How to Score (19 page)

From her disapproving scowl, the woman apparently had the wrong impression. Walter put up both hands, alarmed. “Oh, no—it’s not like that,” he said quickly. “I’m her landlord.” He stepped into the office and stuck out his hand over the neat desk. “Walter Landry.”

“Oh.” The woman’s mouth softened. Her eyes did, too. The chair creaked as she rose to her feet. She had a slim figure, although it was hard to tell much about it under her boxy jacket. She reached out and took his hand. “I’m Arlene Arnette.”

“Nice to meet you.” Her hand was narrow and soft and warm. He found himself oddly reluctant to release it. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman’s hand.

“I’m the museum curator.” Arlene fingered her pearl necklace. “Can I help you with something?”

Walter pulled his brows together. “I thought Sammi was the curator.”

Arlene’s lips pinched together again. “Yes, well, she was hired as the interim curator when I was on a leave of absence and the board thought I wasn’t coming back. But I’m the
head
curator.” She smoothed her skirt. “So you’re the man who’s selling the Deshuilles-designed house?”

Oh, boy. Here came another dressing-down by another art deco buff. He straightened defensively. “Yes. The place is so tiny it’s virtually unlivable, and it needs a fortune in repairs, and the neighborhood is being transitioned to new homes, and—”

The woman held up her hand. “You don’t have to sell me.”

“Really.” He looked at her with renewed interest. Her white hair was brushed back rather severely, but she had great skin—as luminous and poreless as the inside of a shell. His wife would have said she’d probably never set foot in the sun. “I thought everyone who worked at an art deco museum would be pro-preservation no matter what.”

“This is the
Phelps
museum.” Arlene raised her chin. “Contrary to what Sammi might think, we are in the business of preserving the Phelps legacy, not every art deco building in the city.”

Walter felt himself relax. “Well, I’m certainly glad to hear it.”

“I assume you’re here to see Sammi about calling the Preservation Commission?”

Walter raised his eyebrows. “You know about that?”

“One of our museum board members also serves on the commission.” Her lips pressed into a tight, displeased line. “In my opinion, Sammi really overstepped her bounds.”

“She sure has.” Walter bobbed his head in agreement. “It’s my property, not hers.”

“And she had no business contacting a board member without my knowledge, either. The girl crossed a line.”

“A couple of them, apparently.” Walter shoved his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks. “I’m trying to unload that house so I can move to Tucson, and now she’s got the sale snagged up.”

“She’s good at snagging things up,” Arlene said. “When she gets something in her head, you can’t stop her.”

Walter nodded. “She’s stubborn as a mule. A lot like my wife.”

Arlene fingered her necklace again. “What does she think about this?”

“My wife? Oh, she’s gone. I mean, she died. Three years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Arlene got that awkward, stricken expression that people always got when he mentioned his wife’s death. “I-I’m sure you miss her.”

He nodded his head. Telling folks he was a widower was a real conversation stopper. He never knew what to say next. He decided to turn the topic back to her. “So—what about you? Are you married?”

“No.”

“Guess you’ve lost a spouse, too.”

“No. I never married.”

“That’s hard to believe.” Good heavens, why had he blurted out that? He was getting deeper and deeper into conversational quicksand. “I mean, a lovely woman like yourself. It seems like a man… ” His face heated. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, shoved them back in, then cleared his throat. “So, um, when will Sammi be done?”

“Not for at least an hour and a half. She’s holding a historical lunch.”

“What’s that?”

“One of Sammi’s big ideas. She throws a formal luncheon in the dining room and dresses up in vintage clothes, just like it’s the nineteen-thirties.”

“Unusual concept.”

Her lips pinched together. “Yes. You can count on Sammi to come up with the unusual.”

Walter grinned at her sour expression. “I take it you don’t much care for the idea.”

She shook her head. “It’s too much trouble, and it causes too much wear and tear on the place. Sammi sold the board on it while I was out. Once she sets her mind on something, she refuses to take no for an answer.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Arlene smiled. It was amazing how the expression transformed her face. Walter smiled back. The moment stretched until he suddenly realized he’d been standing there too long. He awkwardly looked at his watch. “Well, it sounds like I’ve got some time to kill, and it’s lunchtime. Are there any good restaurants around here?”

“There’s Chiquita’s Cantina, if you like Mexican food. It’s just across the street.”

“I love Mexican. Would you care to join me?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Well, I… ”

“If you don’t have plans.” What the hell was he doing? Was he actually asking her for a date? He shifted his weight to his other foot.

“Well, I brought a sandwich, but… ” She hesitated.

“To tell you the truth, I hate to eat alone,” he blurted. “It’s one of the hardest parts about being a widower.” Oh, Christ—now he sounded pathetic.

But it seemed to work.

She treated him to another smile. “I’d be delighted to join you.”

The air-conditioning inside the Phelps Museum was a welcome relief from the heat radiating off the asphalt parking lot outside. Chase closed the massive double door behind him and looked around. Wow. Black-and-white marble on the floor, an enormous chandelier, massive staircases that swirled up to the second story—it looked like Fred Astaire was going to dance out from behind one of the massive silk drapes at any moment.

The entry was deserted. A glassed-in ticket booth against the wall sported a sign that read, “Closed for lunch. Ticket sales resume at 1:30.”

