Worth the Trip

by Penny McCall

  “Earth to Norah.”

  “We need rules.”

  “Rules,” he repeated, like he’d uttered another kind of four-letter word.

  “Before I agree to let you stay with me, I’ll need you to promise to obey some rules.”

  “Promise?”

  “Do I need to get you a dictionary?”

  He slid her a look, just the corners of his mouth tilting up. “I’m listening.”

  And that, she decided, was a start. “First, you won’t do anything to harm my father.”

  That surprised him.

  “Lucius has his faults, and he’s definitely a criminal,” Norah said, “but he’s never done anything to hurt me intentionally. He can’t help who he is.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Yes, you can. You’ve already proven that you’re very good at controlling yourself. So. No harm comes to my father.”

  “Or what?”

  “Look, we both know I can’t do anything to prevent you from hanging around, but I can make it difficult, or I can make it easy.”

  “So I listen to your rules and you’ll cooperate?”

  “No, you promise to abide by my rules and I’ll cooperate.”

  “What makes you think I’ll keep my promise?”

  “You value your word.” But she knew he’d crawl through loopholes, bend the rules as far as he could, and if it came down to life and death, he’d break them. But if it came down to life and death, and breaking the rules made a difference, she’d want him to. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t make an effort to establish those rules, if only to protect herself. “Second,” she said, “I want the truth.”

  “There are all kinds of truth.”

  “Never play mind games with a psychologist.”

  “If someone comes at you with a gun you won’t have time to psychoanalyze them, Norah. Not that you’ll need to. Shoot first and ask questions later is a pretty straightforward concept.”

  “You said they want to use me as leverage, not to kill me.”

  “Yeah, but after a few seconds of conversation with you they’ll probably change their minds.”

  “NICE,” TRIP SAID WHEN THEY PULLED UP IN FRONT of her house, a Queen Anne perched between a Greek Revival mini-mansion and a half-timbered Tudor on a street of architecturally diverse homes, in a neighborhood inhabited by families who could trace their roots back street by street and parish by parish for over a hundred years.

  “It’s kind of like you,” he said, stepping out of the car and stopping to take a good long look at the house, fronted by gray stone embellished with ornate ginger-bread on the eaves and porch surround, painted in shades of white, peach, and dark gray. “Straightforward and serviceable stone, but then there’s all that lacy woodwork.” He turned to give her a once-over, much as he’d done with the house, only . . . more. “Makes me wonder what you’re wearing under that ugly suit.”

  A heat rash, Norah thought, but said, “Plain white cotton.”

  “I went to parochial school.”

  “Nun fantasies? Does everything come back to sex with you?”

  “Hopefully.”

  “And you wonder why I’d rather be alone.” He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “I know, it’s more fun with a partner. I should know better than to play word games with a sex maniac.”

  He laughed outright. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but sex maniac isn’t high on the list. Probably because I’m not hanging out with senior citizens. Or nuns.”

  The heat Norah felt was all in her face this time. She wasn’t a prude. Okay, she wasn’t exactly porn star material, but she wasn’t a nun, either. And who was she trying to convince? A dozen retorts ran through her mind, but in the end she did the only smart thing. She walked away.

  Trip put his hand on the wrought iron gate before she could open it. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  “I don’t have any feelings where you’re concerned. Except irritation and the vague urge to stock up on disinfectant and antibiotics.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I’d apologize for hurting your feelings, but I don’t think you have any above the waist.”

  “Ouch again.”

  And she might have felt bad if he hadn’t been grinning the entire time. “Aren’t you afraid if we stand out here someone will try to kidnap me?”

  “I’m afraid if we go inside you’ll try to kill me.”

  “Now there’s an idea.” And she brushed his hand off the gate and walked up the bricked walkway and the seven steps to her front door.

  She unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer, open and sunny, with twin Victorian parlors to either side, the doorways embellished with carved columns and finials. She turned to the right, intending to put her purse in the parlor she’d converted into a home office, but Trip wrapped an arm around her waist and put his other hand over her mouth.

  She struggled, automatically, mindlessly, not really sure what, or who, she was fighting.

  He put his mouth close to her ear and said, “Listen,” and she froze, but not because of his whispered warning.

  It was the feel of him hard at her back that stopped her, his breath hot in her ear, his grip easing from hard to gentle as her pulse thickened and her head spun. Need blossomed low in her belly, spread through her until her breasts ached and her breath sighed out. Her eyes fluttered closed and she fell into the sensations, his hand, loose now, over her mouth, just his palm touching her tingling lips, his arm snug around her waist, and the whole, solid length of him pressed to her from shoulder blades to knees. All she’d have to do was turn, press her lips to his neck, his jaw, his mouth—

  “Okay?” he breathed in her ear.

  She nodded. Just as soon as you stop touching me. But she prayed he never would.

  “Stay here. And don’t be afraid.”

