The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “Great. Maybe they can do me a favor. Family fun center. Play-world? Heard of it?”

  “Been there, yes.”

  “Did Carly like it? Hate it? See I’m thinking about investing, but I haven’t decided whether to go into an established place like that or maybe do something new. Fresh. We could go on Saturday. Kid-test it.”

  She stared at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. “You want to spend your Saturday in an amusement center with a couple of little girls?”

  “You make that sound just a little perverted. Actually, more than a couple of little girls would be better. I’ve been tugging on Phin to bring Livvy into it, and maybe some of the others. You up for that?”

  “I imagine Carly would be delighted. Why an amusement center?” she asked as she turned toward the house.

  “Ah, well, fun would be the primary factor. If you’re going to—Hold it.” He grabbed her arm, pulled her back.

  Over the top step in the wash of the house light, the carcass of a dead rabbit drooped. The ruff around its neck was matted with dried blood that shone black against the brown fur.

  “Oh, God, not again. I need to—Don’t justtouch it,” Phoebe snapped out, “with your hands.”

  “I use my hands instead of my feet for touching. Just a quirk.” He lifted it by its hind legs. “What do you mean, not again?”

  Because her stomach pitched, Phoebe gave herself permission to look away. “Let me get something. A bag, a box. Jesus. Take it around to the courtyard, would you? I’ll be right there.”

  She dashed into the house while Duncan frowned at the rabbit. Wasn’t mauled, he mused as he studied it. It sure as hell didn’t strike him as roadkill. He’d given up hunting after his first and only foray into that area on a trip with a couple of friends as a teenager.

  He’d liked the gun—the feel, the sound, even the jolt—but he hadn’t much cared for what it could do when the target was flesh and blood.

  If he had to guess, the rabbit had been shot, small caliber. But why anyone would shoot a rabbit and toss it on Phoebe’s steps was a mystery.

  He carried it through the courtyard gate just as she rushed out with a plastic grocery bag. “We need to put it in here.”

  “You want to tell me why Bugs ended up dead on your steps?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to have to build a damn graveyard if this keeps up. This is joining the rat I found out here a couple weeks ago, and the snake on the steps a few days ago.”

  “You had any altercations with any of the neighborhood boys?”

  “No. I ran that one down already. I don’t think the local hellions are responsible. Put that thing down, will you?”

  As he heard distress as well as disgust, Duncan eased the corpse into the bag. “I think you’re going to want to take this one in—to forensics or whatever. I’m pretty sure it’s got a bullet in it.”

  She let out a long breath. “I’ll deal with it in the morning. Come inside, wash your hands.”

  He’d go inside, Duncan thought, but washing a little dead rabbit off his fingers wasn’t primary.

  He followed her in, stepped to the kitchen sink. “Got any beer?” he asked.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  After drying his hands, he simply walked to the refrigerator, opened it. Mostly girl food, as he thought of it. Lots of fruit, fresh vegetables, cartons of yogurt, skim milk. Why did anyone want to skim milk? A question for another time.

  He didn’t find any beer, but pulled out an open bottle of California chardonnay. “Glasses?”

  “Oh.” She pushed at her hair as she turned to a cabinet. It was manners that had her reaching for glasses, he thought. She’d have been happier if he’d dried his hands and said good night. So she could think, and so she could handle whatever was going on herself.

  Tough for her, he decided. He wasn’t built that way.

  He poured the wine himself, sat at the little table. Which, he knew, left her trapped by those manners into sitting down with him.

  “I appreciate you dealing with that,” she began. “I hate knowing I’m squeamish enough to balk at doing it myself.”

  “Who dealt with the rat?”

  “Well, I did—with a lot of embarrassing squealing and shuddering. I called Carter about the snake. That, apparently, went over my level.”

  “Have you reported this?”

  She puffed out her cheeks. “I assumed that some cat dumped the rodent out in the courtyard. I didn’t think about it. I initially thought the same about the snake, until Carter said its head was crushed, which is when I had a talk with the mother of the leader of the neighborhood hellions. But it wasn’t him. Neither was this. So, yes, I’ll take that thing in tomorrow, and I’ll report it and have it checked out.”

