Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) (3 page)

“Don't look now, but here comes the maestro now,” Suzy whispered a few minutes later. “I've heard he makes the rounds introducing himself, so smile and be sweet. You might even get a passing grade.”

Maggie looked up into a pair of turquoise eyes that had to be—simply had to be—contacts. God didn't make eyes like that.

“Ah, we meet again, Miss James.” Perry Silver smiled at Suzy, then turned to Maggie. “Let me guess. This would be Miss Riley, right? Margaret L. Riley, the journalist? I'm honored, my dear. May I join you for a few minutes?”

 

From the far side of the dining room, Ben frowned as he watched Silver make his way across the room to the table by the kitchen door. The slick jackass was hanging all over the Riley woman, ignoring the bleached blonde.

Conversation continued around him. One of the women said, “I remember thinking at the time that ten thousand was a fortune. Nowadays it wouldn't even last six months, not at today's prices.”

“What? Oh, right,” someone else said. “GI Insurance.”

Ben had been gently sounding out his dinner partners, trying to squeeze in a subtle hint about a few of the scams that targeted senior citizens. New ones cropped up every day, and for any seniors who went online, the dangers tripled. On his left sat Janie Burger, whose husband, a World War II veteran, had died a couple of years ago, leaving her with an eighty-six Plymouth van, a house in need of reroofing and a ten-thousand dollar GI life insurance policy. Her daughter had treated her to Silver's workshop in order to—as Janie put it—haul her up from the slough of despond, which Ben interpreted as depression. Although the lady didn't strike him as depressed. Far from it.

“I'll certainly never get rich as an artist,” she said with a self-deprecating chuckle, “but at least I won't have to worry about buying Christmas gifts this year. They'll all get bad watercolors and won't have the nerve to tell me what they think of my talent. Works every time.”

Pulling his attention away from the table by the kitchen door, Ben made an ambiguous, hopefully appropriate comment. He admired the lady's spunk, as well as her unlikely pink hair.

“We're supposed to be intermediates, aren't we? Didn't it say so on the brochure?” That from Charlie Spainhour. The two men had been assigned a room together. “I took a few courses some years back, but haven't done any painting since my late wife decided the bathroom needed a pink ceiling.”

Ben glanced again at the table by the kitchen door, where little Ms. Riley was smirking up at Silver, batting her eyelashes like she'd caught a cinder and was trying to dislodge it. If she wanted to play teacher's pet, it was no skin off his nose. Hell, she wasn't even all that pretty.

The conversation eddied around him while he watched the Riley woman's reaction to whatever Silver was saying. Lapping it up with a spoon. He shook his head and forced his attention back to his own dinner companions.

Charlie said, “I don't know if it'll come back to me or not. Like I said, it's been a while.”

“Don't worry, if he's as good a teacher as I've heard he is, he'll fill in the gaps,” said the white-haired woman at the end of the table—Georgia something or other. “By the end of the week we'll all be
intermediates—some of us already are. I guess you can fake it that long.”

Evidently, Ben was the only one present who had never tried his hand at painting before. He was beginning to feel more than ever like a fish out of water.

Janie, Ben's favorite so far, removed her red-framed bifocals and cleaned them with a napkin as her eyes crinkled in another smile. “Frankly, my dear, I don't give a darn. I painted my first bad watercolor before that boy was even out of diapers. Been painting them ever since.”

It garnered a few chuckles, including Ben's. Not that it was all that funny, but who knew better than an undercover specialist how to fit in? So far it looked like a pretty decent group, ready to lighten up for a week instead of sitting home watching their IRAs bottom out while they waited for the monthly social security stipend. Maybe he should have brought Miss Emma along. So far as he knew, the only thing she'd ever painted was her kitchen chairs, but who was to say she wouldn't discover a latent talent?

The desultory conversation continued with only an occasional comment from Ben. It turned out that Georgia and Janie were friends; both widows, both retired teachers. Janie and Charlie had met before, evidently having taught at the same school.

Placing his silverware on his plate, Ben angled his chair slightly for a better view of the other diners. He was beginning to see a pattern in the enrollment. Retirees took precedence, with just enough variety, such as himself and the pair across the room, to throw off suspicion.

On the get-acquainted roster on the hall table, more
than half the enrollees had listed Retired under occupation. Ben had put down Security, which wasn't actually a lie. Not that he couldn't lie with the best of them when the occasion demanded, but he preferred not to. Less to trip over.

He glanced over at the Riley woman again. She had dressed for the occasion in a long button-front dress with a matching scarf. He couldn't see her feet, but no doubt she was still wearing those same dumb platforms with the loop around her big toe, in spite of his good advice.

