Simon put his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. “The Seattle police are involved now. Maybe they'll get faster action.”
“What about her car, Amy?” B.J. said. “Found out anything more?”
“Only what I told you on Saturday.” She picked up her notebook and turned toward Simon. “A man named Roger Norman bought it.” She jotted his name under Mrs. Michaels, then began to write his social security number. She'd put down the first three digits when she stared at them and gasped. “He's from Montana.”
Simon sprang from his chair and joined her. “How do you know?”
“The first three digits of the social security number indicates the area of the country where the person first applied for a card.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Simon said. “Social Security's geographical divisions are the pits. I've found it next to impossible to pinpoint a number.” He peered at her figures. “How do you know 516 indicates he's from Montana?”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” She grinned. “Montana's numbers can start with either 516 or 517. A private investigator I know has separated the numerical divisions into individual states. I checked with Social Security. They said anyone with access to the right information could work out an exact break down. I've monitored the man's system and it hasn't been wrong yet.”
Simon swept off his imaginary hat to her. “Wow, this is terrific.” He paced the length of the room and came to stand at the foot of B.J.'s bed. “Norman being from Montana could be just a coincidence, but considering what we ran into in White Bird, I doubt it. What do you think, B.J.?”
“I'd say we'd better find out just how, or where he fits in the puzzle.”
“It'll take some digging,” Amy said. “I've already checked the city directory and phone book.”
“Let me give it a shot,” Simon said. “I'm good at turning over rocks.” He came to her side and studied the chart.
“I called Gail at the lab,” she said. “No one's heard the results of the postmortem on Dr. Tambor.” She glanced at her father. “She found some flecks of paint on your clothing.”
“Good for her. Has she done a laser analysis?”
“She can't get to it today. That place is a mad house on Mondays.” She made a question mark, then darkened and shaded the lines. Her dog's name belonged on the ‘To be investigated’ list. A feeling of impotent frustration came over her. She must not let Cleo's death get shuffled aside.
Twelve
Amy was standing at the kitchen sink paring carrots for dinner when she became aware of Simon watching from the hallway. He'd become so adept with his cast that he no longer clunked when he walked. A distracting tremor began in her midriff.
She inhaled and let her breath out slowly before glancing over her shoulder. “Something I can get for you, Simon?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Sure smells good in here. He joined her at the counter, found a paring knife, and picked up a potato.
“You needn't do that. I can manage.”
“I want to pull my weight. My being here makes more work for you.”
Simon's body seemed much too close, the big country kitchen much too small, the air too rarefied to sustain her. To add to her distress, the warm, steamy confines intensified the faint woodsy odor of his aftershave. Her sideways glance took in his fitted sage green shirt and matching trousers. Nice. They complimented his chestnut hair and his slim body. Her glasses fogged and a film of perspiration broke out on her upper lip.
She moved quickly to the stove, lifted the domed lid of the iron kettle and picked up a sharp tined fork to check the meat inside. Simon leaned in beside her to get a look, his arm brushed hers, and she nearly dropped the lid.
He sniffed noisily. “Ambrosia. Pure ambrosia. They should make a perfume and call it essence of pot roast.” He watched her push the fork into the meat in several places, giving the tines a little twist each time. “You do that like an expert.”
She hunched her shoulders slightly, drawing into herself. “I've been the only woman in this house for seventeen years.”
“Know what? I don't believe I've ever known a woman who could cook.” He frowned. “Isn't that ridiculous? I love good food.”
So Julie couldn't cook. The “perfect wife” wasn't quite as perfect as Simon had led her to believe. She resettled the lid on the kettle. “These days girls only learn what they want to learn.” Returning to the pan of vegetables, she began to pare another carrot.
He peeled a potato, dropped it into a pot of water in the sink, and started to chuckle. “If you dabbed that essence of pot roast behind your ears, men would flock around you in droves.” With each word his voice had grown more harsh. “Then you could find that perfect guy B.J. wants you to have.”
