by Irene Hannon
"That's fine, Marsha. Thanks"
Debra didn't see why she couldn't go back and get her daughter herself, but they had their rules. Everyplace did. As far as she was concerned, there were too many rules, period. But she shouldn't fault Little Folks for being cautious with the children in their care. The world was a crazy place.
Picking up a copy of a tabloid from the stack on the reception desk, Debra turned her back on the rush-hour melee and paged through the sheets of newsprint, hoping to discourage conversation should any of the other parents be so inclined.
She skimmed the headlines without interest, thinking instead about the weekend ahead. Two whole days with her baby. Per haps Danielle would begin to crawl. At almost seven months, she was on the verge of it. Debra hoped the big event would happen when she could witness it rather than at daycare, where no one would give it a second look.
She turned the page to read the next headline. Couldn't Marsha move a little ...
PSYCHIC DETECTIVES: USING ESP TO SOLVE CRIMES
What do a Raggedy Ann doll and a powder puff have in common?
The world tilted. Darkened. Debra clutched the back of a chair for support as she read the first paragraph of the article.
"Rachel Sutton claims she's not a psychic. But when a Raggedy Ann doll the local music teacher found in a Bread Company parking lot gave her bad vibes, she went straight to the FBI:"
Raggedy Ann.
Bread Company.
FBI.
The words screamed off the page.
Debra's lungs shut down.
Sinking into a chair, she stared at the photo of a thirtyish woman seated behind a piano in some swanky setting.
The woman who'd found the Raggedy Ann.
But that couldn't be! She'd thrown the doll into a dumpster.
The container had been full, though. She'd had difficulty wedging the doll in once she'd hefted the heavy lid up a few inches. Plus, it had been very dark in that back corner of the parking lot, and the driving snow had blinded her. When headlights had swung across her she'd panicked. Afraid of drawing attention to herself, she'd given the doll one final shove and let the lid drop back into place. It must have fallen out while the trash bin was being emptied.
"Isn't that an interesting article? I read it on my lunch hour:"
Debra's hands jerked, snapping the paper, and she swung toward Marsha.
"Sorry, Ms. Kraus. I didn't mean to startle you." The young woman bounced Danielle on her hip. "That kind of stuff can give you the creeps, though, can't it?" She nodded toward the paper. "I've never believed in all that psychic voodoo, but there's some pretty convincing information in there. And that teacher looks normal:" She gestured toward the photo of Rachel Sutton. "Who knows?" With a shrug, she smiled at Danielle. "Mommy's here now, sweetie. Time to go home"
As Marsha handed her over, the baby babbled happily and snuggled against Debra's chest. The warm little body felt so good in her arms. So perfect. Debra hugged her close and rubbed her cheek against the child's soft skin. It seemed like Christmas each time she held her. Not that she'd ever gotten anything to rival the little bundle in her arms on that holiday. Her father hadn't believed in spoiling children. Presents had been meager at best, and always practical. But Danielle made up for all she'd missed.
And no one was going to take her away.
"Drive safe, Ms. Kraus. The roads are still tricky. How long does it take to get to Defiance from here?"
With an effort, Debra focused on the girl's question. Act normal. Don't do anything to arouse suspicion. "About twenty minutes"
"Really? I thought it was farther than that. It's like a different world from Chesterfield. I mean, are there even any stores out there?"
"I do most of my shopping here before I go home:"
"Yeah. I guess you'd have to. Living in the boonies has disadvantages"
But it had advantages too. Debra ticked them off in her mind as she exited the facility and strapped Danielle in her car seat. No nosy neighbors. No one to observe her comings and goings. No questions. During her first few weeks on her new job, as she'd finalized her plans for motherhood, she'd searched long and hard to find a home that offered both easy access to the city and lots of privacy. The little bungalow tucked away on five acres of woods and fields suited her perfectly. From the night she'd brought Danielle home, she'd felt insulated there. And safe.
Until now.