At the moment, she was fussing about something. Now why did that not surprise him? He didn't know much about her disposition, but it hadn't taken him long to learn that she bristled with attitude. In a guy, he'd heard it referred to as a Napoleon complex—not necessarily a bad thing, depending on how it was used. It could turn a guy into an overachiever or make him a real pain.

Where Riley was concerned, he had a feeling it might be the latter.

With one last long look at her profile—short, straight nose, well-defined jaw, a tempting speck of a mole and full lips that at the moment were clamped tighter than a—

Yeah, well…he was going to have to watch his similes, too. This place was filled with respectable grannies. His own had peeled the bark off him when he'd forgotten and let slip a few choice words the other day when a damn-fool driver nearly shaved the paint off his front fender by cutting in front of him on the way to the grocery store.

He might not be able to recover Miss Emma's
losses, but he could make damn sure the same thing didn't happen to anyone else's granny. Not on his watch.

“Our resident genius seems mighty interested in that table over by the kitchen,” Charlie, high school biology teacher, murmured. He nodded toward where Silver was still hanging over the two younger women. The platinum blonde with the dark roots had tossed on a white shirt over the red bra, but hadn't bothered to button it up.

It was the other one that held Ben's attention. Maggie Riley. According to the roster, she was from Clemmons which, if memory served, was less than a half hour's drive from where his grandmother lived in Mocksville. Under occupation, she'd written journalist. Interesting, he mused.

None of your business, he reminded himself firmly. She could be a nuclear scientist and it still wouldn't matter. It was the blue-haired ladies, including Janie, whose shoulder-length hair just happened to be pink, who were his real targets. Those were the ones Silver would go for if Ben's predictions proved accurate. If he could wise them up in time, they could go forth and spread the word any way they chose to. Senior citizens' groups, newsletters—whatever. This was at best a borderline case of fraud, but for individuals on fixed incomes, it could be devastating.

“What? Oh, yeah—I'll take natural hair over nylon any day,” he said as if he knew what the devil they were talking about. He figured at least half the women here weren't wearing the hair color they were born with. Wigs or not, Georgia, with her white brush cut, and Riley with the attitude and the shaggy, straw-
colored hair were probably among the very few who were wearing their natural color.

“Some like a flat, but me, I prefer round.”

It took him a moment, but he got it. They were talking about brushes, not wigs. He had one. Didn't remember if it was flat or round, as it came with the set of paints he'd bought. He figured as long as you wet it, rubbed it on the paint and wiped it across the paper, one shape was as good as another.

Although rice pudding was about six yards down on his list of favorites, he lingered over dessert while the others went out to watch the sunset. Technically, the sun had set about half an hour ago, but according to Janie, there was something special about the last rays of color that shot up from behind the mountains.

When he saw the two at the back table rake back their chairs, he collected his dishes, stacked them with the others on the table, and headed toward the kitchen. The lady in the kitchen looked as if she could use a hand, and his were available. And if it happened to take him within a couple of feet of Ms. Riley and her haystack hair, so be it.

She glanced up when he passed by with his hands full of dishes. “Oh, are we supposed to do that?” Rising, she started gathering up the dishes on her table.

Suzy looked from Ben to Maggie and lifted a brow. “See you later, okay?” she said with what could only be called a smirk.

Riley followed him out to the kitchen, where the cook was elbow deep in suds. Evidently, the place didn't run to a dishwasher, mechanical or otherwise.

“Here's these,” he said.

Without glancing around, the woman said, “Scrape 'em in the can, leave 'em on the counter.”

Ben looked at Maggie. Maggie looked at Ben. That's when he noticed that her eyes had almost as many different shades as her hair. By tomorrow, he might even be able to name a few, but for now he'd have to settle for brown, yellow and blue-green. The eyes, not the hair.

“What, do I have dirt on my face?” The multicolored eyes flashed a warning.

He forced himself to look away. “Sorry—just thinking about tomorrow.”

“Oh. Well, sure. Me, too. That is, I'm really looking forward to, uh—wetting some paper.”

“Gimme them cups,” the woman at the sink said, and they both reached for the thick white cups they'd just placed on the counter. Ben's arm struck Maggie's hand, which struck the stack of cups. They watched them bounce on the sagging linoleum floor. Fortunately, only one broke. They were the thick, white institutional kind.

“Sorry,” he said. Quickly, he rounded up the unbroken cups while Maggie ripped off a handful of paper towels and moped up a splash of coffee. They ended up kneeling head to head, and he caught a faint whiff of apples and something else—maybe coconut—that hadn't been on the menu tonight.

