Jami had to agree.
“But all the valuables are there.”
Jami didn’t ask what valuables, maybe a priceless lithograph of Tom Jones done by Andy Warhol.
Cole checked the hidey-hole under the stairs.
“My son used to sleep under there until he was six,” she said fondly.
Her son had slept in a closet under the stairs?
“He thought it was like being on an adventure,” Isadora added as Cole moved into the kitchen. A few cupboard doors banged. “Then he got too big, and we moved him to a bedroom.”
Jami let herself see it from a child’s point of view. Yeah, the hidey-hole was way cool. Her five-year-old niece would simply adore living under the stairs.
Cole pushed open the kitchen swing door and stood there. “Nothing downstairs as far as I can see. But I double-checked the back door to make sure the lock’s all right.”
“Oh dear boy, you are so kind.” Isadora gazed at him a long moment, her eyes all starry as if he were...Tom Jones.
“Can you check the bedrooms upstairs?” Jami ventured.
He led. She and Isadora followed.
Jami’s room was at the top of the stairs in the front, the first of three bedrooms in the house. Cole took an extraordinary amount of time looking around, in her bathroom—did he think a burglar had left fingerprints on her bottle of vanilla shampoo?—her closet, even under the bed.
Isadora gasped. “Oh my.” She put her hand over her mouth.
“Did you remember something else?” Jami touched her arm.
On his hands and knees by the bed, Cole looked up, poised for Isadora’s next scintillating word.
“I forgot about Mr. Rogers.”
“Who’s Mr. Rogers?” Cole asked.
“Her previous tenant.” Jami tensed with the mention of death in front of Cole, because of his daughter, especially since she’d already blown it in the truck.
“He passed away in that very bit of airspace,” Isadora added with appropriate reverence.
Cole jerked his hand off the bed, where he’d braced himself, hopped to his feet, and backed off. They all stared at the bed.
“And you sleep in it?” he muttered close to Jami’s ear.
“She bought a new bed. It’s just the airspace we’re sharing.”
“You see,” Isadora said, as if she couldn’t hear them whispering, “what if it’s Mr. Rogers’ ghost I heard up here?”
Cole gaped. That’s how the police would have looked at Isadora if Mr. Rogers’ ghost entered the conversation.
“I think it’s better to go on the assumption that it’s a corporeal burglar,” Jami advised. “Otherwise we’re apt to let our guard down.” Whether Isadora had imagined it or was hearing things, Jami thought it better to be safe than sorry. “Why don’t we let Cole check the rest of the bedrooms?”
She noticed he didn’t do as thorough an inspection of Isadora’s bedroom, or the guestroom, which was obviously being saved for her son’s return. In the small bathroom, a later addition to the house evidenced by 1970s fixtures, were the requisite men’s accoutrements. A Masterson High School pennant hung at the head of the twin bed. With only one bed, where would the wife sleep if she visited with him? Maybe that was the whole point; there was no room for her.
“I don’t see anyone lurking,” Cole announced.
“You’re sure your valuables are safe?” Jami asked again.
“Oh yes, they’re fine. I checked. I keep them in my—”
Jami covered her ears. “Don’t tell us.”
“It’s not like there’s much, dear. Just a few of my mother’s rings, brooches, necklaces, and earrings.” Isadora led the way back downstairs. “They’ve got more sentimental value than anything else.” At the bottom of the stairs, which were fairly steep and narrow as they often were in older homes, Isadora held onto the newel post. “Would like some tea, Mr. Amory?”
“Just Cole,” he said. “And no tea, thanks. I need to go.”
Isadora smiled and began heading to the kitchen. “Then how about a little cookie before you go?”
“No cookies either, thanks.”
But Jami could have sworn Isadora said nookie, not cookie.
“See him out, Jami.” She fluttered a hand in the air as she pushed the kitchen swing door and disappeared.
“Is she all right?” Cole whispered, easing toward the front door.
“She’s fine.”
“Does she believe that about Mr. Rogers?”
