I backed down the steps, looking up at the house, but no lights popped on. I seemed to remember that the huge window to the left of the door looked into the living room. Struggling through knee-deep drifts, I tromped to the window, leg muscles screaming. With my hands cupped around my face, I tried to peer in. Too dark. Cold and wet and tired, head ducked against a strengthening wind, I turned to leave. I should have stuck with Charlie’s plan. A sudden flash of movement made me look up. A black shadow had rounded the far end of the house and was aiming for me like an arrow shot from the crossbow my daddy used to hunt wild hogs. About to hyperventilate, I turned to run, but the deep snow pulled at my boots, and I had only managed a couple of steps before something slammed into my back and I pitched face-first into the snow.
5
I struggled to breathe, cold, grainy snow filling my nose and mouth. Something heavy on my back held me down, and when I turned my face to gasp for air, hot, meaty breath blew over my cheek. It was accompanied by a ferocious grrring and I froze, trying not to think about a news story I’d read recently about a pit bull that attacked a woman going about her daily business and bit her nose off, among other things. I really didn’t have money in my budget now for a plastic surgeon.
“Knievel will rip your throat out if you move,” a man’s voice said.
Despite the edge of fear in his voice, I recognized it. “Les,” I said in a small voice, trying not to upset Knievel, whose paws on my shoulders kept me from raising my head. “Les, it’s me.”
There was silence. “Gigi?”
“Yes!”
More silence, long enough for me to wonder if he’d walked away. I shifted my shoulder, and Knievel growled louder in response. “Nice doggy,” I said. “I hope someone already fed you dinner. Les?”
“I’m thinking.” After another moment, he said, “Off, Knievel.”
The heaviness left my back, and I rolled over slowly, looking for the dog to make sure he wasn’t going to pounce on me again. I kept one hand on my nose. When I had managed to sit up, snow and wet all over the front of my parka and velour leggings, I made out Les standing in the shadow of a large spruce, holding a shotgun on me. Knievel, a Doberman pinscher, sat a foot away, ready to chew me into confetti if Les gave the word. “You’re a handsome boy,” I told the dog. He curled his lip, showing strong white teeth.
I began to shiver. “I’m c-cold,” I said. “Can I get up?”
“Of course you can get up,” Les said impatiently. “Jeez, Gigi.”
“You’re p-pointing a g-gun at me.”
“What? Oh.” He lowered the gun to his side. “You can’t be too careful these days.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I struggled to my feet and brushed snow off myself. Knievel kept his eyes trained on me, looking for an excuse to rip my nose off. “What happened to Bella?” I asked.
“Bella? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Cherry and Moss’s bichon,” I said. I hoped Knievel hadn’t eaten her.
“How the hell should I know? God, Gigi, I’d forgotten how you go on about irrelevancies.”
I swallowed hard. “Sorry,” I whispered.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, he said, “I guess you’d better come in.” He turned and headed around the side of the house, and I followed. Knievel stuck close to me, eyeing me like I was a pork chop he was hoping to sink his teeth into, until Les called, “Knievel, heel.” The dog trotted forward then, and I slogged behind them, wanting nothing more than some dry clothes and a bowl of soup. I couldn’t even feel good about having located Les so easily and earning Heather-Anne’s thousand dollars.
The back door hung open as if Les had been in such a hurry to confront the intruder—me—that he hadn’t bothered to close it. Golden light spilled onto the snow, a yellow road leading into the kitchen. Knievel’s claws clicked on the hardwood floor as he trotted toward a bowl in the corner and began to slurp. The kitchen was all ceramic tile and warm woods with a stone arch over the six-burner Viking stove; Cherry had redone it in a Tuscan style since the last time I was here. Les laid the shotgun up against the wall and bent to remove his boots. I did the same, stealing covert looks at him from my bent-over position.
He looked about the same as when I’d last seen him. Maybe a little browner. He still combed his blond hair to hide his bald patch, and he still had the mustache Charlie said made him look like Hitler. I’d always liked it; I thought it made him look a little bit like a 1940s movie star, and it tickled when he kissed me. Beneath the too-big jacket he was shucking off—maybe it was Moss’s?—he wore a pineapple-printed Hawaiian shirt not at all right for Aspen in February. Its loose fit disguised his little potbelly. With both of us in our stocking feet, he was only an inch taller than me; he never liked it when I wore high heels when we went out together.
