"Into Mr. Carlton's custody. I'm not exactly free."
"It's only a formality. Michael will find the miscreant who killed the unfortunate Mr. Klein."
"Yes, I'm sure he will."
"Shall we have lunch? Cook has prepared something light for us."
Before anyone could answer, a small whirlwind by the name of Adam popped out from behind a large, lavender-blossomed crepe myrtle and rushed over to Gwyneth. Planting his small feet wide apart, he placed his hands on his hips. “Hi."
"Hi, yourself.” Gwyneth looked down at the little boy who was quickly winning her heart. “What've you been up to this morning?"
"I rode my pony. And got my boots dirty. And when Mommy tried to get me to change ‘em, I ran away and hid behind the tree, but she didn't find me, and I got tired of hiding so I came to see you."
Gwyneth stifled a giggle. “Well, I can see that you've had a very busy morning.” What a bundle of energy and words Mike's son was.
Marina rushed onto the patio, her face pale with an expression of near panic. “Has anyone seen Adam? There you are, you scamp."
Adam fell to the ground and rolled in laughter. “You caught me."
"Yes, and we're going to wash your hands and face. Grandmama won't let boys with dirty faces and hands have lunch."
"Yes, she will.” Adam glanced at his grandmother. “Grandmama'll let me have lunch, won't you? It's just a lil dirt. Not ‘nuff to hurt."
"I'm afraid you're mother is correct.” Elinor Carlton spoke with gentle forbearance. “Boys at my table must always have clean hands and faces."
"Aw...” The boy picked himself up and dusted his hands off on his jeans. “I want Gwyn to wash me."
"Adam—” Marina protested.
He screwed up his face and pouted. “Gwy-ynnn."
"Okay, cowpoke, let's go.” Gwyneth held out her hand. “It's all right,” she told Marina, “I don't mind."
Adam took her hand and started skipping toward the French doors, dragging her along behind him. “Why was my daddy in your room today?"
"Uh, uh,” Gwyneth stalled. “Your-uh, daddy was helping me with a problem I have. Grownup stuff, you know."
"Oh, I know what that means."
"You do?"
"It means you're not gonna tell me, right?"
"Right."
"Grownups sure are weird ‘bout stuff."
"Oh, really?” Gwyneth ruffled Adam's dark hair. “No weirder than little boys who ride ponies and get themselves all dirty."
"That's not weird. That's fun."
* * * *
Mike spread the printout for Sid to review. “Not bad for a computer dummy."
"Hot damn!” Sid shouted with unrestrained excitement. “You've hit the mother lode. Let's tell Gwyneth."
"No, wait. The connections are all circumstantial. I still have to figure out which one murdered Klein."
"Maybe they're all in it together."
Mike shook his head. “Don't think so. There's something off."
"What're ya gonna do?” Sid asked, scratching his buzz-cut head.
"I have a plan,” Mike told him with a grin. “But first, I have to talk to my old man."
* * * *
Mike held his breath waiting for his father's reaction. “Well?” Pompous old goat was enjoying making him wait.
George Carlton cocked his head and raised a bushy, white eyebrow. “And if I should agree to this far-fetched plan of yours, what will you do for me in return?"
"I will do just about anything—well, almost."
A speculative gleam came to his father's eyes. “I don't suppose you'd deign to marry the mother of your son?"
"No."
"What about giving up this absurd idea of being a private detective and go into the family business?"
"You mean be a CIA spook? Hell, no."
His father chuckled in rare good humor and leaned back in his wheelchair. “Didn't figure you would. All right, I'll agree to this plan of yours. I'm anxious to see just how good you really are."
"T-thank you,” Mike managed. Damn. He hated asking old man for anything, but this was for Gwyneth.
"That wasn't so difficult, was it?” was his father's parting jab.
"No,” Mike answered, “no more than pulling teeth with a pair of tweezers."
"Hmph!” His father responded, but Mike caught a glimmer of a smile tugging at the corner of his usually dour mouth.
* * * *
Paul Winston groaned as Lilith Sand sat straddled across his butt, massaging musk-scented oil into his tight, shoulder muscles. Her bare skin against his...