And neither is she, he reminded himself.

Fleeing before they could do any more damage, neither of them waited for the thanks that probably wouldn't be forthcoming anyway, judging from the way the woman was scowling. Maggie said, “Oops.”

Ben said, “Yeah,” and grinned.

The others were beginning to straggle inside after watching the sunset. Janie with the pink hair was guffawing. She had a great laugh, apparently oblivious to the fact that her face crinkled up like used wrapping tissue. She probably had better sense than to invest in any of Silver's junk anyway, but Ben would watch over her, just in case. He liked her.

Her friend Georgia, too. Ben sized her up as a likely candidate. White hair, flowered dress, embroidered button-front sweater, support hose and cross trainers. Not to mention a rock the size of a golf ball on her third finger, left hand. With her swollen knuckles, she probably couldn't get it off, poor woman. He'd keep a special eye out for her. First time he caught Silver spending an unusual amount of time with her, he'd follow up with a word of caution.

Okay, Janie and Georgia and who else? There were at least a dozen candidates, not counting the two blondes and the two guys, including Charlie and himself.

Maybe he should hold an impromptu seminar on how not to be drawn into a sucker's trap. He had yet to work out a plan for getting the goods on Silver, but he was used to going in without an ironclad plan. A good cop left plenty of maneuvering room; he'd learned that his first year on the job when he'd walked in on a convenience store robbery and got a face full of Reddi-wip. Since then he'd at least had sense enough to work the perp around to the bagged goods before trying to cuff him. A face full of corn chips couldn't do a whole lot of damage.

“Wanna join the others out on the porch?” he asked.

Riley looked at him a full thirty seconds before shaking her head. “No thanks,” she said, and walked off.

Nice going, Hunter. From now on, keep your mind on the job you're supposed to be doing.

I
t was a good hour earlier than her usual bedtime when Maggie headed for her assigned quarters. Beginning tomorrow the students would be responsible for meals. They were to work out a plan among themselves. Suzy, seated in the middle of her cot, was painting her toenails. She suggested that some of the older women would naturally want to take charge.

“Why?”

“Well…because, I mean, most of them have been married, so they're used to cooking.”

So was Maggie, not that she intended to advertise it. Her mother had left home when Maggie was eleven, after announcing that life was a fleeting thing. Several weeks later she'd written from a commune out in Idaho, something about being free to become herself. She still came home occasionally, never stay
ing more than a few days. Actually, she hadn't been home in several years, but at least she still wrote when she remembered to. Handmade postcards for the most part, filled with colored drawings of moons and stars and rainbows and elves.

So maybe, Maggie mused, she had inherited some artistic talent after all.

She considered unpacking her laptop to record a few first impressions to work into a special column once the week was over. With any luck, her editor might accept it—might even spring for a small bonus. If she earned enough to pay income taxes she could write off this whole horribly expensive week as research—but first she would have to write about it.

She found a place to set up her laptop by shifting Suzy's array of cosmetics, then looked around for an outlet within reach. Her batteries were probably dead. Since she rarely used them, she rarely remembered to check them. Why didn't someone invent a computer that plugged into a cell phone? Or maybe they already had. Technology wasn't her thing, but that would bear checking out.

She might even get a column about that, too. Technology for the technophobe. Not that she was really phobic, she was simply too busy to keep up with the stuff.

“I still don't think he's an artist,” Suzy announced out of the blue.

“Who?” As if she didn't know. “All the famous artists have been men.” Maggie continued checking the pockets of her computer case to see if she'd brought along any batteries. If so, they were too old to have any juice left in them.

“They say that about chefs, too, but what about Julia Child?”

“What about that Western artist, whatsisname?”

“You're asking me?” Suzy was using Crayolas to hold her toes apart to keep the polish from smearing.

“You know who I mean—he's named something to do with guns. Colt? Browning? Oh, yeah—Remington.”

“He probably carries one. A gun, I mean. He said he was in security.” Carefully, Suzy began pulling out the Crayolas. “Man, I wouldn't mind a taste of that kind of security.”

“Maybe he's a model,” Maggie suggested.

“In that case, I'm devoting the rest of my life to art.”

Maggie said, “How did we get off on this subject, anyway?” As if she didn't know. “I need to take some notes in case I want to write about it.”

“Okay, first note—your heroine's name is Suzy and your hero's name is Ben. Is that a virile name, or what?”

Maggie threw a small instruction leaflet, which she'd never bothered to read, across the room. It landed among the shoes near the bed. Four pairs of Suzy's, one pair of hers.

