KNOCK ME OFF MY FEET

by Susan Donovan

  Russell Ketchum was already ruled out. And Griffin was not even a possibility.

  And Tim Burke. God, she wished he'd stop bugging her, but she doubted it was him. The letters didn't sound like Tim. His talent lay in putting a super-duper spin on just anything and everything! Audie could see Tim writing the press release for the grand reopening of the Union Carbide plant in Bhopal, but not those letters.

  How pitiful that list looked when she put it in writing—six men in ten years, and yes, she'd left out a few nearly anonymous encounters she'd rather forget. But that list was the truth. It was fact. And if her love life was baseball, she'd have mighty lame stats: Six at bats. Six errors. Maybe a couple blooper singles but definitely no homers, no stolen bases, and no runs batted in.

  Audie took a sip of her iced tea and sighed. She supposed she'd seen something she wanted in each of those men—wit in Will Dalton, an amazing body in Darren Billings, determination in Russell Ketchum, savvy intelligence in Kyle Singer, charm in Tim Burke, and a good heart and a killer smile in Griffin.

  And she supposed some of them found something worthwhile in her, but it never seemed right enough. It never amounted to anything special.

  Audie felt her stomach clench with dread. Realistically, if it wasn't one of those men, then who else could it be?

  It could be her brother.

  Oh, God, Drew. Why?

  Audie stared out the window wistfully. No, she and Drew weren't exactly close, and she didn't especially admire her brother for his moral fortitude. But she never thought of him as a cruel person or an evil person.

  Besides, why in the world would Drew do something like this? What would it accomplish? If he had something to say, why didn't he just come right out and say it?

  Helen's will had stipulated that if Audie quit the column after the current contract expired, she had two choices—she could either give it to Drew or sell the rights and split the profits with him fifty-fifty.

  Audie knew that Drew would never want the responsibility of the column. All his life, he'd avoided work like it was a flesh-eating disease. So was he trying to force her to sell so he could get his hands on half the assets? Was he that desperate for money these days? And if so, why didn't he just tell her what he needed?

  Her brain hurt just trying to sort this out. Her heart hurt at the idea that her brother would do this to her.

  Audie was startled out of her thoughts by the sudden appearance of Griffin's face, his nose and lips squished up against the window glass.

  "You're so strange," she mouthed to him, laughing, watching as he jogged into the door of the restaurant.

  He was there in a flash, depositing a kiss on her cheek before he slid into the opposite side of the booth, his laptop slung over his shoulder and his smile brightening the whole room. He held something in his hand.

  "The UPS guy brought this." He reached over the table and handed Audie a package the size of a hardback novel.

  She stared at the return address—Detective Stacey Quinn.

  "Since it came from him and it wasn't ticking, I figured it was safe enough." Griffin was grinning. "You going to open it?"

  Audie just stared at the plain brown paper package. What in the world would he be sending her? She hadn't seen him in a week. Stanny-O had been with her instead, explaining that Quinn was busy wrapping up other work while interviewing suspects in her case. Right.

  She knew very well what had happened—she'd thrown herself at Quinn, made a fool of herself, practically begged the man to put his hands up her dress. She'd scared him off.

  Maybe he was sending her some kind of self-help book—Nympho to Nun in Ten Easy Steps or Promiscuous No More.

  "Audie? You going to open it?"

  She looked up at Griffin and blinked. "Yeah. Sure."

  Her fingers tore at the outside wrapping to reveal a simple white gift box. She set it down on the table and pulled off the top, exposing a layer of white tissue paper. She looked up at Griffin, frowning.

  "Don't look at me. Go on, girl."

  Audie peeled back the tissue, to see what looked like handkerchiefs—pressed white linen hankies trimmed with delicate lace.

  "Good Lord," Audie muttered, and Griffin leaned across the table to get a better look.

  "Wow. Those are pretty. Aren't you going to read the note?"

  Audie picked up the piece of folded stationery and read: "So you don't ruin all your panty hose. Quinn."

