With Deadly Intent (19 page)

Simon stared at her for an instant, then glanced at B.J. who beamed at them in a paternal
manner. “Suppose it is,” he mumbled and picked up a magazine.

Scared him
. She put on her glasses and settled the bridge into place on her nose.
I never did know how to flirt.

B.J. adjusted his propped leg to a more comfortable angle and leaned back against the
cushions. “Something I better tell you two so you won't be expecting any help from
Sheriff Calder. He's buckin' for a cushy job and I suspect he's willing to do most
anything to come out of this case a winner.”

Amy made a face. “God help the justice system. Talk about a narrow mind. Tom's convinced
of Oren's guilt. If someone else came in and gave the old buzzard a signed confession,
I'll lay odds he wouldn't accept it.”

Simon put down his magazine. “Wait'll he learns about Dr. Tambor.”

“Oh, he already has. He showed up at Helen's house this morning breathing fire. He not
only accused Oren of doing in Dr. Tambor, but of running down Dad as well. Crazy.
Absolutely crazy.” She glanced at her father. “Can you picture Oren doing such a
terrible thing?”

“Um-m-m,” B.J. mumbled without meeting her gaze.

She stared at him in dismay. Had he begun to doubt Oren's innocence?

B.J. gnawed his lip and peered over at her. “You ask Virgil to look at my car?”

“He'll be here in the morning.”

“What about my cellular phone?”

“I'll take it into Anacortes tomorrow.” She frowned and changed the subject. “Those
blood-stained articles have to be analyzed, Dad. Time's running out.”

B.J. ran a hand over his face and stirred restlessly. “I talked to the prosecuting
attorney while you were getting dinner. The town council had an emergency meeting.
They've arranged for a medical examiner from Olympia to replace me for a few weeks. Dr.
Laroche is a good man.” His shoulders drooped and he took in a deep breath. “Problem is,
he can't get here until next week.”

Amy noticed his increased pallor and stood up. “What say we get you to bed?” She expected
him to protest, but he didn't.

After she and Simon had made him as comfortable as possible, she leaned over and gave him
a kiss. “Have a good night.” She turned to Simon. “You'll enjoy the guest room. My great
grandfather brought that carved four-post bed from Madagascar or some such exotic
place.”

Simon avoided meeting her eyes. “Uh, B.J. and I thought"—he threw her father a beseeching
look—"we were thinking it might be best if ... Oh, hell, B.J. you tell her.”

She folded her arms across her chest. The two men had been conspiring again. “Spill it,
Dad.”

B.J.'s brows met in a fierce scowl. “Now don't get all huffy, Amy. I knew damned well you
wouldn't move in here, so"—he raised his chin in a belligerent gesture—"I persuaded
Simon to sleep in the spare room at the cottage.”

She glared at Simon. “Of all the crazy, asinine ideas. Just because you're a guest here
doesn't mean you have to go along with everything Dad suggests, you know.”

Simon digested her comment with a grave expression. “I'm not a guest. B.J. insisted on
putting our arrangement on an employer/employee basis.”

For an instant, Amy experienced a curious sense of loss. She firmed her jaw to halt the
traitorous tremor of her lips.

“Besides,” Simon went on hastily as if expecting an outburst from her. “His idea sounded
sensible to me. Once the alarm is on, nobody can get near B.J.”

“Well, I'm not going along with it.”

“Come on, kitten. You know how flimsy the locks are at the cottage. It's not safe for you
to be there by yourself.”

“You shouldn't be alone either. What if you should fall?”

“We have our intercom. If I have a problem, I'll call you.”

She blew out her breath. “You promise?”

“Yes. Yes. Now, run along. I'm tired.”

She stood at the door looking back at her father. “I still don't like it.”

Simon took her arm and eased her toward the front hall. “Probably won't be for more than
a couple of nights. We should hear about Dr. Tambor soon.” He took his suitcase from the
hall closet, helped her on with her coat, and put on his windbreaker.

“We'll need a flashlight.” She located one, rejoined him and went through the door he
held open. Rain drummed on the front porch roof. She sighed, returned to the coat closet
and brought him a yellow slicker. “You'd better put this on or you'll get soaked.”

