Читать книгу His Perfect Family - Patti Standard - Страница 9
ОглавлениеChapter One
Cutter Matchett stopped sanding and blew away the layer of fine oak dust. He ran a callused hand over the satiny wood, sensitive to the slightest imperfection, and wished that Mr. Jonathon Round would move out of his light.
“So, anyway,” the balding young man was saying, “barely an hour after our accountant friend has embezzled the twenty-five grand, he’s making his getaway, zipping down the highway...when guess what?”
Without looking up, Cutter reached out and took the insurance adjuster by his pseudosilk tie and pulled him aside. That was better.
“Cutter, are you even listening?”
He inspected the piece of sandpaper critically, folded it into a smaller square and began to rub the wood again. “Cut to the chase, John.”
“Jonathon.”
“Whatever.”
“The chase is, Mr. Harvey Rhodes takes a turn too fast—probably so excited by the thrill of recent larceny—hits a cement divider...” Jonathon brought his palms together with a loud clap. “Ends up with massive chest injuries. Dead as a doornail.” He wiped at the large thumbprint on his tie and tucked it into the waistband of his navy pants with their knife-edged crease. “But that’s not all.”
“No, I didn’t suppose so.”
“The police are on the scene in minutes, but where’s the money? Hmm? He’d just left the office with the bucks in his briefcase, makes no stops anybody knows of, but twenty-five thou never makes it to the morgue with him. Vamoose. Nowhere to be found, and nobody knows nothin’.”
Cutter raised his head.
“Hell, Cutter, it was two weeks before our client even realized his accountant had screwed him. By that time, the grieving widow has cremated the body, the car’s been scrapped and our insured is whining for us to ante up. Police started an investigation, but there were no witnesses, they swear there was nothing in the car but personal effects and wadded-up napkins, there’s no fat, juicy deposits in any accounts... The trail’s as cold as ice.”
“So a cop’s got sticky fingers. It’s happened before.”
Jonathon shook his head. “The first blue on the scene is squeaky-clean. My gut tells me our man stashed the cash somewhere just before he hit the wall. I’d bet my retirement that money wasn’t in the car when the police got there.”
Cutter refrained from commenting on just what he thought about the adjuster’s gut. “Did he have time to get it to the wife?” He felt a stirring of interest in spite of himself. “Is she sitting on it?”
Jonathon Round smiled. “That’s where you come in.”
That smile reminded Cutter of certain suck-up lieutenants he used to take great pleasure in transferring to Biloxi in August He didn’t like the adjuster for First Fidelity Insurance, he decided as he did every time they met. He didn’t even particularly like investigating the cases Jonathon brought him. But the money was good, and they kept his skills from getting rusty. There wasn’t much call for a retired naval intelligence officer in Little Rock, Arkansas. Picking a few locks for Johnny every now and then held a certain nostalgic appeal.
“It seems Mrs. Harvey Rhodes needs a carpenter to do a little remodeling project,” Jonathon went on, “and my thoughts immediately turned to you. Alone in the house all day, knocking holes in things, it would be the perfect opportunity to find out just what Mrs. Rhodes has got in her piggy bank.” His smile this time would have gotten him icebreaker duty in the Arctic—in January. “By the way, our man Harvey was too cheap to take out any life insurance. He left her with nothing but a piddly IRA and a passbook savings account”
“How do you find out this stuff, Johnny?” Cutter asked mildly. He pulled a fresh sheet of sandpaper from the package on top of the unfinished buffet. “Have you been opening her mail?”
“I’ve kept my eye on her. We dragged our feet for six months, but First Fidelity finally had to pay up. If there’s a chance I can get that money back, I want it.”
You would, Cutter thought with contempt. “Twenty-five grand’s a drop in the bucket for a company the size of yours. Why don’t you let it go? Raise somebody’s premiums or something and let the lady keep her nest egg.”
Jonathon shrugged, bunching the shoulders of his suit. “It’s my account. Happened on my watch. Payouts don’t look good on your record, no matter how small.”
“Especially for an up-and-comer like you.”
“That’s right.”
