“Oh, good. So he’s not around to overhear. Wait.” Nevada’s eyes widened. “Did you say fishing? As in out on the lake?”
“Yes, on the lake. Where else?”
“Good point,” she said. “Boats and lakes. A match made in heaven.” A secretive smile tilted the corners of her mouth.
“What?” He dumped the egg mixture into the melted butter already sizzling in the omelet pan.
“Nothing.”
He let it pass, even though it was perfectly obvious from the smirk on her face that something was up. “Did you get through Blanche&r sougevesquo;s diary last night?”
She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a half gallon of milk. “Almost. I fell asleep about ten pages from the end.”
“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “I figured X-rated stuff like that was a guaranteed page-turner.”
“X-rated? Oh, you mean you thought because of Blanche’s profession, she’d dwell on all the erotic details. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but no. What she wrote was mostly day-to-day trivia—the weather, what she ate for breakfast, which of the girls were feuding, who was jealous of whom. She did include a little about her family and her hopes and dreams for the future, though. You’d never guess what Blanche’s long-term goal was.”
“To join a traveling carnival as a fortune teller,” he tried.
“Not even close. Blanche planned to open a milliner’s shop when she went back to San Francisco.”
“And a milliner’s shop is…?” Trick flipped his omelet, then added chopped onions and grated cheese.
Nevada grinned. “I wasn’t sure, either. Had to look it up. It’s a place where they make and sell women’s hats.” She ducked into the pantry, returning a few seconds later with a box of cereal.
“Hats?”
“Those big fancy ones they wore back then, all feathers and froufrou.”
“No wonder you fell asleep before you finished reading. I’d have been out like a light in five minutes flat if I’d had to wade through yawn-worthy stuff like that.” He scooped his omelet onto a plate. “Sure you don’t want any of this?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I hate eggs.” She poured herself a bowl of Rice Krispies, sprinkled on some sugar, drowned it all in milk, then leaned over the bowl, cupping her ear. “Yup. They’re snap, crackle, and popping up a storm. You’ve got to love a cereal that comes with its own sound effects.”
“You’re a strange girl,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Trick was just finishing up the dishes when Marcello came in the back door. “Catch anything?” Trick asked.
“Anyone,” Marcello said, tossing his jacket on a chair.
Trick frowned. “Either you’re being obscure or I’m being obtuse.”
Marcello buried his face in his hands. “Britt Petersen,” he mumbled, as if that explained everything.
Okay, first Nevada came in acting weird, and now here was Marcello acting even weirder. Was it something in the air? “Britt Petersen,” he repeated slowly. “Blond woman. Owns the lodge next door.”
Marcello, his expression halfway between worried and upset, met Trick’s gaze. “You know how angry it makes her when branches from my trash piles wash up on her beach? How she stomps over here and yells at me, demands that I clean up th s I hene mess?”
Trick nodded.
“As it happens, it is not my mess.”
“I don’t follow,” Trick said. “Are you saying someone’s deliberately scattering branches on her beach?”
“Yes,” Marcello said.
“Who?”
“Britt.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Are you sure?”
“I saw her with my own eyes.”
“From the boat,” Trick guessed.
“Yes.”
“But she didn’t see you.”
“No.”
“How far away were you? Are you sure it was Britt? Maybe it was another blonde.”
“It was Britt. I am positive. But if you do not believe me, ask Nevada. She also saw Britt. In fact, they spoke for some time.”
Which might explain Nevada’s odd reaction when he’d mentioned that Marcello had taken the boat out. “Okay, so you think Britt’s been dragging branches from your trash piles to her beach. That’s pretty peculiar behavior. Why would she do something like that?”
Marcello shot him an impatient look, as if he thought Trick were being deliberately dense. “Because she enjoys provoking me. Because she wants me, and because on some level, she knows I want her, too.”
Trick grinned. “And this is a problem because…?”
Marcello looked grim. “You know why.”
Nevada surveyed the row of drawers she’d lined up side by side on the hardwood floor of one of the second-floor bedrooms. Everyone has secrets. For me, X marks the spot. The cryptic entry from Blanche’s diary had been driving Nevada crazy all day. What did it mean? Nevada didn’t know. Presumably, there was an X somewhere in the house, an X that hid a secret. So far, though, she’d had no luck locating this mysterious X Blanche had written about. It certainly wasn’t anywhere on these drawers or any of the other three dozen or so she’d checked, which meant she was rapidly running out of places to look.
“What are you doing?” Trick asked from the threshold.
She smiled. “Well, I started out cleaning this room, but then I got sidetracked by the chest of drawers. Does that second drawer look shorter than the others to you?”
“No,” he said.
She heaved a sigh. “I didn’t think so.”
“You’re looking for more hidden compartments,” he guessed.
“Looking but not finding.”
“Seems to me,” he sme,>&lsaid, “that Blanche would restrict her hiding places to her own room. That’s predicating that she had hiding places plural, not just hiding place singular.”