“What are you doing here, Gigi?” Les asked suddenly, and I nearly toppled over. “How did you know I was here?”
I straightened slowly, taking my time pulling off my parka so I could try to remember my story. White feathers drifted from a tear on the shoulder where Knievel’s claws must have ripped it. I gave the Doberman a look where he lay with his head on his forelegs in front of an old-fashioned iron stove that was putting off a lot of heat and muttered, “Naughty dog.” He ignored me. Les didn’t offer to take my coat, so I hung it over a chair tucked under the heavy butcher-block table.
Taking a deep breath, I launched into the story I’d settled on. “I’m in Aspen to do some skiing and thought I’d drop in on Cherry and Moss. I haven’t seen them since…” Since before Les ran off with Heather-Anne.
Les raised his spiky brows. “Skiing? You haven’t skied in years, Gigi.”
“I was on Snowmass today,” I said, trying to make it sound as if I’d schussed down in Lindsey Vonn style. I didn’t tell him I was listing my skis and boots on Craigslist as soon as I got home. I was never skiing again.
He gave me a doubtful look. “Are Kenny and Dex with you?”
“Uh, no.” I thought quickly. “School. I couldn’t take them out of school. They’re staying with … friends. They miss you.” I knew Kendall missed her daddy, although I wasn’t so sure about Dexter. He never talked about Les.
He turned away and began to wash his hands in the farmhouse sink. I liked it and wondered whether I shouldn’t redo our kitchen. My kitchen. Les had insisted on stainless steel appliances and sinks, but I’d always found the metal kind of cold, especially on gloomy, cloudy days—not that we had many of those in Colorado Springs. I remembered I could hardly afford to buy napkins, and my shoulders slumped. When Les didn’t respond to my comment about Kendall and Dexter, I said, “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Costa Rica or someplace.” Trying to make it sound like I didn’t know or care where he’d gone.
“Business.” Reaching into a cabinet over the stove, he pulled out a bottle of Scotch. Mac-something-or-other; I couldn’t read the whole label.
“Where’s Heather-Anne?” I asked, suddenly remembering I wasn’t supposed to know she wasn’t with him.
“Home.” He poured a shot, downed it, and poured another without looking at me.
“I’d like some,” I said. I was cold, wet, and unhappy. Books and movies always made it seem like a shot of whisky would warm you right up. That’s what Saint Bernards carried in those cute little barrels attached to their collars, wasn’t it? Or maybe that was brandy.
“You hate Scotch,” Les said, turning to face me. Surprise and uncertainty fought it out on his face.
“Not anymore,” I said, semidefiantly. “A lot of things have changed since you left.”
He looked doubtful, but poured me a shot in a heavy crystal tumbler and walked it over to me. “What else has changed?”
“Well, I’m working now.” I tasted the amber liquid and coughed. Nasty.
Les gave me an “I told you so” smirk and I forced myself to take another sip. It wasn’t so bad this time.
“I heard,” he said.
“For that third-rate PI firm I invested in. Stupidest financial decision I ever made.”
“Charlie is not third-rate!”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. His gaze ran over me, and I was suddenly glad I’d worn the aqua cashmere sweater that brings out the blue in my eyes and the dark purple leggings that make me look svelte. Well, less fat. “You’re looking good, Gigi,” Les said. “Divorce must agree with you.” He moved in a little closer, and I could smell the Scotch on his breath.
Flustered, I tipped the rest of my Scotch into my mouth. It burned down my throat to my tummy, and I felt a warm glow spreading through my limbs. My fingertips tingled. It worked, I thought, just like in the movies. My brain felt a little fuzzy.
“You haven’t asked about Cherry and Moss,” Les reminded me, his gaze dropping to my lips.
I licked them nervously. “Oh, Cherry and Moss. I was hoping to see them … thought I’d drop by while I was here in Aspen. For the skiing. Where are they?” Les had me so rattled I looked around, half expecting Moss to come in with an armload of wood from outside, or Cherry to pop in and suggest we have a Die Hard marathon in their theater room after dinner.
