Fugitive Heart (3 page)

“No. No one has
ever
told me I look like Shirley Temple,” she said dryly, the smile vanishing. “I do not look like a simpering five-year-old. I am
not
cute.”

Okay, he’d hit a sore spot. “Good, because you don’t. Nothing like her.”

She grinned again.

“Except maybe a bit when you smile.”

She put a hand over her mouth. “That settles it. I’m never smiling again.”

Jesus, was Nick actually flirting with Elliot’s sister? For a few seconds, he’d enjoyed talking with the attractive woman and forgotten what had brought him here. Back to business. Time to coax more details from her. He’d have to step carefully to get what he needed without alerting her and the rest of the attentive ladies of Arnesville—Arnesdale. Whatever.

He flipped off the top to the container of chicken and put it on the counter. “Want a piece?”

“Thanks. Um, are there plates?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” She fished out a leg, examined the dusty floor, then sank to sit cross-legged, the chicken in one hand. The farm girl wasn’t afraid of dirt—the first stereotype to prove true since he’d arrived here.

He put down the container, grabbed another leg and joined her, sitting on the worn linoleum. “So you and your brother spent a lot of time here? Kind of a special place, huh?”

“For me, definitely. Him? Not so much. He shook the dust of Arnesdale from his feet as soon as he could.”

Now was his chance to push his Elliot agenda, but instead Nick asked, “Why did you stick around?”

She stopped eating and gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I was thinking about leaving, but then my mom died and my dad got sick, and he needed me to take care of him.”

If he could meet the old man, maybe he’d know more about Elliot’s business. “Sorry to hear it. How’s your father doing?”

“Dead.” She looked down at her chicken leg as if it fascinated her.

“I’m sorry.”

Another shrug. “Do you have any napkins?”

“Nope.”

She got up and went down the hall, returning a moment later with a roll of paper towels. He remembered seeing them in the bathroom cupboard.

“Those are yours? I wondered where all the cleaning things had come from. I thought maybe the real estate company had left them behind.”

She carefully wiped her fingers and wrapped the chicken leg up in her towel before putting it in the trash bag. A fastidious type after all.

“You can keep the cleaning supplies. Consider it a welcome-to-Arnesdale gift.” She sounded brisk, as if she was about to head out the door.

“Naw. Listen, sit down. Have another piece of chicken.”

She shook her head, but then sat again. “Maybe I could tell you about the area. You must have questions, right?”

Perfect. He’d go at it sideways. “What was it like growing up here?”

“I thought you’d want to know where to buy groceries.” She laughed uncertainly. “It was good, actually. Fine. It’s kind of dull now, but I still like it here, even if everyone knows my business.”

A town of busybodies. He’d clear out as soon as he found what Elliot had hidden here and returned it to Bert Esposito as promised.

“So it was just you and your brother?”

“Yes. And my mother and father and a dog named Fatty and a school of goldfish. I’m a good shot with the ping-pong ball, and I would win about five a year at the county fair fish toss.”

“Fish toss?”

“Get the ball into the fishbowl and you win a fish. I bet it’s part of every county fair in the world.”

He didn’t have a clue about county fairs, but he nodded, which must have been enough encouragement. She’d lost the diffidence that had come over her as she spoke of the deaths in her family.

“You know how goldfish aren’t supposed to have long lives? Ours never went belly up. In fact, some of those carp still live in the pond out back of our old house. They’re tame. Seriously, they all swim over and say hi to anyone who comes near the edge of the pond. They just hang out in the shallow water, flapping their fins and pooching their mouths, waiting for you to toss them bread.”

He let her chatter wash over him, enjoying her sweet enthusiasm. Goldfish. Who got carried away by the topic of goldfish? Her version of life in Arnesdale sounded almost too idyllic, but she was obviously a sentimental type. Nothing like Elliot. She’d settled down after that first torrent of words, but she still talked easily.

With a little prompting, she told of long summer days spent splashing around in the pond and some creek, and short winter days sledding down hills or skating on the pond out back, the one with the sleeping goldfish down deep. He could practically taste the cocoa she described.

He eventually nudged her back on topic. “Sounds nice. I wonder why your brother left.”

“Life around here gets boring once you get to high school. A lot of people take off.”

“If someone like your brother left, where would he go when he came back? I mean, is it this place or your old house?”

She looked at him with those vibrant blue eyes, and he wondered if she wore contacts.

“What are you talking about?”

Okay, he wasn’t so great at this subtle thing. And anyway, what would he do if she said that Elliot was really into the old toolshed in the back garden of their family house? He wasn’t about to start shoveling up someone else’s floor. Skulking around Arnesdale trying to track the elusive Elliot’s elusive stash looked less appealing all the time. No doubt every citizen in Arnesdale owned field glasses and spied on each other just to pass the time.

He cleared his throat. “I was just wondering what parts of the town you consider, I dunno, your favorite places. You and other people in your family.”

“Here, I guess. Our family’s house is gone. The new owners knocked it down to build something more modern.”

He wondered if the new people visited the fish. “You sold your house?”

“I had to sell fast to pay some bills. Maybe that’s why I’m so attached to this place. It reminds me a lot of our old family home and better times.” She shook her head as if embarrassed she’d revealed so much. “Anyway, no need to look so sad. I have a great place now. A nice apartment in town.”

He did not look sad. Did he?

Back on track. “So this abandoned house that’s now my place”—he watched her carefully so saw her tiny wince—“would you consider it your family’s safe place?”

“Mine, maybe, once upon a time, I mean. It’s yours now—your safe haven.”

He got up and took another piece of chicken from the container. “Did your brother mind the fact that you had to sell your family’s house?”