“I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell with Isadora.”
“Have you heard anything?” He took a few more steps backward, closer to the door.
She followed. “No. But I’m waiting. I sleep with one eye open so I’m not caught unawares by some apparition leering down at my PJs.” Talking about ghosts and PJs, she was thrust back into the intimacy of his truck right before he kissed her.
Clearly, he was not thinking about that kiss, since he put his hand behind him and felt around for the doorknob. “Well, be sure to call the police again if you hear anything, even if it’s just Mr. Rogers.”
“Thanks for checking. You made Isadora feel better.”
“My pleasure.”
It was only polite to step back and let him open the door without bumping into her. So she did, despite the urge to stay rooted right where she was. “I’ll talk to Andrea about the list and any other stuff she wants to get off her chest.”
He made it out to the front porch. She knew he was going, and she didn’t want him to, just like the junior prom date she would not let go home until her father flipped the porch light on and scared him away. She was thirty-five now. She couldn’t say she’d figured out men completely, but she had learned you didn’t hold a man when he really wanted to go.
Cole was halfway down the porch steps, and she was getting ready to close the door, when he turned, pounded back up, and pulled her close with a big hand across the back of her neck.
“Hell and damnation,” he whispered, then kissed her hard and fast and oh so well.
She didn’t open her eyes until she heard his truck door slam, and then honestly, she was afraid she might have dreamed the whole thing. Except that she could still taste him, chocolate like his shake, and she could smell him on her skin, just a hint of masculine soap.
Dazed, she made her way to the kitchen where Isadora had brewed the green tea. Jami squeezed in a dollop of honey from a bear-shaped bottle and stirred.
She couldn’t believe she’d told him all that stuff in the truck. About Leo and Dick Head and...whatever. It was done. After playing his CD like that, she owed him a whole dissection of her life anyway. She simply wouldn’t think about it anymore. So much nicer to think about his kisses instead. Except that Isadora was a more immediate problem.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Jami asked, though she’d asked several times since seeing the police car at the curb.
“The truth is I might have overreacted when I first heard the noise.” She gave Jami a sly smile. “But once I’d run next door, and my neighbors called the police, I couldn’t very well say I’d made a mistake.” She winked. “It could have been a cat jumping onto the roof.”
“You are so bad,” Jami admonished, though she couldn’t hide her smile.
Isadora leaned in conspiratorially. “Besides, that’s the most excitement I’ve had since Elliot Peasley flashed Betty and me in the grocery parking lot.” She grimaced. “After menopause, a woman doesn’t see much excitement. Although”—she winked the other eye—“excitement doesn’t begin to describe my reaction to the sight of Elliot’s privates. Now that hunka hunka burning love you brought home”—she pointed at Jami—“I’d have used a whole different temperature gauge if he’d flashed some skin.”
Jami had stopped being shocked by Isadora and her friends. Not that they’d said anything Jami hadn’t heard whispered between female friends many times before; it was just that her friends weren’t white-haired grandmother types.
; Jami narrowed her eyes. “I am not encouraging you.”
“Fuddy-dud,” Isadora muttered.
“Now tell me, do you know Andrea Bagotti and her family?”
“Bagotti? Hmm.” She pursed her lips. “Can’t say I do. But Betty will. She’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever met. We’re meeting tomorrow to talk strategy for the St. Michael’s church bazaar this weekend.”
“Are you on the organizing committee?”
“Hell no. But the gals who are save up all the good stuff from the donations they receive all year long, and if you go early, it’s a treasure trove of clothing, knickknacks, jewelry, kitchen implements, and a bunch of plain old really cool stuff.”
It sounded a bit like Used But Not Abused. For a moment, Jami felt a pang for Olga. “Can I go to the bazaar, too?”
“You bet, honey. In the meantime, I’ll find out what Betty knows about the Bagottis. How do you spell that?”
Jami had gotten the spelling off Andrea’s timecard.
Oh my God! What if she invited Andrea to the bazaar, too? Maybe they had grab bags. Nothing cheered up a person, young or old, like a grab bag or sifting through cool junk.
