Intimate Portraits (8 page)

Autumn was suspicious. “Do you
know what a glockenspiel is?”

“Sure I do.” He widened his eyes
innocently. “Kind of. Sort of. One of those musical things they play with
hammers?”

“Rennie.” Her laugh burst out,
bright as sunshine. “How could one of those be live?”

“Isn’t it like the floor piano
Tom Hanks played with his feet in that movie? Maybe with people doing the part
of the hammers. I can see them now, hopping up and down on the notes.”

She cocked her head, eyes
twinkling. “Rennie.”

“No?”

“No.” A giggle started, was
controlled. “A glockenspiel isn’t a musical instrument. Guess again.”

“A nativity scene? A German
nativity scene? A Swiss nativity scene?”

“No.” She took a deep breath and
pressed her twitching lips together. “A glockenspiel is… Well, you’ve seen
those clocks where on the hour, instead of a cuckoo, little mechanical people
come out of the inside and dance around and then go back inside?”

She was definitely a beautiful
woman.

“Oh, little dancing people clocks.
Sure.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “Why didn’t you say so? Don’t I feel like
an idiot. Tell me; how did they find people small enough to fit inside one of
those clocks?”

“Rennie.” She pushed him, gave up
her attempt to be serious, and convulsed in laughter.

He’d missed a woman’s laughter. Jane
hadn’t laughed much during their last year together. Come to think of it, Jane’d
been pretty damn solemn the whole time they were together.

His heart lifted. “How about a
funnel cake?” He tucked her gloved hand under his arm. “It won’t make up for
missing the gluckenfeel, but they sure smell tempting.”

As they followed the smell of hot
pastries and confectioners’ sugar across the street, contentment swathed him.

It’d be a shame if his brother
messed up Autumn’s life, but Francisco was a determined bastard. If he’d made
up his mind to have Autumn, he’d sweep her off her feet and keep her in the
clouds for a while. Then drop her to chase after a new woman more exciting.
More exciting women always came along for Fran.

There ought to be some way to keep
Autumn safe.

Chapter 6

Private Portraits by Merriwell was
one of several strip shops that, except for a drug store and run-down bar on
one end, closed early. A jewelry store flanked the left of the studio, an
embroidery place sat on the right.

When the nondescript beige van,
now minus its magnetic side panels that had this morning trumpeted Betty and
Lulu’s Flower Boutique, pulled up to the back of the shops, no one lurked in
the alley to notice the black-clad man who got out.

No need for finesse. Sam Bogatti jimmied
open the door to the studio, sliced the silent alarm wire, hopped back into the
van, and drove around the block to park among rows of vehicles in another strip
mall across the street.

Nice that the jewelry store was
next to the studio. Someone would think he picked the wrong door. Leaning back
in the seat, he stuffed a stick of gum into his mouth and waited.

Four minutes later, a police car
arrived. Sam monitored from his vantage point as the officer checked the front
and went around back. Then the man got back in his car and bent over the radio.

After a while, another man in
sweat pants and top—the owner?—arrived. He spoke to the policeman working on a
report or something in his patrol car. The officer got out, had the man sign
something, and then left before a locksmith van arrived.

Sweat Pants let the locksmith into
the building. About ten thirty, both men came out and left. The strip mall was
dead on the studio end.

Sam grunted and stretched. Time
for food. The restaurant two shops down would work.

No need to hurry. The mall’s owner
would try to get in touch with Autumn Merriwell, but she wasn’t home. She was
in Helen, wherever the shit Helen was. He’d let the PD come by a few times, get
used to everything being okay.

****

In Helen, Autumn and Rennie left
town without seeing Laney and John, but found the couple already back at the
cottage.

Along with a woman. The redhead
with flawless skin and photogenic features, Autumn immediately discerned, was
meant for Rennie.

Laney, blissful in her own
marriage and certain that no unattached single person could possibly be happy,
constantly sought to match-make for siblings and friends. So far, none of her
matches had worked out, but that didn’t stop her trying.

