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When the Spirit Is Willing

Page 17

by Margaret Chittenden


  He decided fairly rapidly that arguing at this point would do more harm than good. Sometimes discretion was definitely the better part of valor. "Sorry," he said cheerfully. "I guess I got carried away with excitement."

  She studied his face for a second, then let out an explosive breath and began looking through the magnifying glass again. After turning a few more pages, she relaxed and started studying the various pictures in earnest. After several more minutes, she closed the book and gave him a wistful glance that made him catch his breath. "Are you sure you couldn't consider leaving this book with me? I'd take great care of it."

  If she continued looking at him like that, he'd be willing to sign over the entire contents of the museum. "If you show me what you want, I could make photocopies," he said.

  Her gray eyes filled with light. Lifting the book off the table, she hugged it to her chest. "I want all of it," she said.

  Me, too, he thought, but he wasn't thinking of the book at all. He cleared his throat. "I expect that would be okay. The book's way out of print, and the copyright has expired. Which puts it in the public domain. There's no legal impediment to copying the whole thing. I'll have it done for you right away."

  "Thank you, Carter."

  Somehow she could make his name sound much softer than its number of consonants warranted.

  But now she was frowning, putting the book down on the table. Rising, she brought the coffee jug to the table, carefully moving the book to a safe distance. "Do you think Priscilla was killed in that bedroom?" she asked as she poured.

  He considered for a moment. "It's possible, I suppose. But after what she just told us about Randall still grieving for his long-lost love, I wonder if maybe she acted so funny about that room because sex wasn't so great after his confession. Or maybe she wouldn't go in that room when she was alive. Maybe that was one of the ways she punished him. Withholding sex, I mean. Perhaps she didn't even like sex."

  Her eyelashes lowered, as if the word made her uncomfortable. It didn't do a whole lot for his own already agitated bloodstream.

  "According to Meandering Molly she liked sex too well," she said with a nervous little laugh.

  "Maybe she didn't like sex with her husband, then. Anything's possible."

  She nodded solemnly. "I wish there were a photograph of him in the book. There's not, is there?"

  "I haven't been able to track one down so far."

  "Well, I can hardly press Priscilla." Propping her head on her hand, she turned her face toward him. The little furrow had appeared between her brows. "She was so upset when I talked to her about the bedroom, she almost faded away."

  He nodded. She was close enough to touch. He traced the edge of her ear with one finger. Her eyes widened and she drew back, biting her lip. "Got a little spinach in your hair," he lied.

  She knew he'd lied.

  Standing up, she removed the coffee cups from the table and began rinsing them in the sink. He'd blown it. Time to go.

  He stood up. "I'll pick you up around two-thirty, shall I?" he suggested when she turned off the faucet.

  She looked at him blankly over her shoulder.

  "Two-thirty Saturday. Rusty Parker's party."

  She was biting her lip again. Not a good sign. But then her lips twitched in a half smile. "You're going to remind me I promised, aren't you?"

  "Absolutely."

  The smile became a whole one. "You really are incorrigible, Carter Kincaid."

  He shook his head. "Not completely. You could reform me."

  Back to the frown again. Probably she'd thought she could reform her husband. "Not that I need reforming," he said hastily. "You'll see, come Saturday."

  "I can hardly wait," she said dryly.

  "Good," he said, which made her laugh.

  Leave 'em laughing, he told himself, and headed for the kitchen doorway. "Thank you for a wonderful meal," he said.

  "We didn't talk about Sly," she said. "Did you ever ask him why he gave you such a rotten press?"

  Now that he was on his way, was she trying to delay him? A very good sign. He leaned against the doorjamb. "He says he just wanted you to know what a popular fella I am."

  She shook her head. "You surely didn't believe that?"

  "Not for a minute. But pinning Sly down is like trying to catch a salmon with your bare hands—it's easier in theory than practice."

  "What about his reluctance to leave your apartment, then?"

  He laughed. He'd almost forgotten that detail. "I had a very serious conversation with him about that, just before coming here. He confessed that he suffers from agoraphobia."

  Laura propped herself against the sink. "Suffers from what?"