“Isadora, I have the most marvelous idea for something the ladies at the church can add to the bazaar.” Then she told Isadora all about grab-bagging and Andrea and how much she loved drawing...and a whole lot of other stuff.
* * * * *
Cole sipped his beer, savoring the foam. It was the difference between drinking at home alone and going to a bar to order a draft, which was why he didn’t mind that the bartender hadn’t been an expert at keeping the foam to a minimum.
He hadn’t wanted to go home. He’d wanted the chatter of women, the raucous laughter of men hitting on said women, the smack of a cue ball, and the tinny warble of an old jukebox playing something almost unrecognizable as music. The Thursday night cacophony at the Mountain Hideout drowned out his thoughts.
Seated alone at his table, he propped a booted foot on the chair next to him. He didn’t want to think about Andrea. He didn’t want to taste Jami’s kiss all over again or smell her sweet scent. He didn’t want to feel sympathy that she’d been fired or dumped by a cheat who didn’t deserve her anyway. He didn’t need to know how badly she wanted to be a mother. He was being sucked in when he simply wanted to stay out. On the fringe. Apart. Alone. Jesus, Jami even had him worrying about her landlady.
“Ready for another one, hon?” The waitress was skinny, and ten years too old to have a ring in her nose or dye her hair that black when her skin was that white. But she was polite.
“No, thanks.”
“Well, the band’s going to start up in just a minute, then I won’t be able to get back over as often, so I thought I’d ask.” She’d been to his table three times already. Cole didn’t think she was worried too much about the crowds that would suddenly throng the warehouse style bar once the band started playing.
“I’ll be fine.” He almost waved her on her way, but thankfully she left under her own steam.
He didn’t mind so much about the band. They’d play some rock ’n’ roll so loud he wouldn’t be able to think, much less discern whatever song they played. He hadn’t gone to a bar for the music in years. Maybe it was punishment. Or the fact that certain music genres reminded him of things better left in the recesses of his mind.
Just as Andrea reminded him of Stephie, and Jami reminded him he was a man.
Two tables away, a woman rose from her seat and sauntered over, her three friends under thirty and young enough to hide their smiles behind their hands.
She leaned close, though he heard perfectly well. “We saw you sitting alone and wondered if you’d like to join us.”
She could probably sing a pretty ballad with that husky voice of hers, but he wasn’t interested. “I’m fine right here, but thanks for the offer.”
Behind her, the band members filed in to take their places, a male drummer, male and female guitarist, a male vocalist, all in their early twenties. The chick shouldered a Gibson L5 arch top, a guitar with a sweet sound suited for jazz. But rock ’n’ roll? She’d generate a hell of a lot of feedback if she poured on the volume.
His new friend flipped her long blond hair over her shoulder, drawing his attention once again. “Well, if you feel like you need company, we’re over there.”
Yes, he could see that. There was something about a man sitting alone that snagged women’s attention, especially if he wasn’t trying to pick anyone up. It was the challenge. Didn’t she realize he was way too old for someone under thirty? Damn, he was way too old for someone his own age.
He smiled his thanks, and she tottered off on her high-heeled boots. He watched her go. She was pretty, model quality actually. She could have graced the cover of some women’s magazine or the centerfold of Playboy. Yet Jami was more. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Genuine? Wacky? Girl next door?
The band started up, shocking him out of his thoughts with the opening bars of a slow, seductive blues rendition of “Moonlight in Vermont.”
He was sure not one single patron in the Hideout would know the title of the old standard. Why had a bunch of kids in their twenties chosen it for their repertoire? The song had a sweet rhythm and a smooth tone. He’d taught himself guitar by tackling the old records his dad always listened to. Absorbing those tunes, Cole had let the music seep into his bones, then spit it back out until he’d mastered it.
God, he’d loved that stuff. In his own work, there were definite influences of the old standards. If he wasn’t serenading Stephie to sleep with his own songs, he’d play her some Cole Porter or Johnny Mercer. Or “Mr. Sandman.” She’d adored “Mr. Sandman.”
