Part 12 (2/2)

”Your father or the priest?”

”Both.”

The couple spoke with polite indifference, or dislike, either because of a quarrel or out of habit.

Mr. Incongeniality slammed the safe door, twisted the dial with a nervous move, and let a painting slip into place, possibly a Monet, though it could be in that style by a lesser-known artist. A good one.

”I wish you would trust me,” he said.

”I might say the same. Why do you bring the books home, slave over them when you have a bookkeeper to do that, and lock them away from me? Or are they a second set of books that no one else knows about? The real story?”

”Nice talk.”

They stood in a room paneled in dark walnut. An old-fas.h.i.+oned male-only study with an antique Tiffany lamp in greens and golds.

From a round, gaudy-legged marble-topped table, he took an etched, square decanter from its bra.s.s carrier and poured himself a snifter of brandy.

”Isn't it a bit early for that?” she sniped.

Still keeping his back to her, he shrugged. ”Whatever it takes.”

”To drown out my voice?”

”Those are your words.” He hadn't once looked at her.

The gla.s.s-fronted bookshelves lining the room revealed pricey leather-bound books. I couldn't read t.i.tles but I suspected vintage from their muted colors and gold leaf. Autographed pictures of men shaking hands dotted the walls between, and there was no mistaking the White House in the background on at least one.

The place reeked of money and good taste, but not cla.s.s, given the fact that Mr. Hostile needed an att.i.tude adjustment. He slipped behind a huge desk, putting even more distance between him and the woman, a body-language slap in the face. I nearly saw his face then, but he bent to look through a drawer, avoiding eye contact, insulting her further. His ebony hair curled in waves that he tried but failed to tame. He wore a scent I knew well, because my grandfather had worn it, which wasn't enough to make me like him.

”I have work to do,” he said in dismissal.

The woman stepped boldly forward, close enough to touch his desk, so close Old Spice mingled with Chanel No. 5. Her hands were milky smooth, long fingered with perfect, clear-glossed oval nails. Her engagement ring in platinum, like her wedding ring, had an emerald-cut diamond the size of Texas.

She leaned forward, an aggressive move, and as she did, a rust linen garment with black piping rested diagonally against her forearm. A cape. ”You work,” she said with sarcasm. ”I'll go to the fair by myself.”

”That quilt will never win,” he said, without looking up.

She gave a bitter laugh. ”Neither will you. I'm meeting Daddy at the club for drinks at six. I'll make your excuses. He and I have a lot to talk about. In case you care.”

”I don't.”

”I know.”

I opened my eyes and looked into Eve's.

She'd parked her car to s.h.i.+eld me from the police going in and out of my shop's front door.

I blinked against the glare of the sun. ”When did you get here?”

Twenty.

I have no desire to give lectures on the subject of fas.h.i.+on. I put my money on feelings: Wear it and enjoy it.

-GIANNI VERSACE ”That was a long zone out,” Eve said with concern as she sat beside me.

”My second since I got here, and frustrating. The woman in my vision was wearing this, but I never saw her face.” I touched the cape, s.h.i.+vered despite the sun, and stuck my icy hands in its unzipped pockets. ”I might have seen the same couple in my first vision. I'm not sure.”

Eve held up a caramel latte to tempt me.

I shook my head. ”Not right now. Thanks.” I was still too connected to my vision to cut the psychic cord.

”By the way,” she said, ”you just put period to any doubts I might have harbored about your psychometric ability.”

”But you're a scientist.”

”Yes, well, I'm a scientist who believes in you.”

”Thanks, sweetie.” My warming fingers closed on a sharp-edged piece of plastic in one of the pockets, so I took it out and held it in my palm for both of us to see.

”A leopard fingernail,” Eve said. ”It's awfully long.”

”Takes a certain kind of woman to wear fingernails like this,” I said. ”Were animal-print fingernails in vogue at the same time as this cape? I'll have to ask Aunt Fiona.”

With fear still wrapped around me, and a strange fingernail in my hand, Eve put the latte's sippy slot to my mouth and about poured it down my throat.

Her action made me want to chuckle, but I didn't dare, because I didn't want to spill coffee on the cape. However, my sweet friend and her sweet, life-giving shot of inner warmth made me feel like myself again. Alive. Happy and in control. No, I didn't know who killed who, but Eve put things into perspective for me.

All in good time. I had to live my own life while I worked to make the puzzle pieces of other people's lives and deaths fall into place. Prepared to do just that, I slipped the fingernail into the cape pocket, zipped it, took the cup from Eve's hands, and let it warm my own.

She nodded. ”Glad you're coming out of it.”

”Thanks to you.”

”Do you think the fingernail belonged to the woman who owned the clothes?”

I shrugged. ”Note to me: check local nail salons to see who does nails like this and how long they've been in style.”

”You're smart to look for the 'artist,' rather than the canvas. You could find out who has them done that way with some small talk while you're getting your own nails done.” Eve smirked. ”You'd look great with pumpkins on black for Halloween.”

”Don't put it past me. I had ladybug fingernails one of the times Nick came to New York. That's how I got my nickname.”

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