  She chuckled, surprised, to say the least. She picked up one of the hankies and held it in her hand—it was soft, feather-light, and feminine. It was lightly starched and ironed into a neat square with razor-sharp edges. She raised it to her nose and breathed in a soft scent, lavender maybe? Just then she saw Griffin's hand inside the box.

  "I counted eleven in here, so there's an even dozen. I think they're really old, Audie, antique even. Look at the lace—it's handmade."

  "How would you know, Griffin?" Audie laughed and tossed the hankie back in the box, replacing the lid.

  "Because I spend half my life haunting consignment stores and antique shops, that's how. This is a really nice gift."

  "Yeah." She pushed the box to the side and took a gulp of her iced tea. Her heart was pounding. Her eyes were stinging.

  Why would Quinn send her such a personal gift? They hardly knew each other! And why was she on the verge of tears?

  They ordered lunch and talked companionably, but Audie felt Griffin studying her, and it made her a little uncomfortable. She gazed out over the brass curtain rod toward the street, letting the sunshine hit her face. When she turned back he was still staring at her, frowning.

  "What?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just … nothing."

  "Griff, what? What is it? Are you worried about tomorrow?"

  "Nah, not at all." He shook his head with a sad smile and Audie watched his dreadlocks tap against the sides of his face. "I just plan to tell the detectives the truth—that I only stalk you on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and I'm more of an obscene phone-callin' man myself, not some anonymous-note-writin' wimp."

  Audie leaned forward and admired his sweet face. "I've told Quinn all about you—about us—and he knows you're not really a suspect, so don't worry."

  Griffin's eyebrows shot high on his forehead. "God, mon, I hope I'm not."

  "So what's the problem, then? You look upset."

  Griffin reached out and cupped his hand over Audie's and tried to smile. "I was just watching you sitting there, and I was thinking that I've never seen you more beautiful than you are right now—that you seem wiser, more sure of yourself, such a lovely woman."

  Audie was shocked by this unusual burst of sentiment. "Uh, thanks."

  "And I've never seen you sadder." He removed his hand and leaned back in the booth. "I really hate these letters, you know? I hate what they're doing to you, girl. Whoever is sending them is one sick mother, and I'm worried about you."

  Audie exhaled deeply and produced a weak smile. "They're talking to Drew, too. Did I tell you?"

  Griffin laughed. "I'd pay good money to eavesdrop on that party."

  "Mmm…" Audie looked down into her iced tea.

  "So what's the story with the Mighty Quinn? How much do you like him?"

  Her head popped up and her mouth hung open. "How…? What do you mean?"

  Griffin smiled affectionately. "Damn, girl! How long have I known you? You've got a crush on your policeman, at the very least. So tell me all about it."

  She shook her head, looking outside again.

  "Audie. Come on."

  She scowled at him. "I'm thirty years old, Griffin. Thirty-year-old women don't get crushes."

  "Fine." He stared at her, unblinking.

  She stared right back.

  "All right. Since you asked, Stacey Quinn aggravates the hell out of me, OK? We've had these two extremely awkward groping sessions, including falling off a table. But that's it—not that I don't think about the possibilities every second of e
very day."

  Griffin blinked rapidly and leaned back in his booth. "Really now?"

  "And he doesn't talk a whole lot, which bugs me to no end, but when he does say something it either pisses me off or makes me laugh." She sighed. "We've got nothing in common, all right? And, Griffin, the guy's house is immaculate and his spices are alphabetized, and I can't stop thinking about him."

  "I see."

  "And out of nowhere he can be so sweet—like sending me these!" She waved her hand over the box, her eyes wide. "And the way he kisses me—my God … two kisses, that's all I've had, but … oh, God, they made me forget my own name…

  "And now I haven't seen him for days and days. I keep trying to come up with some excuse to call him, but I haven't gotten any more letters and Detective Oleskiewicz has been taking me home every night and it's like Quinn doesn't want to see me ever again and I don't know what to do."

  Griffin gawked at her.

  "But don't push me to talk about it, Griffin. I just can't right now."

  He buried a smile in his coffee cup. "Of course."

  "He makes me crazy. Completely insane. And I miss him. I'm lonely for him. What is that all about? Is that the stupidest thing you've ever heard me say, or what?"