“Victoria Montezela. She works at
CNN,” Laney introduced her friend to her brother. A side glance gauged Rennie’s
reaction.

“Hi, Victoria. So Laney suckered
you into this trip, too, eh?” Rennie greeted Victoria as if she was one of his
sisters. “What did she promise you? Blue skies, snowflakes, hot toddies before
a roaring fire? You may as well know the truth. There’s no TV, no radio, no
microwave, and no telephone. And even cell phones don’t work up here.”

“Rennie!” Laney hit his biceps.

He flinched. “Ouch.”

“Sounds terrible.” Victoria’s laugh
said different.

Rennie rubbed his arm. “For that,
sister, I’ll tell her the rest. We have to pay for every log we burn. Worse, we
have one tiny bathroom with limited hot water to be allocated at intervals
among the smelliest. Oh, and some nut whose husband’s a homicidal maniac is
hiding out next door. If he gets the address wrong, we could be in trouble.”

“Kiki isn’t a nut.” Laney glared.
“She has problems. And there’s nothing wrong with doing without some of the
things we take for granted every day.”

“Right. Being away from the
luxuries of civilization lets us get in touch with our inner selves.” Victoria’s
appraisal said she wouldn’t mind getting in touch with Rennie.

“Ho-o-kay. If you say so.” Rennie
raised a thick brow. “Sounds like Laney’s been doing some brainwashing here.”

Laney preened herself for
bringing two unsuspecting people together. When John came in with some logs,
she slipped her arm around her husband’s waist and wrinkled her nose. “And you
said it would never work.”

Autumn tried to stop gritting her
teeth. Pooh on Laney. Victoria had a gorgeous face, a toned body, and was doubtless
intelligent to boot.

Perfect for Rennie.

Even her name. Victoria.
Old-fashioned. Solid.

All the Degardoveras liked people
with those kinds of names: Elena with John, and Norma with Paul, and Rennie
with Jane. Why couldn’t she have been named Kate or Sarah or Mary? A good plain
dependable name.

But no. She was stuck with
Autumn.

Laney pulled her forward. “And
this is Autumn,” she said to Victoria. “She’s the great photographer I told you
about.”

“Victoria.” Autumn held out a
hand. “Good to meet you.”

What business of hers was it as
to who did or didn’t attract Rennie? Hadn’t she promised herself this very afternoon
she would control her life from now on? She was tired of being on the outside
looking in, tired of letting the insiders have all the fun. She was going to
have a good time this weekend and to heck with Rennie and Victoria.

“This is the first time Victoria’s
been up to Helen,” Laney was saying. “She went to school in Indiana and worked
several other places before she came to CNN last summer.”

John dropped into an easy chair. “I
see Victoria on TV every day. Gus watches CNN religiously.”

Gus was Agustin Huertole, the personable
state senator hoping to become Georgia’s first Hispanic governor. John, his
chief aide, had brought in Fran to manage the campaign.

Laney seconded her husband’s
praise of CNN and perched on the chair arm beside him. “Victoria’s been great
about giving Gus favorable coverage.”

The newscaster’s laughter tinkled
as she sat down “So far Huertole’s earned favorable coverage. But if he screws
up, don’t think we won’t be right there.” She wore the same wrinkle-avoiding
smile as models and actresses, the one that touched the corners of the lips and
stayed away from the eyes.

Knowledgeable, assertive, and
capable. Exactly the type of woman to appeal to a man like Rennie.

Autumn exhaled as Rennie aimed
his sexy hit-the-target-without-moving-the-head glance at Victoria. “I don’t
think you need worry about screw-ups,” he drawled. “I heard Fran makes Huertole
brush his teeth three times a day, they’re so eager to keep his image clean. Also
something about shaves and showers on the hour.”

Laney threw up her hands. “Totally
unfounded. Gus bathes no more than twice a day. I have it from his wife.”