But maybe she was overreacting. Who believed in that psychic stuff, anyway? No one she knew of in law enforcement or the legal community, that was for sure. And she'd seen plenty of case files from the criminal lawyers she'd worked for through the years. She couldn't remember one instance where evidence produced by a psychic was mentioned.
As for St. Louis Scene ... she'd seen it at the daycare center in the past, paged through it on a couple of occasions. It often featured oddball stories more suited to the National Enquirer than a reputable newspaper. She suspected people read it more for entertainment than information. Most rational people would laugh off the doll story as far-fetched.
Except it wasn't.
What sort of power did this Rachel woman have that had allowed her to pick up "vibes" from the Raggedy Ann? And how much more did she know?
Too nervous to wait until she got home to read the entire article, Debra pulled into a fast-food outlet, parked under an overhead light, and opened the paper to the story.
A quick scan reassured her. Most of the article focused on a St. Louis woman from the 1970s who'd practiced psychometry-and claimed she'd helped police solve crimes using items like powder puffs. Rachel Sutton, and an FBI agent named Nick Bradley, were only mentioned in the lead and the conclusion. The teacher had refused to comment, except to deny she had any psychic powers, and the FBI had responded to queries with a "no comment:"
Okay, so what did they really know?
Forcing her mind into the analytical mode she used when helping prepare a brief, Debra extracted the few factual nuggets pertaining to the doll. A teacher had found it. It gave her bad vibes. She'd discussed it with the FBI. Period.
There was no indication the woman had any specific information. Just a feeling.
And law enforcement didn't act on feelings.
Besides, even if the cops tried to check into it, there wasn't anything to connect that doll to her.
Feeling more reassured, Debra folded the paper, set it on the seat, and pulled back into traffic. If the woman had any real information, the police would have shown up in Defiance by now. In all likelihood, the doll had been pitched already and the FBI had written this woman off as a nut.
She was safe as long as she kept a low profile. And made sure her baby didn't look anything like the one who had been abducted in Chicago.
It was time to get out the hair dye again.
"Let it roll to the answering machine, Rachel:"
Snatching her hand back from the phone, Rachel followed Nick's advice.
"Hi, Rachel. My name is Mildred Watson. I read the article in St. Louis Scene yesterday, and I found your phone number in the book. I hope I'm not disturbing you, dear, but my cat is missing and I wondered if your ability works with animals too. I have her toys here at the house and I'd be happy to bring them to you if you think you could get some sort of reading that might tell me where she went:' The woman recited her phone number, said a polite thank-you, and hung up.
Rachel shook her head in dismay. "That's the seventh call since the paper hit the stands at noon yesterday. At least this woman sounds rational:"
"If you call believing that cats can send messages through toys rational:" Nick gave her a dubious look.
"Trust me. Compared to some of the people I've heard from, this woman is rational:"
Nick picked up her coat from the back of the couch and held it as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. "Anything scary?"
The question was casual, but Rachel sensed an undercurrent of seriousness. "No. Unless you count the woman who claimed I was doing the
devil's work and wanted to perform an exorcism on me:" She tried for a light tone but didn't quite pull it off. That one had been a little freaky.
"I expected you to get a few of those. Do me a favor, okay? Double-check all your locks for the next few weeks:"
"Do you think I should be concerned?" Rachel stopped buttoning her coat. Moistening her lips, she tucked her hair behind her ear.
"Careful more than concerned. It always pays to be cautious. You never know what an article like that will pry out of the woodwork. How have your friends and co-workers reacted?"
"I warned them ahead of time. Played up the magazine's reputation for sensationalism. Explained the theory your friend's wife proposed. When it came out, I got sympathy rather than weird looks. And a few compliments on the photo:" She shook her head and picked up her purse. "I can't believe the paper sent someone to the hotel to take a photo during tea. People often celebrate special occasions there and take lots of pictures, so I didn't even notice. That was pretty sneaky."