“They’re in Singapore,” Les said, watching me closely.
“Oh, right.” I remembered I wasn’t supposed to know they were gone. “I mean, I’m sorry they’re not here.”
“I’m not.” Les slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me closer. “I’ve missed you, Gigi.”
I wriggled away, flushing. “Don’t say that, Les.”
“Why not? It’s true. You can’t tell me you haven’t missed me, too.” He plucked the glass from my hand.
“Maybe a little at the beginning.” I watched him from the corner of my eyes as he poured us both more Scotch. “What are you doing here?” I twisted my head from side to side; my neck hurt. Noticing, Les set his glass down and moved behind me. He started massaging my neck and shoulders, thumbs digging deep into my aching muscles. It felt good. “Mm.”
My eyes wanted to close, but I forced them open, trying to remember what I’d asked him. “Why did you come back?”
“I might have made a mistake.”
“You did?” He smelled good, like fresh air and the spicy aftershave the kids got him every Father’s Day. The familiar scent did something to my insides, or maybe it was the Scotch, and even though I meant to ask him what kind of mistake, the words didn’t make it from my head to my tongue. I turned and pushed against his chest halfheartedly. “What about Heather-Anne?”
“She’s—we’re kind of taking a time-out right now. I’m not sure … You always could get me going, Geej,” he said, wrapping his arms more firmly around me.
I wondered briefly if Heather-Anne knew they were taking a time-out. “We shouldn’t … We’re divorced.”
“I don’t feel divorced right now,” he murmured against my ear, his teeth nipping at it in the way he knew made me crazy. Some part of my brain that didn’t feel all warm and woolly tried to remind me that I should be asking him what he was doing here, why he wasn’t in Costa Rica, or calling Charlie to let her know I’d found him. Then he kissed me, mustache tickling, and pulled me against his body and we fit together just like we used to, and I felt myself melt like butter on a stack of steaming hotcakes.
6
Charlie Swift pointed her pancake-laden fork at Father Dan Allgood, the Episcopalian priest who lived in the rectory next door. “I told you you don’t need to keep making my breakfast. I’m well enough to do it myself now.” She patted her hip. “Almost good as new.”
“You didn’t say it very convincingly,” he said with a lazy smile, “and since that’s your sixth pancake, I get the feeling you appreciate my cooking.” With a flick of the spatula, he flipped a pancake off the griddle and slid it onto the stack on his plate. Turning off the gas, he collected his plate and joined her at the kitchen table, his broad shoulders and six-foot-five frame making the table feel smaller all of a sudden. Light gleamed on his blond hair and turned the syrup stream he poured onto his pancakes a luscious amber.
“Who wouldn’t?” Charlie mumbled around a mouthful of pancake. She downed half a glass of orange juice. “You’re going to make some lucky woman a wonderful husband.” Having breakfast together, as they had been since Dan started cooking it for her after she got shot, felt weirdly cozy, and she tossed the joke out to defuse the feeling.
Dan gave her a look from under his brows but didn’t respond. He was probably in his late forties, ten years older than she was, Charlie thought, although his rugged build made him appear younger. The expression in his eyes, though, especially when he was staring off into the middle distance, unaware that someone was watching him, made him seem older. For all she knew, he’d already been married three times; they didn’t often discuss personal matters. She knew he’d been ordained an Episcopal priest ten years ago and had been the rector at St. Paul’s for two years, but she didn’t know where he grew up or what he’d done before becoming a priest. She’d been tempted to ask on more than one occasion, but something about the way he stilled when the conversation looked like it was headed in that direction made her back off. It’s not like she was eagerly sharing the grimmer details of her air force years or her peripatetic childhood, either.
“We’ve got a new case,” she told Dan, scraping up the last remnant of syrup with her fork. “The bimbo Gigi’s husband ran off with wants our help locating him.”
“What?” Dan’s head came up, and his blue eyes fixed on her face. “Run that by me again?”
Charlie told him about Heather-Anne Pawlusik’s descent on Swift Investigations and her unexpected request. “Gigi’s got a lead on him; she’s in Aspen now trying to track him down. I expected to hear from her last night, but you know Gigi.”