  Griffin leaned forward on his elbows and studied her carefully. "You're right, Audie. This is not a crush. It sounds like you're in love with the man."

  Her mouth hung open and she blinked. "Oh, for God's sake," she said, standing up. "You know me better than that. I'm going to the ladies' room."

  Griffin watched her start off in a huff, catch her heel in his computer shoulder strap, and crash into the unoccupied table for two across the aisle. He winced, then rubbed his mouth nervously until she was safely on her way.

  "Be careful, girl," he whispered.

  * * *

  Audie drove the car along the semicircular brick drive and parked in front of the grand front door. The imposing brick-and-stucco Tudor looked exactly as it always had, as formal and as haughty as North Shore houses come, the thin steel blue line of Lake Michigan visible behind the heavily treed grounds.

  She knocked on the door.

  "Well, what an unexpected pleasure this is!" Andrew Adams swept his arm through the airy foyer as his sister scowled at him.

  "I thought you knew I was coming."

  "Oh, sure. I'm just teasing you. Come on in. Drink?"

  "No thanks."

  Apparently, the divorce was final, because it seemed a few more items had gone missing from the family estate: the antique Portuguese vase that had always sat beneath the hall table was gone, and so were the Impressionist landscape from the top of the landing, a mirror, and a few lamps.

  Either these items were part of the latest ex-wife's settlement or Drew had been reduced to selling things for cash. Audie didn't care much either way. They were just things—Drew's things. He could do whatever he liked with them.

  Drew handed her what looked like a gin and tonic. "Relax, Audie. How's the column going? How's soccer this season? How's Russell?"

  Audie stared at the drink in her hand, carried it patiently to the bar, and set it down. Her brother had already deposited himself in a slip-covered chair, looking quite self-satisfied.

  "I'm not seeing Russell Ketchum anymore, not for six months. We're seven-and-two. And some kook is threatening to kill me."

  "So I hear." Drew gestured for his sister to have a seat near him in the library. Audie saw that he'd had the Oriental carpets and heavy draperies removed for the summer, just like Helen used to do. The property seemed well tended. Drew seemed to be staying on top of things, wife or no.

  "The Chicago Police have already paid me a call—fine public servants they were, too. One of them seemed to be quite interested in your welfare." Drew brought the crystal tumbler to his lips and inclined his head a bit. "The macho Irish one. Finn."

  Audie frowned at him. "Quinn. And I didn't know they'd already come to see you."

  "Right after lunch today, actually. We spent quite a bit of quality time together, discussing sibling rivalry, my private financial affairs, my ex-wives, that sort of unpleasantness. Mrs. Splawinski was here, so it was like Warsaw old home week for the big Polish guy—they were jabbering in the kitchen while she made him brownies. You sure you won't have a drink?"

  Audie felt her eyes glaze over for a moment, then tried to refocus. There he was—her brother, her flesh and blood—in his urban-chic eyeglasses, his Ralph Lauren khakis and Polo shirt and his Sperry topsiders, and she felt so little of anything for him.

  Audie didn't hate Drew, but she didn't love him, either. He was just some man she never would have tolerated had he not been her brother, had he not shared a childhood with her and was now the only living relative she had in the world.

  She saw that Drew's dark hair was starting to thin, leaving a shiny spot on top of his head. His skin was as tanned as it was every summer, but she saw a touch of gray beneath the brown this year. He was drinking too much, obviously, and he looked much older than thirty-three. He also seemed more arrogant and bored than the last time she'd seen him, if that could be possible.

  It occurred to Audie that Drew was starting to resemble Helen around the eyes.

  Audie studied him carefully. Did he look dangerous? She nearly laughed at herself for even considering the possibility.

  "So how is Mrs. Splawinski?" Audie asked, smiling politely. "Any brownies left?"

  Drew chuckled. "Yeah, sure. On the counter. Help yourself."

  As Audie made the trip to the kitchen, she thought of the family's energetic cook. She'd stayed on with Drew after Helen moved to Lakeside Pointe, and Audie didn't see her often.

  "Is her hip doing better?" Audie was back on the couch, two soft, chewy brownies in her hand.

