Poisoned by Gilt (38 page)

"I'm not taking no as an answer, Erin. I went ahead

and made reservations for us at the spa for the full fourhour treatment.That, by the way, is always my biggest tip

for a really special treat for your Valentine's Day. One of

my ex-hubbies--I don't remember which one--taught

me that. We'd treat each other to massages and facials."

"That's a great idea for anyone who can afford it."

"Oh, it's adjustable for any budget. You give your significant other a card, and inside the card you place a

handmade coupon: Good for the person's favorite

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meal or activity, or what have you. The point is really just

to give your loved one a little TLC. Which is exactly what

you need today, Erin."

"You're right, Audrey. And thank you."

"You're welcome. Does this mean you forgive me for

butting in?"

I managed what could very well have been my first

smile in more than a week. "Yes. Especially considering

that this is the last time you're butting in like this. Provided you can possibly help it, which doesn't sound all

that promising to me, by the way. What time is our reservation?

"One P.M."

"That late?" I asked. "Too bad you didn't make your

confession to me last night. I'd have stayed in bed for

another hour."

The doorbell rang, and Audrey winced. "Oops. The

second half of my confession is here early, so I'll make

this quick. Mr. Sullivan and I talked at length, and we

both decided that his taking you to dinner or even

lunch on Valentine's Day was too much pressure with

things so raw."

I sprang to my feet."So he's taking me to breakfast!?"

"Just to coffee. I really should have stopped you from

making yourself a cup here. More than one cup makes

you so edgy." The doorbell rang a second time.

I started cursing.

"Count to ten, dear, and try to remember that although I have my annoying traits, I have plenty of endearing ones to counterbalance them."

D o m e s t i c B l i s s
3 1 5

"But you just got through saying how it was too much

for me to be seeing Sullivan today, which is true! Then

you go and . . . and--"

The doorbell rang a third time.

"You should really go answer that. He's probably

brought you flowers. You can't just leave him standing

there."

I growled, but turned and headed to the front door.

Sullivan was my business partner, after all. However bad

things were for us romantically, I still hoped we could

keep Sullivan and Gilbert Designs together.

I swept open the door. Sullivan stood on the porch

holding a spectacular array of exotic flowers--red

amaryllis and anthuriums, white calatheas, calla lilies,

and Oriental lilies--in a red-tinted glass vase. He gave

me a shy smile. "Morning. I was afraid you wouldn't answer." He held out the bouquet to me. "These are for

you. Happy Middle-of-February Day."

"They're beautiful. Thank you." I sighed and asked if

he'd like to come inside for a moment. I was experiencing the usual agony of seeing him, being this close to

him as he stepped through the door. Every time we

were in the same room together now, my insides felt like

they were being squeezed. I pressed myself against the

foyer wall to give myself some distance. "It figures you

wouldn't be so predictable as to bring roses."

"That's not entirely true. There's more."

"Oh, Steve. I'm sorry, but I don't want more. I already

feel like I'm recovering from getting trapped in an avalanche. I'm just trying to get my feet back under me."

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"I know. I feel that way, too. Can you put the flowers

down, please?"

I sighed but complied, putting the bouquet on the

coffee table in the parlor. I stood there admiring them

for a moment, struggling to get my heartbeat and my

nerves back to normal. I wondered for a moment if it

was possible that, beneath his suave exterior, Sullivan

was as nervous as I was.

When I turned around, Sullivan hadn't followed me.

He was still standing in the foyer, now holding a red envelope in one hand and a tiny white paper cup in the

other. I grinned."You carved another grape into a rose?"

"Not quite." He stepped toward me and handed me

the paper container, saying,"Actually, this time I kept trying to carve a rose into the shape of a grape, but that's

surprisingly difficult to do."

I peered into the cup and then removed a tiny ceramic rose. It was pale pink and impossibly delicate, not

much bigger than my fingertip."Oh, Steve.This is so cute!"

"Plus, it should last longer than the grape-shaped

rose. Or the rose-shaped grape, for that matter." He

handed me the envelope."Here. Open this now."

I obliged him. The front of the card was a picture of a

perfect red rose, and the inside was blank except for

Steve's brief handwritten note:

Dearest Erin,

Forgive me.

Love always,

Steve

D o m e s t i c B l i s s
3 1 7

I met his gaze. "I won't belabor the point," he said

gently, "but I am going to keep asking your forgiveness

periodically. Sooner or later, one of us will cave, and it

isn't going to be me." He gave me a sexy smile."But for

now, I'm just hoping you'll agree to get a cup of coffee--or maybe a hot chocolate and a bagel--at the

place on the corner. Just in honor of Middle-of-February

Day. No pressure."

"That sounds nice." I put the ceramic rose and the

card on the table next to the flowers. Audrey would

read the card the instant we were gone and would be

dying to know what I'd said in return, but I had no intention of answering. If I had my way, my very own compulsive meddler would suffer in suspense for a long, long

time.

Steve helped me with my coat and we left the

house. We seemed destined to walk to the coffee shop

in silence, but for once I didn't mind at all. I let my hand

brush against his, and before long I'd laced my fingers

through his. We continued our short journey, hand in

hand, our steps in perfect harmony.

a b o u t t h e a u t h o r

Leslie Caine was once taken hostage at gunpoint and

finds that writing about crimes is infinitely more enjoyable than taking part in them. Leslie is a certified interior

decorator and lives in Colorado with her husband and a

cocker spaniel. She is at work on her next Domestic Bliss

mystery.

If you enjoyed Leslie Caine's

POISONED BY GILT,

you won't want to miss any

of the wonderful mysteries in the

Domestic Bliss series.

