Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (18 page)

I stepped back and managed to wiggle out of his embrace. “So where does this leave us?”

He leaned down and caressed my lips with the tip of his tongue, lingering over the sweetness of the kiss, teasing my lips apart, tasting, probing until I felt the strength desert the back of my knees and I started to buckle.

“It leaves us right here, Maggie,” he said, grinning mischievously.

“And exactly what does that mean?”

“It means I won’t forget where we left off.”

Villari took the key from my hand, reached behind me and unlocked the door. For one glorious moment I thought he might have changed his mind about keeping our relationship chaste and pure for the time being, and I had visions of being swept up into his arms and carried off. But the man seemed to be a stickler for sticking with his decisions, one of my weaker points, so that in the end all he did was walk around the house to check for intruders. When he was satisfied that no one was lurking in the shadows or behind doors, he kissed me briefly and walked out. It was just my luck to fall for Captain Virtue.

The jarring ring pierced my eardrums, repeatedly, until I had no choice but to grope around the nightstand and answer the damned phone. It was the first decent night’s sleep I’d had for several days, complete with lustful dreams of charcoal eyes and strong masculine hands, and the interruption did not put me in a particularly jolly mood.

“What?” I snapped into the telephone.

“Ms. Kean, I presume?”

I recognized Hawthorne’s upper-crust tones right away and sat up in bed, pulling the covers to my chin as though he were standing in the room. Somehow modesty was important to maintain around Hawthorne, even if he couldn’t see you. Proper people always know when the rules of propriety are being broken.

“Yes, this is her.” Or me. Or she. I can never remember the correct grammar in that situation. I know when to use
good
and when to use
well,
but it’s downhill after that.  Fortunately, I teach art and seldom get bogged down with the intricacies of the human language.

“This is Allen Hawthorne. We met the other day with Cassandra and Preston Boyer to review Elizabeth Boyer’s will.”

“I remember, Mr. Hawthorne.  What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if we might meet again soon. As you know, Elizabeth requested that you take on the role of fiduciary, and if you have agreed to fulfill these responsibilities, there are several papers that need to be signed and filed with the state.”

“Do I have to decide so quickly? I really don’t even understand what the job entails,” I asked nervously. “Is there any real need to hurry?”

There was a long pause, as some papers were being shuffled in the background. “Ms. Kean.. .”

“Call me, Maggie.”

“Maggie, then. Normally, I like to give people plenty of time to get used to the idea of being an executor or a fiduciary or any other request a decedent may have included in a will. But the fact is, in this particular matter, I think we might want to proceed as expeditiously as possible.”

“Why is that?” I asked, although I had a hunch it had something to do with the grandkids.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Ms. Kean, I mean Maggie, I would much prefer to continue this conversation in person. Emotions are understandably running quite high at this time, as you can well imagine. I believe it would be easier and more prudent to explain the situation face-to-face, if you are agreeable to such a meeting.”

I sighed. “Mr. Hawthorne, I have no problem meeting with you, although I will warn you that I haven’t made up my mind about Elizabeth’s request.” Unbidden tears sprang to my eyes. I felt like a pregnant woman with a vat of hormones spilling through my body. Between mourning for Elizabeth and lusting after Villari, I was hanging on to a crazy seesaw of emotions, and not doing a great job of it. “But I’m more than willing to hear what you have to say, especially since I’m sure Cassie and Preston have been a real pain in the ass—uh, neck, I mean.”

He chuckled. “That’s quite all right, Maggie. Your first word was decidedly more accurate.”

“So when would you like to meet?”

“Would there be a time this morning that would be convenient for you?”

“Sure. When and where? You’ll have to give me the address. I’ve never been to your office.”

“Well, actually, I’m working in Elizabeth’s office right now. I’m going through her files and gathering some information. Would you mind coming here within the next hour or two? It will take me at least that long to finish.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Hawthorne. I’m not sure I’m ready for another confrontation with the Evil Twins.”

“Perfectly understandable, my dear. I felt the same way before I arrived, but Benton has assured me that the ‘Evil Twins,’ as you so aptly describe them, are not due back until late this afternoon.”

“Okay,” I said, still a little skeptical. I was not eager to run into either of the Boyer grandchildren. The way my luck was running lately, I was convinced that a great cosmic joker was wreaking havoc on my life and laughing his butt off.

“I can expect you at ten o’clock, then?” “Sure,” I agreed hesitantly. “I’ll be there.”

I hung up feeling a little unhinged.  In a space of a few days, everything in my life had changed.  I glanced at the clock and groaned. It was only a few minutes past eight o’clock and I had less than two hours before my meeting with Hawthorne.  I flipped over, scrunched down under the covers, pulled the pillow over my head, and pretended that everything was fine. If an ostrich could bury its head in the sand, I could bury mine in the sheets.

It didn’t work, though. Elizabeth was nagging at me, demanding that I get up and face the day. I wondered if I was the only person whose memories of the dearly departed were less than rosy. Where were the
‘misty, watercolor memories’
Barbra Streisand sang of so eloquently? In my mind, Elizabeth stood over me with her hands on her hips barking out the same orders she did before she died. Before she was killed.

God, I missed her.

Chapter Eleven

Someone leaned heavily on the doorbell while I was in the shower.  There was shampoo in my hair, soap in my eyes, and I was in a lousy mood. I had taken the receiver off the hook and turned down the volume on my cell beforehand because I can’t stand letting a phone go unanswered, which doesn’t make any sense. I know they’ll call back if it’s urgent, but I can’t seem to stop myself from dropping the soap and sprinting across the floor sopping wet.

But how do you disconnect the doorbell?