  "Agoraphobia. It means a fear of open spaces. Supposedly, he's afraid to go outside."

  Laura's mouth was wry. "I know what it means. I just wondered when it came upon him. The first time he came over here, he took Jessica all around the marina to look at boats. And they walked downtown, down all those steps on Stewart Street."

  Carter nodded solemnly, imitating Sly. "The very situation I brought up. But that was because he wanted to entertain the little sweetheart, you see. He tries very hard to overcome the phobia. Mostly suffers in silence so as not to distress his friends and relatives. But as I insisted on answers, he had to reluctantly confess to his failing."

  "Do you think there's any truth in it?"

  "Nope. Except that I do believe he's afraid to go outside. I don't think the motivation is psychological, however. I think it's physical."

  "The '51 Merc."

  "He did seem to be watching for cars on our way to and from the library. I haven't seen that car again, but I asked my neighbors and a couple of them remembered seeing a big black car in the parking lot on both Saturday and Sunday last."

  "Maybe the thug has a steady job during the week."

  "It's a possibility."

  "So. It will be interesting to see if the car turns up this weekend."

  "Won't it?" He raised his eyebrows. "Would you like to join me in a stakeout of my parking lot?"

  "It's an enchanting prospect, but I think I'll decline."

  A negative answer, but it was delivered with humorous overtones. Humor was always encouraging.

  "So I can count on you for Saturday?" he asked as she preceded him to the front door.

  "We'll see." Her smile telegraphed that she was joking. And that she was really saying yes.

  Yes was a good word.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "So I have to go next door and stay with the Wilmers and play with dumb old Michelle, 'cause Mom's going to this party with Mr. Kincaid," Jessica grumbled into the telephone.

  It was early Saturday morning and Laura had just emerged from her shower. Evidently the telephone had rung while she was in there. Rubbing her hair with a towel, she queried Jessica with her eyebrows.

  "Grandma," Jessica mouthed as Laura listened.

  She groaned. It didn't really matter which grandmother—either way she was in for the third degree.

  "Mr. Kincaid?" her mother asked as soon as Jessica surrendered the telephone.

  "He's the local museum curator, Mom. He's advising me on wallpaper."

  "At a party?"

  "It's at his friend Tiffany's house." Which was stretching the truth just a little, but in a good cause. "I can't stay in the house all the time, Mom." Her voice was no more convincing than when she'd used this argument on herself.

  There was a short but speaking silence. Maria Tallant, formerly Conway, was very good at silences. Eventually, when Laura didn't add anything, she said, "Well, of course, I don't expect you to stay home, dear, and I suppose it has been eighteen months since poor darling Brady died, but still—"

  She broke off and switched to a determinedly cheerful voice. "Are you almost finished with the house? I'm so looking forward to you coming home. I miss you. Really, Laura, I still don't understand why you wanted to go way up there all of a sudden."

  "I tried to explain it
to you, Mom. I needed a change, that's all. And I thought it would be good for Jessica, too."

  A long sigh traveled through the telephone. "I'm sure you know what's best, dear." Which of course meant she didn't think anything of the sort.

  Laura's stomach knotted up, but then her mother did one of the about-faces that always made Laura's heart swell with love.

  "God, I sound like an interfering old biddy, don't I? Ignore everything I said, darling, except the part about me missing you." She laughed. "Unless that's putting on too much pressure?"

  "It is a bit, Mom," Laura said honestly. "I mean, I miss you, too, but I really can't work any faster. And I'm not even sure…" She'd been about to say she wasn't sure she'd be coming straight back to San Francisco when she was done, but she decided against getting into that hornet's nest until she had to.

  "Sorry, darling," her mother said, then asked, "what's all this about Priscilla?"

  Oh, Lord. "Priscilla?" Laura echoed, stalling.

  "Jessica told me you finally got to see her friend Priscilla. I thought you told me Priscilla was Jessica's imaginary friend."

  "Ah, yes, well—she's certainly not real."

