Secret of the Painted Lady

by Christina A. Burke

  "Always. Black coffee?" she asked.

  "You know it."

  Riley gave me a knowing look as she set a huge piece of pie in front of me. "Heard you've had a rough couple of days. Thought you could use a little extra."

  "You are so right. Thanks!" I took my first bite and sighed with satisfaction. The pie melted in my mouth.

  A voice behind me said, "Is this seat taken?"

  I looked up. George was standing over me with a cup of coffee and some sort of pastry. He was dressed in what passed for business casual for George. He had on a Lacoste polo shirt of bright aqua and his trademark perfectly smooth linen slacks.

  "Sure you want to risk it?"

  He smiled and pulled out the chair. "I hear you found another body." He said it casually, but his eyes were alert.

  I took another bite of my pie. "Thankfully, a live one."

  "Sounds like he's quite a catch. Tall, blond, and buff." He wiggled his eyebrows at me.

  I stared at him. "Looking for a date, George?"

  His face dropped, and he actually looked offended. "Why would you say that?"

  "Really? Maybe you'd better start recording yourself. You're pushing the metrosexual envelope." I waved my fork at his attire.

  He looked down at his shirt. "I'm not metrosexual. I just dress nice for work. Just because you run around town like a street urchin doesn't mean everyone else should."

  I put my fork down. "I'm a contractor. I wear appropriate clothes for my job. And they're clean and tidy."

  George looked pointedly at my grease- and grime-streaked T-shirt.

  "I've already changed once today, and these were perfectly clean when I put them on a couple of hours ago," I said defensively.

  "Truce," George said, holding up his hand. "Tell me about body number two. I've heard your Gram's version—which is where I got the tall, blond, and buff by the way—and now I'd like to hear yours."

  "You saw Gram today?" I asked.

  He nodded. "Her and her NASCAR-driver friend. She said the flowers I sent yesterday were substandard." He laughed.

  "They weren't in very good shape when I finally got them to her last night," I agreed. "But that wasn't your fault."

  "She's a good customer. I don't mind replacing them. She also bought a get well bouquet for Body Number Two." He hit his hands on the table top. "So fill me in already."

  I smiled at the playful tone of his voice. "You're sure getting into this murder and mayhem thing. Turning amateur sleuth?"

  "I rather fancy myself as a young Hercule Poirot."

  "Yeah, and I'm Nancy Drew."

  "Actually, it would have been more appropriate to say Miss Marple, since Poirot is an Agatha Christie character."

  I pointed my fork at him. "Gram says you remind her of William Powell from The Thin Man series."

  A wide smile crossed George's face. "That's quite a compliment. I think she's right. Nick and Nora Charles," he mused. "How do you feel about being Mrs. Charles?"

  Oh brother. "I'll tell you my version, but it'll cost you another cup of coffee. And don't call me Nora."

  I watched him as he went to the counter to get my coffee. He moved like a lithe cat. No wasted movements and no hurry. He was definitely in good shape. The rear view was especially good. I gave myself a mental slap. George was not my type. I'm not sure he was anyone's type.

  He set the coffee in front of me, saying, "Okay, now out with it."

  I filled him in on my meeting with the man on the beach. Leaving out the body-to-body contact that had occurred. He gave a low whistle at the end of my story.

  "What are the odds?" he murmured. He looked into my eyes. "You've found two bodies in two days."

  "Technically, you found the first body," I reminded him, adding, "and the second body wasn't dead, so I don't think you can count that." See, not as bad as it sounded.

  He raised his eyebrows. "If you say so. It's still mind boggling, to say the least."

  "Yeah," I said a little dejectedly. "I'm sure the amnesia case is slowing the investigation down on the dead tourist. I have to get into that house and start work." I put the final bite of pie into my mouth.

  George shook his head and leaned over with his napkin. He dabbed at my mouth. "If you spit on the napkin, I'm going to punch you," I growled.

  "You have chocolate all over your face," he said, putting the napkin down.