Sarcasm went right over the head of this guy. No, he didn’t like little Johnny at all. But he did like to eat and he could use the money. “How much?”
“Mrs. Rhodes will pay you, of course,” Jonathon said quickly. “Whatever it takes to turn a pantry into a spare bathroom. I’ve already got it taken care of through a friend of a friend. She thinks you come highly recommended and can start Monday.”
“Forty an hour plus expenses.”
Jonathon sighed and looked pained. “All right. But I want an itemized account.”
Cutter nodded.
“Just see what you can come up with. That money’s got to be somewhere. I’ve been watching Adrianne Rhodes like a hawk for the last six months and she sure as hell hasn’t spent it. Who knows, if she thinks it’s safe now, she might pay you with my money.”
“Okay, Johnny boy, I’ll rummage through her pantie drawer for you. It looks like you’ve snooped through just about everything else.”
“Hey, I wish I got the panties, let me tell you.” That smile again. “The lady is a real looker. Southern, icy little blonde. Bet she’s heavy into cool satin and scratchy lace.”
Cutter turned the drawer he was sanding upside down and tapped. Sawdust cascaded over Jonathon’s shiny black shoes, covering the neat tassels and filling the cuffs of his pants. “Sorry.”
He had to credit the guy—Jonathon didn’t blink an eye as he delicately shook each foot. Instead he laid a smooth, white hand on the top of the oak buffet and gave it a tentative pat. “Nice work. How much do you get for a piece like this?”
“I’m charging him eight thousand dollars.”
“Good lord! I had no idea—”
“Go home, Johnny. I’m busy and you’re in my light.”
“Uh, right. Well, I’ll be expecting a report from you by the end of the week.” The man shifted uneasily. “I’ll just see myself out.” He scurried from the garage, empty except for the heavy piece of raw furniture, and the even larger, more raw man that caressed it so lovingly.
“Adrianne, darling, I’m so glad you’ve finally given in and decided to see things my way.” Blanche Munro swept into the kitchen where Adrianne Rhodes diced carrots for stew. A long, pink-tipped nail whisked under the descending knife and neatly extracted a carrot square. Blanche popped it into her mouth. “Lisa, sweetie, come over here and tell your mother how thrilled you are to get your own bathroom.”
The girl obediently crossed to the counter and gave Adrianne a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the bathroom, Mom. It’ll be great.” Then she turned to the refrigerator, hanging on to the door as she studied the leftovers.
“Lisa’s thirteen now,” Blanche went on, stealing another carrot from the growing pile on the cutting board. “Any day now she’ll be thinking about nothing but makeup and boys, makeup and boys.”
“Grandma.” Lisa groaned, pulling out bologna and a jar of mayonnaise and swinging the refrigerator door shut with her hip.
“Your mother practically lived in the bathroom at your age.” She looked at the carrots critically. “You should cut them larger or they get mushy.”
“Lisa likes them tiny,” Adrianne told her mother, her voice mild.
“Hmm. So, tell me, when do we begin this construction project?”
“He’s supposed to start first thing Monday morning.”
Blanche moaned. “It will be such an enormous headache, the mess, the noise, some strange man in your house all...” Her carefully plucked eyebrows rose. “Have you met this man?”
Adrianne shook her head. “But a friend at the bank said her sister had a friend who used him. I guess he made a beautiful coffee table for her.”
“Lisa, child, there are a million calories in every spoonful of that.” Blanche hurried to the table where the girl lavishly spread mayonnaise on a piece of bread and grabbed the jar, twisted on its blue lid and returned it to the refrigerator. “You’re getting to the age where you’re going to have to start watching your figure, you know.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Adrianne saw Lisa deliberately lick the knife, savoring every calorie behind her grandmother’s back. She sighed and added the carrots to the pot of boiling meat on the stove. Even with a long, bulky sweater over her dance leotard, Lisa’s tummy was obvious. And her black tights did little to slim her heavy thighs. Of course it was only baby fat, Adrianne assured herself. Even Blanche said so. Thirteen was too early to worry about her weight, she had lots of growing to do yet, but still...