Christ, there were damn good reasons why he hated these trips down memory lane. They all led back to Stephie. Everything led back to Stephie, whether it was Andrea’s age, a song, or a woman he could have dreamed of being Stephie’s mother.
He pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache, but the pain already beat him to it. He’d wanted so much for Stephie. He’d damn near paid Hannah not to abort her. Stephie had been the most important thing in his life, more than the fans and the adulation. More even than the music itself.
It’s not your fault, Mr. Amory.
The doctors didn’t get it. He was the one horseplaying at the hot springs that day. The day that damn thing got her. A parasite, breeding, multiplying, hundreds, millions, they came to him in his nightmares every night. If he hadn’t...
“That’s all right, I’ll clean it up.” The black-haired waitress sopped up a spill.
His mug lay on its side, drained, beer dripping off the table edge. He didn’t remember knocking it over, didn’t remember the woman arriving.
The blonde at the nearby table stared at him. Her friends whispered to each other.
After seven years, maybe he should have been able to forgive himself. You can forgive but you can never forget. He couldn’t do either. He was sure now that he never would.
Cole rose and threw a few bills on the waitress’s tray. “Gotta go,” he muttered. “Sorry.”
See, that’s why it was bad getting too close to Andrea, or Jami, or even her ditzy landlady.
He barely remembered driving home, and he passed out in his bed as if he’d been on a three-day binge. Yet he didn’t make it through the night without Stephie coming for a visit in his dreams. He woke in the morning, stinking and drenched in sweat with dried tears tracking his cheeks.
Yeah, he wasn’t looking at Andrea, wasn’t talking to her. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to kiss that woman ever again. He wasn’t even going to think about it.
Chapter Sixteen
Jami dreamed about Cole. She was sure she did. It was the middle of the night, and he was knocking on her bedroom window asking her to come out and play. She wanted to so badly. She wanted to push him down on the dew-covered grass, climb on top, and kiss him until she couldn’t breathe. Then she wanted more.
She woke to his phan
tom taps on the glass. No, no, it wasn’t glass, and it wasn’t beside her, but above her. He was tapping his spatula on the floor above. Whatever for?
Halfway between dreamland and awake, Jami rolled over.
Tap-tap-tap.
She opened her eyes and bolted up, bracing herself with both palms on the mattress. Only the echo of the sound remained, and goose bumps flushed up along her arms.
Okay, it wasn’t Mr. Rogers. She’d been dreaming about Cole. Except that a noise had woken her. For a little while, you incorporate sounds into your dream, like the alarm clock in the morning. It’s a school bell or a warning siren or...something.
She tried to smooth the goose bumps away, except that the room was cold.
Oh my God. Didn’t ghosts make a room cold?
“I don’t believe in spooks,” she whispered, just like the Cowardly Lion. Hmm. Maybe he’d said he did believe in spooks. It had been so long since she’d seen The Wizard of Oz, she couldn’t remember anymore.
Getting out of bed, she stuffed her feet into her fuzzy navy slippers and yanked her robe on over her pajamas.
“Well, no wonder it’s cold, you left the window open.” She liked a little night air, but here in the mountains, it was too much cold air.
She wasn’t sure which she preferred, a spook or a burglar. Maybe she should call the cops, but there was a problem with that. If there wasn’t a burglar, and no one else heard a spook, the police would soon put Isadora’s house on the list of women who cry wolf. When they really did have a problem, no one would come.
She cocked her head and didn’t hear a thing. Maybe it was Isadora herself stumbling around in the attic. Was there an attic? If those dormer windows at the top of the house above her room meant anything, there had to be one. Ooh, that made her think about the creepy devil thing making all those scrabbling up in the attic in The Exorcist. She never should have watched that old movie at Denise’s Halloween slumber party when they were kids. It had scarred her for life. She definitely preferred a burglar or a ghost over a creepy devil thing.
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