All Things Considered

by A B Plum

  Jack picked up on the first ring with a cheery, “Afternoon, Katheryn. In case you can’t tell, I’m really looking forward to our adventure.”

  You don’t need an excuse. “You like to shop?”

  “God, no. I’m just looking forward to something different.”

  Good comeback. “So you know? I can’t spend all day—”

  “Just as long as you’re not cancelling. I’ve expected you to call all morning and bail.”

  Her stomach dropped. Why does he sound so damned upbeat? With the phone cradled between her neck and shoulder, Ryn threw four more Kotex envelopes into a brown leather shoulder bag the size of Rhode Island. “I always pay my debts.”

  “Does that mean you’ll owe me big time if I drive?” His tone teased a reluctant smile from Ryn.

  “Depends on what kind of driver you are.”

  “Never had so much as a speeding ticket. I’ll bring the car to the front of the building in five minutes.”

  “Give me ten or eleven. I need to feed my cat.” She walked to the closet and pulled out a pair of black jeans. Insurance against an accident.

  “Take your time. How about twenty minutes?”

  “Perfect.” She hung up. When had Stone ever suggested she take her time about anything? She pulled on the jeans, a hip-length, dark green T-shirt, and a longer black cardigan, calling to Maj, “I even have time to heat your snack.”

  Entering the elevator, Ryn thought again about calling Jack to postpone their adventure. The mirrored elevator walls confirmed she was exhausted. Every cell in her body felt tired. Too-many-sleepless-nights tired. More than forty-four years of tired. She stifled a yawn. At least Jack wanted to drive. She’d ride without talking.

  Glare from the sun bounced off the sidewalk, momentarily blinding her. She pulled the baseball cap down to touch the top of the wraparounds she dropped in place. Next to the open door of a white BMR convertible, top down, Jack greeted her with a comment that she was early. He made a half bow, waited till she clicked her seatbelt across her lap, and shut her door. With a chauffeur and two bodyguards, Stone’s consciousness for such niceties had been less than zero.

  Jack slid behind the steering wheel, faced her, and tipped an imaginary hat. “Your pleasure today, Madame?”

  She affected the same bad British accent. “A bit of shopping, I think, Jeeves.”

  Like a trained chauffeur, he checked behind him before pulling out. He kept up the charade. “Very well, Madame. May I suggest you relax? Leave the driving to me. The scenic route is quiet if you’re not in a hurry and need a rest.”

  She grimaced. “These darn sunglasses. Can you see the bags under my eyes?”

  “No bags, but I’d say you didn’t sleep much last night.”

  She hesitated. She rarely mentioned her sleep problems but made an exception. “I had a bad dream around four-fifteen and never went back to sleep.”

  “Want to forget shopping?” Instead of zipping through the yellow light, he slowed, waiting for it to turn red. “I won’t be going to work naked on Monday if we don’t replace those slacks today.”

  Ryn chuckled and felt her neck muscles soften. “That’s a relief. As long as you don’t expect any witty or scintillating repartee from me, I’m game.” She yawned. “Sorry.”

  “Why? You’re tired. You yawned. Nooo big deal. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you laid your head back and took a nap.” His finger hovered over the CD player. “You like John Williams?”

  “The movie composer? I’ve heard Star Wars, of course.” Stone listened only to groups he considered competitors. John Williams’ compositions were to Stone’s rock what hymns were to hip hop. “I think of little blue-haired ladies in the front seat of his concerts.”

  “Ouch.” Jack clapped his hand over his heart. “On second thought, he’s what I’d call exuberant … not relaxing. Got any favorites?”

  She pressed her lips together to keep from saying Stone Wall. Subdued wasn’t his strong point, but she’d always loved his animated performances. Aware Jack was waiting for an answer, she shrugged. “Anything instrumental … classical?”

  “Moonlight Sonata? Pachelbel Canon? Chopin’s Raindrops?”

  Her jaw dropped.

  He laughed and eased through the green light. “I bet you’re been thinking I’m just another pretty face.”

  She sat up straighter. “Uh-huh. There is that. But, I never took you for a Chopin fan.”