She turned to look up at him. To her surprise, his eyes held a strange, bleak expression. “You guessed what he was up to?”
“It wasn't difficult. He's always talking about you.”
“Sorry. I didn't know how to warn you.” She concentrated on cutting the stock and root ends off an onion. “Dad's fifty-five and he wants a grandchild.”
“You're very close, aren't you?”
She nodded and peeled away a flap of the onion's russet-colored skin. “I guess it was bound to happen.”
“I envy you. My father and I never did mesh.”
“Not even after you grew up?”
He shook his head. “I'm not a doctor, a lawyer, or a business man. So he figures I'm piddling my life away.”
“But you're a good investigative reporter. Doesn't he know that?”
Simon made a face. “No, and neither do I.”
She dropped the onion she held into the pan and swung around. “Come off it, Simon. A good writer digs below the surface. He makes you think. I read the article you wrote about Dad. It was damned good. You made me realize what an exceptional man he is.”
“You really liked it?”
She ran water on the vegetables and began to cut them into quarters. “Uh huh.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Except for the remark you made about me. ‘Intelligent brown eyes hidden behind scholarly dark-framed glasses.’ Are they that bad?”
He flushed and pulled at his shirt collar. “We—ell, there are glasses and—glasses. At first, I wondered why you didn't wear contacts or select something more attractive.”
He leaned his elbow on the counter, rested his chin on his hand and tilted his head to look at her. “Now, I realize you're shy. You don't want people to notice you, so you hide behind your glasses.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Right?”
He'd found her out. Heat flared in her cheeks. “My, my, an amateur psychologist. Just what we need.” She grabbed the pan of vegetables and hurried to the stove.
That evening after they'd finished eating, Simon helped B.J. settle into his easy chair in the living room. Simon sat on one end of the couch, she perched on the other.
B.J. sighed and patted his stomach. “Good dinner, Amy. Sure beats hospital fare.”
“Delicious,” Simon said. “Tasted as good as it smelled.”
Could Simon fit a “sensual, attractive, intelligent” cook into his life? Amy removed her glasses and unveiled the smile her father swore would melt stone. “Thanks. I haven't done much cooking the past few years.” Her voice thinned and she came to a stop. Say something clever. Don't be so damned dull. She wet her lips and struggled on. “Nice to know I haven't lost my touch.”
Simon stared at her for an instant, then glanced at B.J. who beamed at them in a paternal manner. “Suppose it is,” he mumbled and picked up a magazine.
Scared him. She put on her glasses and settled the bridge into place on her nose. I never did know how to flirt.
B.J. adjusted his propped leg to a more comfortable angle and leaned back against the cushions. “Something I better tell you two so you won't be expecting any help from Sheriff Calder. He's buckin’ for a cushy job and I suspect he's willing to do most anything to come out of this case a winner.”
Amy made a face. “God help the justice system. Talk about a narrow mind. Tom's convinced of Oren's guilt. If someone else came in and gave the old buzzard a signed confession, I'll lay odds he wouldn't accept it.”
Simon put down his magazine. “Wait'll he learns about Dr. Tambor.”
“Oh, he already has. He showed up at Helen's house this morning breathing fire. He not only accused Oren of doing in Dr. Tambor, but of running down Dad as well. Crazy. Absolutely crazy.” She glanced at her father. “Can you picture Oren doing such a terrible thing?”
“Um-m-m,” B.J. mumbled without meeting her gaze.
She stared at him in dismay. Had he begun to doubt Oren's innocence?
B.J. gnawed his lip and peered over at her. “You ask Virgil to look at my car?”
“He'll be here in the morning.”
“What about my cellular phone?”
“I'll take it into Anacortes tomorrow.” She frowned and changed the subject. “Those blood-stained articles have to be analyzed, Dad. Time's running out.”