  "She said Priscilla hasn't been around for a day or so," Maria said. "And you told her not to worry—she'll be back after she rests up. Really, Laura, is it such a good idea to encourage her in this fantasy? Imagination is all very well, but…"

  "Priscilla's perfectly harmless, Mom," Laura said firmly. "How's Hal?" she asked, knowing a reference to her stepfather would make Maria forget everything else.

  "Honestly, that man is impossible," Maria said fondly, and went on to tell Laura about the latest extravagant gifts he'd bought her. She'd been lucky enough to fall in love with a wealthy man this time, she always said. Which sounded heartless, unless you saw the totally besotted way the two of them acted around each other.

  They talked a few minutes more, the only other awkward moment coming when Maria asked if Laura had heard from her father recently and Laura had to admit they talked regularly.

  "Do you talk to that woman?" Maria asked.

  "She doesn't usually get on the phone, Mom."

  Another silence. "I'm dripping on the hardwood floor, Mom," Laura said finally.

  As soon as Maria hung up, she went in search of Jessica, and found her in her bedroom. "Honey, I thought we'd agreed not to mention Priscilla to any of your grandparents. They might not understand."

  Jessica was fussing with the doll Carter had given her, tying the strings of its bonnet, which had disappeared after being modeled by Max but had turned up under her bed this morning. "I'm sorry, Mom," she said heavily. "It just sort of came out. I'm lonesome for Priscilla," she added.

  Laura wrapped the towel around her head and sat down next to her daughter on the window seat. "I know, Jester. I'm lonesome for her myself. But she said she needed to rest."

  "She's had two nights and a day," Jessica grumbled. "How much sleep does she need?"

  Laura hugged her. "We don't really know, do we?"

  "Do I have to go to the Wilmers'?" Jessica asked. "Couldn't Uncle Sly come over? He's much more fun than Michelle."

  "He's busy," Laura lied without hesitation. Until she knew exactly what Sly Kincaid was up to, she wasn't about to leave her daughter alone with him.

  Jessica sighed.

  "Maybe we can ask Sly over for dinner sometime," Laura suggested. "In the meantime, once I get my hair dry I'll have a couple of hours to spare—how would you like to go to the park?"

  Jessica brightened at once, but there was still an edge of sadness to her smile. And, Laura thought, as she headed for the bedroom she was using this week, it seemed likely to remain there until Priscilla showed up again.

  "Priscilla," she called in a hoarse whisper just before leaving the hall. But there was no answer.

  The Parkers' house turned out to be a farmhouse several miles out of town. The huge old Victorian, meticulously preserved, was set on several acres with a wonderful view of Mount Baker. Laura loved it at first sight. There was a Hoosier cabinet in the kitchen that made her green with envy when Tiffany showed her around. "I love these old cabinets," she said softly, touching the flour bin and the enameled work surface. "If I ever settle down in one house, I'm going to look for one."

  "Can't see the point myself," Tiffany said. "This kitchen drives me up the wall, it's so old-fashioned. The whole town looks like a time warp to me. To each his own, I guess." She grinned. "Just as well some of us like contemporary stuff. Probably drive up the price if there weren't enough antiques to go around."

  To Laura's surprise, Tiffany hadn't looked at all disappointed to see Laura come in with Carter. She had greeted Laura with engaging friendliness, asking her how she and her "cute little girl" had liked the museum and whether she'd gotten her kitchen finished. Her white shorts weren't quite as short today—they were almost as long as Laura's Bermudas. With them she wore a simple camp shirt that was again not unlike Laura's, except that Laura's was yellow and Tiffany's was blue.

  "I guess being a computer expert and an antiques buff wouldn't necessarily go together," Laura said.

  "Carter tell you I'm an expert?" Tiffany asked, looking gratified.

  Laura nodded.

  Tiffany laughed. "He's right." She shook her head. "Not that he's anything to go by. He's getting a little better on the computer, but he's pretty slow catching on."

  She picked up a dishcloth someone had flung on the counter and folded it carefully. "You like Carter, don't you?" she asked.

  "Well, yes, I guess I do." Laura braced herself for whatever was coming. Was Tiffany going to ask her about her intentions?