"What's this all about tonight?” she purred into his ear, her breath warm and sweet. He felt a thrill deep in his groin.
"How should I know? Maybe he thinks he's Hercule Poirot."
He felt the weight of her body shift as she laughed. “Oh, you mean collect everyone into the drawing room and solve the case in front of our very eyes? How droll.” She leaned low against his back, her nipples grazing the oiled skin.
"It should provide some entertainment,” she admitted, “but I have other plans for our evening, and I can assure you they don't include the boy detective."
"Really?” He flipped from his back and captured her hands with his own. He gazed into her snapping brown eyes and knew just what she had planned.
"Really."
* * * *
Detective McKenzie leaned across the sheriff's desk. A frown creased his pitted face as he scowled up at her. “So what's it all about?” she asked. “This command appearance at the Carltons’ estate?"
"Damned if I know. But if the most connected man in the county requests our presence at seven, seven it'll be."
"It has to be related to the murder.” A sensation akin to giddiness pumped through McKenzie's body—excitement, pure and simple. As Dr. Watson would say, ‘the chase was afoot.'
"Well, I didn't figure it was for a sit-down dinner, McKenzie. You have anything better to do?"
"No, sir, Sheriff,” she told him with a large measure of cheek. “Solving a murder always makes my day."
"Humph.” He set about straightening the papers on his desk. “Already done that, missy."
"We'll see, won't we?” McKenzie didn't give the sheriff time to answer. She left before she broke into laughter and lost her job. For some odd reason, Bauer just didn't appreciate her brand of humor.
* * * *
Her cell phone chirped. Slowly so that no one would pay attention, she walked toward the maze. Once assured that she couldn't be observed, she slipped the cellular from her pocket. “Hello?"
An all-too-familiar voice hissed, “Don't say anything. Just listen. The brave boy detective is up to something. No matter what happens tonight, don't open your mouth. He doesn't know anything, and even if he does, he can't prove it."
"But—” Her response was cut off by the annoying sound of a dial tone. She swore, sorry that she'd ever embarked on a life of skirting the law. It just wasn't fun anymore.
* * * *
Detective Moira McKenzie looked up from her desk and didn't repress her groan. “Mr. Gruhn, isn't it?” she asked, knowing full well who he was—the annoying little caterer who'd given evidence against Gwyneth Wells. “What do you want?"
"Hello, Detective McKenzie. Have I told you what a smashing bit of fluff you are?"
"Get your lousy hands off my desk. What do you want?” she repeated, anxious to get rid of the slime ball.
Gruhn flashed a smile that showed evidence of recent visits for cosmetic whitening. “Just to make m'self available for the investigation."
"The sheriff already has your statement, doesn't he?"
"Yes, but I thought you might like to perform an in-depth interview. Might trigger something in me memory, y'know?"
"Have you remembered something else? Something you forgot to tell the sheriff?"
"Well,” he paused, rubbing his chin in an overly dramatic pretense of thinking. “There's something tickling at the f
ar reaches of me brain cells, and I think if you spent some time with me, I might be able to bring it to the fore."
"Far be it for me to put a roadblock in the way of justice.” Pulling the tape recorder from her desk drawer, Quinn gave him a smile she didn't believe in.
"All right, Mr. Gruhn, I'll tape this interview.” She recorded the date and the nature of the session. “Go ahead. I'm all atwitter with anticipation."
* * * *
"I want those damn reports ASAP,” George Carlton yelled into the telephone. “I don't care. I want the results by tonight."
George broke the connection. Damn. Yes, damn technology and damn his wasted left arm and hand. Couldn't slam down a receiver worth a damn. That had always been such a satisfying resolution. Now the telephone connection could be broken with the flick of a switch. His receiver had been replaced by a headset so he could prance around in his wheelchair like some sort of geriatric rock ‘n’ roll star.
* * * *
"Grayson, are you paying attention?” What was wrong with the young woman? Elinor wondered for the second time. The housekeeper was distracted and downright impossible.
