“You said you knew them from somewhere?” Declan glanced at his beer bottle, holding it up as if to read the label. Yet Leslie got the distinct impression he was more interested in her answer than where the IPA was brewed.
“From Philadelphia—I used to live there till I moved here.”
Declan looked as if he were about to say something else, but just then they heard the sound of crunching gravel. Light scanned the parking area outside the kitchen window as the police car came around the driveway bend and turned to park next to Declan’s car.
Leslie stood and went to meet the police. As she opened the door, something moved—streaking from the door to around the house. It took her a moment to realize it had been the butterscotch cat—but only after she swallowed her heart back into place.
Officer Morton introduced himself with a pleasant smile and handshake. As he preceded Leslie into the kitchen, he commented that he’d known Cherry for years because his wife took yoga classes from her. He was a big, lumbering man of about fifty whose figure went in a ruler-straight line from back of skull to heel, and curved out in a gentle arc in the front. His uniformed profile made the shape of a D.
“Anything missing?” he asked after he’d been shown around, settled at the kitchen table, and given a cup of coffee. Decaf.
“Not that I’ve noticed. I’ll have to take a closer look… Wait.” Leslie’s eyes widened. She shot to her feet. “Wait a second…”
She hurried out of the kitchen to the front entrance, frowning. When was the last time she’d seen the pink velvet wrap and glove she’d found inside the base of the stair rail? She’d folded them up, hadn’t she? And put them on the table in the front hall…
But the table had been knocked over.
“There is something missing,” she said, returning to the kitchen, still pondering. “Why would anyone take an old velvet stole?” She explained about what she’d found to Declan and the officer. “And if that’s what they were after—well, it was easy to find. The stole and the glove were sitting right there in plain sight. But I have no idea why anyone would want an old, worn stole.”
“Aren’t vintage clothes worth a lot of money?” Declan asked. “Especially that crystal button on it—maybe it was a real diamond or gemstone of some type. Maybe the intruder—I guess we can call him a thief now—broke in for some other reason, but saw the wrap and decided to take it too.”
“I don’t think that wrap was worth anything. Besides, it was in bad shape—old and frayed. The button was probably just fake bling. And the fabric was stained with that same rust-like corrosion that’s been discoloring the stair railing. At least it looked like it.”
“When was the last time you remember seeing it? Are you sure it was still on the table?” asked Officer Morton. “Think back to the last time you know you saw it.”
“I’ll have to think about it…I’ll be honest. My brain is a little fried right now. I put it on the table so I’d remember to take it into town—I wanted to show it to Gilda at the vintage clothes store to see if she could date it.”
The sound of another car approaching—no, two of them—drew their attention to the kitchen door and the window next to it.
“That’ll be Aunt Cherry, and if I’m not mistaken, Orbra too,” Leslie said wearily. Quite frankly, if she couldn’t be alone, the only person she really wanted to be with right now was Declan. At least she wouldn’t have to answer a thousand questions. A thousand questions that were now going to include not only ones about the break-in, the speakeasy, and her mental health, but also about Declan.
Ugh.
“Do you think it’s safe for me to stay here tonight?” Leslie asked, rising to open the door for the new arrivals.
“No.”
“Yes.”
The first answer was Declan, the second Officer Morton.
“Not alone, anyway,” Declan said flatly.
The policeman glanced at him, pursed his lips, then said, “They’re gone now. If they’d intended any harm, the intruder or intruders would either have stayed hidden—and not otherwise advertised their presence by creating such a disturbance—or have made their move by now. I’m not trying to trivialize the break-in, but I’m leaning toward it being a couple of teenagers messing around, since nothing of value seems to have been taken.”
“Even though more than half the town and pretty much all of the school was just at the football game?” Declan asked coolly.
Morton shrugged. “All the more reason to take the opportunity, since no one would be home. Honestly, Ms. van Dorn, teenagers have been breaking into this house for as long as I can remember. Even I did it. There’s something about the place that draws the interest.”
Cherry and Orbra had entered the kitchen without speaking so as not to interrupt the conversation, though both of their faces held strains of worry. Leslie smiled up at her aunt as she patted her shoulder, then took a seat at the table.
Just then, the sounds of “Brown Eyed Girl” bubbled up into the room. Leslie looked over as Declan, whose cheeks were a little ruddier, snatched up his phone.
Leslie bid Officer Morton goodbye, and agreed to come to the station to fill out paperwork and make her official report the next day. “I hope you’re right that it was just a couple of teenagers,” she said, walking him to the door.
“Let me know if something else turns up missing. Other than that, we’ll go with that assumption. Good night, Ms. van Dorn.”
By the time Leslie returned to the table, Declan had hung up his phone. “That was Stephanie. She’s spending the night at a friend’s house tonight.” His words were casual, so surely Leslie was the only one who noticed the disappointment in his tones.
Their eyes met briefly, then he eased his chair from the table and stood. “Well, I guess I’ll hit the road—if you’re sure you’re all right here?”