“I'm going to grab a shower while everybody's still out on the porch.” Collecting soap, shampoo and a loose cotton shift that doubled as a robe, Maggie headed upstairs where one of the larger rooms had been turned into a communal bathroom. There was a single claw-foot tub, three lavatories, three commodes and three shower stalls. The men evidently had a tiny
bathroom down the hall, which was a rough indication of the usual ratio between men and women.

Lathering her hair, she wondered if Silver culled through the applicants, deliberately choosing the ones he wanted to include. Using what criterion, she wondered. She hadn't been particularly surprised to see so few men. The surprising thing had been that so many of the women were over fifty. It only solidified her suspicion that he was far more interested in money than in sex or romance.

On the other hand, he'd been hanging all over Suzy at supper tonight. At this point Suzy was more interested in Ben Hunter, but maybe that didn't mean she wouldn't cooperate for the good of the mission. Lumber money was as good as pickle money, especially when the only heir just happened to be an attractive daughter of marriageable age.

It never occurred to Maggie to consider herself a candidate. Her father sold insurance. He didn't own the company—didn't even manage the three-man agency, which was one of the reasons Maggie had attended a community college instead of university; why she'd gone to work for a pittance at the
Suburban Record
until she could get a real job at the
Twin-City Journal.
Even in-state tuition cost a fortune, and besides, her father needed her at home. Left to himself he'd have ended up eating bacon and eggs and real butter and drinking four-percent milk in spite of knowing better.

Before her mother had left they'd dined more often than not on things like tofu, tahini and soybeans in one form or another. Maggie had joined her father in pigging out on junk food between meals, but now that
she was older she had settled on a more moderate path. Whole-grain, low-fat, with lots of fresh fruit and vegetables. If she occasionally backslid when she was away from home, that was nobody's business but her own. As long as she had only one functional parent, she fully intended to keep him that way. Let her mother go on drifting from one mushroom field to another, playing her zither, smoking pot and remembering every six months or so that she still had a family back east. Fortunately, Maggie had inherited a broad streak of practicality from her father, enough to take care of him and anyone else who needed it.

“Any hot water left?” Suzy was in the room when Maggie got back from her shower.

“Gobs. Look, I need you to do me a favor.” And so she explained about Mary Rose and why she was really here.

“Geez, I don't know, Riley.” Leaning back on her elbows, Suzy admired her colorful toenails. “I sort of had my eye on the cowboy. Besides, Perry spent most of his time with that lady with the buzz cut and the three-carat diamond.”

“Georgia, I think her name is.” Maggie sat on the room's only chair, which lacked a back and could more properly be termed a stool. She toweled her hair. “The cowboy will wait. All I need is one good example of Perry reeling out the same old line he used on Mary Rose, and I'll have him dead to rights.”

“Would she believe you?”

“If I could get it on tape, it would be even better.” Maggie waited hopefully for Suzy to offer her body to be wired. When no such offer was forthcoming,
she shrugged and said, “She knows I never lie…unless it's absolutely necessary.”

“If I get the goods on Silver, do I get dibs on the cowboy?”

“Unless he's married or otherwise out of the running, he's all yours,” Maggie said magnanimously, as if it were up to her. If she had anything to say about it, she might not be so generous.

“He's not wearing a ring.” Suzy went through a few lethargic yoga movements. “There's my day's exercise. I'm a firm believer in moderation in all things.”

Maggie continued to towel her hair, her mind on the man who kept popping into her thoughts like a sexy poltergeist. “He's probably not going to model, since he signed the register like all the rest of us.”

“Besides, if he were a model, he'd be busy trying on jockstraps.”

“Perish the thought,” Maggie said, grinning.

“I don't want to perish the thought, it's too tempting.”

“About tomorrow—” Maggie was determined not to lose sight of her mission. “We're all going to have to paint something. How good are you?”

Suzy shrugged. “It's been a while.”

“I've never even tried to draw anything since I used to do stuff in school, mostly stick figures standing under a rainbow.”

“What do you bet we're not the only amateurs here?”

“Um-hmm…” Maggie was having trouble picturing Ben Hunter as an artist, although she couldn't have said quite why. Maybe because of his boots. Or
maybe those powerful arms. She'd be willing to bet those strong hands and muscular forearms had done more than wield a paintbrush.

“But then, hey—if it weren't for us amateurs, Perry would be out of a job, right?” Suzy said brightly.

After that, they talked about clothes—whether or not they'd brought the right kind—and boyfriends. Suzy was currently juggling three; Maggie didn't have time for even one, although she had her eye on a young high school coach.

