Authors: Kate Collins

Sleeping with Anemone (27 page)

BOOK: Sleeping with Anemone

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“No lights on inside or out,” I said. “Either the owner isn’t home or is asleep.”

Rafe checked his watch. “It’s not even nine o’clock yet. I’ll go with not home.”

I parked in a visitor’s parking area down the block, and sat in the car, deciding what to do. Did I ring the bell and see if anyone answered the door? Talk to neighbors to find out the identity of the town house’s occupants? What would Marco do?

Rafe opened the door and got out.

“Where are you going?” I called.

“To see who lives at that address.”

I jumped out of the car, shut the door, and hurried after him. “We need a plan.”

“I don’t know the person who lives there,” Rafe called over his shoulder, “and she doesn’t know me, so what’s the harm in knocking on the door?”

“But the person might know me, and that might not be a good thing.”

“Then stay out of sight.”

Rafe was not a chip off Marco’s block; that was certain. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to talk to the neighbors first?”

“That’s the girly way to do it.” He started up the sidewalk to the front door of 1643, so I dashed for a nearby shrub and crouched behind it—in two inches of snow.

Rafe knocked, waited, rang the bell several times, and waited some more.

“No one’s home,” I called. “Let’s go.”

“What do you know?” he said. “It’s not locked.”

Unlocked door? No one answering? I knew what Marco would do. He’d phone the police. I peeked around the shrub and saw Rafe step inside the house.

Exactly what I would have done.

I jumped up and ran after him. “Wait, Rafe! Don’t touch anything!”

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone home? I’m coming in now.”

By the time I stepped inside, the younger Salvare was checking out the living room of the narrow, two-story home. “Look at that giant TV,” he said. “Someone has some big bucks.”

I left the door partway open in case we had to make a run for it. “Don’t touch anything with your bare fingers. You don’t want to leave prints.”

“I have a delivery,” Rafe called, standing in the kitchen doorway.

He used the edge of his jacket to flip the light switch on. I peered under his arm and saw a kitchen filled with high-end appliances—Bosch, Viking—with lots of black marble counter space and tall, cream-colored cabinets. On the island sat a glossy red dinner plate containing a half-eaten pork chop and a mound of mashed potatoes, with an open beer bottle beside it.

“Looks like someone didn’t clean his plate,” I said. I pulled up my coat sleeve and used my wrist to test the temperature of the bottle. Warm. I touched the potatoes with a knuckle. Cold.

Rafe used his jacket again to open a door and peer through the doorway. “One-car garage, no car.”

Front door was open, car was gone, and dinner was half eaten. “We’d better leave, Rafe. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“It’ll take just a moment to check out the upstairs.”

It took just a moment to fall off a cliff, too.

“Delivery,” Rafe announced again, leading the way up the oak staircase. He proceeded cautiously, pausing to listen every few steps as he repeated his call.

A clock in the entryway began to chime. When it struck ten, I realized my mistake. “Rafe, we’re on Eastern time here!” I whispered. “Someone could be asleep up there.”

“Too late now,” he whispered back, and stepped around a corner. Hearing nothing, I followed.

The first doorway opened into an opulent bathroom, with more black marble counters and double sinks, gold fixtures, a glassed-in shower-for-two, and a big Jacuzzi tub. I used a tissue to open a cabinet below one sink and saw the usual cleaning products, roll of paper towels, extra toilet paper, and the same beneath the other sink.

In a medicine cabinet in the side wall next to one sink I found an assortment of bandages, skin lotions, and over-the-counter cold remedies. The medicine cabinet on the opposite side had toothpaste, mouthwash, shaving cream, and men’s deodorant.

I pulled out the drawers below the under-sink cabinets, but save for traces of loose face powder, a few long, golden blond hairs, and smudges of lipstick, they’d been cleaned out.

“Looks like two people live here,” I said, “but it’s odd that all the woman’s products are gone and not the man’s.”

“Maybe she ran away with another guy,” Rafe said. “Maybe her husband hasn’t come home yet.”

“Maybe we should leave before he gets here.”

But Rafe was already through the next doorway into a bedroom decorated in beige and blue. “Don’t leave prints!” I reminded him.

“Nothing in the closet or dresser,” Rafe reported. “Must be a guest room.”

Across the hall was a second bedroom done in pinks and purples, silks and satins, with a plump, quilted silk head-board and a pile of furry throw pillows. I opened one of two closets opposite the bed to find a row of empty hangers. Rafe opened the other closet and found men’s clothing—jeans, plaid work shirts, corduroy jackets, and the like—most of it folded and stacked on shelving.

“The guy must work with his hands,” Rafe said. “No suits, ties, or dress shoes.”

He checked a drawer in the bedside table. “Magazine, box of tissues, phone book . . . Aw, look. A Valentine.” Rafe opened it, then showed it to me.

Beneath the verse was a signature scrawled in large, heavy handwriting:
Tom.

Harding?

“Hello?” I heard a man call from downstairs. “Who’s up there?”

I glanced at Rafe in shock. He motioned for me to stay quiet. “Who’s down there?”

“You first,” came a male voice.

“I told you we should have left,” I whispered. “What are we going to use as our excuse?”

“We got the wrong house?”

“Never mind. Let me handle it.”

“Okay, but open your coat and undo a few buttons of your shirt first.”

I gave him a scowl.

We crept up the hallway and peered around the corner to see down the staircase to the front hallway.

Four sheriff’s deputies had their weapons aimed at us.

Damn.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
he limo idled half a block away from the police station. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “What do you want me to do?”

“Follow them.”