She watched her daughter attack the sandwich with gusto. They really couldn’t afford to do any remodeling right now, with the bills still piling up after Harvey’s death, but if it would help Lisa’s self-esteem to have her own little private space... She just hoped the girl really meant it when she said she wanted the new bathroom. It was hard to tell what Lisa wanted, she tried so hard to please everyone, intent on being so—good.
“Well, I have to be going now,” Blanche told them, pressing air kisses all around. “Another meeting of the library board.” She caught her wavering reflection in the door of the microwave and gave a slight tug on the jacket of her pale pink suit. Then she bent down until she could see her face in the square, patting at her carefully frosted blond hair and fluffing her bangs.
“Thanks for picking Lisa up from dance class,” Adrianne told her. “This working late on Fridays is getting to be a bad habit.”
“I enjoyed watching her. She dances like an angel, a cloud, so much talent... That color looks good on you, dear,” Blanche interrupted herself as she eyed Adrianne’s apricot skirt and matching blouse, “but you have a run in your stocking. You don’t want to let yourself get sloppy now that you’re a widow. Harvey would have loved you in that, wouldn’t he? He always liked you to look so feminine.”
Adrianne stiffened at the mention of her late husband, felt the knot inside her stomach pull another notch. “I don’t think Harvey paid much attention to my clothes, Mother.”
“Nonsense. He thought you were gorgeous, the dear, dear man.” She picked at a stray thread on the jacket of Adrianne’s suit, which lay hooked over the back of a chair at the table. Her voice softened dramatically. “High-school sweethearts. Just like your father and me. So romantic.”
She sighed, then straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Well, I’m off. I’ll stop by tomorrow evening and we’ll visit.”
Blanche swept from the room—exit stage right. Adrianne always added mental stage directions to her mother’s exaggerated movements.
Mother and daughter looked at each other as the front door slammed. Lisa made a face and said, “Trust me, Mom, if I danced like a cloud, it was a rain cloud.”
Adrianne laughed. “Now, you know that’s just the way your grandmother is. She likes to see everything a little larger than life.” She fished a potato from the dusty plastic sack and began to peel it into the sink.
“Compared to the other girls in my class, I’m definitely larger than life,” Lisa said dryly.
Adrianne winced. “How are dance classes going?” she asked cautiously. Lisa had been in ballet for two years now. She insisted she liked the classes, but...
“Fine.”
She shot her daughter a look over her shoulder, but Lisa didn’t meet her eyes. The girl stood and shoved in her chair. “Really, Mom, everything’s fine. I’ve got to start my homework now. Call me when supper’s ready.”
Adrianne listened to her daughter’s heavy tread start up the stairs. Everything’s fine. Adrianne gave the potato a vicious jab. That’s right Everything was always just fine.
Cutter glanced at the address again on the fussy contract Jonathon Round had prepared for him, signed in triplicate, yellow copy to accounting, goldenrod to client and mint to file. He threw the paper on the dash and squinted into the morning sun as he drove slowly down the cul-de-sac of a middle-class suburb on the edge of Little Rock. Except for the trim, the houses were identical. The owners had managed to wrestle some individuality from the landscaping, and took obvious pride in their new spring flower beds and carefully, edged grass. greening up nicely from the April rains.
He pulled his truck into the driveway of a house with steel blue trim, recently pruned rosebushes and a split-rail fence, and cut the engine. He glanced up and down the street. The American dream—and a burglar’s paradise. Everyone off to work, garage doors pulled down tight, curtains drawn, but always a window somewhere left open—just a crack. But it gets so warm in the afternoon, they’d tearfully tell the officer when they came home to find a dusty square instead of their TV.
He got out of his truck and shut the door quietly behind him so it latched with barely a click. An old habit, hard to break. He made his way up the walk and punched the doorbell. When he heard no footsteps, he reached up and ran his hand along the trim over the door. His fingers quickly encountered the key, just where Mrs. Adrianne Rhodes said she’d leave it for him, and where even the stupidest burglar was sure to look. He sighed, unlocked the door and walked into the silent house, easing the key into the pocket of his jeans. He’d make a copy when he went to lunch. Another old habit.