"We're talking about St. Louis Scene, remember?"
"Good point:"
"And the photo was nice" He winked, but as the phone began to ring again he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the door. "We're out of here"
"No argument from me."
As they stepped outside, he pulled the door shut behind them with a firm tug.
"Saved from the bell." Rachel fitted her key in the lock and smiled up at him. "This was such a nice idea, Nick. I haven't been out to breakfast on a Saturday in ages. Where are we going?"
He took her arm and guided her down the walk toward his car. "A place called Nick's"
She shot him a surprised glance. "Your house?"
"You said at lunch the other day you'd like to see it. And my claim last Friday wasn't idle. I can cook"
"Are we having omelets?" she teased.
"Nope. Eggs Benedict:"
"Seriously?"
"Would an FBI agent lie?"
He gave her that engaging grin, the one that dented his cheek and sent her pulses fluttering. "I hope not'
"You can trust me, Rachel." There was more behind the words than a mere promise of a decent breakfast. The sudden darkening of his eyes told her that. But he didn't give her a chance to dwell on it, switching from intense to teasing in a heartbeat. "Besides, I have a business proposition for you"
"A business proposition. Hmm. That sounds intriguing. Let's see ... are you considering piano lessons?"
Chuckling, he waited while she slid into the passenger seat. "I don't have a musical bone in my body" Shutting her door, he circled the car, took his place behind the wheel, and picked up the conversation. "I appreciate music, but as for making musicthe Lord shorted me on that talent, I'm afraid"
"A lot of people say that without ever giving it a try"
"Not me. I tried. In grade school, one of the foster families I stayed with enrolled me in the band. I guess they thought it might be a good outlet for ... lots of things. Didn't take. After giving me a chance on the violin, clarinet, and percussion, the teacher suggested I switch to choir. That lasted about a month. I had no ear for harmony."
"Maybe you just never found your musical niche"
"No. The sad truth is I'm not gifted in that way, like you are. But how did you manage to develop your talent, moving among foster families and schools?"
She lifted one shoulder. "Some of the families had pianos. Some of the schools offered lessons. But I didn't have the opportunity to focus on it until college:"
"I bet you sing too"
"Some. But you know what I really wanted to do? Dance. I love ballet"
"Why didn't you?" The instant the words left his mouth, he gave her a stricken look. "I'm sorry, Rachel. I keep forgetting about your leg"
She smiled, wanting to reassure him. She'd made her peace with her limitations long ago. "Don't apologize. I consider that validation for all my years of physical therapy. Besides, I may not be able to do ballet, but nothing prevents me from watching it. That gives me a lot of pleasure, too. Now what's this business proposition you mentioned?"
"If you can be patient, it might be easier for me to show you rather than tell you"
"Patience isn't my strongest virtue. But I'll try"
Fifteen minutes later, when Nick turned into a long drive, Rachel stopped mid-sentence at her first glimpse of the house he called home. The stately brick two story had all the classic Federal-style features: windows arranged symmetrically around a central doorway; front door topped by a fanlight and flanked by narrow side windows; dental molding in the cornice; black shutters. A wide set of brick steps curved out at the bottom in gracious welcome. The roof looked new, the tuck-pointing recent, the paint fresh. Gigantic oak trees and towering maples dotted the immense, manicured lawn.
"Wow" It was all she could manage.
"You wouldn't have said that a couple ofyears ago" Nick grinned and set the brake. "The place was falling apart. There was a hole in the roof the size of a large beach ball, a lot of the windows were broken, none of the plumbing worked ... it was a mess"
"Why didn't some developer buy the place, knock it down, and build three houses on this lot? That's what they're doing in every other hot area of town. And Chesterfield definitely falls into the hot category."
"They tried. But the historic preservation folks raised a ruckus. The house was granted a reprieve while they scrambled to find funding to restore it, but their deadline was approaching when I appeared on the scene. With their help, I got the place for a song, considering the prime location. Some of them still show up now and then to check on my progress"
"How will they feel when you pack up and move on?"