He backed away. “I'll be all right.”

She doubled up her fist and shook it under his nose. “Put it on, dammit, or I'll sock you
one.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He took the coat from her.

Her face grim, she selected one of the keys that hung on a chain around her neck and
turned on the alarm.

Simon moved closer. “Sorry, we ganged up on you. I had to agree to his scheme. He's
worried something will happen to you.”

“I know.” She pulled up the hood of her raincoat. “It's too dark to take the short-cut
through the trees. We'd better follow the driveway.”

When they moved away from the protection of the house, water pelted them. Cold needlelike
spray stinging her face, she skirted the grove of Douglas fir where wind thrashed
sweeping branches and tossed limbs in their path.

She grasped his hand. “Watch your step, the grass is slippery.” She guided him down the
slope.

They reached the cottage's glassed-in back porch and clambered up the steps. She flipped
on the light and grinned at his sodden appearance. “I'll bet our rain is wetter than
England's.”

Simon laughed. “Could be. London's is a grimy puree.” He hung the borrowed slicker on a
wooden rack in the corner and looked around. “Where's your little black cocker? I
haven't seen her since we arrived.”

She turned so he couldn't see her face and hastily unlocked the back door. Simon saw too
much. Heard too much. Lying to him packed a risk. She switched on the light. “Let's get
a fire started. My ancient furnace can't compete with the drafts.” She set off down the
short hall.

With him at her heels, she stopped briefly in the kitchen to point out the plate rail
above her great grandmother's pine table in the dining alcove. In the living room, she
knelt on the hearth and began to crumple newspaper and lay kindling on top.

Simon stooped to examine a deacon's bench and straightened her bedraggled Raggedy Ann
doll in one corner. “You've got a neat place here.” He sat in a padded glide rocker and
smiled contentedly. “It fits you.”

She struck a match and ignited the paper. “Does that mean I'm ancient, antique, and
plain?”

He smiled. “None of the above.”

She arranged logs on top of the crackling cedar kindling and closed the fire screen.
“Bring your bag. The guest room's upstairs. Nothing fancy, but the bed is comfortable.”

As they passed her room, she paused at the sound of a loud meow. When she was home, she
usually left her window open so Marcus could come in and sleep on her bed. She swung the
door inward and he marched into the hall with his head held regally erect.

“Well, now, who's this?” Simon bent down on his knees and began to make small chirping
noises. Within minutes, he had the yellow Manx purring and rubbing against his leg.

Amy watched in astonishment. “His name's Marcus Aurelius. Marcus for short. He's usually
not friendly to strangers.”

He smiled up at her. “Perhaps he knows I'm a friendly stranger.” He sobered and got to
his feet. “What happened to your dog, Amy?”

Her up-flung hand failed to muffle her startled gasp. “She ... uh, she died.” She ducked
her head and tried to brush by him.

He caught her arm and swung her to face him. “When?”

A cold lump gathered in her stomach. “I ... I'm not sure.”

His grip tightened. “Before or after B.J.'s accident?” His eyes bored into hers.

How far could she go without him guessing? “The same night.” She wet her dry throat. “I
... I think.”

The lines in his face deepened. “How?”

Her nerves drew taut. “P—poison.” He continued to stare into her eyes and her nervousness
increased. Unable to stand his stern appraisal any longer, she stooped, picked up
Marcus, and pressed a burning cheek against his fur. If Simon suspected the truth, he
and her father would turn the place into a prison.

Simon folded his arms and scowled at her. “That's all you know?”

She didn't trust her voice so she nodded.

He exhaled deeply. “You and your mulish independence. It'd be just like you to keep
something to yourself.”

“That'd be stupid, wouldn't it?” She set Marcus free, hurried into the spare room and
began to fluff pillows and turn down blankets.

He stood at the door observing her. “Yes, it would, Amy,” he said quietly. “Real stupid.”

Amy placed her forefinger under the sentence she'd reread five times in the last twenty
minutes and went over her conversation with Simon. She squirmed uncomfortably. The man
had a knack of making her doubt the wisdom of her decisions. She heard a sound and
looked up as he came down the stairs.