Nevada frowned at the depressingly identical drawers. Trick was right, of course. “I cleaned her room from top to bottom, back to front, side to side. There’s nowhere else to look.”
“What is it you expect to find?” he asked mildly.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged helplessly. “A little more background information maybe? I mean, consider the situation from my perspective. I discover that a woman who lived here back in the mid-nineteenth century, a woman whose ghost is rumored to haunt the house still, looked very much like me. I keep thinking if I could just discover my connection to Blanche, then maybe I’d be able to figure out who I really am.”
“Find your family, you mean.”
That word. She’d tried very hard not to bring it up. Connections, relationships, and links were discussable, but family? She blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes, tilting her head down in the vain hope that Trick wouldn’t notice.
But that bright blue eye didn’t miss much. He cupped her chin in one hand and forced her to meet his gaze. “You know, I can’t even imagine being in your situation, not knowing who you are, where you come from, who your people are.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?” His expression held nothing but kindness and confusion.
“Don’t be so nice and kind and comforting,” she said fiercely.
He shot her a strange look. “Why not?”
“Because it makes me want to cry.”
He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Go ahead,” he said softly and pulled her against his chest.
His gentle understanding nearly proved her undoing.
But crying didn’t help. The Institute had taught her that. In fact, crying, betraying weakness of any sort, was to be avoided at all costs. If she’d learned one thing in the last five years, it was that people could and would use your frailties against you. “I’m fine,” she lied, backing out of reach. Ignoring Trick, she busied herself reassembling the chest of drawers.
When she finally glanced over her shoulder, he was gone. She’d probably ticked him off, pulling away as she had. He probably though
t she hadn’t liked him putting his hands on her, that she thought he was trying to take advantage.
And damn it, she knew he hadn’t been, but…Once again her vision blurred as her eyes filled with unshed tears.
By the time Nevada had finished putting the room to rights, she’d regained her composure. Feeling she owed Trick an apology, she made her way downstairs. No one was in the house, but she eventually located Marcello outside in the rose garden, hacking away with some lethal-looking pruning shears.
“Have you see so;Hkinn Trick?” she asked.
Marcello grunted. “What am I? Head of the missing persons’ bureau?”
Her surprise at his surliness must have shown on her face because his expression instantly changed from irritated to contrite.
“I apologize for my rudeness,” he said quickly. “My filthy mood has nothing to do with you. Trick drove to Reno with Britt Petersen. They will not be back until quite late this evening.”
Britt? Nevada felt a little twinge under her breastbone.
Marcello attacked another hapless rosebush.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“There is nothing anyone can do to help,” he said, as he sliced and diced the poor bush down to size.
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse.” He hesitated for so long that she thought he was done talking, but then he spoke again, slowly, as if measuring each word. “The next time you run into Britt…”
“Yes?” she said, a little worried about what was coming. He sounded so depressed, so angry. This wasn’t about Britt and Trick going off to Reno together, was it?
“Try to discourage her.”
“Discourage her?” she asked, thinking she’d misunderstood.
“I saw her on the beach this morning. I know what she was doing and why.” He paused. “I saw you there, too, so please, do not pretend not to understand what I am saying. Britt is attracted to me.” He paused again, as if waiting for confirmation.
But she couldn’t say anything one way or the other. She’d promised Britt.
“And I…I am attracted to her, as well.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There are complications. Insurmountable complications.”
“Such as?” she said.
His face went rigid as stone, but she sensed a fierce battle raging just beneath the surface stoicism. “I am married,” he said.
Britt had called Trick a little after ten and said she needed his help. Would he be able to drive down to Reno with her? She was thinking about buying a new SUV but knew if she went into a car dealership by herself, the salesman would try to screw her over.
So he’d said sure, thinking it would be good to get out of Midas Lake for a while, away from the mansion, away from Nevada…and temptation.
Then, a mere ten miles out of town, Britt had uttered those terrifying words, the ones every man feared: “We need to talk.” Followed by silence.
Trick gave it a minute or two, then asked, “Talk about what?” even though he had a sinking feeling that he really didn’t want to know.
“Oh, nothing.” Britt’s attempt at breeziness fell short of the mark.
He gave it another minute or so, then tried again. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m here.” Which was pretty stupid on his part, reminding her that she had a captive audience, because what if she wanted to talk about some embarrassing female thing?
Britt glanced sideways at him. Hard to tell what she was thinking behind those oversize sunglasses. “You’re a good guy, Trick.”
Which didn’t sound like the prelude to a monologue on hormone-induced mood swings, but then again, you never knew. “I try,” he said.
“I have to ask you something,” she said, “and I want you to promise me that you’ll tell the truth.”
“Okay,” he said, though what he was thinking was more along the lines of oh, shit.
“Am I ugly?”
Which was not exactly what he’d expected to hear. “What? No, of course, not!”
“Am I repulsive in some other way? My personality, for example?”
“No. God, no. You’re beautiful, generous, intelligent, and sexy as hell.”