  Norah realized she was shaking and made an effort to steady herself as he moved away, toward the stairs. It was then that she heard the soft footsteps overhead, and the creaking of someone moving around over hundred-year-old wooden floors, and suddenly she had no trouble getting a grip. Not that she wasn’t scared for real, but she was angry, too, and her anger was a hell of a lot stronger than her fear, especially when Trip came down the stairs, his hand fisted in the collar of a shirt topped off by an all too recognizable face.

  The house had been left to her by her mother, because, the will had read, Norah was the only thing Lucius had loved more than the grift. He’d never do anything to risk his daughter’s home. She’d grown up there, managed to hang on to it even through the lean college years. It was her family, all she had left, and to have it invaded, even by someone she knew, robbed her of a little of that security.

  “Bill?”

  Bill Simonds was forty years old, lived with his mother next door, and dressed like a reject from the seventies, long hair and sideburns, hip-hugging bell-bottoms, polyester shirt with a lot of graying chest hair sprouting out of the neck. Bill also considered her an idiot, since he said, “I thought you were out of town,” as if she were the one in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “I always tell you when I go out of town,” Norah said. “You’re here about the bank robbery.”

  He ducked his head, his cheeks turning red.

  “Your family has lived on this street as long as mine. You’ve known about the bank robbery forever.”

  “Well, yeah, but it was on the news at twelve. They showed clips of your interview with Hollie Roget, and then they interviewed her and she said how she wasn’t allowed to ask you any questions about the robbery or what happened to the loot, and how it meant you probably knew something because you couldn’t possibly support this house on a teacher’s salary . . .”

  He kept talking, but Norah turned and went into the parlor that also served as a living room. She remoted on the small television, flipped through the cable news channels, and there Hollie was, recapping her report and calling Norah’s home “the treasure house.”
r />   “Oh. My. God. Who else has seen this?”

  “Everyone,” Bill said from the doorway. “But I have a key,” and he held it up like a trophy.

  “About that,” Norah said.

  Bill backed off as she crossed the room, but Trip was there behind him, and for once she was grateful because he plucked the key out of Bill’s hand, and Norah could tell by the way Bill fought to keep it that he’d been in too much of a hurry to have it copied.

  “Not that it would be a problem,” Trip said, still reading her mind. “We’re having the locks changed tomorrow. And if I see you around here uninvited again—”

  “Which will be the case, since you’re not welcome here anymore, Bill.”

  Trip didn’t finish his threat, but Bill didn’t contemplate the implications for long. Bill decided, in the interests of his continuing health, to beat a hasty retreat.

  “Every locksmith in the city has heard about the treasure house, too,” Norah said. “Whoever you call will probably set up a booth on the street corner selling copies of my front door key.”

  “Not the locksmith I have in mind,” Trip said.

  Norah decided not to dwell on the possibilities. She went back into her office and called the number on the crawl at the bottom of the screen inviting interactive audience participation.

  “That’s not a good idea,” Trip said from the doorway. She glanced over at him, but he was on his cell and she was too overwrought to think about the potential repercussions of her actions.

  Of course they put her through immediately. Hollie smiled evilly from the safety of her perch beside the news anchors, and Norah realized she’d played right into her hands. As a psychologist she should have known better. She really ought to hang up, she told herself, but it felt good to take her anger out on the person who deserved it.

  “Hello,” the noon news anchor said, after he’d informed Chicago and every affiliate and national news producer in America that Norah MacArthur, daughter of the last surviving conspirator of the Gold Coast Robbery, was on the phone. “It’s a pleasure to have you with us today, Ms. MacArthur. What can you tell us about the missing money?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know anything about any money. I didn’t call to talk about that. I want to set the record straight about my appearance on Chicago in the Morning . Hollie was never told she couldn’t ask questions about the bank robbery. She chose to focus on my dating history instead.”

  Hollie looked surprised, but then she always looks surprised. There was nothing slow about the mind behind the wide eyes and freakishly smooth forehead. “All I know is that I was told to confine my questions to the book, which was a real challenge since it was neither well-executed nor properly researched. In my opinion,” she added with a smile that only Norah would label nasty.

  Before she could find a comeback that was more than a spiteful commentary involving Hollie’s focus on the exterior at the expense of real character substance, the anchor said, “We have another caller,” and put an interested expression on his face as he stared into the camera. “This one’s from Stu Enwright from WGXQ. Go ahead, Stu.”

  “We at WGXQ would like to apologize to Ms. MacArthur,” Stu said, “and assure her that Ms. Roget was never told to avoid questions about the Gold Coast Robbery. She did not clear this interview with us, and any comments made by Ms. Roget about Ms. MacArthur’s personal and professional life are strictly Ms. Roget’s opinion as she is no longer a representative of WGXQ.”

  The anchorman kept smiling, just his eyes cutting to Hollie. Who was not smiling. She looked a little nauseous, as a matter of fact, and more than a little homicidal. Norah had no trouble guessing at who headlined Hollie’s hit list.