  I brushed at my face with the back of my hand. "I don't know what I'm going to do if this investigation goes on much longer. I wonder if I can petition the court or something to get back into the house. Maybe I should talk to a lawyer, but that could take a while too."

  "I think the solution is obvious," George replied. "We need to solve the murder ourselves."

  "You're crazy," I said automatically, but I'd already been working on angles to prove the body had nothing to do with Marlton House. Still, trying to solve the murder?

  "Hear me out," George said. "The police are already taxed with the amnesia case and all the other day-to-day work. We go around town, ask questions, maybe do some online sleuthing. Nothing dangerous. What harm could it do?"

  He had a point, and I could probably use some backup if I was going to go traipsing around a crime scene. But George wasn't exactly your partner-in-crime guy, and why would he want to help me to begin with? "Well, I guess I could use the help. But I don't understand—" I said slowly.

  "Put 'er there, partner," George said enthusiastically, offering me his hand and cutting off my objections.

  Whoa. I needed to put the brakes on this. "Not so fast. Why would you want to help me investigate a murder? We barely know each other."

  George leaned back in his chair and considered my words. I thought I saw a shadow cross his face. "I've had my livelihood nearly ruined by things beyond my control. Coming to Danger Cove was a fresh start for me. Not that I don't like it here, but I miss my old life. And if I'd paid more attention to what was going on around me, I might've had more options open to me when it all came tumbling down."

  Intrigued, I said, "What happened?"

  George shook his head. "No, that's a story I'm not ready to tell. I want to help you because I don't want to see you hurt the way I was. It's just that simple."

  We locked eyes for a few seconds. I knew there were volumes hidden there, but I also saw a genuine desire to help.

  "Besides," he added, raising his eyebrow and breaking the spell, "I'm dying to try my hand at William Powell."

  I couldn't help but laugh. He was entertaining, if nothing else. I took a deep breath and jumped, remembering my conversation with Tucker. "I already have a clue the police don't know about."

  George leaned in. "Do tell."

  "The tourist was in Tucker's store on Wednesday. The police asked what he used to pay with and if he showed ID, but they didn't ask what he bought." I paused. "He bought a wooden box. Exactly six inches by four inches. Tucker had to measure five boxes before he found the right one. Makes me wonder why the tourist needed such a specific-sized box."

  George leaned back. "Interesting," was all he said.

  "Tucker asked him what it was for, and the guy said, 'You don't want to know.' Don't you think that's a weird thing for a stranger to say? I mean, he could've just said it was a gift or something."

  "Sounds like the guy was stressed or nervous," George said.

  I nodded. "Like maybe he wanted to talk about it but couldn't, so he says something weird like that to release a little pressure."

  George tapped his fingers on the table, looking lost in thought. "You know what the real question is here?" he asked suddenly. "Where's the box?"

  Our eyes locked. "In the house?" I asked quietly.

  George smiled. "I see a field trip in our future, Mrs. Charles."

  * * *

  We agreed to meet at his flower shop at ten that night. We'd walk to the back of Marlton House and look for an unobtrusive way in. I had a key to the front door, but I wasn't keen on being caught breaking into a crime scene. G
eorge convinced me it wasn't breaking in since I owned the place. If we got caught, I'd plead ignorance. Say I was just taking measurements so I could order supplies. Yeah, at ten on a Saturday night. Admittedly, it was a thin cover story.

  I pulled up to Rockgrove and parked in my usual spot. I unloaded the door I'd purchased from Tucker and put it in the barn that doubled as my workshop at the back of the property. I glanced up at the sky and caught the wispy beginnings of storm clouds. The air was heavy. Rain was on the way. I walked through the side door into the dusky kitchen, laid my keys on the counter, and reached into the fridge for a beer.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled just as my hand grabbed the beer. I stepped back from the refrigerator and looked up. Sitting at the big butcher-block table facing the darkening coastline was Body Number Two. He raised a beer to me and smiled.

  His muscled arm flexed, and his chest rippled with the motion. I saw this because he wasn't wearing a shirt. And at the angle he was sitting behind the table I couldn't be sure he was wearing pants either.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I closed the fridge and stared at him.

