. No, it didn't matter how many millions Marty won, he was definitely not the man for me. Not that I was actually looking for a man. It was just a happy coincidence that I met Ben Rafferty and Lord Justin
Camberwell
on the case, and that both were dashing, handsome and rich... oh yeah, and potential thieves. Crap.

 
   
"Wine?" Marty asked.

 
   
"No, you aren't whining at all," I murmured.

 
   
Marty looked up. "Pardon?"

 
   
"You pick the wine." I smiled and Marty gave me a little frown before returning his gaze to the wine list.

 
   
"Red," he decided, after a few quiet moments. "It'll go great with our steaks."

 
   
"Our steaks?"

 
   
"Claire and I ordered steak the first time we came here. It was amazing. I'm sure you'll like it. Actually, this is our place."

 
   
Oh, bravo, Marty, I thought, heaving a sigh. Take your newest date to "your" place. Nice. "I was actually thinking about the chicken."

 
   
"Oh no. Oh no, no, no. You must have the steak. Claire raves about it."

 
   
I had to wonder where the hell Claire was if she liked the steak so much. "Where is Claire?"

 
   
"We split up. She's my ex. You know, I'd really rather not talk about my ex. We are on a date,
Lexi
, you and I," Marty chastised, narrowing his eyes at my apparent rudeness, which made me wonder if he were just plain ignorant, stupid, rude, or all three. What a trio!

 
   
On the plus side, at least he noticed we were on a date. I was starting to wonder if he thought I was a therapist. I was also quickly learning why his file said he didn't have many second dates, despite attracting plenty of first dates. Frankly, it was a wonder the mystery ex lasted long enough to have "their" place. Maybe Marty was amazing in the sack. As soon as I thought that, my stomach flipped, and I really wished I hadn't. It was the kind of image I didn't want in my head. It reminded me of the time I followed my mother into a lingerie store and found her buying sexy undergarments. Some things should just remain far out of my mind. Like, light years away.

 
   
"Are you ready to order?" asked our waiter, approaching so quietly that I jumped when he appeared at the table.

 
   
Without, looking up, Marty ordered the wine, then our starters of scallops. "Then we'll have the steak, rare." He looked over to me. "A salad for the lady and fries for me."

 
   
"I'd rather have fries and my steak well done. Actually," I turned to the waiter, "I'd also like my steak to turn into chicken."

 
   
"I insist you try the steak. Rare is the way to have it." Marty snipped the menu from my hand and handed it to the waiter. "The chef knows how I like it," he added, waving his hand dismissively at the waiter. Noticing the waiter's eyes narrowing slightly, I knew how he felt. What a bossy asshole! The waiter caught my eye, and we both lifted our gaze to the ceiling. For the briefest of moments, I thought about edging the candle back across the table.

 
   
Marty, amazingly enough, was an insufferable bore. Between the scallops and steaks — my chicken never materializing — I tried to imagine him in dark clothing, with a mask over his pudgy head, sneaking into the homes of unsuspecting women and cracking open their house safes to steal valuables.

 
   
By the time my steak appeared in front of me, it practically mooed, it was so rare. While I couldn't figure out if Marty had the guts for breaking and entering, I was pretty certain he would bypass the safe, waking up the women so he could start telling them all about Claire. I also wondered what he talked to Claire about, seeing as every conversation centered on her. Maybe they just talked about her. But despite my misgivings, I had to persevere. Along with finding out whether Marty had the potential to be my top suspect, I kind of wanted to know if he killed Claire, and maybe stuffed her, like she was a prize specimen for taxidermy, and kept her in a chair in his home so he could talk to her. It was a creepy thought, but as I looked at Marty, fastidiously cutting his steak into equal, little cubes, not altogether an unreal one.

 
   
I shuffled my steak around the plate, hiding a lump of it under the heap of salad, and continued to smile at Marty as he whined on and on.

 
   
When he paused and looked up at me, I tried to meet his eyes without punching him square between them. "You're such a good listener," he told me.

 
   
"Tell me about it," I muttered.

 
   
"But you don't talk much. How do you get second dates?" He laughed heartily, like he cracked the funniest joke ever.

 
   
Ugh.