“I'm going for a walk,” he said, and took off for the back door.

She stared after him. Evidently he'd decided to set the rules for tolerating confinement
with his employer's daughter. Number one: I'll stay out of your hair and you stay out of
mine.

She sighed, wriggled tensed shoulder muscles and looked down at the book in her lap. This
was not the time to dwell on Simon. She'd have to hit the books if she expected to
finish her evening forensic specialty class with the rest of her group.

An hour passed, and she became so engrossed that the sound of Simon shouting from the
back door startled her.

“I'm all sand and sea spray. What do you want me to do?”

“Hang on a second.” She joined him and opened a recessed door on one side of the hall.
“One of my more ingenious ancestors solved the sand and salt problem. Follow me.”

She flipped the light switch and descended wooden steps. Gray cement walls absorbed what
little illumination the dangling low watt bulb put out. “Sorry for the mess. This is
where most of my cast-off junk lands.” She gestured to a shadowy corner where two
three-legged chairs teetered on top of a paint-smeared chest of drawers. Clam guns,
shovels, and fishing poles of various sizes occupied another corner. Cans of paint, jars
filled with nails, screws, nuts, and bolts ranged along a shelf mounted beneath hinged
half windows.

She pointed to overhead wires. “I hung my wash down here until I got my dryer. Over
here"—she walked to a raised cement structure set in the middle of the wall—"is the gray
ghost's coffin.” It was oblong, about the size and depth of a bathtub and a short piece
of hose dangled from a mixer faucet.

“You just drape your slicker over that hanger up there, give the whole thing a good
spraying and let it drip dry.” She stood by as he followed her instructions.

“Works like a charm,” he said, when he finished.

She handed him a towel to dry his hands. “Yep. The pit's ugly as sin, but using it sure
saves your neck and wrists from getting chafed with hardened salt spray.”

Simon's eyes glinted above wind-reddened cheeks. “You inherited good genes.” He followed
her up the stairs. “It's spectacular out there with the great white plumes of sea water
exploding against the cliffs. I could learn to love your island.”

“You should see Otter Inlet by moonlight, or on a blue and gold day.”

His expression grew solemn. “It's not good for a journalist to get attached to a place
... or a person.” He increased the distance between them. “I ... uh ... have to get to
work. My head's teeming with words. I'd better get them on paper.” He ran up to his
room, returned with a blue spiral notebook and disappeared into the dining alcove.

She drummed the couch's wooden arm with her fingers. He wasn't what you'd call a
stimulating companion. She picked up her book. At the end of half an hour, she found
she'd read and reread the same page and couldn't remember a word. She gave up, and
stacked the record player with some of her 1940's big band collection. The sounds of
Benny Goodman, Jimmy Dorsey, and Harry James always put her in a dreamy, senior-prom
sort of mood.

Simon appeared before the first tune ended. He shuffled through the dust covers she'd
stacked on the table. “You've got some great ones. I didn't know you were a collector
too.” When the smooth notes of a Glen Miller classic began, he held out his hand. “Let's
not waste this.”

She hesitated. “What about your ankle?”

“No problem. I'm practically pain free.”

She lay her glasses on an end table and went into his arms. She'd done little ballroom
dancing and she felt like a stick. Simon made no comment, and as she relaxed he
maneuvered her into more intricate steps. However, the crowded furniture prevented him
from doing anything too fancy so her lack of skill didn't matter.

With each tune, the space between them lessened. His nearness muddled her thoughts and
made her tremble inside. He rested his cheek on her hair, put both arms around her, and
swayed to the music. She held him close, enjoying the wonderful warmth of his body, the
thunderous beat of his heart against her ear.

His hands slid down her back, pressing her into the contours of his body.
So good.
Her chest swelled until she could scarcely breath. She longed to belong somewhere, to
feel needed. Could she make him care for her as he had for Julie?

“Oh, damn.” He drew in a deep breath, then another and another, each more tremulous than
the last. “Amy?” He moved her gently against him. Before she could react to his unspoken
question, he put her from him. “I'd better get back to my writing.”