“I’ve got my chaperones,” Leslie replied brightly. But she’d chosen the word purposely to express her own chagrin at the situation—if Stephanie had only called thirty minutes earlier!—and he recognized it, rolling his eyes in agreement. “See you later. Thanks for the ride home. Oh, and watch for the butterscotch cat.”
By the time she’d walked him to the door—chancing only a brief, subtle brush of fingers to express their mutual sentiment—Leslie turned to find Orbra and Cherry were fluttering around the kitchen—the former making tea (more tea? She’d be up all night!) and the latter digging through the fridge (“Don’t you have anything in here for green smoothies? No kale? You could use a burst of energy, Les”).
But as soon as the door was closed and locked and Leslie pushed none too gently into her chair, they were on her. And the first question out of Cherry’s mouth, of course, was: “Are you having sex with that man? Because if you aren’t, there is something very wrong with you, Leslie Annette!”
“But more importantly,” Orbra said, fairly slamming a mug onto the table in front of her, “why the hell did you send him home?”
~ TWELVE ~
* * *
Declan was hot, sweaty, and his eyeballs were dry and burning behind their protective guard. His bandanna was soaked, his leather gloves suffocating, his ears ringing with the metallic clank of metal on metal.
But he loved every minute of it: the rhythmic clang-clang-clang whenever he was hammering on a piece of iron, the way its fired end glowed like an asteroid, the way it made such a satisfactory zip-like sizzling sound whenever he plunged it into a tub of water.
He didn’t mind that he tasted salt whenever he paused to think and plan the angle of the next blow, and how many more strikes until the curve would be just right. He didn’t mind the smell of his sweat—the clean scent of good, hard work—for it was the sign of a job in process. Of creation.
And the heat…well, he didn’t mind that either, because pretty much everywhere else on earth was cooler than his workshop, so the minute he stepped out of the place, it was a relief. Sure, the occasional sears he got when he wasn’t paying attention,
or the random sparks that flew and landed on, say, the side of his neck or chin—the only parts that were really exposed—were an annoyance. But all in all, blacksmithing was a great occupation.
He got to take out any aggressions he might have—and there were days when he had many—on whatever iron bar he was forcing into shape. And then there were days like today, Saturday, when he was in a great mood and the rhythm of his hammer striking the heated iron bar fell in blows that matched whatever song was in his head.
Literal heavy metal music.
He grinned to himself at the old blacksmith’s joke and slid back into AC/DC’s classic “You Shook Me All (strike!) Night (strike!) Long (strike, strike, strike!).”
For some reason, that tune brought to mind Leslie van Dorn: celebrity CEO, cat lover, wordsmith, and ghost hunter. And magnificent kisser. Oh, indeed.
He pretty much hadn’t stopped thinking about those few moments of bliss, with her legs wrapped around his waist as she perched on the counter in her kitchen and gave it back as good as she got. Hoo boy. He was hoping to finish this piece of the railing so he could have a reason to stop by and show—
“Dad!”
Declan abruptly returned to the moment, his goofy grin fading when he realized Stephanie had been standing there, trying to get his attention, for quite some time. He’d warned her not to startle him when he was working, and had shown her where in the workshop was the safe area in which she could stand.
He lifted the hand holding his hammer in a “wait a sec” gesture, then gave one final clang and nodded with satisfaction at the nice curve that was taking shape. Then he shoved it back into the brick-oven forge for a few.
Turning back around, he stripped off his goggles and, stepping away from the work area, pulled off his heavy gloves and the heavy canvas work apron, hanging them in their places. Immediately, he was cooler—for beneath he was only wearing one of his old tees that had the sleeves torn off and most of the sides as well, for ventilation.
He snagged a towel and mopped off his face—and that was when he realized two of Stephanie’s friends were with her. They (not his daughter, thank God) were staring at him with, he suspected, the same sort of goofy expression he’d just had thinking about Leslie van Dorn’s sweet ass settling on the granite while he kissed the life out of her.
He paused from mopping the sweat off his face, and realized one of the girls was Emily Danube’s daughter Brooklyn. She was ogling his sweaty biceps like she wanted to dry them off herself.
Good Lord. He sure as hell hoped he was mistaken about that.
“What’s up?” He spun, walking over to turn down the volume of Back in Black, one of his favorite albums to crank up while he was working—and to put some space between him and the groupies.
“Here, Dad,” Stephanie said, and shoved a button-down shirt at him. Christ, was she embarrassed too? But he could relate. It must be like the time she was walking toward him on the beach in one of those damn little bikinis the girls all seemed to wear now and he got to watch how all the young men noticed her as she strolled by.
Mortifying.
“Thanks. What’s up?” he asked again, acutely aware of the blushes—yet avid looks—that had colored the faces of his daughter’s friends. Awk-ward, as Steph would say. He began to struggle into the shirt—which was easier said than done, considering how damp and sweaty he was.
“We’re leaving, Dad! I just came to let you know. You’ll be at Paul Hammady’s house by six, right?”
He realized for the first time that his daughter’s hair was twisted up in a fancy style for which he’d paid an unreal amount of money, and that she was holding a garment bag and a pair of impossibly high-heeled shoes. You’re going to break your neck walking in those, he wanted to say. Forget about dancing. But he didn’t. He was still feeling his way around as the new dad, and wasn’t completely certain what his boundaries were—both in general, and in front of her friends.
