Sleeping with Anemone (18 page)

“I don’t know, but next time you see him, call me. I can be there sooner than the cops. Is Tara okay?”

“A bit shaken. She had Kathy pick her up right after Raand left.”

“Are you okay?”

“A little unnerved, which I’m sure is what Raand wanted.”

Marco was mulling something over. I could see his jaw muscles working. “Was the brooch the only item stolen both times?”

“As far as we can tell, yes.”

“And both times, it was Jillian who wanted to purchase a brooch?”

“Yes, but she didn’t know anything about the first one until Grace told her. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Maybe Jillian is the one playing games.”

“By stealing Mom’s brooches? Why would she do that?”

“Think about it. You wear a beret; Jillian wears a beret. You wore a brooch; then she wanted to buy a brooch. You were engaged to an Osborne; she got engaged to an Osborne. See where I’m going with this?”

“Yes. You’re saying my cousin is a thief with bad taste in men.”

“She likes to copy you—that’s all I’m saying.”

“If she wanted the brooch, she has the money to buy it.”

“Maybe it’s more fun to make you look for it. It’s something to keep in mind, anyway. By the way, did Jillian tell you whether she identified anyone in the lineup?”

“She picked out Hudge as the van driver. And Lottie picked him out as the UPS guy.”

Marco shook his head. “I can’t believe how inept Hudge was to let Jillian see his face. It’s as though he never considered she might ID him.”

“So wouldn’t you think that after Hudge and Charlotte botched the first attempt to kidnap me, Raand would find someone else? Or if not, then surely after the second failed attempt? It bothers me that he continued to let them try, because it seems out of keeping with Raand’s character.”

“I’m with you on that. Raand was surely savvy enough to realize that the more those two screwed up, the more likely they were to be caught and lead the police back to him. Still, we can’t discount the evidence Morgan mentioned. If it decisively connects Raand to the kidnappers, then he’s their guy.”>

“I’d feel better knowing what that evidence was.”

“You just have to have a little patience, Abby, while the detectives do their job. In the meantime, I’m doing my job—keeping you safe.”

At my apartment building, Marco pulled the Vette into my assigned parking space and shut off the engine. “We’re home. What’s for supper?”

I was supposed to have supper ready?

“Just kidding,” he said. “I brought food.” Then he reached for a bag in his backseat.

As long as it wasn’t more greasy pork, it worked for me.

 

Marco took out a package of ground beef, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and a pound of whole wheat pasta and set them on the counter. “Perfect,” I told him.

Then he pulled out a thick mailing envelope and set it on the counter, too. “From my mom. Take a guess what’s inside.”

“Another bridal magazine.” I opened it up and showed him. “I stand corrected. It’s a pattern book for bridal wear. She’s branching out.”

“Now her comment makes sense. She said to tell you she’s an excellent seamstress.”

“Your mom wants to make my gown?”

Marco shrugged. “I’m only the messenger.”

“Tell her I said thanks—again.” I opened the front hallway closet and tossed the pattern book onto the growing pile of wedding-themed magazines.

Marco washed his hands at the sink. “If you show me where the ingredients are, I’ll whip up a salad.”

I pointed to the refrigerator.

“How about a knife?”

I pointed to the knife block on the counter.

“Olive oil?”

I pointed to the cabinet where we kept our supplies. “Are you new in town?”

“How about spices?”

“Same cabinet. Wait. What spices do you put in a salad?”

“Italian spices, I guess.”

“Seriously? I use sea salt and black pepper.”

He reached for the phone. “I’ll call my mother and find out what she uses.”

I grabbed the phone from him. No way did I want Francesca Salvare to know I was a bland, uninspired cook. Her meals could rival those of the best chefs in Italy. I opened the cabinet and searched among the spices, pulling out oregano and basil. “Italian spices. There you go.”

While Marco tore lettuce and chopped tomatoes, I browned beef in a skillet and cooked the pasta. It wasn’t easy for two adults to work in a small galley kitchen, so we found ourselves constantly bumping into each other, until soon the bumping became more deliberate, more sensual . . . and then more than just the pasta was cooking in that kitchen.

“
A
bby,” Marco murmured, his breath hot against my throat as I sat on the edge of the counter, my legs wrapped around his hips, “it’s burning.”

“Same here,” I panted.

“The beef, Abby.”

Oh. Right.

Fortunately, we were able to save our meal from total annihilation. And once the candles were lit, the wine was poured, and the food was on the table, I was ready for a relaxing meal with my hero. We sipped wine, smiling at each other across the glow of the candle. “So,” I purred, “what do you have in mind for dessert, Hotshot?”

With an apologetic glance, Marco explained that he’d taken on a new PI case and would have to leave soon to do surveillance work.

“So you’ll be gone all evening?”

“Right. And you’ll need to decide whether you want to come along on the stakeout with me or find someone to stay here with you.”

Those were my choices? Be babysat or hunch down in Marco’s car in the dark for hours on a cold, workday evening? Not a chance. “I choose to stay here but I don’t need a sitter. No one is going to get past that new dead bolt you installed on our door.”

“Locks aren’t foolproof, Abby. I’d feel better if someone was here with you. How about my sister?”

Right, and spend my evening watching Gina change diapers and make comments about how she is positive Marco wants to be a daddy soon? “No, thanks, Marco. Your nephew’s bedtime is eight o’clock. I wouldn’t want to disrupt their schedule when it’s not even necessary for someone to be here with me.”

“Okay, then how about Jillian?”

“How about I jump out the window?”

“Abby.”

“Marco, I’ll be fine. Stop treating me like I’m helpless.”