Voices echoed faintly from a back room. One of them sounded like Sammi’s. Funny how just the sound of her voice made his pulse race.

He headed down the foyer toward the voices, then paused on the threshold of the dining room. He felt like he’d stumbled onto the set of a play. A dozen or more women, all wearing hats and old-fashioned clothing, sat around a long, lace-draped table set with formal china, stemware, candles, and fresh flowers. He backed away, ready to beat a silent retreat, when the slender woman at the head of the table looked straight at him.

“Chase!”

The elfin face under the feathered skullcap hat lit with a smile. The warmth of it shot straight to his head like a gulp of whiskey.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Sammi said, placing her napkin on the white tablecloth. “I’ll be right back.”

She rose and hurried toward him, the brown silk of her dowdy dress rustling as she moved. “Hello,” she said, joining him in the hallway.

“Hi, yourself. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay.” She peered at the Band-Aid at the juncture of his forehead and scalp. “How’s your head?”

“Fine. How’s yours?”

“Good as new.”

“Glad to hear it. When I saw all those feathers on your head, I was afraid your goose egg was hatching.”

She grinned and touched the silly skullcap. “This was all the rage in the 1930s.”

“It probably wasn’t very popular with the birds.”

She laughed. “Probably not. Did you stop by just to give me a hard time?”

“That’s just a side benefit. I actually stopped by to see if I could take you to lunch.”

“Oh, how nice! But I’m in the middle of an event, and”—she looked down at her outfit—“I’m not really dressed for it.”

During his first coaching conversation with Sammi, she’d bemoaned the fact she didn’t have a twenty-first-century wardrobe. This must be what she meant. “Do you dress like Mamie Eisenhower every day?”

“Only on days when I’m hosting living-history luncheons or tours.”

“How often is that?”

“I started out doing them just once a month, but they were so popular that we expanded to doing each once a week. We have a waiting list.”

“Wow. Was this your idea?”

She nodded. “My boss hates it.”

Chase craned his neck and looked into the room. “Looks like the ladies in there are having a good time.”

“Oh, they love it. We serve one of the menus that the first Mrs. Phelps actually used for a luncheon in 1932 and try to make them feel like real guests.”

“Great idea.”

“There’s a lot of interest in art deco. Unfortunately, I can’t make my landlord understand that.” Her face turned somber. “He told me last night that he’s going to sell the house to someone who’s going to tear it down.”

Chase summoned an expression of surprised dismay. “That’s a real shame.”

“Yeah. I just can’t let that happen, so I called the Historic Preservation Commission and got them to put a stay on the demolition permit.”

“Great idea.”

“It’s just a stopgap measure. But I’m trying to drum up some public support.”

“How are you doing that?”

“Well, after the luncheon, I always give a slide-show presentation about art deco in Tulsa.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “I’ve put some slides of my house in it, and I’m going to ask these ladies to contact the Preservation Commission and ask them to veto the demolition permit.”

He grinned at her cleverness.

Sammi looked over her shoulder as a maid in a long black gown with a white apron began clearing the table. “I’d better get back in there.”

Chase nodded. “We’ll do lunch another day.”

“Actually, lunch is kind of hard for me.” She tilted her head and gazed up at him. “What about dinner?”

Her hazel eyes seemed to suck all reason right out of his brain. “Great,” he found himself saying. “Are you free tonight?”

She nodded.

What was he doing? A dinner date was a real date—the kind with romantic implications. The very kind he needed to avoid. He was veering from his plan. Warning bells clanged in his head, but the pull of her gaze overrode practical considerations. “Terrific. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Okay.”

She started to walk away, then turned and flashed a smile. “I promise I’ll change clothes.”

Just don’t change into anything too sexy,
Chase thought as he crossed the empty lobby, his footsteps echoing on the marble. If she had this kind of effect on him when she was dressed like Mary Poppins and looked like she had a bird perched on her head, he’d hate to see his reaction if she wore something low cut and clingy.

“Thank you so much, dearie.” The heavily rouged gray-haired lady in the pink hat and petunia-printed dress stopped on her way out of the mansion’s massive double doors forty minutes later and took Sammi’s hand. “Everything was just wonderful.”

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” Sammi said warmly. “Thank you for coming.”

The woman’s crow’s-feet crinkled. “I’m going to write the Preservation Commission about saving that little house, just like you suggested.”

“I will, too,” chimed in a lady in blue-and-white-dotted chiffon.

“Me, three,” said a tiny woman who looked like Dr. Ruth.

“Thank you.” Every letter the commission got would strengthen her case. “Good-bye.” Sammi waved as the women shuffled out the door, then turned to see her landlord and Ms. Arnette standing side-by-side in the foyer.

“Mr. Landry.” Her stomach tightened. There was only one reason he would be here, and it wasn’t for a tour.

Ms. Arnette tilted up her chin. “We need to talk to you, Sammi.”

We? Sammi’s gaze darted from one to the other. Since when had the two of them even met, much less formed an alliance?

“I had a call from Mr. Gordon.” Ms. Arnette’s eyes were oddly glassy, but her mouth had that tight, I-just-sucked-a-lemon look that Sammi had come to dread.

“And my realtor received a call from the Historic Preservation Commission,” Mr. Landry added.

Oh, boy. They were double-teaming her. Sammi pulled herself to her full height and braced for an assault.

“You called a board member behind my back,” Ms. Arnette said accusingly.