  “Anyone got any reason to hassle you other than Meeks?”

  She took a sip of wine. “You’re quick.”

  “Not a big leap, Phoebe. Sounds like this Arnie needs a talking-to.”

  Not just quick, she realized. Furious. Quietly, coldly and absolutely furious. “A talking-to isn’t what you mean, and it isn’t for you. It isn’t,” she said firmly. “I find the sentiment…Well, to be honest, I don’t quite know how I find the sentiment, but we’ll come back to that sometime. The point is, if indeed Arnie Meeks needs a talking-to, it’s best done in an unofficially official way. If you go getting in his face asmy…”

  “We’re going to have to come up with a term,” Duncan said dryly, “as you object to ‘boyfriend.’”

  “Anyway, it’d put his back up and it makes me look weak. If he’s doing this, I can’t afford to look weak, I can’t give him the satisfaction of believing it’s given me any particular bad moments.”

  “But it has.”

  “I wish I could say otherwise. I think…”

  “Think what?”

  She drank again. She wasn’t used to talking to anyone about her own business. Not difficult business. The priority was to keep the house a safe zone. “I think there might’ve been someone watching the house. I caught a glimpse a couple of times, or more heard. He whistles.”

  “Sorry? He whistles?”

  “I know, it sounds odd and off. But I think someone’s been around the neighborhood a few times, walking by the house, whistling this same tune. If it’s Meeks—and I didn’t get a close enough look to say, either way—he’s taking a huge chance for more payback. He might’ve put a friend up to it, or paid someone. But it’s a big and foolish risk.”

  “He got a big kick in the ass. Could be worth it to him. These things can escalate, can’t they?”

  “They can, of course.” She glanced up, seeing in her mind’s eye her family tucked safe away for the night. “I’m not discounting the possibility. I’ll talk to the people I need to, first thing in the morning.”

  “I can bunk here. Spare room, spare couch.”

  “That’s a nice offer. But if you do, I’d have to explain it in the morning. At this point, I don’t want to give anyone, especially my mother, something more to worry about. She’s holding. My getting hurt, and then the shooting, those were hard knocks for her. I don’t think she’s been out in the courtyard for the last few days. I can’t stand to think she’ll lose that, too.”

  Duncan studied his glass, had another long sip of wine. “I believe I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t think I should drive. As a duly authorized officer of the law, and as my current hostess, you should discourage me from doing so.”

  Those soft blue eyes, those clear and sober eyes, met hers. “It’s as simple as that, Phoebe, if you let it be.”

  “I don’t know why men think women can’t defend themselves or their home.”

  He only smiled. “Do I need to explain the power of the penis to you—so soon after you’ve experienced its wonder?”

  She tapped her fingers on the table. “You can have Steve’s—Ava’s son’s—room for the night. But if it’s all the same to you, we won’t use your drunken behavior as the reason
. It just got late, and seemed easier for you to stay than to drive all the way back to the island.”

  “Fine. We’ll save my drunken behavior for another occasion. Can I ask something that’s none of my business?”

  “As long as the answer can be that’s none of your business, sure you can.”

  “Is Essie getting any therapy?”

  “She was,” Phoebe said on a long sigh. “As it’s difficult, even with agoraphobia, to get a therapist who’ll make house calls, most of it was by phone. There were regular weekly phone sessions for a while, and she tried medications. We thought she was making progress.”

  “But?”

  “Her therapist encouraged her to go out. Just ten minutes, outside the house, to somewhere familiar. They picked Forsythe Park. She’d just walk over to the fountain and back home. She made it over, she got over, and then had a major panic attack. One of the fears is being caught in public, or embarrassed in public, or trapped. She couldn’t get her breath, couldn’t find her way back. I’d gone after her. I watched her walk over, and went out behind her when she was nearly out of sight. So it took me a while to get to her once she panicked.”