  Tiffany refolded the dishcloth. "I used to have a crush on Carter," she confided.

  "Used to?"

  She nodded. "Carter and I had this talk. He said it was hard to get a good friend and he hoped I'd be his. Between you and me I think he was trying to tell me I'm too young for him. Which I knew already, of course. I guess I was just fooling myself that something might develop. Carter didn't even ask me out that first time. My uncle asked him to take me to the street party because he was sick. I mean my uncle Rusty was sick, not Carter. Anytime your uncle has to ask a guy to take you out…"

  She sighed. "Maybe I was born in the wrong period. Older men seem much more attractive to me than guys my own age. Not so superficial, if you know what I mean. Like this guy I met in Calieri's—it's a new nightclub that has a dance floor and a fabulous band, grunge rock, so maybe you wouldn't like it. I went with a girlfriend and met this guy Ben. He's awfully young, only twenty-one. His idea of romance is to say, 'Let's do it."

  Laura managed not to laugh. "The good part is that guys your own age will surely get older," she commented.

  Tiffany nodded. "That's what Carter said." She hesitated. "I hope you're both right. I'd like to get married when I'm twenty five and have a couple of kids. I love kids and they like me. You should see how quickly they pick up computer stuff. One of my cousin's kids—" She broke off. "I'm getting off the subject. I do that."

  She slanted a glance at Laura. "Carter's always saying he's an old-fashioned man. I guess that's why he likes you, huh?"

  Laura laughed wryly. "I'm not so sure that's a compliment."

  "Oh, hey, I didn't mean…" Tiffany's pretty face was rosy with embarrassment. She ran a hand through her red curls. "I meant you like old things. Like that old house you live in and all."

  "It's okay, Tiffany," Laura said. "I know what you mean. I guess that does make me old-fashioned. I certainly don't know anything about computers."

  "Computers are great fun," Tiffany said enthusiastically, tossing the dishcloth into the sink. "I want to work as a software engineer when I graduate. I've always gotten a big kick out of computer sciencey things. Device emulation, multiple languages, system programming. I especially like working with VMS."

  Laura didn't even try to look as if she understood any part of this foreign language.

  "It's really exc
iting when you think what's in store for us," Tiffany went on. "There's already a computer program that understands spoken commands and responds in a machine-generated voice. Engineers predict in the next few years we'll be able to talk to anything—computers, cars, elevators, toasters."

  "Obviously your brain is far superior to mine," Laura said ruefully. "You're going to walk right into the twenty-first century without even hesitating. I don't even know the difference between hardware and software. I hear people talking about Windows, but the only kind I recognize are the ones that need cleaning regularly."

  "Hardware is the actual computer and software is the programs that run it," Tiffany explained kindly. "Windows is an enhancement of MS-DOS—that's Microsoft Disk Operating System. It lets you control the computer with a pointing device instead of having to type commands."

  While Laura was sifting through this information, Tiffany touched her arm lightly. "Thanks for saying that about my brain," she said. "Most people think I don't have one. They take one look at me and think I must have the IQ of a flowerpot."

  Laura hoped she wasn't blushing. "I guess that's one of the drawbacks of being so beautiful."

  Tiffany nodded solemnly. "I bet people give you credit for having a brain."

  Laura decided to take that as a compliment.

  Tiffany chewed on her lower lip for a second, frowning. "Hey, I didn't mean you aren't beautiful. It's just that you have that, what d'you call it, the classy look. I don't."

  Laura was beginning to feel a hundred years old, though she was only nine years older than Tiffany.

  Tiffany was smiling again, shrugging. "I don't worry about it anymore," she said. "I have this philosophy—everyone can realize their full potential regardless of artificial barriers." She laughed. "Carter put it another way. He told me there's nothing wrong with being a gorgeous, long-legged, redheaded computer nerd."

  They both laughed and Laura felt a wave of warmth toward the younger woman. And also toward Carter for his adept handling of the situation.

  Tiffany glanced out of the casement window. "Uh-oh, I guess it's time for Carter to do his thing. I'd better get out there. I'm having to learn all this museum stuff, so I can put together a good program for him."

 

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