Look for them at your favorite bookseller.

And read on for an exciting early look at the next

Domestic Bliss mystery,

HOLLY

AND

HOMICIDE

a domestic

bliss mystery

by

Leslie Caine

Coming in fall 2009

Holly and Homicide

on sale fall 2009

c h a p t e r
1

The article about a grave robbery caught my attention.

It was a short piece on the second page of the Snowcap

Village Gazette, which quoted the haughty wisecrack

of the local sheriff: "Probably another case of yuppie

skiers robbing us of our ancestry, like the way they're

turning the Goodwin Estate into the Wendell Barton

B and B." My heart began to race, and I thought: Here

we go again. A picturesque December morning in the

ski town of Snowcap, Colorado, had just turned a lot

colder.

Sullivan handed me a cup of decaf. Although he'd

pulled on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt before

heading downstairs to the kitchen of the aforementioned Goodwin Estate, he slipped back under the covers beside me, his own cup in hand. "Thanks, sweetie."

I took a tentative sip. Perfection. "Did you see the story

about the grave robbery in this week's Gazette?"

"Yeah. Annoying potshot about the inn. Sheriff

Mackey sounds like a major jerk."

"No kidding." Wendell Barton, who owned the

town's new ski lodge, was only one of the partners

who'd purchased this fabulous Victorian mansion

from Henry Goodwin, who was a direct descendant of

its original owner. "I suppose by 'yuppie skiers' turning

this place into a Wendell Barton B and B, he means

you and me."

"Not if he's ever seen you try to ski," Sullivan teased.

I considered swatting him, but his coffee cup was

too full, and I didn't want to risk a spill on our divine

burgundy silk duvet. I settled for narrowing my eyes at

him. He laughed and kissed my forehead.

I felt the warm glow that I'd grown so wonderfully

accustomed to during the past nine months, since

Sullivan and I began dating in earnest. "I'm getting

better at skiing, you know. You said so yourself."

"You are. Absolutely. If you make good use of our

last three weeks here, you might even be able to stop

without grabbing on to a tree."

His snide remark called for a comeback, but the

grave robbery preoccupied me. Why would somebody

steal a man's bones? I took a couple sips of coffee and

reread the article.

"I'm sure the incident at the cemetery was just a

prank," Sullivan said. "Drunken frat boys on a ski trip,

blowing off some steam, maybe."

"The timing's really weird, if that's all it was. Why

dig through snow and frozen ground, just for a dumb

joke? You'd think they'd have dug two inches down

and decided to go TP some trees instead."

"Yeah, but it has to be a prank. What sensible motive could there possibly be? It's idiotic to dig up a

random fifty-year-old grave. Wasn't there a really common name on the tombstone?"

"R. Garcia, and the cemetery records are inadequate, so they don't even know how to track down

Garcia's relatives." I let my imagination gnaw on the

conundrum for several seconds. "Maybe that's why

this particular grave was chosen . . . so as to ruffle the

fewest feathers. I hope I'm just being paranoid, but

I think this was done by one of the hundred or so

townspeople trying to prevent the Snowcap Inn from

opening."

Sullivan took a sip of coffee, appearing to ponder

my words. "No way."

"All I know is, every time Henry Goodwin or anyone else puts up a sign about the Snowcap Inn, someone covers it in graffiti."

"Still. That's a gigantic leap . . . from scribbling fourletter words on a sign to digging up a grave and maybe

planting someone's remains here, don't you think?"

How could I answer that? His point was valid, but

my counterargument was a combination of women's

intuition and past experience. A string of terrible past

experiences, to be more precise. The police department in Crestview--our hometown some forty miles

away--had undoubtedly been on the verge of assigning a homicide task force to follow me around. In the

last three years, client after client had dragged me into

a string of bad luck so long that Job himself might have

offered me a sympathetic shoulder. But my gloomy

run of catastrophes had magically lifted on Valentine's

Day, when Steve and I finally gave in to our mutual attraction. Since then, we'd become the proverbial

happy couple. And yet even as a young child, I'd

known there was no such thing as happily ever after.

We were long overdue for a stumbling block.

I tried to employ my "confidence and optimism"

mantra, but it was too late. With my penchant for finding dead bodies, I had an unshakable certainty that "R.

Garcia" was sure to turn up in my van or in my laundry

basket and our idyllic job would devolve into a disaster. The rambling three-story Goodwin Estate had

been built eighty years ago, as commissioned by the

current owner's grandfather--the founder of Snowcap

Village--but in these last couple of months, it had

come to represent how far I'd grown in my career and

in my life. Now the grand home, with its cupolas,

curved turrets, festive stained-glass accent sidelights,

and transoms, and all its countless handcrafted details, was somehow going to turn dark and ugly. And so

was my life.

"Erin? You're shaking. Are you cold?"

"A little."

He set down his coffee cup and pulled me close.

"Let me warm you up again." He kissed me tenderly,

and just like that, my fears melted away.

An hour later, I trotted down the stairs. Our bedroom was on the third floor of Henry's house--soon to

be the Snowcap Inn. When the inn officially opened

on Christmas Eve, Henry, too, would live elsewhere;

he planned to rent a condo in town for a year, and

then, once his mayoral duties officially ended, to

travel. As I entered the central hall, which would be

converted into the hotel lobby, I spotted Sullivan's

notepad on the newly built receptionist's desk. He'd

probably left his pad there by mistake, since it contained measurements for the perfect Christmas tree to

grace this space. Several minutes ago, Sullivan and

Henry had headed out to cut down one of the large

spruce trees on Henry's enormous parcel of land.