Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance) (19 page)
Read Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance) Online
Authors: Carolyn McSparren
But he didn’t have a key.
Or did he?
Nick’s brain felt infested by a hundred white rats lost in a maze. He heard Taylor moving around in the loft above his head. Great. He’d never get to sleep at this rate.
He had two additional problems—maybe even more immediate than the murders and the recovery of the animals. First, he had to either get Taylor Hunt
into
his bed or
out of
his heart. Second, he had to keep them both alive.
into
his bed or
out of
his heart. Second, he had to keep them both alive.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“M
S. HUNT? This is Estelle Grierson. I hope I didn’t call too early.”
S. HUNT? This is Estelle Grierson. I hope I didn’t call too early.”
Taylor rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock on the sofa beside Nick’s sleeping form. Seven-thirty in the morning. She’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and had planned to go straight back to bed. She’d caught the phone on the first ring. Nick lay with his back to her and the sheet pulled up to his shoulders. “Of course I remember you, Estelle,” she said. “You hanging in there?”
“As well as can be expected. The police released the body yesterday. We’re having a small memorial service this afternoon.”
Nick rolled over on his back and opened his eyes sleepily. He stretched, and the sheet slipped down to his waist. His naked chest rippled with muscles delineated by a thick mat of dark hair. Taylor turned away before he could see her flush.
“You know you said you’d be willing to help me go through some of Clara’s things?” Estelle continued. “I was wondering if you’d have time this morning. I found another lockbox key with a tag to a different bank. A bank officer has to be with me when I open the box, but I’d kind of like to have somebody—you know—on my side.”
Taylor snapped to attention. “Of course, Estelle.” She turned around and nodded vigorously to Nick. She spoke as much for his benefit as for Estelle’s.
“It’ll take me—” she mouthed “us” silently at Nick “—a couple of hours to get down there to help you open Clara’s lockbox.” She glanced at the clock again. “Say ten o’clock? Then maybe we could go by the house and the store afterwards. What time’s the service?”
“Four this afternoon.” Estelle sighed. “I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll be glad to help.” She hung up and turned to Nick. “Yes!”
He grinned at her.
“Come on,” she said. “Up and at ’em. We’ll pick up some breakfast on the way.”
“Me too?”
“I’ll tell her you’re an expert in antiques. You are, aren’t you?”
Nick grimaced. “I can fake it.”
“Great.” Taylor turned towards the bathroom. “Do me a favor? Call Josh Chessman and tell him I can’t see him this morning, but for heaven’s sake don’t tell him why.” She smiled. “You mind making a pot of coffee while I shower? I’ll be dressed in ten minutes.”
Nick watched her pad to the bathroom. She wore an oversize black T-shirt that ended just below her crotch and barely covered her bottom. He glimpsed a flash of white cotton panties and was suddenly fully awake and fully aroused. She didn’t even realize how sexy she looked.
She treated him as casually as though he’d been one of her sorority sisters. He must have imagined the sparks between them last night.
He’d finally fallen into a deep sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning—so deep that he hadn’t heard Taylor climb down the ladder from the loft. Only the ringing of the telephone had dragged him to consciousness. Sighing, he shoved Elmo off the sofa bed, straightened the bedclothes, closed up the sofa and slid the pillows back into place. He called Josh, but got Margery instead. With ill grace she promised to pass along the message.
Elmo jumped up on the kitchen counter and protested loudly that he was starving. Nick filled his dish and water bowl, took coffee beans out of the freezer, ground them, and made coffee. Two days and he was as integrated into Taylor’s routine as into his own.
But not into her life. Damn. He found the gym bag with his change of clothes and razor under the dining-room table and sat down to wait for the coffee and the shower. He wondered what Taylor would do or say if he were to open the shower door and join her. She’d probably deck him.
A dozen feet away, Taylor stood under the shower with her nipples at full salute. Okay, so she’d experienced truly flagrant desire for Nick at the carousel. No way could she act on it. Still, this morning when he’d rolled over and smiled up at her with those big brown eyes, it was all she could do not to leap on him and ravish him right then and there.