  “Oh, there’s more to me than meets the eye, Kathryn Davis.” He pressed a button and the car filled with the sound of falling raindrops. “We’ll have to compare notes someday when you’ve had some sleep.”

  The patter of rain was already soothing her sleep-deprived brain. Strange that music almost never helped her fall asleep at night. Too many bad memories. A bowl of popcorn flashed, wavered, disappeared. A voice … faint, thick. The car’s easy rocking motion lulled her like a baby in a carriage. Her eyelids drooped. She sighed and eased into the buttery leather seat. Jack had stopped talking. Just as well. She was floating out of her body, thought dissolving.

  The smooth deceleration of the BMR didn’t register in her consciousness, but sweat running down her sides did. Twinges in her lower back ached enough to waken her. She watched Jack from under her lashes. He kept his hands on the steering wheel at three and nine o’clock. In profile, with his snub nose, he looked more like a kid than adult. His left elbow stuck out the open window, and the wind blew his carrot-colored hair in all directions. The way he kept glancing over at her was nice.

  “You awake?”

  Ryn yawned. “What gave me away? I stopped snoring?”

  Jack chuckled. “You didn’t snore once in two hours.”

  “Two hours? Where are we—in Seattle?”

  “Headed south on 280 toward Palo Alto. We’ve just passed the San Carlos exit—if that means anything to you.”

  “Nothing.” Ryn arched her back and swallowed. She may not have been snoring, but her throat felt as if she’d ingested enough sand to cover a beach.

  “There’s Calistoga water behind me. Under the seat.”

  “Do you always think of everything?” She grabbed two bottles, twisted them open, and chugged from her bottle like a survivor from the desert. “Did you just boogie up and down 280 while I slept?”

  “Yep. Why not?”

  She couldn’t think of why not and finally said, “That was nice of you, Jack. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Crisp, no flippancy, almost sympathetic. He asked quickly, “Still want to go to Nordstrom? We could head over to the coast and—”

  She pointed at the clock on the dash. “Nordstrom closes at six. That gives us an hour and a half to buy shoes, slacks, and a shirt.”

  It took them forty-five minutes and only because Ryn went to the restroom as soon as they walked in the door. The slacks he tried on—at her insistence—required altering. He gave his address, saving her from the impulse to pick them up after her Comfrey appointment.

  When they left the store, she begged off dinner with a plea of fatigue. She had trouble putting one foot in front of the other. Which Jack noticed. He suggested she needed food. The Brooklyn Deli, located in the shopping center, wasn’t that far …

  She detected a faint, hopeful note in his suggestion and surrendered. He had, after all, driven up and down the freeway for two hours so she could nap. She warned him she might fall asleep over a bowl of chicken noodle soup, but he waved away her statement, suggesting they walk the three blocks while he called ahead for reservations.

  They still had a ten-minute wait for their table, but they bellied up to the crowded bar, ordered wine, and carried it to an opening at the far end of counter. Jack grabbed her the one empty stool, hooked his heel over the brass rail, and leaned back on one elbow to survey the huge room.

  Give me Beaséjour any day. Ryn made no effort to hear Jack’s comments.

  Her wine glass now weighed as much as a gallon of dry popcorn. Glancing around for a place
to set the glass, she stared at a pile of newspapers under Jack’s elbow. Sweat slithered down her neck, and her ears rang. The gossip column Elijah had shown her after breakfast lay on top of the other papers. Her heart kicked her in the ribs. She needed to go to the restroom but couldn’t dream up a reason to take the gossip column.

  Jack will pick it up and read it before I get five feet from the bar.

  Logically, common sense whispered, he’ll read the sports section or the business page. Why would he read a gossip column?

  It’s on the top of the pile. Ryn strangled her wine glass and refused to take a chance. Life never happened logically. For some insane reason, before she got halfway to the restroom, Jack would read those first lines. He’d figure out the Kathryn Davis in the newspaper and the Kathryn Davis at Beauséjour were the same person. Dinner companion and murder suspect.

  Maybe if she fell off the bar stool, in all the confusion of picking her up and setting her on her feet, she could knock the pile of newspapers behind the bar …

  Across the room, the ponytailed hostess wiggled her fingers at them. They snaked in and out among the chic customers waiting for a table and unwilling to give an inch.