“She didn’t call?” A line appeared between Dan’s brows.
“She probably got busy or forgot her phone.” Charlie wasn’t concerned; Gigi would be in touch when she had something to report or when she wanted guidance on how to proceed. Probably she hadn’t seen Les yet.
“What are you going to do?”
“Track down some phone numbers from Les’s cell phone bill and do a background check on our client. I didn’t meet her, but I don’t quite like the way she just turned up to hire Gigi.”
“I thought you liked any client with a bank balance on the plus side,” Dan mocked gently.
“Usually,” Charlie said, “but this cuts pretty close to home for Gigi, and I want to make sure we don’t get blindsided.”
“Always thinking ahead.” Dan picked up their plates and deposited them in the sink.
“I try.”
* * *
After Dan left, Charlie finished clearing up their breakfast, filled the bird feeders in her yard, did her physical therapy exercises, and took a Motrin to cut the persistent ache in her gluteus maximus. Reaching for Les’s phone bill, which Gigi had left when she swapped her Hummer for Charlie’s Subaru, she started to log on to her computer but stopped. There was no reason, she thought, why she couldn’t go into the office. She could drive the short distance without bothering her wound, and the place would be empty with Gigi in Aspen. She hadn’t been planning on returning to work until the following week, but who knew what business they might lose if the office went unmanned for a couple of days?
Excited by the prospect, Charlie swapped her sweats for corduroys with a bit of stretch, threw a blazer over her white turtleneck, and headed out the front door. Momentarily dismayed to see Gigi’s Hummer sitting where her Subaru ought to be, she returned to the house for the right set of keys, gritted her teeth, and climbed into the taller vehicle, regretting the stretch through her ass. Settled in the seat, she felt like she was driving an M1A1 tank. She drove cautiously at first, slowing through the curve that passed a string of hotels, then picking up speed as she turned onto Woodmen Road. The massive vehicle handled like a snowplow, and Charlie could practically hear the gasoline evaporating from the tank, but at least she’d
be the victor in any traffic accident involving anything smaller than a semi.
Parking in front of Swift Investigations five minutes later, Charlie unlocked the door and took a deep breath. It felt like coming home. It felt like the old days, before Gigi descended on her. No coffee smell from the coffeemaker Gigi had insisted on, no tinkling of Yanni or the pan flute guy from Gigi’s CD player, no need to make conversation or explain what she was doing. Heaven! Beelining for the minifridge tucked behind her desk, Charlie liberated a Pepsi and took a celebratory swig. She sat behind her desk and smoothed a hand over the calendar blotter.
After a few moments of reveling in the feeling of being back at work, and alone, Charlie busied herself with the background checks for Danner and Lansky; she’d found the folders on Gigi’s desk. Reports drafted, she began to dig into Heather-Anne Pawlusik’s background. Sitting for too long made her ass ache, so she set the computer keyboard atop the file cabinet and typed standing up. Forty-five minutes later, she paused for another Pepsi, hoping the caffeine would help her make sense of what she’d found.
Heather-Anne’s history in Colorado Springs seemed clear enough: She’d rented an apartment on the northeast side and broken the lease about a year before she ran off with Les, worked as a personal trainer for the Y and Gold’s Gym, had an overdrawn Ent checking account, had been involved in a traffic accident a year ago, and paid utilities and cable bills mostly on time. She wasn’t registered to vote and didn’t seem to belong to any civic or professional organizations.
Trouble was, when Charlie tried to find out something about their client’s earlier life, including records of her birth, education, and former employment, she ran into a brick wall. Apparently, Heather-Anne Pawlusik hadn’t existed before showing up in Colorado.
7
When I woke up, my eyes were gummy, my head hurt, and my mouth felt like I’d been eating cotton balls. I wasn’t sure where I was or why I felt so stiff. Forcing my eyes open, I found myself staring at a black doggy snout at eye level. “Oh!” I wriggled backward until the sofa back stopped me, watching the large nostrils work, before I recognized Knievel. His brown eyes were fixed on me hopefully, and his stubby tail wagged. Cherry and Moss’s. Les. Last night.
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