By the time the new roommate, Ann Ehringhaus, showed up, Maggie was already yawning. After introductions all around, Suzy pointed out the amenities, such as they were. When Ann sneezed for the third time, Maggie murmured something about allergies. While the other two women talked softly, Maggie fell asleep and dreamed of a Ben Hunter who segued into one of those famous male statues wearing a fig leaf and a strategically draped shawl, with a quiver full of watercolor brushes on his back. He was leering at her.

Mercy! No wonder she woke up even before the alarm went off with the mother of all headaches.

Leaving the other two women still sleeping, Maggie dressed quietly and tiptoed into the kitchen, following the beguiling aroma of freshly brewed coffee. When a shaft of sunlight slanting through the window struck her, she winced and shut her eyes.

“Not a morning person, hmm?”

Her stomach did a funny little lurch and she blinked at the figure silhouetted against the open back door. Wouldn't you know the first person she'd see
before she could even wash down a handful of pills would be Apollo in person. If he'd been wearing a fig leaf and shawl, she'd have run screaming off down the hill.

Instead he was wearing the same faded jeans he'd worn yesterday, which were as good as a roadmap pointing out strategic points of interest. Her good-morning sounded more like the snarl of a pit bull.

“It's probably the altitude,” he told her solicitously.

She shot him a suspicious look, and he said, “Headache, right? Flying does it to me, even in a pressurized cabin. We're not all that high here, but—”

“Thanks, I don't need a diagnosis,” she growled. “Lack of sleep always gives me a headache.” With any luck, it would be gone before the first class started—and so would he.

“Me, I slept like a log.”

She shot him a saccharine smile. “Goody for you.”

“We're on our own from now on.” Reaching inside a cabinet, he took out a box of sweetened cereal and frowned at the picture of tiny, pastel-colored shapes.

Maggie had brought her own cereal. It was whole grain and probably not as tasty as the one he was holding. His arms and his hands were tanned. There was no lighter circle on his third finger, left hand, to indicate he had recently worn a ring.

He said, “I checked the refrigerator. The kitchen's stocked with basics, but they're pretty, ah—basic. Eggs, bacon. Bunch of green stuff.”

“Do you have to talk so much?” She winced as she crossed through the patch of sunlight again.

“Reckon not. Reckon we could just dance.”

She goggled at him. No other word to describe it. She did her best to blot out the memory of the impressive creature with his undraped loins and his quiver of brushes, that had haunted her early morning dreams. The image was already losing the sharp edges, but she could still see those muscular calves and the flat, ridged abdomen where the shawl draped low on one hip before swinging up to his shoulder.

“If you don't mind,” she said haughtily, “I'd rather not talk before I've had my morning pint.”

“Yes, ma'am. Better warn you, though—it's pretty strong. You might want to water it down some. Be somebody along pretty soon to start the bacon and eggs.”

She mimicked talking with her fingers. He looked suitably chastened and covered his mouth with his hand. And darn it, he really did have gorgeous hands. Maggie wasn't entirely certain what an artistic hand was supposed to look like, but artistic or not, his long, square-tipped fingers were perfectly proportioned for the square palm.

And if she'd ever even considered a man's hands in that respect, she had to be plum out of her mind. What the devil was happening to her normally sharp-as-a-tack brain? She was here on a mission. She didn't have time for this kind of distraction.

She poured herself a mug of coffee and by the time she turned around, Ben had placed a jug of whole milk and a can of evaporated on the table, along with a sugar bowl, a jar of honey and a stack of pink pack
ets of sweetener. He grinned as if he'd offered her the crown jewels.

“Thank you,” she croaked. Croaked because her voice was always rusty first thing in the morning. She was used to seeing her father off to work in silence and taking her pint of coffee into the ex-utility room she laughingly called her office, where she worked on her column until noon. If any calls came in, she let the machine take them.

“Really,” she said when he continued to look at her as if she were something he'd found under a microscope. Or under a rock.

“Look, you're a nice man and I'm a grungy curmudgeon. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is, okay?”

Bemused was the only word she could think of to describe the way he looked at her. As if whatever it was he'd discovered under the microscope—or the rock—had suddenly launched into a full orchestra rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner.” She sometimes had that effect on men. They didn't know what to make of her, and so mostly, they made nothing. Which suited her just fine, it really did. It always had.

Until just recently…

Without a word, Ben Hunter eased up from the spoke-backed kitchen chair, tipped her a nod and let himself out onto the side porch. A few moments later she could hear the creak of the swing.