Dead Certain (15 page)

“Oh, Vinnie, you could never do that.” She squeezed his hands. “And you’re right. I did feel something that night. And every night. Every night when I go down there to the Dew, I’m hoping that you’ll be there at the bar. Just like that first night.”

“And I have been, haven’t I? Waiting for you, every night.” He swallowed hard, as if making this little speech was impromptu, even though he’d spent most of the afternoon practicing it. He could barely keep from laughing in her face.

“Yes, you’ve been there.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small blue box that he’d taken from Marian O’Connor’s shop just the night before.

“Go ahead. Open it,” he told her as he pressed the box into her hands.

“What in the world . . . ?”

“Open it.”

Her hands were shaking just the tiniest bit with excitement as she pulled the lid off.

“Oh, Vinnie. It’s beautiful.” She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “But this can’t be for me. Those look like real emeralds.”

“They not only look like real emeralds,” he told her as he lifted the pendant and chain from the box, “they are real emeralds. And they’re only what you deserve, Dolores.”

“But I couldn’t . . . I mean, why—”

“This belonged to my grandmother, Dolores. She told me to hold on to it until I found a woman worthy to wear it. Until now, I never have. Will you wear it, Dolores? Will you wear my grandmother’s necklace?”

“Oh, but, Vinnie . . .” Her eyes went back to the pendant, to the little swirls of forest green colored stones that wound around and around. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes. Say you’ll wear it.”

“If you want me to . . .”

“Oh, I do. I want you to wear it. It would mean the world to me.”

“Then in that case, I will.”

She leaned forward so that he could fasten it around her neck.

“Grandmother would approve,” he told her as he kissed her lips.

“Oh, Vinnie,” she sighed, and dropped back onto the sofa, one hand around the back of his neck to draw him down with her, the other fingering the most expensive piece of jewelry she’d ever owned. “Oh, Vinnie . . .”

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

“Are you a coffee drinker?” Greer looked up from her breakfast when she heard Amanda’s footsteps nearing the kitchen.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Amanda stood awkwardly in the doorway, not quite certain what to do next. Both seats at the small table were already occupied.

“I know I can’t start a day without it,” Greer told her cheerfully. “Now, Steve, he’s a tea drinker. Loves the smell of coffee, but can’t stand the taste of it.”

“Morning, Amanda.” Sean looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading.

“Good morning.” Did the chief of police really feel she needed an armed guard at breakfast?

“Now you sit right here . . .” Greer moved her own plate over and added a third to the table. In the same motion, she produced a stool seemingly out of thin air.

Amanda’s head was spinning by the time she sat down, her protests falling on totally deaf ears.

“You just sit yourself there on that chair. I’ll take the stool.” Greer waved a hand in the general direction of the table where Sean sat, an amused look on his face. Apparently, he was well accustomed to his sister’s take-charge ways. “Now, are you eggs and bacon, cereal, fruit and yogurt—”

“Oh, please don’t go to any trouble.” Amanda frowned as she reached for the coffee cup Greer was passing to her.

“Well, I’ve already made eggs for Sean and myself. I like to start the day with some protein, you know.” Greer handed a small pitcher of half and half to her guest. “I’ve been thinking about one of those low carb diets. You know anyone who’s been on one of those?”

“Not that I can think of.” Amanda took a sip of coffee. It was hot enough to burn the roof of her mouth, and it did just that. She blinked against the pain as she set the cup back onto its saucer.

“Now, I have tried just about every diet”—Greer cracked two eggs into a bowl and began to whip them furiously—“but I just can’t seem to lose those last twenty pounds. So much easier ten years ago. Hell, it was easier five years ago.”

“Eggs will be fine,” Amanda offered as if Greer was actually paying attention.

“Oh, damn that phone.” She carried the bowl of eggs along with her to answer the phone. “Oh, hi, sweetheart. No, just having breakfast with Sean and Amanda. How’s Houston?” Greer set the bowl on the counter and took the phone into the dining room, chatting merrily the entire time.

Sean smiled at Amanda from across the table and folded his paper. Without a word, he rose, took the bowl of eggs, and poured them into the pan, where butter had already melted.

“I can do that,” Amanda said, feeling slightly embarrassed though not quite knowing why. Sharing early morning time with anyone was something she wasn’t accustomed to. Sharing that time with Sean Mercer seemed too intimate a thing for so casual a relationship.

Casual.
She could have laughed out loud. Up until yesterday, the man had been ready to put her away for life.

