Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie

by Marianne Stillings

  He winked at her, and his mouth kicked up at one end in a flirty smile. Wowee-zowee, what a hunk.

  Her heart fluttered. She ignored it. All this fluttering heart nonsense was probably taking years off her life.

  “Evie Randall,” he said, “this is Madame Grovda, the world-renowned Russian psychic, and Dabney James, the poet.”

  James stood and extended his hand, but before she could take it, Madame Grovda bolted from her seat. Practically trotting around the end of the table, she flung her arms about Evie and gave her a breath-stealing hug.

  “Privet, dahlink! I, Madame Ernestina Grovda, have arrived. I am saving the day!” Her voice was husky, her accent pronounced. Holding Evie at an arm’s length, she gave her the once-over and said, “You are pretty one, yes?”

  “Spasiba, madame,” Evie managed without too much trouble. She’d noticed that, over the course of the afternoon, the swelling on her tongue had reduced considerably, allowing her to speak normally again. The bruises on her backside, however, were still weeks away from healing.

  “What is this? Govorite li vy po Russki?”

  Evie blushed and shook her head. “Nyet. Not really. I learned a few words, in your honor. I am a schoolteacher, and I thought it would be nice—”

  “Da! The teacher of children. This is good!” Madame Grovda seemed thrilled enough by that to pull Evie to her bosom again and practically hug the life out of her. Pain shot through her body.

  Evie realized she must have reacted, because she suddenly felt Max’s presence beside her, felt his hands gently prying her out of the psychic’s abundant arms.

  “Madame,” he said, wedging himself between Evie and the woman. “Ms. Randall is suffering injuries from a fall two days ago. She’s still healing.”

  Evie felt her eyes mist. Doing her best to smile at the psychic, she said, “It’s okay, madame. I’m fine, really.”

  Madame Grovda was a woman well past her middle years, stout of build, strong of limb, who appeared not so much clothed as upholstered. Everything about her was large—from her shock of white hair, to the dinner-plate earrings swinging heavily from her lobes, to her necklace of ping-pong-ball-sized red beads.

  Her round, friendly face was flushed, her broad forehead dotted with perspiration. Whiskey-brown eyes glittering with enthusiasm were small and deeply set, and her generous mouth had been painted a shade of orange Evie was sure didn’t exist in nature.

  “I regret, my dear,” she crooned, cupping Evie’s cheek in her palm.

  Abruptly, she spread her arms wide, like a 747 preparing for takeoff. Her eyes drifted closed and she set her fingertips to her temples. Humming and rocking back and forth on her heels, she moaned, “Your hand, child. Give to me your hand.”

  Evie glanced at Max, then hesitantly extended her right hand. Madame grasped it as though it were the lifeline that would save her from going down for the third time. Her eyes pinched tightly closed, her head nodding, she resembled a malfunctioning bobble-head toy.

  “Yes, yes. Clearly, I see,” she announced dramatically, her voice pitched high and breathy, like the shriek of a terrified chipmunk. “Soon, you will undertake trip of heart. Ah, and with such beautiful man.”

  She paused a moment to smile knowingly. Then her lips curved down and her voice deepened. “But trip holds many dangers. This man will protect you, but you should give him a key to secret which you hold buried deeply in your heart, milaya moya.”

  Evie’s aforementioned heart skidded and hopped for several beats and nearly went into arrest. Everybody had secrets. That was a pretty safe prediction. The woman could not possibly know anything.

  Madame Grovda’s eyes were still closed, her forehead furrowed in distress. “This man,” she rasped. “He does not wish for me to see him clearly, but he is handsome devil. You will marry him when the trees turn to red and gold, and the cool wind, it kisses your brow. You will have three children. Two sons. One daughter. Dover’sya mne. It is so.”

  Right. “This fall, madame?” Evie laughed, not quite sure what to make of her own personal psychic reading. “Well, that doesn’t give me much time. So much to do. The dress, the church, the guest list, the china pattern. Did you happen to notice if my future husband prefers floral designs or tone-on-tone?”

  Madame Grovda opened her eyes and smiled at Evie as though she knew all her most intimate dreams.