B.J. ran a hand over his face and stirred restlessly. “I talked to the prosecuting attorney while you were getting dinner. The town council had an emergency meeting. They've arranged for a medical examiner from Olympia to replace me for a few weeks. Dr. Laroche is a good man.” His shoulders drooped and he took in a deep breath. “Problem is, he can't get here until next week.”
Amy noticed his increased pallor and stood up. “What say we get you to bed?” She expected him to protest, but he didn't.
After she and Simon had made him as comfortable as possible, she leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Have a good night.” She turned to Simon. “You'll enjoy the guest room. My great grandfather brought that carved four-post bed from Madagascar or some such exotic place.”
Simon avoided meeting her eyes. “Uh, B.J. and I thought"—he threw her father a beseeching look—"we were thinking it might be best if ... Oh, hell, B.J. you tell her.”
She folded her arms across her chest. The two men had been conspiring again. “Spill it, Dad.”
B.J.'s brows met in a fierce scowl. “Now don't get all huffy, Amy. I knew damned well you wouldn't move in here, so"—he raised his chin in a belligerent gesture—"I persuaded Simon to sleep in the spare room at the cottage.”
She glared at Simon. “Of all the crazy, asinine ideas. Just because you're a guest here doesn't mean you have to go along with everything Dad suggests, you know.”
Simon digested her comment with a grave expression. “I'm not a guest. B.J. insisted on putting our arrangement on an employer/employee basis.”
For an instant, Amy experienced a curious sense of loss. She firmed her jaw to halt the traitorous tremor of her lips.
“Besides,” Simon went on hastily as if expecting an outburst from her. “His idea sounded sensible to me. Once the alarm is on, nobody can get near B.J.”
“Well, I'm not going along with it.”
“Come on, kitten. You know how flimsy the locks are at the cottage. It's not safe for you to be there by yourself.”
“You shouldn't be alone either. What if you should fall?”
“We have our intercom. If I have a problem, I'll call you.”
She blew out her breath. “You promise?”
“Yes. Yes. Now, run along. I'm tired.”
She stood at the door looking back at her father. “I still don't like it.”
Simon took her arm and eased her toward the front hall. “Probably won't be for more than a couple of nights. We should hear about Dr. Tambor soon.” He took his suitcase from the hall closet, helped her on with her coat, and put on his windbreaker.
“We'll need a flashlight.” She located one, rejoined him and went through the door he held open. Rain drummed on the front porch roof. She sighed, returned to the coat closet and brought him a yellow slicker. “You'd better put this on or you'll get soaked.”
He backed away. “I'll be all right.”
She doubled up her fist and shook it under his nose. “Put it on, dammit, or I'll sock you one.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He took the coat from her.
Her face grim, she selected one of the keys that hung on a chain around her neck and turned on the alarm.
Simon moved closer. “Sorry, we ganged up on you. I had to agree to his scheme. He's worried something will happen to you.”
“I know.” She pulled up the hood of her raincoat. “It's too dark to take the short-cut through the trees. We'd better follow the driveway.”
When they moved away from the protection of the house, water pelted them. Cold needlelike spray stinging her face, she skirted the grove of Douglas fir where wind thrashed sweeping branches and tossed limbs in their path.
She grasped his hand. “Watch your step, the grass is slippery.” She guided him down the slope.
They reached the cottage's glassed-in back porch and clambered up the steps. She flipped on the light and grinned at his sodden appearance. “I'll bet our rain is wetter than England's.”
Simon laughed. “Could be. London's is a grimy puree.” He hung the borrowed slicker on a wooden rack in the corner and looked around. “Where's your little black cocker? I haven't seen her since we arrived.”
She turned so he couldn't see her face and hastily unlocked the back door. Simon saw too much. Heard too much. Lying to him packed a risk. She switched on the light. “Let's get a fire started. My ancient furnace can't compete with the drafts.” She set off down the short hall.
With him at her heels, she stopped briefly in the kitchen to point out the plate rail above her great grandmother's pine table in the dining alcove. In the living room, she knelt on the hearth and began to crumple newspaper and lay kindling on top.