God help him if she ever got a boyfriend.
Which…would be over his dead body. At least until she was thirty.
Fortunately, she didn’t have an official date for tonight’s dance. It was just a group of friends—both guys and gals—eating dinner, then going together. He heartily approved.
“Right. I’ll be there. Six o’clock at Hammadys’ house. You left me the address?”
“I texted it to you yesterday, Dad.”
“Right. Thanks. Okay, I’ll see you then.”
“I guess all the parents are going out for dinner after,” Stephanie added with a sly look after her friends had stepped out of earshot. “I told Brooklyn’s mom you’d definitely want to go.”
“All right. Thanks,” he said, then, despite the stinky sweatiness of himself, gave her a good smacking kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you there. You look great so far. I can’t wait to see you in your dress.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she said, smiling. “And by the way,” she said, leaning toward him with a furtive glance toward her friends’ backs, her brow furrowing with disgust, “you should know they were creeping pics of you on their cell phones while you were working. I just hope they don’t tag me when they post them online.”
What? Holy crap—post them online? What the hell?
But Declan couldn’t even get the words out—he didn’t even know where to begin—before Stephanie was gone.
How did this happen to me? he wondered, turning around aimlessly. How did I get to be the father of a teenager whose friends take pictures of me on their cell phones?
His face was hot and flaming now, and it had nothing to do with the furnace or his work. Sonofabitch, if Brad ever heard about this, he was never going to live it down. If Emily Danube found out… Good God. Or Leslie…
Jesus. I need a damned beer.
But the forge was calling him, and if he got back to it, he could finish the main curve of that piece before he had to get in the shower and make himself presentable for the Homecoming Dance picture fest. As that might take some time, he mused, he figured he’d better get back to work.
________________
By the time Declan emerged from his work, it was almost five. He swore when he saw the time—and the number of texts and voice mails that had come through while he was jamming to AC/DC and Coldplay.
At first, his heart leaped into his throat when he saw all of them from Stephanie, and a few calls and texts from a number that was familiar but he didn’t recognize. What had happened?
But he calmed down after he realized if something was really wrong, someone would have come pounding on the door of the workshop…and then he smiled. The familiar number might be Leslie van Dorn’s. It probably was, after all, checking in after last night…
Like a responsible father, though, he read the six texts from Stephanie first.
Mrs. Danube’s car won’t start. She really wants to be here for the pics. I told her you’d pick her up. Okay, Dad? Followed by winky face and laughing face.
The rest of the texts were along the same line: Dad? Can you please get back to her? I told her you’d pick her up.
Where are you????????? You get mad if I don’t answer YOUR texts right away!
And so on.
And the semi-familiar number…not Leslie van Dorn, but Emily Danube.
With a sigh, Declan responded to Emily’s text. Sure. I’ll be there at 5:50 to pick you up. Sorry for delay. Was working.
Emily responded immediately with her thanks, and that she’d see him then.
Dec managed to put away his work, shower, shave, pick out something decent to wear, and get out the door just in time. It was only then he realized he hadn’t eaten since the coffee and peanut-butter-slathered toast he’d had at eight that morning. A two-dollar granola bar would be pretty good about now—but he’d left without snagging one. If there were even any left.
And he was almost to Emily’s when he remembered he hadn’t brought the piece he’d been working on that he wanted to show Leslie.
“Thank you
so much for picking me up!” Emily said breathlessly as she climbed into his truck in a waft of perfume. She smiled at him as she buckled the seatbelt around a trim waist below great tits showcased in a black V-neck tee. She wore a black leather jacket too—for, of course, Michigan had shifted her mood from bitterly cold to pleasantly cool since last night. “Britney would have been so disappointed if I wasn’t there to take pictures. You know how they are about things like this.”
Right. The girls who had cell phone cameras attached to their hands like another appendage and took photos of everything would have been traumatized if their parents missed the chance to take even more pictures of them…
But Declan didn’t say a thing. He was happy to go and take pictures of Stephanie and her friends tonight—and even more happy that she’d asked him to. He just found it amusing that anyone would think the moment would be lost if one parent missed the photo-taking opportunity.
“What’s wrong with your car?” he asked.
“I’m not really sure,” she said. “It wouldn’t start, and then it kind of did and then sounded really rough…I thought it might be better if I didn’t try and drive it tonight. Just in case I couldn’t get it started when it was time to go home after dinner. You don’t mind driving me back after, do you?”
Uh. “Sure. No problem,” he said before he realized what he’d just committed to. “We’ll get you home,” he added vaguely.
Hell, he hadn’t even planned to go to dinner with the other parents after the picture taking…but then again, it would be a good idea to get to know the parents of the kids his daughter was hanging around with. And, of course, he was a small business owner, and you never knew where your next job was going to come from. And he hadn’t eaten, so he’d be ravenous by then (how long did these picture-taking events take, anyway?).
Still…Declan had an uneasy sense that he’d just been neatly manipulated into a situation he didn’t really want to be in.
The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3) Page 14