  “You doubt me, child?” she said softly, arching a thinly painted brow. “But is truth.”

  Max took a sip of wine and slid a glance around the table. They had become five for dinner when Lorna joined them a few minutes ago and was seated next to her treasure hunt partner, Dabney James. Edmunds, who would be Madame Grovda’s companion for the hunt, hovered in the background, ready to provide whatever the guests needed.

  “So tell me, Mr. James,” Lorna said. “What are you working on now?”

  James appeared to be in his early thirties and had the kind of blond good looks that seemed to appeal to most women. Max wasn’t sure what famed, yet reclusive, poets were supposed to look like, but if they resembled a quarterback for the Seahawks, then Dabney James was your man.

  The poet smiled shyly at Lorna and said, “Have you read any of my work, Ms. Whitney?”

  “Since we’re going to be partners,” she said, “perhaps you should call me Lorna.” She lowered her lashes as her cheeks flushed a girlish pink.

  Smitten. The poor woman hadn’t been in James’s presence for more than ten minutes and she was smitten with the bastard. Well, he’d better not try that frigging charm on his partner.

  Max took a sip of wine, then set his glass well into Evie’s personal space on the table. She didn’t seem to notice, but James shot a quick glance at the overt territorial male gesture, and came that close to smirking.

  “Hey, James,” Max said, feeling peeved enough to act on it. All eyes turned to him. “Why don’t you recite one of your poems for us? One of the short ones. You do have a short one?”

  From across the table James’s light brown eyes assessed Max. With a single finger, the middle one, he pushed his glasses back up on his nose, then smiled. Long dimples formed in his cheeks and Max could have sworn he heard Evie’s breath catch.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Um, Detective Lollygag, was it?” the famed, yet reclusive, poet answered, arching his brows. Both of them.

  “Galloway.”

  “Sorry. Well, in your honor, I could recite my shortest poem. It’s called ‘Poor Little Inchworm.’ I don’t bring it out much, sort of keep it tucked away since it’s such an embarrassment. Limp, no rhythm, no staying power. Always leaves the reader frustrated, wanting more. You understand, I’m sure.”

  Lorna smiled, transforming her somewhat plain features into a delicate prettiness. “Oh, please do recite something, Mr. James. I’m a huge fan.”

  He turned to her and said, “Please call me Dabney.”

  Dabney, Max thought. What kind of a puke-assed name was that?

  Next to him, Evie spoke up. “My favorite poem of yours is ‘Lamentation of the Lilac.’ I have parts of it memorized, but I’d love to hear you recite it the way you, the poet, intended.” She beamed at the guy, and Max felt like he’d been sucker-punched right in the gut. What would it take to get her to smile at him like that? He was no good at poetry, but if she appreciated an ardent and somewhat lyrical homicide report, he had it covered.

  James picked up his wineglass and held it to his lips. “Actually,” he said over the rim, “I think it would be wonderful if you recited it. I never tire of hearing my own work.” He laughed as though he were poking fun at himself. Yeah, right.

  All eyes turned to Evie. She put her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. Her lashes were dark and thick, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room. With her lips slightly parted, she looked like a woman about to be kissed, and it was all he could do to refrain from swooping in. Damn, she was pretty.

  “ ’O to be a lilac fair, amethyst petals, dew like fairy seq
uins sewn one by one with gentle hands, gliding, stroking the silken flesh of the flower, ever opening, yawning, gaping, beckoning the sword that knights my love in passion and in pain.’ ” Her lashes fluttered open, and she smiled… at James. “Did I do it justice?”

  Max stared at her, then at the lovestruck Lorna, and at the Russian psychic, grown silent and wistful. Dabney James wrote pornographic crap, and they loved it?

  In response to her recitation, James lifted his glass in a toast to Evie. “Very nicely done.”

  Edmunds approached and placed another bottle of wine on the table. The man’s blue eyes rested for a moment on Evie, and when she looked up at him, he gave her a quick smile and continued on about his duties.

  Refilling his own glass with the excellent cabernet, Max said, “That was great, but it was written a while ago. Why don’t you give us a couple of lines of what you’re working on now? I’m sure the ladies would love something hot off the presses.”

