Part 6 (1/2)

The first thing I did was swipe a doily off the closest shelf where it shared s.p.a.ce with a doll dressed in Victorian clothing.

Too many knickknacks and too little ambience, and a menu that if what Declan had read to me about burgers and rice pudding meant anything, lacked not only imagination but any food actually worth eating.

And none of it mattered, I reminded myself, dropping into the nearest chair.

Because I was staying until Sophie was better and then I was gone.

Where?

I had no idea, but I knew it wasn't going to be Hubbard, Ohio.

Or the Terminal at the Tracks.

As far as I could see, the restaurant was as terminal as its most famous customer.

Chapter 6.

When I heard a sharp rap on the front door, I hurried through the restaurant and into the waiting area.

Face pressed to the gla.s.s.

Beady blue eyes.

Scrunched-up nose.

I might not know local news, but I'd recognize Kim Kline anywhere.

Apparently, so would Declan.

Though I hadn't realized he'd followed me, he reached around me, yanked open the door, and barked, ”Ms. Inwood has no comment.”

Really?

I wedged myself between Declan, the door, and Kim, who had retreated and was toeing the line between the front walk and the restaurant. ”I can tell her that myself,” I grumbled, before I turned to the reporter and said, ”Ms. Inwood has no comment.”

”But-”

Whatever she was going to say, I cut off Kim when I shut the door.

”I don't need a keeper,” I said, and I marched through the waiting area and back into the restaurant. If Declan and I were going to go at it, the last thing I needed was a media audience. I made sure we were far from the front windows before I turned to him. ”I can take care of myself. Which means I could have told her myself that I had nothing to say.”

”You did tell her, and you handled it well.” How Declan could stand there and smile when my blood pressure was about to shoot through the roof was a mystery to me. ”I forgot you had the whole Hollywood thing going for you. Apparently, you've stared down the paparazzi a time or two.”

”Or three or a dozen or a hundred times.” I didn't need the reminder of my former life. Not when my current life was turning out to be so complicated. When we looked over the crime scene earlier, I'd left my coffee cup on one of the tables, and I s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and again walked far enough away from the windows to be sure Kim couldn't see us, even with her nose pressed to the gla.s.s. I held the coffee cup in both hands against my chest. It wasn't much in the way of a s.h.i.+eld but only an idiot could miss the symbolism. I doubted very much that Declan was an idiot, but just in case, I thought it only fair to tell him, ”I don't like pushy men.”

”Neither do I,” he confided. ”Though I do confess I have something of a soft spot right about here”-he laid a hand over his heart-”for pushy women.”

I bit back the reply I was tempted to hurl at him and matched him smile for smile. ”Well, then, it's a good thing I'm not a pushy woman, isn't it?”

”Jury's still out on that.” He laughed and his eyes sparkled with way more mischief than anyone should have been able to muster at that time of the morning. ”I'm not about to pa.s.s judgment, because I don't know you well enough. Not yet, anyway.”

I puffed out a sigh of frustration. Or maybe I was just trying to catch my breath. ”You're exasperating.”

”And you're intriguing.” He took a couple steps back, the better to look me over as he had a time or two before. This time, just like those other times, heat raced up my neck and into my cheeks. ”When are we going to have dinner together?”

I hesitated. But then, being blindsided will do that to a girl.

”I'm free tonight,” Declan said.

I shook myself back to my senses. ”I've got to go to the hospital tonight. To check on Sophie.”

”Tomorrow, then.” He turned and headed for the door and called back over his shoulder, ”Unless you still think I'm a murderer!”

”I never said you were a murderer. I only said it was a possibility. And I didn't agree to dinner,” I added. I shouldn't have bothered. By the time I got to the front door, Declan was already out on the sidewalk and ignoring her when Kim Kline scrambled over, tape recorder in hand.

”Pushy and exasperating,” I grumbled.

That is, right before I smiled.

Just in case Declan might see, I spun away from the door.

And spun around again when there was another tap on the window.

This time when I grumbled, it had nothing to do with the handsome gift shop manager. I opened the door a crack. ”Really, Ms. Kline, there's nothing I can tell you about Jack Lancer and even if there was-”

Like a bolt out of the blue, an idea hit. I was being perfectly truthful; there was nothing I knew about the dead TV star.

But that didn't mean Kim Kline didn't know plenty.

I swallowed my words, and when I opened the door I took a step back so she could walk into the restaurant. ”Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked her.

Don't worry, I hadn't forgotten the pledge I'd made to myself the night before: I would stay far away from the cameras, and there was no way I'd let myself be quoted and thus end up with my name plastered in the newspapers and on the Internet.

”This is off the record,” I told her before she could open her mouth and say a word. ”If you promise not to quote me-”

”You're an anonymous source.” Kim actually crossed her heart with one finger. ”I appreciate your help. This is the most exciting thing that's happened around here in a long time. Jack and I worked together, and when I got this a.s.signment . . .” Her cheeks flushed. ”Well, this is the biggest break I've had in my career. Anything you can tell me will put me one step ahead of the compet.i.tion.”

I led the way into the kitchen and when we got there, I dumped my cold coffee, refilled my coffee cup, and poured a nice, hot cup for Kim.

”So what do you think Jack was doing here?” Kim asked.

”I was about to ask you the same thing.”

She flinched. ”You mean you don't know? You mean . . .” As if she might actually see something interesting in a kitchen that was so far out of date I wondered how anyone could cook anything in it, she looked around at the fryers and the grill, at the tiny salad prep station, and out the pickup window where Sophie's one and only cook pa.s.sed food through to the servers. ”Do you believe what the police are saying, that Jack Lancer actually broke into the restaurant with the guy they arrested, the one who was stealing copper in the bas.e.m.e.nt?”

I didn't think it fair to reveal what Declan and I had already determined. Someone broke into the bas.e.m.e.nt, all right. But chances were, that someone wasn't Jack. Whoever was downstairs had never come upstairs. Which meant Jack couldn't have gotten up here from down there and the person who was down there-Owen-could never have been up here. Jack must have come in through the back door. But why? And if he was with Owen, why wouldn't the two of them just come in together?