Part 64 (1/2)

”An imp.” Claire's tone left no room for argument. ”Somebody,” she shot a scathing look at the cat, ”has moved the trap.”

”Probably the mice.”

”Oh, give me a break.”

Sitting down with his back toward her, Austin began was.h.i.+ng his shoulder with long, deliberate strokes of his tongue.

Although Dean hoped it was his imagination, the air between cat and Keeper felt chilled. ”I could take the keyboard apart,” he offered, flipping it and frowning at the half-dozen, tiny, inset screw heads. ”Maybe I can clean the coffee out of it.”

”Take it apart? As in pieces?” On the other hand, she couldn't use it the way it was so how much worse could it get. ”All right. But be careful.”

”No problem.” His enthusiastic smile faded as a bit of broken ceramic crushed under one work boot. ”First off, I'll go get a broom and dustpan.”

”Dean?”

He stopped on the other side of the counter.

”What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

What was it? The sudden, deliberate destruction of the coffee mug had driven it right out of his head.

”Do you know what you are doing, Anglais?” Jacques leaned over Dean's shoulder and poked an ethereal finger at the key board. ”Can you put the pieces back together when they all fall out?”

”That's not about to happen,” Dean told him, inserting a Phillips head screwdriver into the last tiny screw. ”These day's everything's solid state.”

Leaning against the other side of the desk, Claire drummed bubblegum-colored fingernails on the CPU and bit her tongue. The buzz of the acc.u.mulated seepage had become a constant background noise as impossible to ignore as a dentist's drill, and the smallest things set her off. She'd yelled at Dean for returning the wallpaper sample books before she'd finished with them after telling him that she'd definitely made up her mind, at Jacques for going through the dining room table rather than around, at Dean again for waiting until after lunch before opening up her keyboard, and at Austin, just because. It was like continual PMS only without the bloating.

”That's got it.” Setting the screw in the saucer with the others. Dean slid a pair of slot screwdrivers into the crack between the front and back of the keyboard and twisted in opposite directions. The plastic began to creak as the tiny levers moved off the horizontal. When the crack widened to half an inch, he pried the back of the keyboard carefully free.

The sudden flurry of tiny white pieces of plastic exploding into the air strongly resembled a small, artificial blizzard.

”Score one for the dead guy,” Jacques observed when the last piece landed.

Dean scooped up one of the escapees. A tiny spring fell off one end, bounced on the desk, and rolled out of sight. ”Sorry,” he said, shoulders up around his ears as he peered up over the top of his gla.s.ses at Claire. ”But I'm sure I can fix it.”

It took an effort, but Claire managed to count all the way to ten before responding. ”Just clean it up,” she snarled, ”and move on.”

Dean's eyes widened and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

”Now what's your problem?”

”For a minute there you sounded...” He paused and shook his head. ”It's okay. I'll just clean this up like you said.”

”I sounded like what?” Claire growled. ”Tell me. Please.”

He didn't want to tell her, but he couldn't seem to help himself. ”Like Augustus Smythe.”

She stared at him, saw that he was serious, and opened her mouth to call him several choice names. Snapping it closed on the first of them, she stomped into her sitting room and slammed the door.

Jacques snickered. ”I must hand it over to you Anglais, you have the way with women.”