  The poet glared at him over the rim of his wineglass as the women begged and pleaded for more.

  Finally, James said, “Well, let’s see. Uh, okay. There is a little something I’ve been working on, but it’s still in the rough draft stages so you’ll have to forgive me if it seems unpolished.”

  “Oh, you’re just being modest,” Max scolded. “I’m sure it’s of the same quality as your published work.”

  Tossing back a huge gulp of wine, the poet resettled himself in his chair. “Right. Uh, okay. It’s called, uh, yeah, it’s called ‘Ode to Wine.’ ”

  The women smiled and nodded their approval, leaning forward in their chairs in eager anticipation, while Max stared innocently into James’s face.

  The poet cleared his throat. “ ‘Wine is good and red and tasty, and when drunk slowly, it won’t make you hasty, to depart… in passion and in pain.’ ”

  There was silence for a moment at the table, then the women burst into enthusiastic applause. James blushed and polished off the rest of his good and red and tasty wine.

  “As I s-said,” he stammered. “Very rough.” He sent another meaningful glare Max’s way, and the two men locked gazes for a moment.

  While James had babbled on, Edmunds placed chilled plates in front of each guest, and Max realized he was starving. As he took a healthy bite of his cracked crab appetizer, Madame Grovda broke off a section of French bread the size of a Volkswagen and applied butter to it with the enthusiasm of Van Gogh smearing yellow ochre on a fresh canvas.

  He refocused his attention on the woman seated next to him—the prickly woman apparently determined to avoid him. She seemed to be picking away at her food, absently pushing it around but not really eating anything.

  “Evie?” he said, and she lifted her gaze to him. Man, she had gorgeous eyes. Clear blue. Stunning blue. Wary and suspicious blue.

  She slowly blinked those big blue eyes and tilted her head as if asking him what he wanted.

  “Allergic to shellfish?” he asked, gesturing to her plate.

  “Oh, no,” she said, lowering her lashes. “I, uh, I have an emotional aversion to crab.”

  “An emotional aversion? Like what? An edible complex?”

  Across the table, James snorted.

  With a little shake of the head she said, “Detective Galloway, you are far too immature to understand. Forget I said anything.”

  He sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes on her. Twirling the stem of his wineglass in his fingers, he said, “No, really. I want to know.”

  Evie carefully readjusted the napkin on her lap. She was wearing a soft pink dress that complimented the richness of her auburn hair and brought out the scatter of freckles across her nose. It also accentuated the tantalizing swell of her bosom as the scooped neckline displayed creamy skin and a hint of deep cleavage. Encircling her throat, a gold chain held a sparkling crescent moon. She pursed her lips and looked at him steady on, and he felt himself tighten all over.

  “It’s a silly thing,” she said finally. “You wouldn’t understand—”

  “Not true,” he interrupted, feigning insult. “I’m a very understanding guy.” Giving her an encouraging grin, he urged, “I’m sure Madame Grovda and Ms. Whitney, not to mention old James over there, would be interested in the story.”

  Across from Evie, Max could see that Madame Grovda’s mouth was full, but she encouraged Evie with a poof-cheeked smile, while Lorna and that dickhead James both nodded their approval.

  Evie stared at Max for a moment, then relaxed. “All right. Okay, last year, I showed my sixth grade class a marine documentary—”

  “Hoo-ha!”

  She halted and looked over at James, who was grinning.

  “No, Mr. James,” she said patiently. “Not ‘Marine,’ as in ‘a few good men,’ but marine as in sea creatures. Besides, ‘Hoo-ha’ is the Army. I believe ‘ooo-rah’ is the Marines.”

  Max considered this. “What’s the Air Force?”

  Her brows dipped together as she glanced at him in obvious irritation. “I’m guessing ‘up-up-and-away.’ ”

  “Negative. That’s Superman.” Max crossed his arms over his chest. “What about the Navy?”

  “ ‘Glub-glub,’ for all I know,” she snapped. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

  “I do.”

  Madame Grovda swallowed and said, “Pozba-lujsta, milaya moya. Please speak to us of seeing the craps.”

  “The sea crabs,” Evie corrected. “Fine. Anyway, the documentary was about the reproductive habits of crabs.”