The living room was to his left, kitchen to his right, stairs to the second story straight ahead. The carpet was gray, the walls white, the furniture tasteful with gray-and-turquoise pinstripes in the blue upholstery. The coffee and end tables were oak veneer, he noted, not the real thing.
He turned into the kitchen and made a quick tour, easily locating the walk-in pantry he’d been hired to make over. The door stood open, and its floor-to-ceiling shelves were empty. A pedestal sink stood beside the pristine white john in the middle of the floor, a roll of vinyl leaned against its tank. He surveyed the boxes in a neat stack—medicine cabinet, faucets, towel bars, toilet-paper holder—even a fresh one-gallon can of paint An efficient little thing, our Mrs. Rhodes, he thought. Always good to know how your mark thought.
He made several trips back and forth to his truck, unloading tools and unrolling extension cords, then he strapped on his tool belt. He let it settle low on his hips, liking the weight and the familiar way his hammer banged against his thigh as he walked. Time to get to work. Finishing the bath would take two full weeks and didn’t leave much time to snoop.
His first stop was the pile of bills and scribbled notes tucked behind the phone on the counter next to the refrigerator. Carefully and methodically, he went through each scrap of paper. Mrs. Rhodes carried a balance on both of her gold cards, he noted. The latest charges were to a local pharmacy and to the Tire Exchange for a complete set of new radials. She was pushing the due date on several of her bills but seemed to be keeping her head above water. If she had twenty-five thousand tucked away somewhere, she wasn’t sending any of it to Arkansas Power and Gas.
Upstairs wasn’t exactly a wealth of information, either. There was a girl’s bedroom, early teens, he guessed from the amount of black clothing in the closet. A computer held the place of honor on her desk, and he clicked on the monitor and CPU to take a cursory look at the directory. He whistled softly. A hack. A talented one. That was interesting.
There was a standard bathroom, with the standard woman’s stuff—hot rollers, makeup and intricately designed brushes and combs. He opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a large pink box with a delicate flower embossed on its front. He ran his hand to the bottom and flexed some of the absorbent pads. No stiff hundred-dollar bills crinkled. It was worth a try. He’d seen stranger hiding places.
The spare bedroom was used for an office-sewing-stackthe-Christmas-decorations room. He’d need to spend some time there, going through boxes. The last room along the hallway was hers. Definitely hers. Anything that spoke of Mr. Harvey Rhodes had been effectively disposed of during the six months since he’d missed that turn. There were no suits in the closet, no ties on the rack, no lingering whiff of spicy aftershave. Any sign of the man had disappeared as thoroughly as the money.
Interesting.
If she had the cash somewhere on the premises, her room was the most likely place to hide it, he decided, since it offered the most privacy. He crossed to the dresser and rummaged through the drawers with a skilled thoroughness that left no edge unexplored yet didn’t ruffle so much as a fold of cloth.
He paused when he reached the drawer overflowing with silky scraps. His hands sank into the piles, rough calluses snagging the delicate material. That jackass Round had been right—satin and lace, midnight blue and red and emerald, smelling of night and sin. He shoved the drawer shut and moved to the closet.
Her taste in clothing ran to pastel colors, soft, drycleanable and matching. He frowned, trying to imagine the hot red satin he’d just held in his hands underneath these cool, easter-egg-sweet skirts and blouses. More and more interesting.
He dropped to his knees and burrowed to the back corner of the closet, feeling along the floor for a loose carpet edge. Several long dresses in plastic garment bags engulfed him, draping over his head.
He felt a polite tap on his back.
“Excuse me, Mr. Matchett? May I help you find something?”
Cutter froze for no more than an instant before slowly backing out of the closet, his hammer bumping along the carpet, his mind quickly and deliberately evaluating options, discarding one after another. He fought the sound-muffling garment bags from around his ears and turned toward the room, toward her, rocking back on his haunches in the closet doorway. His face was level with her stomach, a gently rounded female stomach zipped into a pair of cream-colored corduroys.