  "Surprise," he said.

  Was I dreaming this? "What are you doing here?" I asked. "Shouldn't you be in the hospital?"

  "They released me. I'm in perfect health, except for the whole amnesia thing." He made a wry face.

  "Why aren't you wearing a shirt?" I asked. Wow, his chest was amazing. A light sprinkle of blond hair across acres of rippling muscles.

  He laughed. "Your grandmother is washing my clothes."

  My eyes widened, and I couldn't help glancing down.

  "Don't worry—I'm wearing a pair of sweat pants they found for me at the hospital." He took another sip of beer.

  "But what are you doing here?" I asked. It was just a little weird to be face-to-face with him again.

  "Your grandmother invited me to stay a couple of days." He saw my incredulous face and added, "I didn't want to impose, but she insisted. She's quite a woman." He smiled warmly at me.

  Oh, she was something, all right. Gram was in matchmaking overdrive. It didn't matter that we knew nothing about this man. Not even his name! Nope, she just saw husband material in the wavy blond hair and perfectly chiseled body. Okay, I couldn't really blame her. He was divine. But still…

  "Didn't the police or the authorities have some place for you to stay? Not that you're not welcome here," I added quickly.

  "A social worker offered me a bed in a Seattle homeless shelter." He made a face. "Not exactly The Ritz. I have no money, no credit cards, nothing."

  "Didn't they take your fingerprints?"

  He nodded. "Good news is, I've never been arrested in Washington state. Yeah!" He high-fived me from across the room. "Bad news is, I don't have a Washington driver's license, and the federal database is going to take more time to search."

  "So what's next?" I asked, feeling bewildered by this new development.

  "They're putting my picture out to the media and checking missing persons reports. Detective Ohlsen said they should hear something in the next week or so. Pretty sad if nobody is looking for me." His voice was low, and he stared out at the darkening sky.

  That did suck. Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to have him around the house for a few days. Obviously he wasn't a criminal, and he definitely wasn't hard to look at. But I was going to have a word or two with Gram about her latest matchmaking scheme.

  Gram came bustling into the kitchen. "I see you've met our houseguest, Alexandra." She turned to the shirtless man. "John, I've put your clothes in the guest bedroom. There is a lovely bathroom if you'd like to clean up before dinner."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Jordan," he said to Gram as he stood up.

  Whoa! I wasn't ready for all that. The sweat pants hung low on his lean hips. A light sprinkling of hair meandered down his chest and disappeared at the tie of the pants. And he was so tall. He seemed to take the air out of the room.

  "Oh my," Gram said, dabbing her forehead with a dish towel.

  "You said it," I murmured. Once he was gone from the room, I turned on Gram. "What were you thinking, bringing him here? He's a complete stranger who appeared in town under very unusual circumstances. What if he's a bad guy?"

  Gram gave me the look. "Really, dear, you watch too much television. He's not a criminal, or we would've known after they fingerprinted him. He's down on his luck and seeking shelter. Rockgrove has provided shelter to countless strangers over the last century. John is no different." She drew herself up, daring me to argue with her.

  "I know, Gram. It's just…" I paused, not able to explain why I was uncomfortable, "It's an odd coincidence after the body in the bathtub yesterday and all. Don't you think?"

  She waved her hand dismissively. "Bah. Coincidences are nothing more than people paying attention to everyday life. I think you're more worried about having a handsome, eligible gentleman in the house." "Aha! You are trying to play matchmaker." I sighed. "Gram, I've told you I don't need your help to find a man. I'm not interested in finding a man right now. I'm too busy with work."

  "Ridiculous!" She pointed a gnarled finger at me. "You're afraid of being in a committed relationship after that professor you were seeing at school threw you over."

  My face burned at her words. We'd never spoken of why I'd come home from college. Never. She held up a hand to silence my angry reply. "I know. I know. We haven't talked about this for a long time. But it's been two years. Life goes on, dear. I'm not going to watch you let life go by just because some idiot man dumped you. Now help me set the table," she ordered. "Dolly left us fried chicken, coleslaw, and potato salad for dinner."