Then the knocking started. Whoever was there had no intention of going away. Rinsing quickly, I stepped onto the cotton throw rug and pulled an old threadbare terrycloth robe over my body, tying it at the waist. With a towel twisted around my hair, turban style, I ran down the hallway just fast enough to feel my feet slide beneath me as I rounded the corner. My legs flew up and my bottom flew down as I skidded across the wooden floor.

I yelped as I slammed sideways into the wall.  Gingerly, I checked my body for broken bones and blood and gore, but I was still in one piece, despite an aching shoulder and a sore hip. Using the back of a chair, I pulled myself up and slowly hobbled to the front, where someone was apparently determined to destroy a perfectly good door.

“What is your problem?” I demanded, yanking the door open. But the hand that was pounding relentlessly now rapped me in the face. Before I knew it, I was down on my butt again, this time with a bruised nose and a body sprawled on top of me. I shoved the person unceremoniously to the side, rolled over, and pulled myself up for the second time that morning.

“What are you doing here, Cassie?”

“What am I doing? I was knocking on your door until you plowed into me and sideswiped me off my feet,” she snapped as she stood up and brushed imaginary dust from her skirt. “Now, thanks to you, my dress is filthy.  This is a Michael Kors original and you’ve got me rolling in the dirt like a common mud wrestler. I knew it was a mistake to come here.”

While Elizabeth’s lovely granddaughter stood in my doorway unloading on me, the little patience I did have for her simply vanished.  “Listen, you little shit. I didn’t touch you. You lost your balance when I opened the door.  And remember, I’m not the one who came waltzing over here uninvited, beating my door down. It will take less than two seconds for you to dump that dress in your maid’s lap to clean, so drop the act and tell me what brings Little Miss Sunshine here for a visit.” Limping like a dog with a thorn in its paw, I left the door open and went to pour a cup of coffee. One cup.  For me.

With my backside in mind, I bypassed the wooden kitchen chairs and opted for the couch. Drawing my legs beneath me, I blew softly on my coffee, ignoring Cassie, who was still emitting dramatic huffs and puffs from the entryway. She really was more than I could handle first thing in the morning.

“I thought you and I had an agreement to stay away from each other.”

“We did, but this is simply too important to let a minor disagreement keep us from working together for everyone’s benefit.”

Needless to say, I was skeptical of anything Cassie deemed beneficial to anyone else besides herself; especially knowing she regarded me as little more than a bug.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” I asked, taking a sip.

 “Would you mind if I had a cup of coffee?” she asked imperiously.

“Not at all,” I said, waving in the direction of the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

She was still standing in the doorway when I looked up.  I nearly burst out laughing at the play of emotions flitting across her face. This woman had been catered to for so long she needed to be re-taught simple English words like “coffee pot” and “help yourself”.  I was tempted to get up and show her how the common folk lived, but my evil streak sat back and reveled in her discomfort.

Minutes later she was sitting on the couch opposite me, looking terribly awkward without her usual china cup and saucer. But I had to hand it to her. Even in her slightly disheveled dress and perfectly matching pumps, she was determined to see this meeting through to the end.

I pulled the towel off my head and dragged my fingers through my hair to fluff my curls out so I wouldn’t look like my mother in those old, early-morning photos with curls pinned tightly against her head.

“Why don’t you start, Cassie, since I see no particular reason for you to be here.”

She took a very small, very delicate sip of coffee, her left pinkie sticking straight out. She took a deep breath and let out a small shudder.

“I might owe you an apology.”

“I bet that hurt.” Nothing she could have said would have surprised me more than those six words. Of course, she didn’t come right out and say that she
definitely
owed me an apology, but the
A
word was there, and I was willing to take what I could get. I was so shocked I didn’t care
why
or
what
she was sorry about, I just wanted to enjoy the moment. Which didn’t last too long.

“In my terrible grief,” she began, “I said some things in Mr. Hawthorne’s office that might have been interpreted as a bit self-centered or a little selfish...”

You think?

“And that just wasn’t the case,” she hastened to assure me. “You see, I was really thinking of Grandmother.”

Then she actually dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she dug out of her jacket pocket. That one movement summed up the difference between Cassie and me. When I cry, which I admit is very rare, I sob. I wail. I make lots of noise; tears stream down my face, my nose runs like crazy and swells up to twice its normal size.  The genteel woman sitting across from me, however, all decked out in her tight little red designer dress barely managed to wring out one tear per eyeball.

“I was terribly distressed about the
situation
,” she said, emphasizing the last word.

What a delicate way to describe a hideous murder. “Are you talking about your grandmother ending up in a sewage tank?” I asked sweetly.

Cassie reared back and brought her tissue up to her nose as though she smelled something unpleasant. This woman sitting on my couch was really starting to irritate me.

“Say whatever it is you came to say, Cassie. And drop the grieving-granddaughter bit. I don’t believe it now any more than I did the day we found Elizabeth’s body and you wanted to cover up what you called the ‘unfortunate incident.’ ”

Her eyes narrowed and her thin little nostrils flared as far as they could given the cosmetic trimming they’d undergone. “You are a nasty little thing, aren’t you?”

I smiled. “Careful, Cassie.  Your true colors are showing and you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Until you do, calling me names may not be in your best interest.” I didn’t know the exact reason for her visit, but I had no doubt she wanted something from me. And right now I wasn’t willing to refill her coffee cup much less grant her any real favors.

“Preston thought you might be difficult, but I assured him that the two of us could handle this in a civilized manner. I hoped you would see the sense in our proposal, but I’m beginning to have my doubts,” she sniffed in that snooty voice of hers. I watched her fidget and squirm on the sofa cushions—probably trying to rearrange the thong panties she had wedged up her butt.