  “Oh,” Max said dryly. “Did I miss that one? And I had so wanted to tape it.”

  “You’re ruining the moment,” she said icily.

  “What moment? You’re talking about the sex life of crustaceans, for Christ’s sake.”

  She condemned him with the arch of a brow. “I knew you’d have some juvenile response. Which reminds me. You hated Thomas, so why did you agree to join the treasure hunt?”

  “None of your beethwaxth,” he growled.

  “Are you making fun of me again?”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Yeth,” she said, mimicking herself. “I’m participating so I can keep the island and the llamas, because I grew up here and I can’t imagine living anywhere else, and if I had millions of dollars, I wouldn’t have to teach anymore and could live here all the time. Why are you here?”

  He shrugged. “Curiosity, mostly. Then there’s all that money. I figure Heyworth owes me, and I mean to collect.”

  “Owes you? For what?”

  Glaring at Evie, he said, “Let us return to your fascinating crab story, shall we?”

  She sent him a stern, teacherly look, and said, “Are you going to behave?”

  Max stifled a laugh and put up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll be good,” he said smoothly, like when he was seventeen and he’d tried to get Merilee Vandermore into the backseat of his car. “So, what about the mating habits of marine crabs? Do they have little bumper stickers that say, ‘Crabs Do It in a Pinch?’ ”

  “You are such a jerk.”

  Okay, so she was no Merilee Vandermore. And maybe that was a good thing.

  Evie ignored his apologetic smile, sent him a glare, and continued.

  “It seems that when two crabs mate, the female must first completely shed her shell.”

  “Works that way for humans, too.” Max waggled his brows.

  “When a female and a male crab get together, she sheds the shell, and he, uh, crawls on top of her, sort of like nesting tables, you know?” She demonstrated this by cupping one hand over the other. “Then, very gently, he uses all his legs to turn her onto her back, underneath him. He has to be extremely gentle, because she doesn’t have her shell anymore to protect her. Then he lowers himself onto her until their bodies are touching, um, intimately.”

  Max willed Evie to look up at him, but she wouldn’t.

  “As they m-mate,” she stumbled softly, “he curls his legs around her body, sort of like an embr
ace. Then he, you know, um, deposits his sperm.”

  Max took another slug of wine, but said nothing. Was it getting hot in here, or was it just him? Who would have thought the sex life of some ugly-assed crabs could be so erotic?

  “When he’s done,” she continued, “very, very gently, he uses all his legs to turn her right side up again, then he stands over her, guarding her, with his legs acting as a sort of bulwark against predators. They stay like that until her new shell hardens. It’s the most vulnerable time of her life. She has completely let her guard down, and must rely totally on him for protection, and somehow they both know it.”

  Lorna reached out and patted Evie’s hand, sympathy plain to see in her eyes. “And then?”

  Evie lifted her chin to stare at Max. “He leaves her, of course, pregnant, to fend for herself. Just goes on his merry way, feetloose and fancy free.”

  Madame Grovda shook her head then knocked back the rest of her wine. “So typical. Men. Phooey.” She made a rude noise with her lips.

  Lorna’s mouth flattened. “How true.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Max said. “He probably thought she used protection. Besides, just how many baby crabs does she have?”

  “Two million.”

  His brows shot up. “Well there you go. What guy crab in his right mind would stay? Two million? What if the little crablettes needed braces or glasses?” He grinned at her. “Why, the cost of back-to-school shoes alone would be staggering.”

  Shifting her gaze to the rose-and-cream flocked wallpaper, Evie murmured, “That’s beside the point. A decent crab would have stayed. They were half his responsibility, after all, whether he loved her or not.”

  Max studied Evie’s profile as she continued to ignore him. He’d been mistaken when he first saw her and thought she was passably pretty. She was absolutely stunning, in a fresh and unassuming way. The dock out front should be crammed with motorboats from her hoards of suitors, but there were none. Just why was that? he wondered.

  With a wistful smile, she said, “Well, you’d have to have seen it, I suppose. It was a beautiful thing, really. I mean, he knows to protect her, and she knows she needs to let him because at that very moment she’s completely vulnerable. I… I sort of thought it was romantic.”