“Now there’s an asset no
candidate should be without.” Victoria, ensconced on the loveseat, straightened
her sweater over boobs doubtless as perfect as she.

C cup at least. Maybe D. Likely pure
silicone.

Slap yourself, girl. You’re being
catty and you don’t even know the woman.

Crossing booted feet, Victoria leaned
back. “Danielle Huertole is the savviest woman I’ve ever met. She
single-handedly persuaded the Louvre to loan this ornament exhibit to the High
Museum. It’s the first time some of the things have ever been outside France.”

“I can’t wait to see it.” Laney
wriggled eagerly. “They’ve been setting up for weeks, but admission for the
first two months sold out ages ago. I heard they plan to extend their hours to
accommodate everyone. Fran’s going to the reception Sunday night for an advance
viewing, lucky dog.”

“Because of his job.” Pragmatic John
was the perfect complement for exuberant Laney. “He’s got to look out for the
candidate, hon. Don’t worry, we’ll go in January or February. After the rush is
over, but before the campaign heats up.”

“Do you think Huertole has a
chance to be elected governor?” Rennie raised his brows. “This is a pretty
conservative state. Unless things have changed considerably, voters will go
with their good old boys and to hell with anyone who speaks a different
language.”

“Bite your tongue.” Laney threw a
handy box of tissues at her brother. “Fran and John wouldn’t be working for Gus
if they didn’t think he had a chance. Of course he has a chance.”

“A good one, according to the
polls,” Victoria said. “And things
have
changed while you were gone, Rennie.”
She patted the cushion beside her. “Elena says you’ve been in California. I was
outside San Diego for a while at a little station where…”

When Laney started toward the
kitchen, Autumn followed.

Tangerines in a bowl and a
festive pine wreath smelled like holidays. Too bad she didn’t feel like
celebrating.

Washing her hands, Laney said, “Isn’t
Victoria adorable? Beautiful and brainy. Mom and I think she’s perfect for Rennie.”

A scream threatened. Autumn slapped
a dish towel across Laney’s arm
. Change the subject.
“Have you heard
from Fran? Is he coming up?”

Laney dried her hands before she
took a foil-wrapped ham from the fridge. “Missing him already?” Her smug look
wasn’t lost on Autumn.

“Come on, Laney.” The
Degardoveras assumed she and Fran were a twosome, no matter how often she told them
otherwise. They weren’t, and she said so again as she washed her hands with
unnecessary vigor. “For the umpteenth time, Fran and I hang out together. We’re
buddies.”

“Sure. That’s why you have that
wonderful nude of him in your bedroom.”

“I couldn’t hang it at the
studio, and he didn’t want it after his last girlfriend broke up with him. What
should I have done with it? Stored it in the garage?”

Laney rolled her eyes in manifest
disbelief.

“Elena Degardovera Kinsellen. There
is nothing in the least romantic between Fran and me.” Well, maybe a few
kisses. But they’d been to console Fran, nothing more.

“I didn’t mean to imply there
was.” Unwrapping the ham, Laney picked off a bite and tasted it.

Its brown sugar scent drifted
over the table to remind Autumn she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Sarita and
shopping hadn’t left time for lunch. “Did Reseda cook that? I'm starved.”

“Uh huh. Before she left. Here,
take this bite.” She frowned. “I bake them like she tells me, but they never
taste like hers. Okay. So you and Fran are buddies. Well, buddy, he has to be
at the High in the morning, but he’ll get here in time for dinner tomorrow. And
he’ll spend the night with us before going back Sunday for the reception. So
stop worrying. Buddy.”

It was no use. Laney would
believe whatever she wanted. Autumn popped the ham into her mouth. “Ummm. Your
mother makes the best hams.”

“Yeah, Francisco loves them,
too.”

When they were younger, Fran had
been a nuisance, constantly taunting Autumn about her skinny legs and flat
chest. But at thirty-three, he had grown up. While no one could measure up to Rennie,
Fran was personable enough.