Part 20 (1/2)

In one quick movement, Dwayne took me by the shoulders, spun me around, and propelled me toward the door. ”I don't know anything,” he said again, ”especially not who killed Lou Hobbs.” He shoved me out onto the lawn with such force, I nearly lost my balance. ”Now go away and leave me alone.”

He slammed the door between us, I heard the lock turn, and reluctantly I admitted that our conversation was over. I could see Marion watching me from her kitchen window, and I knew I'd just lost a friend and Divinity had lost a long-time customer. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that she was in serious denial. Dwayne was lying. I could feel that in every cell of my body. He knew who the murderer was. All I had to do now was get him to tell the police.

Chapter 32.

I tried to call Jawarski on my way back to Divinity, but ended up having to leave a message. The delay in telling him what I knew chafed, but there was nothing I could do. I'd see him that night for Richie and Dylan's party, but I didn't want to talk about the murder there.

He'd apologized, Jawarski style, for the comment he'd made while we were in his office, and I was no longer hurt by it, but I couldn't forget it. I wanted to show him that I wasn't only interested in him for his connections, and the best way I knew to do that was to avoid talking about the murder.

I went straight back to work. Karen had been pulling so much of the weight around Divinity lately, I gave her the afternoon off and spent the rest of the day catching up on all of the things I should have been doing in the shop.

By the time we locked the doors, Liberty and I had polished most of the gla.s.s, mopped the black-and-white checked floors, and given the wrought-iron chairs and tables a thorough cleaning. We'd restocked the shelves Karen hadn't been able to get to, and even spent a few minutes brainstorming next month's window display.

At seven, I raced upstairs, changed into a new pair of black pants and a suede tunic in a shade the online catalog had called ”bark.” Satisfied that the color really didn't wash out my skin tone or make me look ready to pa.s.s out, I slipped on a pair of low heels (I am so not a stiletto gal) and gave my appearance a final once-over.

Jawarski and I had agreed to meet at the party, so I opened a jar of peanut b.u.t.ter so Max would have something to do besides chew my shoes and take inventory of the bathroom garbage. Once I was satisfied that Max was content, I headed out.

Parking near the Silver River Inn is impossible under normal circ.u.mstances. When Richie and Dylan entertain, it's a nightmare. I circled the inn forever before I finally found a spot wide enough to wedge the Jetta into. Slipping my keys into my pocket, I resisted the urge to rush up the stairs. Making a good entrance into a room isn't my strong point, but I do try not to barge in red-faced and out of breath.

Richie spotted me the instant I came inside and swept down on me like a hawk. ”Don't you look fabulous? Where did you find that gorgeous blouse?”

I started to tell him, and he put a finger to my lips and stared at me, horrified. ”Darling, never tell where you got your clothes. Never, ever, ever. Be flattered that someone asks, but don't give away your secrets.”

”It's not much of a secret,” I told him.

He waved me off with a flick of his wrist and a purse of his lips. ”And that's part of your problem, if you don't mind me saying.” He weaved a little on his feet, and I caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath, which is how I knew we were in for a long night filled with lots of gossip. Richie loves hanging over the back fence any time, but especially after he's had a drink or two.

I linked my arm through his and strolled into the room with him in tow. Since my last visit, the place had been transformed. Hundreds of tiny white lights twinkled from the rock around the fireplace, the support pillars that held up the loft overhead, and every other surface that could possibly be lit. The cornucopia centerpieces spilled their bounty onto tables set with sparkling crystal and gleaming silver. The china looked old and exquisite, each piece rimmed by a single gold band that blended perfectly with the centerpieces.

Guests milled about, most holding a gla.s.s and taking care not to b.u.mp into the tables. ”This is beautiful,” I told Richie. ”Did you do this?”

He shook his head and grinned. ”Dylan did most of it. Isn't he incredible?”

”That's almost an understatement,” I agreed. ”Have you seen Jawarski yet? I'm supposed to meet him here.”

”Not yet.” Richie waved to someone across the room and nudged me farther into the room. ”Rachel's here somewhere, though, and Ginger-the owner of the antique shop I was telling you about-?” He paused and waited for me to indicate that I remembered. ”She's right over there. See the tall blond guy by the window?”