  If you want to clear the room, yell, ‘I’m Ryn Davis, murder suspect.’

  By the time she and Jack reached their table in a back room, Ryn was beginning to give serious thought to her idea. Her head was screaming, her back throbbing. All her previously relaxed muscles now bunched in knots within knots. The hostess pulled out her chair, whipped the menus around, and bumped Ryn’s nearly full glass of Chardonnay. Wine sloshed on Ryn, the table, the menus. Pony Tail apologized. Swiped Ryn’s wrist, the front of her tee, the table. Sounded close to tears, despite Ryn swearing she was okay. Except she needed to use the restroom again. With the gossip column safely on the bar in the other room, Ryn nodded yes to more wine and excused herself.

  She used her last sanitary pad and cursed because the upscale restroom’s dispenser was empty. Home. She had to get home. Seeing the Beverly Hills mansion instead of the Los Altos apartment, she shook her head and returned to the table determined to tell Jack she had to leave.

  He stood and held her chair without asking any questions or offering any comments. A full glass of wine sat in her place at the table. The baked Brie he’d ordered arrived as she opened her mouth. The waiter spouted a dozen specials—none of which she caught—and left them to the appetizer and the menus. She gave up reading the pages and scarfed down cheese and bread. Surprised at how hungry she felt, she inhaled her wine. Every few minutes, Jack cocked his head and squinted at her.

  He thinks I’m drunk. She said something—apparently funny—because Jack threw back his head, laughed, and visibly relaxed. A bowl of artichoke dip appeared and she relaxed enough to order a green salad with chicken. As she returned the menu to the waiter, she glanced up, caught the eye of a preppy guy, and frowned.

  Hadn’t she seen him at Nordstrom? In the men’s shirt department. And the shoe department. And while the sales associate measured Jack’s pants.

  Unless he had a baseball-cap fetish, the guy recognized her.

  She threw him a hard stare—the kind Stone had taught her to nail pushy fans.

  This guy swiveled his gaze to the three jars of mustard, read the labels with such intensity that Ryn could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

  When Jack touched her wrist, she jumped, “You okay, Kathryn?”

  “Tired,” she said. “I know I’ve been acting like a space cadet, Jack, but I’m so tired I can hardly hold up my head.”

  In her ears, her speech sounded slurred, with a distinct Southern drawl. She pinched the inside of her wrist. Nothing. Stressed to the point of drawling. Stressed to the point of going numb. Stressed to the point of distrusting her own eyes. Had she seen the rubbernecker in Nordstrom’s? Why should he give her the creeps? Fans ogled her and Stone all the time—wherever they went.

  You’re not with Stone.

  But I am the prime murder suspect …

  “I need to go,” she said to Jack, realizing how shaky her voice was.

  “Bill’s on the way.” Was his tone a little terse? Pissed even?

  Too bad. She locked her jaw and held on as Jack signed the credit card receipt. Preceding him to the front of the restaurant, she watched Señor Curioso follow her with narrowed eyes—not even pretending interest in the mustards.

  Chapter 17

  On the five-minute trek back to the BMR, Ryn fended off Jack’s attempts at conversation with one monosyllable after the other. She wanted to think before Señor Curioso’s face completely faded from her memory. Had she seen him at Nordstrom’s? Had she imagined him staring at her in the restaurant? Were the two the same man? What if she asked Jack if he’d noticed either guy?

  Because I’m tired, but I’m not brain dead. But maybe she was semi-conscious. Chopin’s Raindrops barely registered with all the questions buzzing in her head. And she couldn’t really read Jack’s mood. His non-stop small talk had trailed off, but the silence between them hung too heavy for simple puzzlement. Mystified by her wild change in attitude was her guess, but she pressed her lips together. If she didn’t talk, she couldn’t let anything slip about Señor Curioso.

  When they reached the apartment, Jack pulled in front of the building instead of going to the underground parking. When he got out of the car and opened her door, she was too tired to protest. When he walked her to the elevator and punched the button, she tensed.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going up with you. I can see you’re exhausted.”