  I'd missed Dolly's chicken soup and biscuits at lunch. No way was I going to let a row with Gram get in the way of fried chicken. Without another word, I reached into the overhead cabinets and pulled out three plates. I clanked them down on the table and then piled a handful of silverware on top with a crash. Then a thought occurred to me.

  "How do you know he's eligible?" I asked, throwing her words back at her.

  Gram turned and raised an eyebrow at me. Her face showed a moment of worry. Then a smile lit her face. "He's not wearing a wedding ring," she said triumphantly.

  "Doesn't mean he's not engaged or living with someone. Do you really think a man like that is single?" I shot back.

  Gram had no reply. Round one to me.

  * * *

  I wolfed down my chicken with so much gusto that I received several nudges under the table from Gram. I also kept my mouth constantly full to dodge Gram's conversation starters.

  Gram: Did you know Alexandra has a degree in fine arts?

  John: I thought she was a contractor.

  Me through a mouthful of coleslaw: I am.

  Crickets: Chirp, chirp.

  Gram: Well, Alexandra is much more than a contractor. She restores old homes to their former glory. She just purchased the Marlton House on Main Street. It's a lovely example of Victorian Queen Anne style.

  John (looking surprisingly interested): I'd like to see that.

  Me: It's currently a crime scene. I found a body in the bathtub.

  Crickets: Chirp, chirp.

  Gram rushed to explain how a body ended up in the Marlton House bathtub. I could tell from the incredulous look on John's face that the Seattle homeless shelter was looking a little more appealing. I was not up to any more of Gram's matchmaking, and it was actually hard to hold a conversation with a guy who had amnesia. I mean, what could we talk about? The weather?

  I excused myself, saying I had a headache and wanted to get to bed early.

  "But, Alexandra, it's only eight-thirty. At least have a glass of wine with us in the parlor. Smitty hasn't met John yet." Gram gave me a stern look, daring me to refuse. I wasn't much of a wine drinker, but I figured I'd need a glass if I was going to spend time with John the Mystery Man and Gram the Matchmaker.

  As soon as we entered the parlor, Smitty started chirping. "Why's he covered up?" I asked
. I reached over and pulled off the cover, revealing the pitiful bird.

  "Dolly covered him when she vacuumed in here, and I guess she forgot to uncover him. You know how he curses at the vacuum cleaner."

  Smitty fluffed his feathers and preened. "Bloody hell!" he croaked.

  "Nice, Smitty." I didn't have to worry about Gram's matchmaking with John. The man might have amnesia, but he wasn't crazy. An evening with Smitty the Salty Bird and Gram should make me the least eligible bachelorette in Danger Cove.

  John leaned in for a closer look at Smitty. Smitty leaned in for a closer look at John. They blinked at each other for a few seconds.

  "What happened to him?" John asked. "Looks like he got in a fight with a lawnmower."

  "Dumb ass!" Smitty called back.

  "He called me a 'dumb ass.'" John laughed.

  Smitty took this as encouragement and began chanting, "Dumb ass, dumb ass."

  "Oh brother," I said and took a gulp of wine.

  "Now you stop that. Bad bird," Gram chastised. She wagged her finger at Smitty. "I'll cover you back up if you don't stop."

  "Pretty bird," Smitty said to Gram. "Pretty bird."

  Gram laughed. She turned to John, saying, "He's trying to make up and get me to call him 'pretty bird.'" Gram turned back to the cage and opened the door. "You are a rascal, but you're my pretty bird too."

  Smitty came out and hopped onto Gram's shoulder. He rocked back and forth and nibbled at Gram's earlobe.

  "Does he bite?" John asked me.

  "Not usually. But he's a little unpredictable. We think he's getting senile. He's over sixty."

  "A sixty-year-old bird? That's incredible." John looked at Smitty with more interest.

  "They live a long time. I think the record is close to a hundred."