Simon stooped to examine a deacon's bench and straightened her bedraggled Raggedy Ann doll in one corner. “You've got a neat place here.” He sat in a padded glide rocker and smiled contentedly. “It fits you.”
She struck a match and ignited the paper. “Does that mean I'm ancient, antique, and plain?”
He smiled. “None of the above.”
She arranged logs on top of the crackling cedar kindling and closed the fire screen. “Bring your bag. The guest room's upstairs. Nothing fancy, but the bed is comfortable.”
As they passed her room, she paused at the sound of a loud meow. When she was home, she usually left her window open so Marcus could come in and sleep on her bed. She swung the door inward and he marched into the hall with his head held regally erect.
“Well, now, who's this?” Simon bent down on his knees and began to make small chirping noises. Within minutes, he had the yellow Manx purring and rubbing against his leg.
Amy watched in astonishment. “His name's Marcus Aurelius. Marcus for short. He's usually not friendly to strangers.”
He smiled up at her. “Perhaps he knows I'm a friendly stranger.” He sobered and got to his feet. “What happened to your dog, Amy?”
Her up-flung hand failed to muffle her startled gasp. “She ... uh, she died.” She ducked her head and tried to brush by him.
He caught her arm and swung her to face him. “When?”
A cold lump gathered in her stomach. “I ... I'm not sure.”
His grip tightened. “Before or after B.J.'s accident?” His eyes bored into hers.
How far could she go without him guessing? “The same night.” She wet her dry throat. “I ... I think.”
The lines in his face deepened. “How?”
Her nerves drew taut. “P—poison.” He continued to stare into her eyes and her nervousness increased. Unable to stand his stern appraisal any longer, she stooped, picked up Marcus, and pressed a burning cheek against his fur. If Simon suspected the truth, he and her father would turn the place into a prison.
Simon folded his arms and scowled at her. “That's all you know?”
She didn't trust her voice so she nodded.
He exhaled deeply. “You and your mulish independence. It'd be just like you to keep something to
yourself.”
“That'd be stupid, wouldn't it?” She set Marcus free, hurried into the spare room and began to fluff pillows and turn down blankets.
He stood at the door observing her. “Yes, it would, Amy,” he said quietly. “Real stupid.”
Thirteen
Amy placed her forefinger under the sentence she'd reread five times in the last twenty minutes and went over her conversation with Simon. She squirmed uncomfortably. The man had a knack of making her doubt the wisdom of her decisions. She heard a sound and looked up as he came down the stairs.
“I'm going for a walk,” he said, and took off for the back door.
She stared after him. Evidently he'd decided to set the rules for tolerating confinement with his employer's daughter. Number one: I'll stay out of your hair and you stay out of mine.
She sighed, wriggled tensed shoulder muscles and looked down at the book in her lap. This was not the time to dwell on Simon. She'd have to hit the books if she expected to finish her evening forensic specialty class with the rest of her group.
An hour passed, and she became so engrossed that the sound of Simon shouting from the back door startled her.
“I'm all sand and sea spray. What do you want me to do?”
“Hang on a second.” She joined him and opened a recessed door on one side of the hall. “One of my more ingenious ancestors solved the sand and salt problem. Follow me.”
She flipped the light switch and descended wooden steps. Gray cement walls absorbed what little illumination the dangling low watt bulb put out. “Sorry for the mess. This is where most of my cast-off junk lands.” She gestured to a shadowy corner where two three-legged chairs teetered on top of a paint-smeared chest of drawers. Clam guns, shovels, and fishing poles of various sizes occupied another corner. Cans of paint, jars filled with nails, screws, nuts, and bolts ranged along a shelf mounted beneath hinged half windows.
She pointed to overhead wires. “I hung my wash down here until I got my dryer. Over here"—she walked to a raised cement structure set in the middle of the wall—"is the gray ghost's coffin.” It was oblong, about the size and depth of a bathtub and a short piece of hose dangled from a mixer faucet.
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