I spotted Ginger talking to a tall man with wheat-blond hair and a superior smile. A few feet away, Marshall stood by himself, watching Richie and me. His gaze made me uncomfortable, and the memory of that stupid kiss came rus.h.i.+ng back. I shoved it away and focused on Ginger's companion. ”You invited Quentin Ingersol?”

”Yes. Do you know him?”

”We've met.”

Richie pulled his gaze away from whatever he'd been watching and settled it on me. ”Is there a problem there I should know about?”

I shook my head. ”Not really. I went to his office to ask him some questions. Let's just say he was pretty creative with his answers.”

”Quentin? That surprises me. Dylan really likes him. Me?” Richie held out a hand and wiggled it from side to side. ”Not so much. So what were you asking him about?”

At the risk of getting creative with my own answers, I decided that telling Richie the truth in his current condition would be only slightly less public than putting my response on a billboard. ”I don't even remember. It wasn't important.”

Richie seemed to accept that, but about ten seconds later he whipped around, mouth open, and wagged a hand at me. ”I know what it was. You were talking to him about the murder, weren't you?”

A movement in the hallway behind me caught my eye, and I saw Jawarski coming toward me. Richie had announced his guess so loudly, several people standing nearby turned to look at us. I motioned for Richie to be quiet and lowered my own voice as far as I could and still be heard. ”I really don't want to talk about that tonight, okay?”

”But it was, wasn't it?”

I tugged Richie toward the kitchen and whispered urgently, ”Listen, Richie, this is important. I really don't want to talk about the murder while Jawarski is here. So will you drop it, please?”

He nodded solemnly. ”Well, of course, Abs. Anything for you.” Before I could seal the deal, his face brightened, and he surged forward, arms wide. ”Here he is now, the man of the hour. We were just talking about you, Jawarski. Was your nose itching?”

Jawarski tossed a smile in his direction and leaned in to kiss my cheek. I lifted my face and took a breath of the air around him, mentally listing each part of his unique scent before I realized what I was doing. Like it or not, he was becoming important to me.

”How was your day?” he asked as he drew away.

It was an innocent question, but in light of my conversations with Corelle, Marion, and Dwayne, I felt heat creeping into my face. This would be the ideal time to tell him what I'd learned if I hadn't vowed to avoid the subject.

I smiled and walked slowly toward the makes.h.i.+ft bar Richie and Dylan had set up near the cash register. Dylan stood behind the counter, entertaining a couple of guests. ”My day was fine,” I said. ”How was yours?”

”Fine. Busy.” He stiffened noticeably, and I realized he'd spotted Marshall. He put his hand on the small of my back, one of those protective gestures I like-unless the guy's being possessive. I didn't know how to interpret Jawarski's move.

He guided me around a couple who'd stopped walking abruptly. ”The boys have gone all out tonight, haven't they?”

I glanced around again and noticed with relief that Marshall had joined a conversation with a couple of other guests. ”And they said it was just a casual dinner party.”

”Maybe this is casual for Richie.”

We reached the bar. Jawarski asked for a Heineken, Dylan poured me a Chardonnay, and we wandered back through the crowded room making small talk until the crowd and the alcohol made us both long for fresh air. Since neither Richie nor Dylan had made any noises about dinner, Jawarski and I wandered out onto the front porch and stood in the chilly evening breeze looking out at the city.

”Do you ever regret moving here?” I asked after a few minutes.

Jawarski shook his head. ”Nope. It's a good place. It seems to fit me.”

”You don't regret living so far away from your kids?”

He slanted a look at me. ”I miss 'em. No doubt about that. But I think they do better when their mom and I aren't in the same place.”

”You wouldn't have to live in the same town. Even if you lived across the state, you'd be closer than you are now.”

Jawarski turned so he could look at me better. ”What's going on, Shaw? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

I grinned and shook my head. ”No, of course not. I'm starting to like having you around.” I let my gaze travel down to the street, where a truck rattled past. ”I don't know. Maybe I'm just trying to make sure you're not going anywhere before I let myself get too close.”