"Saving the house was their main interest. As long as I pick the buyer for this one very carefully, they'll be happy."
While they ascended the brick steps, Nick pulled out his keys. "The back door is my usual style, but you don't get the full effect that way. For your first visit, I thought we'd do it right:"
First visit. Rachel liked the sound of that.
Fitting his key in the lock, Nick ushered her in to the sound of a rhythmic beeping. "Security alarm," he explained, entering behind her.
As he opened a small door constructed of decorative molding and punched a code into the box hidden behind it, Rachel surveyed the spacious foyer. She didn't know a lot about architecture, but even her untrained eye could appreciate the careful restoration and decorative details.
Hardwood floors gleamed; white spindles glistened on the stairway that rose, turned, and hugged the wall as it ascended; graceful arches led to what she supposed was a living room on one side and a dining room on the other, though both were unfurnished. Carved marble mantels graced both rooms, and light spilled in from the large Palladian windows. Twelve-foot ceilings enhanced the sense of space and gave the house an airy, open feeling.
No detail had been spared, from the intricate crown molding capping all the rooms to the elaborate plaster ceiling medallion around the crystal chandelier in the dining room.
Awed, she shook her head as he drew up beside her. "My whole house could fit in your living room:"
"They built them bigger a hundred and fifty plus years ago"
"I can see that. Did you do all this yourself?"
"Pretty close to 100 percent of the visible work inside. The plumbing and some of the electrical repairs I left to the experts. Let me take your coat and we'll start our tour on the second floor"
She shrugged it off, watching as he hung his leather jacket beside her wool coat in the hall closet. His eyes seemed especially blue today, thanks to the dark blue pullover he wore over an open-necked white shirt and black slacks.
"My lady" He gestured to the stairs with a flourish.
Rachel started up the wide staircase, Nick beside her. The proportions of this house suited him, she noted. His tall frame and broad shoulders had dwarfed her tiny bungalow, but the scale of this house accommodated his lean, powerful physique and larger-than-life pres
ence.
Upstairs, he showed her how he'd combined two of the five bedrooms to create a master suite. Another bedroom had been transformed into a well-equipped gym. Some finishing touches were still in progress, but the heavy work was done.
Descending a back flight of stairs, he walked her through the kitchen-where modern amenities had been incorporated without losing the historic character of the house-and ducked into the small study/library with built-in bookcases, located behind the living room.
Although the master bedroom had contained a bed and dresser, and there were a table and chairs in the kitchen, the study was the only room Rachel considered fully furnished. It boasted a couch, easy chair, lamps, and TV.
"May I ask you a question?" Rachel ran a finger along the chair rail as they returned to the front of the house via the central hall.
"Sure"
She stopped in the arch to the living room and scanned the room. "How come no furniture?"
"Because I spend all my money on rehabbing?" He grinned and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
"I could buy that:"
`And it's partly true. But the real reason is that I've lived in a variety of houses, all different styles, and what worked in one wouldn't have worked in another. My last rehab was a contemporary sixties ranch. Nothing I'd have bought for that house would have fit in here. So it's easier to travel light:'
"Makes sense:" She gestured toward the front corner of the living room, beside the fireplace. "But if I was furnishing this room, I'd put a baby grand piano right there. If I could afford it"
"I take it they're pricey?"
"Very. A true extravagance. For my needs, the old upright in my spare bedroom-turned-studio is more than sufficient:" She folded her arms across her chest and smiled. "Okay, I've been patient. Now what's your business proposition?"
He led the way across the foyer. "It occurred to me after I saw your dining room that this room might benefit from a mural too:" He gestured to the blank wall separating the dining room from the butler's pantry that led to the kitchen. "What do you think?"
Hands on hips, Rachel moved to the center of the room and surveyed the blank expanse above the ornate wainscoting. "What would be the purpose? You sure don't need an illusion of space"