“I’ve got it,” Sean said easily, as if making breakfast for former murder suspects in his sister’s kitchen was an everyday event. “Toast?”

“I’ll do it.” She got up and walked to the stove, needing to move, to do something besides sit there. “Really. I can make my own breakfast. I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Me, too.” He popped two slices of bread into the toaster and slid several long strips of well-cooked bacon onto her plate. “Relax, Amanda. Pour yourself some orange juice if you like.”

She did so silently, still uncomfortable here. Sean’s presence only added to her discomfort.

“Here you go.” He handed her the plate with eggs and bacon. “Toast will be up in a minute.”

Having skipped dinner the night before in an attempt to get some sleep, Amanda felt her salivary glands go into overdrive as the aroma from the plate began to drift upward.

“It smells wonderful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, one eye on the clock.

The toast popped and he piled it onto a small plate that he delivered to the table.

“There’s butter here and some strawberry jam that Greer claims to have made. It’s pretty good.” He stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, watching her eat for a long moment before refilling his coffee cup from the pot that was still plugged in on the counter. Greer waved a thank-you to him as she passed back through the kitchen on her way to the patio, the phone still attached to her ear as she chatted away.

“That’s Steve on the phone,” Sean told her.

“I figured.”

“I didn’t want you to think she was being rude by being on the phone while you were here.”

“I doubt Greer has a rude bone in her body, and since I’m the oddball out here, you don’t need to apologize to me on her behalf.” She pushed her eggs around on her plate after having taken several bites, her appetite waning.

“I just meant that she normally wouldn’t take a call while she had company.”

“I’m not really company.” She nibbled at a strip of salty bacon.

He sighed heavily as he sat back down at the table and, before she could comment, asked, “How are you?”

“I’m okay.” She put her fork down on the side of her plate and thought about it for a minute, her eyes stinging. “I want to be okay.”

“Were you able to get any sleep at all last night?”

“The bags under the eyes give me away?” She grimaced. “If you want to know the truth, I don’t feel much at all. Numb, more than anything. Dizzy in the pit of my stomach. I still can’t believe all of this has happened. Derek, now Marian. I can’t believe she’s dead now, too.”

“It’s hard to lose someone you love under the best of circumstances. Harder still to lose two in so short a time. Especially like this . . .”

“I guess you have no clues yet. About who did this, I mean.” She swallowed back the lump that had lodged itself in her throat and refused to budge.

“Nothing yet. We’re looking at the antiques angle, of course. I understand that you’ve signed off on the inventory of your shop? Nothing was missing—is that correct?”

“Right. Nothing out of place that I could see.”

“So we have the pottery that Derek bought in Italy, which, by the way, I’ve made arrangements for a professor at the University of Pennsylvania down in Philly to take a look at. Just to authenticate it.”

“I told you that Dr. McGowan already did that.” There was an unmistakable touch of starch to her voice. “Daria is extremely well known in the field and highly respected.”

“I understand that. And the professor at Penn is familiar with her work and speaks very highly of her. But I want someone with expertise to look at the piece—not a photo—and inspect it carefully to confirm that it’s not a fake.”

She digested this for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, right. Make sure that we do have the original. If it turned out to be a fake, it would alert the authorities to counterfeit objects being sold on the black market as new. Not that
that’s
a new concept, but I understand the need to keep track of where the bogus stuff is coming from and how many pieces are entering the market. And someone would have to be very familiar with the originals in order to duplicate them in a credible manner, which would narrow the field of possible forgers considerably. Plus, if it is counterfeit, that could maybe tie into the motive for killing Derek somehow.”

“Very good.” Sean nodded, obviously impressed.

“But that wouldn’t explain Marian, would it?”

“I can’t see how it would.”

“God, I hate this.” She covered her face with both hands as if to block out all of it.

Sean reached toward her, hesitated as if unsure of what to do next, then gently touched her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, drawing his hand back as if the gesture had been a foreign one. His face bore the expression of one who knew that something should come after
I’m sorry,
but didn’t know what that something was.

“So where do we go from here?” she asked, her voice like gravel, her hands dropping into her lap.

“You mean, as far as the investigation is concerned?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll need to determine if anything was stolen from Marian’s shop. See if we can determine if robbery was the motive.” He paused before asking, “Would you be up to going through the shop, taking a look around, seeing if anything is missing?”

“I don’t know her entire inventory, but yes, of course I’ll do it. It’s the very least I can do for her. I may be able to tell you if something obvious is missing. She did have some valuable pieces in there. Paintings and old silver were special interests of hers, and she had some lovely jewelry as well. And I can probably find her shop inventory lists. Her record keeping was meticulous. We should be able to find hard copies of the lists in her desk, and I’m sure she kept copies on disk.”