He thought about it while he finished his wine. “You’re right. You’re anything but helpless. Let’s clear the table; then I need to get going.”

 

An hour after Marco left, he phoned. “Everything okay?”

“You bet. I was just doing some research to see if I could locate Charlotte’s sister.”

“Abby.”

“I’m bored, Marco. I need something to keep my mind occupied. Anyway, there are two Bebes in the phone book but neither is related—”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I have to take some photos.” The line went dead.

At eight thirty, he phoned again, asking quietly, “How’s it going?”

“Still bored,” I said. What I didn’t say was how frustrated I was, as well. Except for the article about the kidnapping in yesterday’s paper, I hadn’t found anything on the Internet about Charlotte or any Bebe relatives.

“Sorry, Sunshine. I’m on the move. I’ll give you a call later.” He hung up.

Not sure whether to be grateful to him for checking on me or annoyed that he felt the need, I continued my search. Finally, I located a listing for C. H. Bebe in Maraville, a city a half hour away, but when I dialed the number, there was no answer and no machine to pick up.

My intercom buzzed, startling me. I debated about pretending I wasn’t home, then decided I’d be safer letting my visitor know someone was in residence. I answered with a terse, “Who is it?”

“Reilly,” came the crackly reply.

I started to buzz him in, then decided I’d better play it safe. “Give me your name, rank, and serial number.”

“Sergeant Sean Reilly, and you don’t know my serial number, so how would you know whether I was telling the truth?”

“Badge number, I mean.”

“You don’t know my badge number, either. Would you just let me in? I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Yep. It was Reilly. I buzzed him in, then waited by the door. Once he was visible in the spyglass, I unchained and unlocked the door. “What’s up, Reilly? Why aren’t you in uniform?”

“Marco asked me to stop by after bowling tonight.”

Unbelievable. Marco had called a sitter after all. “Listen, Reilly, you don’t need to stay. I’m fine by myself. Marco is being a worrywart.”

Reilly rubbed his chin. “The thing is, I owe him a favor and I’d like to pay it off. So I’ll stay a while and then get out of your hair, okay?”

Hmm. As long as he was there, maybe I could get him to divulge more information. “Sure. Come on in. Would you like a beer?”

“Sounds great.”

“Hey, take a look at my computer screen, would you?” I called from the kitchen.

I grabbed a Bud Light from the fridge and took it to him. Reilly had already seated himself in front of my monitor and was reading the information I’d pulled up.

“You’re researching Charlotte Bebe? Why?”

“Because I thought if I located her sister, she’d tell me if Raand was behind the kidnappings.”

“Just like that she’s gonna admit that she or her sister was involved in an illegal activity?”

“Haven’t I persuaded you to tell me things you really didn’t want to?”

He scowled at me. “Pull up a chair.”

I did so, and then watched as he typed in a Web address.

“Okay, here’s the site you need—GDS2, a desktop search tool.”

I leaned in to take a closer look. “Wow. That’s good to know.”

“But you’re wasting your time with this search because the prosecutor has already decided to go after Raand. And between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy isn’t in chains this time tomorrow. Done and done.”

“What will the charge be?”

“Conspiracy.”

“Does the prosecutor have enough on Raand to charge him?”

“Are you kidding? Our DA? You know what he’s like. He could indict a ham sandwich, as the saying goes.”

Boy, did I know that. In times past, District Attorney Darnell had gone after both Marco and me based on circumstantial evidence. From a prosecutor’s standpoint, it was always politically advisable to find the likeliest suspect and arrest him—or her—quickly, so the jittery public felt safe again. Unfortunately, that meant once a person was in Darnell’s crosshairs, guilty or not, look out.

“What if Raand isn’t the guy?” I asked.

Reilly gave me a perplexed look. “You can’t stand the guy. Why are you even bringing that up?”

“Because I keep thinking about the incompetence of the kidnappers, and somehow I don’t see Raand hiring them.”

“Maybe he had someone else hire them. You know, delegate?”

I sighed. “Marco mentioned that, too.”

“But you’re not convinced, so you’ll keep poking into things until you tick someone off.”

“I might be convinced if I knew what the evidence was.”

Reilly pushed back the chair, grabbed the bottle of beer, and made himself comfortable on the sofa. “Any games on TV tonight?”

I plucked the remote from the coffee table and held it out of reach. “Can’t you tell me one little thing, such as whether you saw anything in the file about a note from Raand?”

“Why do you do this to me? I knew I should’ve found another way to repay Marco, but no. I have to be Mr. Nice Guy.”

“How about Charlotte Bebe’s autopsy report?” I asked. “I mean, there’s no harm in saying what the cause of death was, is there? Please?”

Reilly sighed. “If I tell you that, will you drop the subject and give me the remote?”

“Yes.”

“Massive trauma to the chest and head.”

“Caused by—?”

“A vehicle.”

“Type of vehicle?”

Reilly glowered. “The tread pattern and size of tire are the type normally used by a van or SUV.”

“A van like the one Dwayne Hudge drove?”

“No way of knowing.”

“But it wasn’t semitrailer tires, right?”

“Right.”

That was proof enough for me. Hudge ran down his partner. He must have truly believed Charlotte and her sister were going to double-cross him. That meant finding Charlotte’s sister just became my number-one goal.

Reilly held out his hand, so I tossed him the remote. “Here you go.”

I went back to the computer, typed
Bebe
in the GDS2 search box, and came up with a long list of names, none of them local. I stared at the list, tapping my fingers on the desk. Now what? Track down each one of them? I sighed in frustration.

A ding alerted me to an incoming e-mail, so I clicked on it and saw a letter from one of the PAR members, wanting an update on the dairy farm protests.