There wasn’t a nickel’s worth of difference between her and CeCe Washburn.
She turned the shower gradually colder and colder until she began to shiver. Goose bumps covered her arms and shoulders. Her nipples shriveled, her groin tightened. Her teeth began to chatter.
Suddenly she revolted. No man was worth this kind of torture. She turned the shower back to hot, stood under it for another minute, then shut it off.
As she dressed, she began to wish she’d spent more time shopping at Victoria’s Secret and less at K-Mart. Not that she and Nick would ever get to the point of stripping, but if—just if—they did, she’d prefer to show off something black and lacy rather than white cotton panties and a sports bra. She blew her hair dry and wondered if maybe she needed a little eye shadow and a softer pink lipstick.
One more day with Nick and she’d check in to the nearest spa for a fashion makeover and a body wrap. She gave her hair a vicious brush and curled her lip at her reflection. Then she pulled on the bulkiest black sweater she possessed, grabbed a pair of tube socks and went to find her shoes.
NICK LEFT HIS SPARE SET of Rounders keys inside Veda’s storm door with a note that said they’d be gone all day and that she could open Rounders if she wanted to. Estelle Grierson might be suspicious of the Rounders truck.
A rime of frost lay heavy on Taylor’s windshield. Nick scraped it while Taylor waited in the warm cab. On the one hand, she felt grumpy that he’d appropriated the job simply because he was the guy. On the other hand, she loved watching the muscles in his big shoulders and arms work across the windshield. If only she could appreciate him aesthetically, the way she would a Greek statue... Greek statues, however, did not have big brown eyes or gentle grins. And marble fingers would be cold, whereas Nick’s...
Drat! She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him.
On the drive down, Taylor called Mel and gave him a much-edited version of yesterday’s encounter with the person they assumed was Eugene on the carousel. She also left a message at Rico’s office about lunch, and managed to catch Marcus Cato on his way to surgery.
They picked up breakfast at a fast-food place, and Nick drove one-handed while he ate. The day shone with the pale gold clarity of a fine Chablis. There was no sign of Eugene. If he was still stalking them, he was being cleverer than usual about concealing himself.
“Dr. Cato will see me at four this afternoon at home,” she said with an exaggerated British accent.
Nick sipped his orange juice and set it back into the holder on the console. “Tell me what you think of the house.”
“Why?”
Nick chuckled. “You’ll find out.”
“Won’t you be with me? Mel wants us to stick together.”
“Eugene doesn’t strike during daylight hours. I’ve got to see Max.”
“Now wait a minute,” Taylor said and set her coffee down so hard it spattered. “Don’t you go bopping in alone.”
Nick took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a long look. “I will tell Max first off that several other people know what I know.”
“Oh, great. He picks you off and then he comes looking for me and Mel.”
“He’s not crazy.” He pulled out to pass a silver four-horse trailer. “This morning I’m not even sure he’s guilty.”
Taylor snorted.
“Maybe Eugene killed Eberhardt and set the place on fire. No finesse required.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Taylor said.
“Maybe Clara Eberhardt’s death was accidental.”
“Nick.” Taylor said quietly. “With a chisel?”
Nick shook off her words. “Maybe he went into the front room for something, picked it up—”
“Nonsense.”
For a moment Nick concentrated on his driving. Then he said, “If he’s guilty, I’ll persuade Max to turn himself in, get Rico to plead him down to voluntary manslaughter or something. I’ll stand by him, whatever happens.”
“You are crazy! He’s a murderer, he sicced his damn junkyard dog Eugene on us, he’s stolen from you, compromised your reputation, even stolen a valuable horse from a public carousel, for God’s sake. What does it take to make you see reason?”
Nick shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t abandon my friends.”
Taylor made a sound halfway between a snarl and a groan.
“Listen, Taylor,” Nick said, “I know what it’s like to be abandoned. I’ll make certain he can’t do us any harm, but even if he’s guilty, I’m not walking away from someone I love.”
TAYLOR PRESENTED NICK AS A FRIEND with some expertise in antiques. Thereafter Estelle addressed herself to him exclusively.