  She could see it, still see it perfectly. Her mother terrified and disoriented, and her own heart banging in her chest as she sprinted over pavement and grass, pushed aside stunned tourists to reach her.

  “She was gasping for air, and running. She fell. It was terrible for her. People were trying to help her, but it scared her so much, humiliated her so much.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I got her back. Held on tight, had her close her eyes, and I walked her back. She hasn’t been beyond the courtyard since. That was four years ago. She wouldn’t go back into therapy afterward. Gets testy about it,” Phoebe added with a little smile. “She’s fine in the house. She’s happy in the house. Why can’t we leave her alone? So we do. I don’t know if it’s the right thing, but we do.”

  “It’s right enough. Sometimes the right thing changes, so you have to do what’s right for now.”

  She thought about that after she showed him where he could sleep, after digging up a spare toothbrush and making sure the towels were fresh and plentiful.

  The right thing changed, that was true. And sometimes what you thought was right ended up being a wrong turn but a necessary one. She wasn’t sure if Duncan was the right thing or a wrong turn, but she’d fallen in love with him.

  Had probably stubbed her toe on that the first time she’d seen him, then tripped a little when she’d sat in the pub, laughing with him and enjoying the music. Another little stumble here, a loss of balance there, and the fall was inevitable.

  Now, she supposed, she had to figure out what the right thing was, and how to do it. For now.

  A big perk to waking up the lone guy in a household of women, Duncan decided, was the big, home-cooked breakfast. It didn’t suck to be fussed over, either, like the newly crowned prince of Femaleland while he enjoyed coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.

  Ava managed the morning stove, and by his gauge that was the general routine. But due to manly company, Essie set out what he figured were the good dishes, with coordinating linen napkins.

  Essie fussed, filling a fancy sugar bowl and creamer, pouring freshly squeezed juice into a sparkling pitcher, rounding up a little squat bottle of zinnias. He could only assume, as the tasks had her all but bouncing around the kitchen, she was having as good a time as he was.

  “Now don’t pester Duncan, Carly. He hasn’t even finished his first cup of coffee yet.”

  “Great coffee,” Duncan said.

  “How come I’m not having cereal?” Carly wanted to know.

  “Because Ava’s making omelets. But you can have cereal if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Duncan gave Carly a poke in the ribs. Despite the pout, she looked pretty as a picture in a ruffly yellow shirt and blue pants. “Hard day at the office coming up?”

  She rolled her eyes in his direction. “I go toschool. And we have to take an arithmetic test today. I don’t see why we have to multiply and divide all the time. It’s just numbers. They don’tdo anything.”

  “You don’t like numbers? I love numbers. Numbers are a thing of beauty.”

  Carly sniffed. “I don’t need numbers. I’m going to be an actress. Or a personal shopper.”

  “Well, if you’re an actress how are you going to count your lines?”

  Duncan considered earning a second eye roll a badge of honor.

  “Anybody can count.”

  “Only with the beauty of numbers. Then you have to figure out how much you’re going to make—so you can buy that house in Malibu—after you pay your agent her percentage, and pay your bodyguards so the paparazzi don’t hound you. You got to have yourself an entourage, kid, and do the math so you can call up that personal shopper when it’s time for the Oscars.”

  Carly considered. “Maybe I’ll justbe the personal shopper. Then I only have to know about clothes. Iknow about clothes already.”

  “What’s your commission?”

  This time he got a frown instead of an eye roll. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s how much you make when you sell Jennifer Aniston that vintage Chanel gown. You get a cut of what it costs. So say it costs five thousand, and you get ten percent. Plus, she needs shoes, and a purse thing. So what’s your commission? Gotta do the math.”

  Her eyes narrowed now. “I get something every time they buy something? I get money, every time?”

  “Pretty sure that’s how it works.”

  Interest lit her face and banished the pout. “I don’t know how to do percent.”

  “I do. Got paper?”