He swallowed, his mouth dry, and worked his way up. Past the curve of her breasts, covered in something sky blue and clingy, up the long column of her neck to a firm yet delicate chin, a thin and aquiline nose, cheekbones high and sharp enough to cut, and long blond hair, the color of wheat where it waved around her shoulders ripening to big buttery chunks around her face.
A classy face that could freeze a man to death—if it weren’t for those eyes. Cutter stared into her eyes, the color of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s with a few swallows gone. Just enough to let in some light, to kiss it and make it glow. The color of his favorite honey stain, a custom blend he hand buffed until oak turned to sunlight.
“Mr. Matchett?” she repeated. There was just a hint of the South in her voice.
“I was checking the direction of the floor joists,” he said calmly. He gave a rap on the floor and cocked his head, pretending to listen for a hollow ring. Thank God this section of her bedroom was directly over the pantry downstairs.
“Oh.”
He stuck his head back into the closet and began to pound some more, his heart drumming in his ears just as loudly. What in the hell was she doing home! He was disgusted with himself for being caught in such a foolish position. That little weasel Round had said she worked at the bank from eight to five and the daughter didn’t get home from school until at least four-thirty. He was getting lazy and sloppy in his old age, and he cursed himself. In the good old days, it would have been a bullet in the back instead of her soft touch on his spine.
He could still feel a leftover tingle where her fingers had rested. An icy little blonde, Round had said, yet he had burned right through, head to toe, when he’d looked at her. Fire, not ice. He shifted his shoulders, trying to shake off the odd sensation. She was the mark, honey eyes or not
Adrianne stared at the back of Cutter Matchett’s jeans sticking from her closet. It was difficult to have a conversation in this position, she decided, so she said nothing, still disconcerted by the long, cool look he’d just given her. And by her reaction to it. It had been rather like staring into the hypnotic eyes of a large predatory cat, she decided. You admired its grace, its power, all the time uneasily aware that the beast was wondering whether to eat you now or later. She found herself anxiously studying his trim behind while she waited for the rapping to stop.
Seconds later, the man sprang to his feet. “Got it.” He nodded to her crisply, then strode from the room, down the hallway toward the stairs without another word, leaving her to stare after him.
Well.
Slowly, she retraced her steps. She’d come home from her grocery-shopping trip to find his truck blocking her driveway and his tools in her kitchen, and she’d made a quick survey of the house until she’d found him in her bedroom. By the time she returned downstairs, he was already at work in the pantry, attacking the old shelves with a crowbar.
His back was to her, so she gave him a quick, surreptitious once-over from the safety of the doorway. Six foot and strong as an ox, if the way nails were popping was any indication. He wore tight, faded jeans and a black T-shirt that had been washed so many times she could see the lighter tint of his skin showing through at the shoulders. A battered tool belt hung around his hips, tugging at his jeans. His boots were sturdy-looking high-tops, laced with leather.
A man’s man, she thought. The type who would handle hammers, rifles, horses — women — with a relaxed yet firm grip. Good whiskey, rare steak, voluptuous blondes. So different from the men at the bank or Harvey’s professional friends, who monitored their cholesterol with religious fervor and could order quiche with a straight face. Not at all the type of man she was used to being around. She licked suddenly dry lips.
“Well, I better get the groceries out of the van.” She addressed his back and wasn’t surprised when there was no answer.
The paper bags were unloaded and groceries put away with no sound except the soft shutting of cupboard doors and the tortured noises coming from the pantry. She felt the urge to tiptoe and found herself holding her breath during any unexpected silences. This was ridiculous! The man was going to be in her house for the next two weeks. In her kitchen, which was where she and Lisa spent most of their time. She couldn’t very well pretend he wasn’t there. He was large, uncommunicative, intense, but that was no reason why she couldn’t be polite.
She marched over to the pantry and planted herself in the doorway. This was her house, after all, and no—no hunk with a hammer was going to intimidate her. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.
He tore a two-by-four loose from the wall before he turned his head to consider her over his thick shoulder, the board in his hand studded with twisted nails like some medieval weapon. “Are you planning to be home all day today, Mrs. Rhodes?”