"Of course.” Millie Grayson pressed her lips together until they formed a thin, pink line.
"Then we've finished the dinner menu. See that Cook prepares everything I've requested."
"It's quite different from the usual fare."
Heaving a sigh, Elinor admitted, “My Michael is quite fond of American cuisine—what a misnomer that is,” she grumbled more to herself than anyone.
"It seems that you're taking a great deal of trouble with tonight's menu. What's so special about this evening?"
"Just that my son and his fiancée are dining en famille. I wouldn't be surprised if they announce their engagement this evening."
"Really?"
"That will be all, Grayson. There's no need to concern yourself with family matters."
Grayson's face flushed at the rebuke. Turning to leave, the housekeeper paused at the doorway to the office.
Anxious to be left alone, Elinor glanced up sharply. “Yes?"
Chewing her bottom lip, Grayson tempered her response—and rightly so. “Nothing, Mrs. Carlton."
* * * *
"Daddy?"
Mike looked up from his sheaf of printouts, surprised to see Marina and Adam standing in the doorway. “I thought you were going back to the city."
"We're ready to leave. Adam just wanted to say good-bye."
Mike pushed away from the desk and held out his arms to his son, who promptly jumped onto his lap.
"Daddy's gonna miss you,” he told the squirming boy.
"I'll miss you too, Daddy. When're you coming back?"
"Soon."
"Is Gwyn coming?"
"Of course, she lives in the city."
"Oh.” Adam stopped and placed his hands at his waist. “Tell her she can ride my pony while I'm gone."
Mike couldn't resist a wide grin, not with the image of the long-legged Gwyneth riding Adam's Shetland pony popping into his mind. “I'll be sure and tell her."
"She'll have to feed him some apple, okay?"
"I'll make sure she does,” Mike promised.
"Adam, it's time to go.” Marina stood in the doorway. “Rocky's ready to take us home."
"Okay.” Adam hugged Mike, scrambled down to the floor, then held out his hand. “No kisses. I'm too big for that stuff."
Mike nodded and shook his son's hand with all the solemnity the occasion required. Adam turned and skipped from the library to his mother's side.
Mike's vision clouded, but he blinked the unaccustomed moisture away. His son was a miracle. And in spite of all the dire warnings about broken homes, he couldn't see any sign of emotional damage in the boy as the result of having parents who had separate homes and lives.
Marina turned. “Thank you for sending Rocky with us. I like him.” Her face flushed a pretty, pink. “He's a nice man."
"You'll be safe with him."
Marina smiled shyly. “Yes, I know."
* * * *
Detective McKenzie leaned back as Gruhn leaned forward to tell her, “I quite like the sound of ‘all atwitter.’ Makes me go all warm in me knickers, it does."
"Mr. Gruhn!” she snapped, trying to rein his personal comments, “Do you or do you not have further information that will assist in this investigation?"
"Of course, I do, luv."
"De-tec-tive,” McKenzie told him, enunciating each syllable, while she mentally counted to ten. “Why don't you start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember."
"Well, first I was preparing the lobster bisque—cream soups are my specialty, you know. I start them by using the best crème fraîche, then I put—"
"Put a sock in it, Gruhn. Do I look like Martha Stewart? I don't give a dog's fart about your recipes."
"Now, luv, I can see I was mistaken. But then I'm sure Her Domestic Majesty would have a sovereign remedy if one of her doggies did fart,” he babbled, as he continued pacing back and forth.
McKenzie sighed and looked down at the backs of her hands. Maybe it was time to start greasing them and wearing gloves to bed. Trying to regain focus, she smacked the desk with her fist. “I'm waiting, Gruhn."
The little man's eyes widened, but he complied. “As I said, I was in the kitchen—in me element, you know?"
"You already covered that. Cut to the chase.” Really, maybe she ought to have a manicure. Gwyneth Wells’ nails were lovely, and that shade of polish was so stylish. Maybe some of those acrylic nails—she could certainly use them right now to claw Gruhn's eyeballs out of his empty head.
"And sit down,” she ordered. “You're making me nervous."