Estelle left the thick stack of stock certificates and CDs in Clara’s lockbox, took all the other papers, and followed them to a café on the square for lunch. After they were seated, Taylor began to sort through the papers.
Almost at once, she said, “Estelle, this is what you need.” She held a sheaf of six or seven slick yellowing pages from an old-fashioned fax machine. “Listen to this: Lowestoft service for twelve, Georgian chocolate pot circa seventeen sixty... It’s an insurance rider.”
“How does that help?”
“After lunch we’ll go to the house and match up the broken stuff with this list. You can show the insurance company that the things were destroyed and not sold.”
Estelle squeezed a slice of lemon into her iced tea. “That’s nice,” she said absently.
Taylor glanced at Nick and shrugged.
“I could use some good luck,” Estelle said. She buttered a slice of French bread and held it halfway to her lips as though she’d forgotten it was there.
Taylor laid her hand on Estelle’s right arm, the one still holding the butter knife. “Estelle, you saw those stock certificates. I know you can’t replace Clara, but just think, you can send your kids to Harvard if you like. Take a cruise. Redo the house.”
Estelle set the bread down. “No, I can’t. My husband will reinvest everything he can and sit on it like a broody hen on a nest.”
“But Estelle, it’s yours, not his.”
“He won’t see it that way.”
Taylor felt like shaking her. “What matters is the way you see it.” Estelle tamed empty eyes towards her. Taylor gave up for the moment, but vowed that whatever money was left after the Rounders problem was solved, Estelle would hang on to, by God, even if she went out and bought herself a gigolo and a cruise to Aruba.
“Don’t worry about that now,” she said. “Eat some lunch. You look exhausted.”
Estelle smiled wanly, not at Taylor but at Nick. He smiled back. Taylor rolled her eyes and dug out more papers. She found the Eberhardt’s marriage certificate and a life insurance policy on Helmut. With double indemnity it would pay Estelle as residuary beneficiary a quarter of a million dollars. Not bad for somebody who hadn’t fitted into the local sorority scene at college. Taylor wondered how many of Clara’s “prissy bitches” were doing nearly as well.
Taylor studied Estelle.
What did they know about the woman anyway? Somebody hired Eugene. Why not Estelle? She stood to make a considerable fortune from the Eberhardts’ deaths. Much more, in fact, than whoever stole the animals would make.
Taylor made a mental note to check Estelle’s whereabouts on Monday evening. The flight from Chicago took a little over an hour. Clara would have picked her up at the airport. No—that wouldn’t do. Then they’d have gone to Rounders in Clara’s car. Besides, Taylor didn’t think Estelle had the gumption to kill anyone. She seemed genuinely fond of her sister.
But maybe CPA Grierson wasn’t.
The deeper she got into this thing, the more suspects she uncovered.
The waiter brought salads crisp with radicchio and some sort of flower petals. Nick wrinkled his nose, then picked up his salad fork and gamely dug in.
Taylor shoved hers out of the way. “Bingo!” she said. “I think this is an inventory of the stuff that was in the shop.” She ran her eyes down the first sheet of a computer printout. “It’s dated the first of this month. Probably close to accurate. Eberhardt can’t have sold many pieces on a day-to-day basis.”
The list was single-spaced and ten pages long. The first column listed the item and its date of creation; the second, the amount paid to purchase it and the date it was bought; the third, what Eberhardt intended to rename the article; and the fourth, the asking price. Presumably there was another list toting up the actual sales.
“Whew!” Taylor said. “Listen to some of these. ‘Armoire, Pennsylvania, nineteen-twenty, fifty dollars.’ Sell as Amish country cupboard, late nineteenth century, five thousand dollars.’ My Lord!”
Estelle turned to Taylor. “I told you he liked to rook people.” A small smile played across her lips. “He always said it was their lookout if they didn’t know any better.”
Taylor glanced across the table at Nick. He was no longer smiling, but staring out the front window of the restaurant.
“Nick?” she said, and when he did not respond, “Nick!”
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