  "Oh, she's the Bionic Woman now, zipping around on all her plastic parts. Fit as a fiddle."

  Audie smiled. "So what happened with the detectives, Drew?"

  He sighed. "Well, I don't think they're quite ready to cart me off to Stateville, but they wanted to see my computer and printer and get my fingerprints. It was quite the Starsky and Hutch kind of experience, let me tell you."

  Audie leaned back into the soft cotton slipcover on the sofa, crossed her legs, and munched. She watched his expression closely. "I'm sorry about the police coming here."

  "Oh, for God's sake." Drew waved his hand around before he took another sip. "I was happy to oblige. It's truly awful. I can't believe you never said one word about it to me. Are the letters still coming?"

  Audie stretched an arm along the back of the couch and wiped a few crumbs off her shirt. She'd inhaled those brownies and tried to remember how many were still left in the kitchen. Maybe she could take some home. "Nothing in the last week."

  "Are you taking this seriously? I mean, why in God's name would somebody want to hurt you?"

  Audie groaned in frustration. "I have no idea. But it's not going away on its own, so I have to deal with it."

  "What exactly do the letters say?" Drew's eyebrows arched over the rim of the tumbler while he waited for her response.

  She shrugged. "At first it was just snide insults. Now he says he's going to kill me, and apparently he's got a schedule to keep, because he selected September twenty-second to do me in." She ran a nervous hand through her hair. "You might want to keep that day open in case you have to identify my body—next of kin and all."

  "Don't be morbid, Audie. Jesus." Drew abruptly got up from the chair and made himself another drink at the long, polished cherry bar. He suddenly turned.

  "That's rather clever, actually," he said, grabbing a handful of ice and tossing it in the tumbler.

  "What is?"

  "The twenty-second of September is the first day of autumn this year—get it? Autumn? Autumn Adams?"

  She stared at him blankly.

  "How refreshing—a psychopath with a dry wit." Drew relaxed back into the chair, chuckling, and raised his glass to that.

  "That is pretty w
eird." Audie shivered slightly and hugged herself across the chest. "I wonder if I should tell the detectives."

  "Why not? It could even be a clue—like in Murder She Wrote!" Drew cocked his head and blinked at his sister. "So what brings you up here? Not that I don't enjoy our visits."

  Audie braced herself. The family's 1905 Herreshoff Yacht was the only reason she ever came to the house and they both knew it.

  Helen was aware that Audie loved the Take a Hint with all her heart and had worked with her father day and night to refurbish the vintage boat just before he died. Helen also knew that Audie would have traded the apartment, the car, the column—everything—for the forty-three-foot cutter. Yet Helen had left it to Drew.

  Audie often wondered why. She still couldn't decide if it was simply her mother's final cruelty or Helen's roundabout way of ensuring her children would have a reason to speak after she was gone.

  Audie looked up, preparing herself for Drew's list of questions. "I'd like to take the boat out sometime next week. Would that be OK with you?"

  He looked at her with casual interest. "Overnight? For a few days? Mackinac Island or something?"

  "Oh, no. Just a day sail. I was thinking of inviting a friend along. Will Saturday be all right?"

  "Sure." Drew moved his wrist in a lazy circle, watching the ice cubes swirl around inside the glass. "I'll leave the boathouse unlocked. Be sure to wipe down the deck when you're done. Who's the lucky fellow?"

  Audie forced herself to remain relaxed. Drew would see them anyway, since he was nearly always at home. It was either now or later.

  "The macho Irish cop. If he'll accept my invitation."

  Drew's hand flopped down onto the armrest and thin threads of mixed drink splashed onto the slipcover.

  "Dear God, Audie! You've run quite the gamut with men lately. What the hell was wrong with Russell Ketchum? I've always thought he was a decent man and a damn good lawyer."

  Audie sighed. "Actually, Russell is a—"

  "But Jesus, a cop? This would be your first cop, right? I know it's not your first Irishman. What was that slimy Mick politician's name again?" Drew chuckled softly. "At least it's not another Jamaican."

  Audie was already off the sofa and headed for the foyer.