The driver put the big sedan in gear and eased out onto the street. Nothing easier than tailing a bright yellow Corvette. Those two showing up here had been something of a surprise, though, especially coming on the heels of that broad slipping away before she could be silenced.

The driver cast another glance in the mirror. It always amazed him how well his boss hid his feelings. It was only the
clickity-click
of those tiny seashells he was palming that indicated how hard his brain was working.

“Bad luck tonight, huh?” he commented, trying to make conversation.

“For now.”

“What do we do about the florist?”

“Nothing for now. She doesn’t realize what she has, so it will be merely a matter of looking for it where we failed to look before. Then I’ll decide whether we need to do anything more with her.”

The driver shook his head. “I don’t know, boss. You might have a problem with her boyfriend. He seems to be attached to her at the hip.”

“She will be without him sometime. And then we’ll make our move.”

“I am so busted,” Rafe said as we sped along the Red Arrow Highway, heading for Indiana. He had the passenger seat tilted back as far as it would go and one arm flung across his eyes. “What are you going to tell my brother?”

“I’m thinking.”

It was midnight Michigan time, eleven o’clock p.m. at home, where a very perturbed Salvare awaited our arrival. Thanks to a vigilant neighborhood watch group, we had spent the last hour and a half at the New Buffalo police station, answering questions and being printed and photographed, hoping and praying that my dear friend Reilly would come through for us.

Bless Reilly’s heart, he did. He called a cop he knew in New Buffalo and arranged our release, although he grumbled when he learned I’d referred to him as
my extremely close friend and New Chapel police sergeant
. Still, I didn’t know how I’d ever repay him.

But first I had to figure out how to explain everything to Marco.

“Okay, how’s this?” I asked Rafe. “We’ll say that I had to go to New Buffalo anyway because . . . Forget it. He wouldn’t buy it. Do you have any ideas?”

“Honesty is the best policy,” Rafe said. “That’s what Mama always taught us.”

“You’re right.” I sighed morosely. “I’ll have to confess.” He sat upright. “Are you out of your mind?”

“You just said honesty was the best policy.”

“I’m not rational. Don’t listen to me.” Rafe flopped backward against the seat. “I shouldn’t have listened to
you
; that’s for sure.”

“Hey! You were just as eager to get out this evening as I was. Don’t even start with me.”

Rafe sighed. “Sorry. I just don’t want Marco to send me back to Ohio.”

“Why not? I got the impression you lived like a prince there.”

“Who told you that? Do you seriously think my mom would treat me like a prince? Have you met the woman? She’s an Italian commando. Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to have your mother telling you what to do all the time, and comparing you to your older, successful brother and sisters.”

Actually, I did know.

“It’s not my fault I’m different than them,” he muttered.

Boy, I heard that loud and clear. It made me feel even more remorseful for involving Rafe in my scheme. “Look, I do understand what you’re going through, so take my advice. Do something completely different than your siblings so there won’t be any way to compare the six of you.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Surprise them. And I promise I won’t let Marco send you home. I’ll tell him you didn’t want to come with me, but I twisted your arm, okay?”

“Awesome. Thanks. So I can still use your car tomorrow, right?”

I had a feeling I’d been played.

When I pulled into my parking spot, Marco was leaning against his Prius, arms folded, an inscrutable look on his face. Rafe saw him and groaned. “This is gonna be bad.”

I took a deep breath, stuffed my anxiety inside a balloon, and blew it out. Time to face the music. I glanced at Rafe. “Ready?”

We got out and slammed the doors. “Hey, bro,” Rafe said, striding around to the passenger side of Marco’s car. “I’m beat. Let’s go.”

“Hold it,” Marco said. “Come back here.”

I stood beside my car, twisting my keys in my hand. Marco was one parking space away. “You, too,” he said to me. “Come here.”

Like errant schoolchildren, we stood in front of him, guilty looks on our faces. “I can explain,” I said, shivering in the cold night air. “This wasn’t Rafe’s fault.”

“You’re cold. Let’s go inside and talk about it,” Marco said.

“Now?” Rafe asked. “It’s eleven thirty.”

Marco shot him a look and Rafe shut up.

At my apartment, I offered beers to the brothers and both accepted. I handed out the beers; then Marco asked us to sit on the sofa. He rolled the desk chair around so he could face us. “Okay, Abby, you first.”

Why was I thinking
Spanish Inquisition
?

Here we go, Abby
.
Make it good
. I began by explaining how important it was for my own peace of mind to know Harding’s condition, and that I’d only been looking out for
Marco’s
peace of mind when I didn’t tell him I’d gone to the hospital to find out. If I
had
told him, would he have been able to concentrate on his work? No. Would he have worried? Yes. Ergo, zipped lips.

Marco said nothing.

Next, I explained that Nikki had stumbled upon the existence of H. Bebe, and that I’d felt it important to find out if she was Charlotte’s sister.

Marco still had no comment.

Finally, I said it was my idea to try the front door, and having found it unlocked, I checked inside the house to make sure there hadn’t been any foul play. Unfortunately, the neighbors saw us and called the police. Fortunately, Reilly cleared us. Then I sat back and waited.

Marco leaned forward. “Tell me what you learned.”

“Not to leave the apartment without letting you know our plans.”

“I meant,” Marco said, “what did you learn when you went inside the house?”

“Oh.” What? No lecture? I glanced at Rafe, and he shrugged.

“Okay,” I said, “judging by the half-eaten plate of food and open bottle of beer, and no car in the garage, I got the impression that someone left in a big hurry.”

“Temperature of the food?” Marco asked.

“Mashed potatoes were cold; beer was warm.”

BOOK: Sleeping with Anemone

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