She heaved a sigh. “There must be something wrong with me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Marcello seems to find me infinitely resistible.”
“Not because there’s anything wrong with you,” Trick said hastily.
“Meaning what? There’s something wrong with him?”
“Not wrong exactly, but…”
“Don’t tell me he’s gay.”
“I wouldn’t,” Trick said.
“Because I don’t believe it. I’ve seen the way he looks at me when he doesn’t think I’m paying attention.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“So what’s the problem?” she demanded.
“There’s a problem?”
“With Marcello,” she said. “You indicated that he has a problem. What is it? Is he…diseased?”
“God, no! I mean, I don’t think so.”
“Or maybe it’s a different sort of physical problem. Erectile dysfunction or something like that.”
“No, it’s…”
“It’s what, Trick?”
He’s married, damn it, and way too Catholic to contemplate divorce. Only what he said out loud was, “Marcello’s the one you should be having this conversation with.”
Nevada spent the afternoon cleaning the rest of the third-floor bedrooms. She didn’t find any more gold nuggets or hidden compartments, but she did discover a box of scrimshaw carvings tucked in a drawer in one room and a rather gorgeous Persian rug rolled up, tied with twine, and shoved in the corner of another.
“You know,” she said to Marcello over dinner, a really excellent veal parmigiana, “Trick ought to have a reputable antiques dealer come out and value the furniture before he sells the mansion. I’m no expert, but I suspect he has some real treasures here.”
Marcello raised an eyebrow. “Compared to the priceless Donatelli tapestries he already parted with?”
“Probably not,” she admitted, “but even these lesser New World treasures are worth something.”
“Humph.” Marcello scowled out the window.
Nevada gave him a few minutes. Then, “Marcello?” she asked.
He turned his scowl on her. “Yes?”
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
He shrugged. “That would depend on the question.”
“Okay, fair enough.” She buttered a roll. “If Trick was this big-shot race-car driver, I’m guessing he earned a decent income.”
Marcello nodded.
“Plus, I assume there was family money.”
Another nod.
“So where did it all go? His medical bills couldn’t have been that steep.”
He stared at her in silence for a moment. “You are right,” he said at length. “The bills were astronomical, yes, but it was not the doctors who stole his fortune. Trick was betrayed by a man he believed to be his friend.”
“Betrayed how exactly?”
“While Trick lay in a coma, his trusted financial adviser, Philip Ellison, liquidated the bulk of Trick’s assets and fled to Rio.”
“Wow.”
Marcello snorted. “A man is ruined by someone he trusts, and all you can say is ‘wow’?”
“Okay, enough already. What is your problem? Is it me you hate, or are you just in a snit?”
He frowned. “What is this snit?”
“A bad mood.”
His frown deepened. “Then yes, I am in the snit.”
“You’re not a female—”
“Obviously.”
“So I can rule out its being that time of the month,” she said, ignoring the interruption. “So why the snittiness? Have you had some bad news from home? Is it your…wife?”
Marcello’s glare would have sarehom fe
lled a lesser woman, but Nevada was used to the nasty, malicious glowering of Morgan the Orderly. “My snit and its causes are none of your business,” he said. “Nor is my wife.”
“I wouldn’t have brought her up if you hadn’t mentioned being married. I take it she’s in Italy.”
“Switzerland,” he said, then scowled again, as if irritated with himself for letting more information slip.
“Why Switzerland?”
“Why not?”
Like talking to a brick wall, she thought. And yet, she just kept trying. “Any idea when Trick and Britt are supposed to be back?” She couldn’t wait to show Trick the scrimshaw.
“They did not confide their plans to me.”
Nevada was pretty sure she hadn’t imagined the touch of asperity in Marcello’s voice. “And that bothers you, doesn’t it?” Though it shouldn’t. Surely he didn’t think there was any sort of chemistry between Trick and Britt.
“I am going out this evening,” Marcello said, pointedly ignoring her question. “Will you be all right on your own?”
“Going out where?” she asked in surprise as he pushed himself away from the table.
“If you do not want to do the dishes, leave them and I will take care of them tomorrow.”
“But where are you going?” Marcello never went anywhere at night. He was always there, always at Trick’s beck and call, always available to pick up the pieces and smooth out the wrinkles. Steady, reliable, the perfect, unflappable personal assistant.
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not, but what if Trick gets back before you do? What am I supposed to tell him?”
He crossed to the door. “Tell him I am taking a page from his book.”
“Meaning?”
“I plan to drink myself into a stupor.”
Trick really ought to paint the entire interior if he wanted to get top dollar for the mansion, Nevada thought as she studied the dingy walls of Blanche’s room on the third floor. She’d scrubbed her way through two gallons of heavy duty liquid detergent and three pairs of rubber gloves, so she knew the walls were clean, though you couldn’t tell by looking at them.
But if she could get Trick to spring for a few gallons of paint—okay, quite a few gallons of paint—she could have the whole house looking as fresh as new. She’d have to broach the subject the next time she saw him.
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