“I’m not even sure he knows. He vanished, and when I tried to get him to come home after Dad got sick, his phone and e-mail didn’t work, and the addresses I tried didn’t work, and no one knew where he’d gone. He’d never told me about his job, so I couldn’t contact him there.”

“Damn. That must have been hard. He didn’t get back in time to see your father before he passed?” That word
passed
felt funny in his mouth. He did not shy away from words like “died” or “dead” or even “offed”.

“He hasn’t been back since Mom’s funeral. I’m still trying to track him down. Hey, last I heard he was in New York City. You’re from New York. Maybe you know him?”

He laughed. “Huh? There are something like eight million people in New York City. I doubt I know your brother.” Not really a lie, since he’d thought her brother was a friend, not an enemy. He didn’t know what the hell Elliot Jensen really was.

“The funny thing is, I hired a detective to try to find him.”

“Oh? What’s funny about that?”

“Wait for it, impatient one. The detective only tried for a couple of days, and, according to him, Elliot vanished. Apparently, some friend of Elliot’s got him into serious trouble. The detective thinks some really bad people were involved, but he was very vague about exactly what kind of trouble.”

“Wow.”

“And he’s gone. I’m not sure, but here’s the creepy thing, Sam.” She leaned toward him, her forehead furrowed. “I wonder if he’s dead and that’s why he dropped out of sight. The detective said he’d done all he could. He even gave back some of the money I paid him.”

Did the guy give a refund because he felt guilty about taking money from another source to drop the case, or was it his client’s cute looks? Maybe he’d been warned off, or maybe now he worked for the other side.

“That’s a strange story. How long ago did you hire him?”

“Two months.”

No, the detective hadn’t ratted her out to the Espositos, or they’d be swarming Arnesdale by now. They moved quickly. Nick could breathe again. “Did the detective give you names?”

“You mean of the friend who got him in trouble? Yeah. Nick Ross.”

Crap. Okay. “Sam Allen” knew that guy fairly well.

There’d been a single call from Bert Esposito, the last one Nick had gotten before ditching his name and old cell phone and life.
“You and I’ve got some history, so I’m going to give you a chance. Find Elliot Jensen, get back what he took from us, and maybe you can keep your balls and brains.”
That call had set Nick running. Well, no, actually the message from the bastard Elliot had come first. Nick had charged over there only to discover the guy ransacking Elliot’s apartment. That confrontation had been the real start to the nightmare.

If only Nick could get exact figures, find out how much damage Elliot had done, he’d get an idea of how much effort they’d put into eliminating loose threads like Nick and Elliot. It was just business, after all. Personal vengeance, honor—they weren’t going to squander real resources on that kind of nonsense unless the betrayal became public knowledge. That kind of bad PR required a cleanup campaign.

Nick’s father, Peter Rossi, for instance, hadn’t been as discreet about his betrayal of the Espositos, and they found out soon after he dropped the “i”, became Peter Ross, and tried to retire. Nick had learned his lesson watching what the Espositos had done to his father when he tried to break ties with his criminal family.

“Um, Sam? Are you okay? You look kind of grim,” Ames said.

Nick/Sam smiled. “Just tired. That’s why I’m here after all. Retreat.”

She wrinkled her nose. “This place is a lot of work for someone who’s tired. And look at that, you’re covered with dirt. Have you been digging for treasure in the basement?”

He gave a startled laugh. “What? Is that something you and your brother used to do?”

Her answering grin flashed the dimple in her right cheek. He’d never known he had a thing for dimples.

“Not us. We had acres and acres around our house if we wanted to play pirate. The pond could be our ocean.”

Terrific. He might have to dig under the beady eyes of Arnesdale after all.

She stood and brushed her hands over her rear. Maybe she wanted some help getting the dust off her jeans back there.

She tapped the side of the chicken container. “This is one of those cheap ones, so don’t bother returning it. I should stop bothering you now.”

Ames was obviously about to say good-bye, and he didn’t want her to go. And he really didn’t want to think about his ulterior motives for wanting her to stay. “You sure you don’t want to take a walk? Show me some of the highlights of the house and land?”

“You didn’t see the highlights before you bought it?”

Bought it? Would anyone really want to buy this wreck? Other than Ames Jensen, that is.

“I haven’t had much time to explore the place. You’ve had years,” he said.

“I guess I could show you the best spot in the woods.”

“Oh? Is that where you and your brother and your friends drank beer and smoked dope?”

She rolled her eyes. “Elliot smoked and drank. I studied. I wasn’t a complete Goody Two-shoes, but I wasn’t in his league. Plus he’s three years older than me, so we wouldn’t hang out anyway. Come on, let me show you one of the nicest features about this place.”

After the moldering stuffiness of the house, the outside smelled great. Nick didn’t think much of the country, but it was too bad the air couldn’t be bottled and sold in New York. An upscale store that sold not scents but the actual breath of a breeze—a place like that would flourish on hot summer days when much of the city stank like a postparty urinal along with a soupçon of baked garbage.

Ames made her way through the tall grass of the field out front, never tripping on hidden ruts. Nick missed sidewalks and pavement any time he tried to walk anywhere. He didn’t exactly stumble but came close a couple of times, particularly when he focused on her butt instead of his feet.

They hiked through the field and went into the woods at the other side. The temperature dropped ten degrees in the shade. No more fighting through the thigh-high plant life—they walked on a spongy surface composed of pine needles. The only sound came from the skittering claws of a squirrel bounding up a tree.

He let his breath out slowly—and it sounded loud in the strange hush. Only a bit of sun filtered through the tall trees.

Elliot’s sister spread her hands and smiled as if presenting a really great prize on a game show. “Welcome to the Hundred Acre Wood.”