“It’s Adrianne, please.” She smiled.
He didn’t.
“I’m on vacation. I thought as long as the house would be a mess with the remodeling, it would be a good time to repaint the upstairs and do my spring-cleaning. The place hasn’t been painted since we bought it....” He watched her, unblinking, as she wound down. “So, uh, if you need me to run errands or anything, just let me know.”
His dark eyes were as unsettling now as before. She found herself studying his face as intently as he had hers. His dark hair was cut short, military short, and shot through with gray. The cut made his disturbing hooded eyes and heavy brows stand out and threw his straight nose into prominence. Extras in Mafia movies had faces like his. His jaw was determinedly square and drew attention to his lips, lips that curved in a smile that wasn’t really a smile. More like a mocking arc, but whether he laughed at her, himself or the world in general, she couldn’t tell. Whichever, it wasn’t very pleasant
Well, she was more than used to dealing with unpleasant people. As a loan officer, she dealt with them all the time. All you had to do was smile — always. The more unpleasant they became, the more pleasant you became. And you always, always, smiled.
She’d seen her mother do it every night of her childhood, those hot summer nights in Atlanta when the air was so wet and muggy you had to force it into your lungs. The more her father drank, the more Blanche would smile, the more gaily she would laugh as she’d take Adrianne into another room and shut the door tight and play dolls or dress-up or fairy princess.
So now she smiled politely at the man in her kitchen until he finally said, “I’D let you know if I need anything.”
“All right.”
He lifted the crowbar once again. Obviously, the conversation was over as far as he was concerned. And she felt nothing but relief. Ignoring him as best she could, she gathered her cleaning supplies and prepared to tackle the living room. She stood in the doorway, bucket in one hand, rag in the other, and took a deep breath. A strange sense of anticipation grew within her. As the weather had warmed, she’d felt an increasing need to — purge. She wanted everything around her clean and fresh and...hers. Just hers.
She wanted to wash away every fingerprint Harvey had ever put on the woodwork, pick up every piece of lint that had ever dropped from his pockets. She wanted to vacuum away the indentation of the policemen sitting on her sofa and that odious man from the insurance company, badgering her, looking at her with suspicious, disbelieving eyes while she insisted she didn’t know what they were talking about. She didn’t know anything about any twenty-five thousand dollars. Harvey hadn’t come home from the office that day. She’d never seen the money, never heard of the money; she had no idea what they were talking about.
She wanted it all gone.
So she started on the baseboards, wiping them clean. Next, she moved every piece of furniture and vacuumed underneath, took down the drapes, removed pictures from the walls, dusted the leaves of live plants and silk plants alike. Nothing was spared.
For three hours, she cleaned and scrubbed and polished until the living room shone in the sun that came through the curtainless, sparkling windows. And while she cleaned, she was aware of Cutter Matchett in the next room tearing her pantry apart.
She’d just decided to take a break for a cup of coffee when the vibrating sound of something being applied to what sounded like an essential part of her house had her edging toward the kitchen. She peered around the pantry door to find all the shelves gone, revealing a larger than expected room, and her carpenter using what looked like a giant jigsaw to cut a hole in the floor.
The vinyl shook under her feet until he finally removed his finger from the trigger. It took another moment for the noise to finish echoing in the enclosed room. He pulled his hammer from a loop on his tool belt and gave one quick, sharp blow to the floor. A neat square fell into the crawl space below.
“Mr. Matchett, would you like some coffee?”
He looked up at her, and she knew with a sudden certainty that he wanted to say no. He didn’t like her. He didn’t want coffee. He wanted nothing to do with her. But then his face closed, his dark eyes became even more shuttered and he nodded his head. “Thanks, that would be nice. And the name’s Cutter.”
She busied herself pouring coffee while he crossed the floor and settled himself at the table. She pulled out a chair and sat across from him, noting how unnaturally still he sat, his wide-palmed hands unmoving on the table. Now she regretted her impulsive decision to ask him to join her and his inexplicable change of mind. What kind of small talk could they possibly make for the next ten minutes?