  “I am.” No thank-you for dinner or for the long ride on I-280. In fact, she’d thanked him for the nap before they went shopping. Courtesy fulfilled.

  The elevator door snicked open. As she stepped inside, Jack said, “I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

  “I’m sure.” God, she sounded as rude as Stone. And Jack had done nothing wrong. She added, “Good night.”

  The lights had come on automatically at dusk, giving the penthouse an inviting, cozy air. She dropped her purse on the foyer table, kicked off her shoes, and padded toward the bedroom, calling for Maj, surprised she felt no need to check under the bed or in the closets. Sprawled on the bed, Maj condescended to lift her head but chose not to open her eyes.

  Playing hard to get… Ryn unbuckled her jeans and sat on the edge of the mattress. She had one leg of the jeans off when her cell chirped.

  “Dammit,” she groaned and kicked the other jean’s-leg. “Why don’t I have a canine companion who fetches my purse?”

  Maj meowed. Fetching is dumb.

  The phone continued ringing. Has to be Danny. Her heart missed beat. What if he had news? She gave up on stepping out of the jeans and retraced her steps to the foyer, dragging her denim security blanket like a toddler.

  If the phone goes silent the second I reach my purse, screw checking voice mail until in the morning. Sorry, Danny.

  Caller ID verified her hunch. She sat in a chair facing the courtyard lights below her. Distracted by the tranquil beauty, she hesitated but answered in the middle of the sixth ring. “I was going to call you later.” She tugged at her jeans.

  “You and Elijah out to dinner?”

  “Haven’t seen Elijah since ten this morning. You need to talk to him?” Maj, belly on the floor, slunk across the room, and leaped onto Ryn’s chair.

  “I was hoping to find both of you together,” Danny said. “That item in the Enquirer this morning isn’t the kind of PR you need right now, Ryn.”

  Duh. I doubt I’m going to get the kind of publicity I need. Ryn bit her lip. Danny never used that patronizing tone with Stone. She waited a beat. When she spoke, she tried to sound friendly. “Would Jericho tell someone like Garrett McCoy—or any reporter—where I am?”

  “Doubt it. He might. He wouldn’t be breaking any laws if he did.” On the other end of the phone, Danny’s sigh was drawn out. “I don’t think Jericho would stoop low enough to send
someone after you, but you’ve got to admit, keeping you on edge is a great psychological ploy. If you think you’re being watched up there, Jericho can concentrate on investigating down here. You’re just damned lucky no one saw you acting like Miz Karate Queen yesterday morning.”

  Danny finally ran down and Ryn went with her impulse to use a psychological ploy on him. “With my luck, I’m surprised someone didn’t snap the action at Safeway on his iPhone.”

  He groaned. “For god’s sake. Don’t even joke like that. The owner of that video would want half—minimum, half—of Stone’s estate. A hundred million bucks attracts more cockroaches than you can count.”

  Ryn nodded. She hadn’t lived with Stone for seven years without seeing all the outstretched hands. Jealous and feeling entitled, the whiners believed he owed them.

  “By the way, speaking of cockroaches,” Danny interrupted, “Beau called again, begging for your address.”

  Ryn let her quiet fury hang for a long minute. Beau’s not a cockroach. Any other time she’d have sliced and diced Danny with every razor-sharp sarcastic remark she could dredge up. Tonight, though, she simply couldn’t summon the energy to defend Beau. She was too close to wailing at the top of her lungs like an injured child.

  Why didn’t we make up, Stone, before we retreated too far into our protective shells? Why did you shut me out after Lavender died? Why don’t I remember?

  “Ryn? You still there?” Danny interrupted, bringing her back from the darkness but not back into the present.

  “What did you say?”

  “What about Beau? Should I give him your address?”

  “No. Not yet.” What else had Danny said? She yawned—loudly, rudely. “If I hear from Elijah, I’ll have him call.”

  Danny took the hint and hung up after one more round of lawyerly advice: “Figure out how to trust Colin Comfrey. He’s our best hope. He’s doing me a big favor by taking you on, Ryn. You need to cooperate fully.”