“When do you think you’ll feel up to it?”

“Now. This morning. Let’s get it done,” she said, her jaw set, hardened, emotions shoved into the background. “If it will help your investigation in any way, play even a tiny part in finding her killer, then let’s do it now.”

“You sure you’re all right?” Sean’s body blocked Amanda’s entrance into the shop.

She nodded and pushed past him, then stopped near the counter and looked around.

Shadows stretched long in the pale morning light. Dust motes drifted aimlessly in the front window, and the air lay still around them, but the remains of the crime scene investigation were harsh reminders of what had happened just a little more than twenty-four hours earlier in the back room of For Old Time’s Sake.

Amanda stepped over the limp strand of police tape that snaked from the front door to the back room. She turned her back on the office, on the wooden floor with its brown stain and nightmare images.

Focus.

Amanda had been in this shop at least once every day for the past several years. She should be able to pick out empty spots on the shelves where certain pieces had stood, perhaps even recall what was missing.
Focus on that,
she reminded herself.
On helping Marian. Forget about how she looked the last time you saw her, there on the floor . . .

“Anything seem out of place?” Sean watched her carefully from the front of the shop. At the first sign that she might begin to crack, he was prepared to take her right out the front door. He’d carry her if he had to. She’d been through so much, and she was trying so hard to keep on going.

“Nothing . . . no.” She shook her head, her eyes moving shelf to shelf, cabinet to cabinet. “Nothing so far . . .”

She walked the perimeter of the shop, carefully noting the placement of furniture and artwork, shaking her head. “As I told you earlier, I wasn’t familiar with all of Marian’s stock. I don’t see anything obviously out of place, but . . .”

She paused near the counter. “She did buy some Russian antiques earlier in the week. I don’t see any of them here. She mentioned she had potential buyers, though, so she could have mailed them out before . . . before yesterday.” She looked over her shoulder. “Maybe in the office . . .”

“I’ll go in.” Sean walked toward the back of the shop. “You just tell me what I’m looking for.”

Amanda described the items for Sean.

“There’s something here all packed up for the post,” he called from the office a moment later. “It was under the desk. And here are a couple of receipts from one of those express delivery services. Picked up some stuff on Wednesday afternoon, it looks like.” He brought the box and the papers with him to the front of the shop and placed them on the counter.

“Let me see those,” she said. “They should note what was in the packages and give an approximate value . . . yes, here, see?”

She held up one of the slips.

“It says salt box.” Sean frowned. “She mailed a box of salt?”

“A box used to keep salt in,” Amanda explained. “She insured it, see here?”

Sean whistled at the amount the piece had been insured for. “That must have been some box.”

“It was. Rare and beautiful. Silver and enamel.” She waved a second receipt. “And this is for the clock. Can we open the box to see what’s in it?”

Sean nodded and pulled out a pocketknife.

“This might be the miniature she bought,” Amanda offered.

“Miniature what?”

“Portrait. Of Alexander the First.” She waded through the packing. “Here it is.”

She held up the small painting. Sean leaned closer for a better look.

“That’s Alexander the First? The Russian who was assassinated with his family? Anastasia, and all that?”

“That was Nicholas.”

“Oh, right. And she was going to trust this to the mail?”

“No, this was going by courier, see? She was paying a premium to have this handled with kid gloves.”

“You familiar with this service?”

“Yes. I’ve used it myself. We all have. They’re reliable, fast, and relatively inexpensive, compared to the competition.”

Sean folded the wrapping back over the package within a package and prepared to take it with him.

“We’ll want to speak with the service, see if their man made it down here yesterday before you did.”

“They would have called the police right away and volunteered the information, if they’d been here. They’re very reliable.” She added, “And for the record, the company is owned by a woman. Several of her drivers are women.”

“Sorry,” he said absently. “So, everything else is intact, you think?”

“I think so. I wish I’d been able to be of some help.”

“Oh, but you have. If nothing else, we’ve been able to pretty much rule out robbery as our primary motive.”

“Then what was the primary motive?” She frowned.

He’d been afraid she’d ask. “I think he came here with the express purpose of murdering Marian.”

“But why?” she whispered hoarsely.

He hesitated a little too long. She caught it.

“What?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Well, as we discussed, I do believe that the same person killed Derek and Marian—”

“But why? Why would anyone want them dead?”

“Well, as I said before, the only strong link between the two of them—besides their profession—is you.”