Cutter took the matter out of her hands when he asked, “Was your husband Harvey Rhodes by any chance — the accountant?”
“Why, yes. Yes, he was.”
“A friend of mine recommended him at tax time last year. I was sorry to hear about the accident.”
“Thank you.”
“Must be tough. Had a friend whose husband died. No insurance. She’s still trying to recover.” He paused. “You must be doing okay, though. Able to do a little remodeling with the insurance money?”
Adrianne felt her lips compress and she took a quick sip of coffee. Harvey had canceled his life-insurance policy without consulting her. She’d had no idea until after his death that she’d have to handle the mortgage, Lisa’s college, everything from now on with just her salary and what they had in savings. She’d returned Cutter’s contract in the mail last week with a lump in her throat at the number on the bottom line. It would put a major dent in her savings account.
“We’re fine,” she said, not about to discuss her financial situation with this man. Instead, she said with all the politeness she could muster, “It’s almost lunchtime. Can I fix you something? A sandwich?”
So she wasn’t going to get cozy over a cup of coffee, Cutter thought, not really surprised. There were many women who, given the opening he’d given her, would have cussed their husband up one side and down the other for leaving no insurance. Told him all about it, with crocodile tears in their eyes, hoping to get him to cut his bill a little in sympathy.
But not our Southern beauty here. He was still trying to get used to the little jolt he felt each time those amber eyes lifted to his. He reminded himself of Marcia’s baby-blues. They’d cooed that same innocence — while she’d hidden a bottle under her pillow and a lover under her bed. Adrianne Rhodes had a honeyed drawl, honey hair, honey eyes, but underneath all that gold could easily beat a larcenous little heart.
“No, thanks,” he said to her offer of lunch, remembering the key he still had in his pocket. “I’ll —”
The front door burst open, and a teenager in black came into the kitchen, followed by an older woman.
“I’m starved. Lunch ready?”
“In a minute,” Adrianne replied. “Lisa, I want you to meet Cutter. Cutter, this is my daughter, Lisa, and my mother, Blanche Munro.”
He stood up to shake hands with the girl, noting her strawberry blond hair, freckles and stocky build. She took after her father, he decided.
He turned to the woman behind her, taking her hand. Now, here was a dame who knew how to play the game. She was obviously fighting the clock every step of the way, and it looked as if she won more often than not. He placed her in her midfifties, but she hardly looked older than his own forty, thanks to a great highlighting job and a fairly recent tuck around the eyes.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Munro Realty, by any chance?”
“Why, yes.” Her handshake was cool and firm.
“I’ve seen your signs here and there.”
The flirting smile Blanche had started to give him, woman to man, evaporated instantly. Her eyes were shrewd now, sizing up a potential client. “Are you in the market for a new home, Cutter?”
“Not right now.” Blanche’s accent was pure South, born and bred, he noted, while Lisa had the Arkansas twang of a native. A twang he’d spent the first six months in intelligence trying to lose.
“Do keep me in mind,” she said. “I’m sure I could find something you’d like.”
So, the grandma was sharp as nails under all that bleached hair, he thought. He filed away the information. It was too soon to know what was important and what wasn’t, so he treated every snippet, every impression, as if it were the key to the puzzle of the missing money.
“Darling, I see you’ve started your cleaning crusade already,” Blanche said, helping herself to the coffee. “How tiresome. I know I said I’d help, but I just had my nails done. Why you want to spend your vacation this way is beyond me.”
“I told you, you don’t have to help, Mother.”
“I’ll do my room myself, I promise,” Lisa chimed in. “Although this is not how my friends are spending their half-day off, trust me. Teacher’s workdays are supposed to be reserved for the mall.”
Cutter looked around the kitchen, bursting to the brim with chattering females. He suddenly longed for the days of smoky bars, coded greetings and silent black limos easing out of the mist. He sighed and unbuckled his tool belt, thinking dark thoughts about Jonathon Round and his insurance cases. Might as well go to lunch—in peace and quiet It was obvious he wasn’t going to get his hands in any more pantie drawers today.