He complied with a smarmy grin. “Yes, ma'am. Are you sure you wouldn't like to use the handy-cuffs on me? I'm feeling a bit aroused."
McKenzie slammed her fists down on the desk. “Out of here. Or I'll have you charged with sexual harassment."
A shocked expression took the place of his smarmy smile. “You misunderstand, luv—I mean, Detective McKenzie. I'm just gob-smacked by your charms."
"Gob-smacked?"
"Oh—” he started, but she cut him off at the pass.
"No, don't tell me. I don't want to know.” She stood up, ready to escort him from the building. “So unless you can tell me anything new, we're through."
Gruhn straightened up; his eyes became unreadable. An involuntary shiver ran through her body—and it surprised her. The man might act like a dimwit, but he possessed the eyes of a killer if she'd ever seen one.
"Detective McKenzie, I saw the tall blonde ‘and the bloody knife over to the new boyfriend. They're in it together."
"And when did you see this? Why didn't you tell us in your initial interview?"
"It slipped my mind. That's why I came forward now."
In it together? Is it possible?
"All right.” She slapped a legal pad down on the desk in front on him. “Write it all down and sign it."
Thirty-seven
Tired of being left out of Mike's loop, Gwyneth decided she'd just go to the source. Smoothing back a strand of hair, she took a deep breath, then slipped into the library. Without saying a word, she watched as he worked furiously at the computer. Something was up, and she would know what before she left the room. “Mike..."
He looked up from his keyboard and grinned. Dammit. He didn't seem at all surprised to see her. “What's up?” she asked.
"Not much. Keeping your beautiful backside out of the slammer."
His eyes were the color of palest green jade as he gave her the oh-so-casual, up-and-down perusal. At least she had his attention.
"No, I mean, what's the big plan for tonight?"
"Tonight?” he asked with a choirboy expression that she didn't buy for a New-York minute.
"Yes, tonight. Don't play dumb. I know you're up to something."
"Not much. Just decided I'd speed things up. Y'know, get everyone together and see
what happens. One might turn on the others."
"Others? Y-you think there's more than one person involved?"
"Can't rule it out.” He leaned back in the chair, arms folded across his chest with the most annoying look of satisfaction pasted across his face.
She was getting nowhere at a turtle's pace. Time to raise the stakes. “You know something, don't you?” She more or less slithered toward him. His eyes widened and darkened. Good sign.
"Me?” He scooted back in his chair.
"Tell me."
"Nothing to tell, counselor."
Determined to worm it out of him, she slithered closer and sat on his lap. “Mike...” Delicately, she ran her finger behind his ear. She could feel him shift under her. “Don't keep me in the dark."
"Gwyn...” His breath grew a little ragged.
"What, Mikey?” Winnowing her fingers through the chestnut waves, she heaved a sigh.
"Stop. I'm not going to tell you my plan. I need your reactions to be natural."
"But drama was my minor in college,” she whispered in his ear, nipping the lobe.
Mike took a ragged breath and tried to laugh her off. “Drama queen. That explains everything.” He nodded and gave her a wry smile that lifted the corner of his mouth. “Now why am I not surprised?” Again he shifted in his chair.
"Am I too heavy?” she asked, batting her lashes at him. She would wear him down or know the reason why.
"N-no..."
"No, I'm not too heavy, or no, you're not going to tell me anything?” she asked him as innocently as she could. Two could play that game. And sitting on his lap was making her think of games, all right.
"The second,” he told her, his jaw clenched, “the answer's still no."
"All right, then, I'll tell you what I already know. Your mother says you went to your father and induced him to invite everyone of note here tonight, including some of the caterer's staff and that horrible sheriff."
"True, but that's all you need to know."
It'd been entirely too long since she'd felt his lips on hers. Leaning forward, she kissed him and worried his bottom lip between her teeth. “Surrender, you're mine,” she told him.
Mike groaned, “You don't play fair,” before crushing his lips to hers. His strong hands skimmed under her skirt and up her thighs and hooked the lace of her panties. Her heart pounded, and her skin burned at his touch.
The Man For The Job Page 25