  Trip took the phone from Norah and said, “It would help if you ran the footage from fifteen years ago, especially the part where the FBI and the Chicago Police Department determined there was nothing at the MacArthur residence. Unless you want to be responsible for Ms. MacArthur’s safety as well.” And he disconnected, nodding when Stu Enwright informed Chicago and the world that the footage would be released as soon as it could be located.

  “I guess you aren’t the only one concerned about litigation,” Trip said.

  Norah looked over her shoulder, just in time to see him fold his cell closed and slip it into his pocket. “You had her fired?”

  “She got herself fired. I called my handler, and explained the problem. He decided it was a bad idea for Hollie to have a big soapbox.”

  “She may not have her own program, but every news network in the country is going to want to interview her.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Norah sank back against the desk. “You got her blackballed, too? Jeez, Trip, she’s going to complain to anyone and everyone she can. And she’ll blame it on me.”

  Trip shrugged. “Let her. It will blow over soon enough.”

  “Not until the loot from those safe-deposit boxes is found.”

  “Which will be soon. I’ve been talking to your father.”

  If she hadn’t already been leaning against the desk, she’d have needed to sit down. Normally she would’ve said her father was the last person who’d fall for a line, but Trip really knew how to deliver, and he’d be telling Lucius exactly what he wanted to hear.

  “What if I told you Lucius is on board?”

  “Lucius is in jail.”

  “He thinks it’s a good idea for me to hang out with you the next couple of weeks. Once he’s out he’s going to tell me where the money is.”

  She laughed, instantly relieved. “He’s conning you. He made a vow to see that everything gets back where it belongs. All of the partners are dead, so it’s up to him.”

  “And you believe that? Maybe you’re the one he’s conning.”

  “He swore on my mother’s grave.”

  That shut Trip up, which didn’t mean he was convinced. “You don’t think there’s any chance he’s playing you?”

  “He wouldn’t lie to me. Not about that.”

  “How about we go ask him?”

  “Sure,” Norah said, not believing for an instant that Trip would take her to see her father, and grateful for it. Lucius MacArthur was her only living relative, but she’d spent her entire adult life trying to live down his crime. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what she’d say to him, but she had three weeks left to figure it out, and she wanted those weeks. “Have a nice trip. Let me know how it turns out.”

  chapter 4

  “MIND IF I TURN ON THE TELEVISION?” TRIP asked Norah that evening.

  They’d had dinner, which had taken less time to eat than to agree on where to order it from since he’d wanted real food, and she’d wanted something without grease, calories, and, apparently, taste. They’d settled on pizza—Chicago-style, of course, since he didn’t get to the city all that often—with a side of antipasto salad which she’d stripped of meat and cheese and ignored the dressing completely.

  Immediately after cleaning the kitchen to within an inch of its life, Norah holed up in her office, and left him to wander the tomblike depths of her house. It didn’t take him long to work his way back to her.

  “Television,” he repeated because she hadn’t looked up from her book, or even acknowledged his presence, and he’d been lurking in the doorway for at least a half hour. “It’s that antique box sitting in your living room—”

  “Parlor. And it’s not antique.”

  “It’s not plasma or flat screen.”

  “Yes,” she said, not looking up but sounding huffy about being interrupted.

  It was just too irresistible—childish, maybe, but irresistible. “Yes, I can turn on the television or yes, you mind?”

  She looked at him over the tops of her glasses, black rimmed, cat’s-eye glasses that gave her face a whole other character, one he found sexy, the way her eyes zeroed in on his, focused and intent, one eyebrow inching up along with the corners of her mouth because he was staring, he realized, and it was no longer comfortab
le or about poking fun at her because she was being so stuffy. And he’d completely forgotten what they’d been talking about, so instead he rattled around the room, lined with bookshelves that were filled with biographies, textbooks, and reference manuals. No fiction. “What do you read for enjoyment?”

  “Shampoo bottles, road signs, cereal boxes,” she said, poker-faced.

  “Let me guess, wheat germ, granola, and fiber.” He grinned at her. “Lots of fiber.”

  “What’s wrong with fiber?”

  “You’re too young to eat fiber.”

  “No one’s too young to eat fiber.” And she went back to her book, stopping to type a note into her laptop.

  “What are you doing?”

  She sighed and looked at him, taking her glasses off first, to his disappointment. “I’m researching a new book.”

  He circled the room again, checking the titles on the spines of her books, and just as she turned back to work he said, “What’s it about?”

  “Attention deficit. I have a perfect research subject in mind.”

  “There’s nothing to do,” he said.

  “There are eleven other rooms in this house.”

  “I know. I’ve been in them all. I peeked in your closets, snooped in your medicine chests, and poked around in your bedroom.”

  “You forgot to mention my underwear drawer.”

  “I resisted that urge. The house is depressing enough. Getting a look at your unmentionables would kill the last bit of mystery, and if I found white cotton I’d have to shoot myself before I dropped dead from sheer boredom.”

  She smiled. He figured it was the mental picture of him with a bullet hole in his head.