  When Phoebe walked in, her family was circled around the table. Creamy omelets, fancy strips of Ava’s masterful French toast, crisp bacon invited healthy appetites to tuck right in.

  Duncan ate with his left hand while Carly, her chair scooted up beside his, leaned over his rapidly scribbling right.

  “She needs earrings! She has to have earrings, too.”

  “Okay. How much for the ear dangles?”

  “A million dollars!”

  “You’re the Satan of personal shoppers.” He flicked a glance up, smiled. “Morning.”

  “Mama! We’re doing percent, so I can figure out how much I’ll make when I’m a personal shopper. I already made six thousand dollars on commission.”

  “Jennifer Aniston’s up for an Oscar,” Ava explained. “She needs to be outfitted, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And needs ensembles for various appearances.”

  Phoebe walked around to read the list Duncan had going. “Jen’s on quite the spree.”

  “Numbers are fun.”

  Phoebe gaped at her daughter. “I think I’ve walked into a parallel universe, one where numbers are fun and there’s omelets on Tuesday mornings.”

  “Sit right down,” Essie told her. “We’ve kept yours warm in the oven.”

  Phoebe checked her watch. “I guess I’ve got time to force down a few bites. Numbers are fun,” she repeated as she sat on the other side of her daughter. “How come they weren’t fun when I made little bunnies and kittens out of them to show you how they multiplied?”

  “Numbers are more fun when they’re money.”

  Phoebe picked up her coffee, shook her head. “Mind yourself with this one, Duncan. She’s a gold digger.”

  “She picks up a couple more clients like Jen here, she’s going to be supporting me. Look how pretty you are in the morning. Even prettier than Ava’s omelets—which is going some. I expect there isn’t a man in Savannah with a better view than I’ve got here in this kitchen.”

  Phoebe’s brows winged up. “What did you put in his omelet, Ava?”

  “Whatever it was, I’ll make sure it goes in every time.”

  He ate cold cereal straight out of the box and washed it down with bitter black coffee. He hadn’t s
haved that morning. He hadn’t showered. He knew he was standing on the slippery edge of a bout of depression.

  He wanted the anger back. The anger and the purpose. They could get lost in that blue pit of depression, he knew. He’d lost them before.

  There was medication, duly prescribed. But he preferred the speed he’d bought from a friend of a friend. Still, he knew the uppers were a bad choice. He could do the rash and the reckless with that heady juice rushing through him.

  He’d already done the reckless, hadn’t he? Plugging that idiot rabbit was one thing. But he should’ve saved it—a few days in the freezer, then he could’ve dumped it on Phoebe anytime in the dead of night.

  He’d nearly gotten caught by rushing it. But he’d been so pissed off!

  She wasn’t taking the heat for Johnson. Not from the department, not from the press, not from the public. The stupid fucker’s mother had made Phoebe her new best friend. And that maudlin, thatpitiful statement outside the funeral home played over and over on the news, on the talk shows.

  Made that fumbling bitch look like Mother fucking Teresa instead of the ambitious, grasping, stumbling cunt she was.

  He’d let the anger take over—always a mistake. He’d let it rule so he’d driven straight to her house, tossed the corpse up. He’d meant it to land on the veranda but his hand had been shaking with rage, and his aim was short.

  He’d nearly gone after it, had started to, when light spilled out of the house next door.

  He could see himself—humiliated even now—hiding in the bushes while that crazy bitch walked out with her ugly excuse for a dog.

  And he knew, heknew she walked that dog right at dusk, every single night. He knew, but he hadn’t used the knowledge. He’d only used the anger.

  And what if that crazy woman or her ugly excuse for a dog had seen him? It wasn’t time for that yet.

  He’d actually imagined killing them both. Snapping necks like celery stalks and leavingthem on Phoebe’s front steps.

  But it wasn’t the time.

  He had a plan. A plan and a purpose. Anagenda.

  Now the rage was gone, and the purpose was blurred with a damning sense of failure. He’d wasted his time on that Posse asshole. Taken a stupid risk and wasted bullets.