Sharp Edges (12 page)

The second was that she had lied, in which case the odds were good that she was after the Hades cup.

He had to admit that she had been very convincing with the Nellie Grant story. Not many people lied that well. But he had known one or two who could. Damien March came to mind.

"Haven't been inside a museum since I was a kid." Burt rested one arm on top of his cash register. "Whenever I get a chance to go to Seattle these days I try to take in a ball game. Don't have time to mess around with that boring cultural stuff, y'know?"

"Really?" Eugenia said.

Cyrus winced. The icicles that hung from the single word would have frozen the marrow in most men's bones.

Burt, however, appeared oblivious to the chill in the air. He turned back to Cyrus with a quizzical look. "Deputy Peaceful says you're Ms. Swift's assistant?"

The skepticism in Burt's eyes was very similar to the look Cyrus had seen in Deputy Peaceful's gaze last night. No one was buying the cover story. It was time to fine-tune it.

"I'm not exactly her assistant." Cyrus gave him a deliberate, man-to-man wink. "More like a real close friend. Between you and me, the only glass I care about is the kind that can hold beer."

Burt guffawed. "I'm with you there."

"Genie, here, talked her boss into letting me come along on this inventory trip. Thing is, this was the only two weeks that we could arrange to get off together this summer. Figured we'd better grab 'em."

"That makes sense." Burt surveyed the pineapples on Cyrus's teal green shirt. "Couldn't quite figure you for one of them arty types."

"You got that right." Cyrus was aware that Eugenia had gone rigid beside him. He glanced at her. "Ready, honey? Better be on our way. Almost lunchtime."

Amber fireworks flashed in Eugenia's eyes. He wondered briefly if she would lose her temper and blow the altered story to smithereens. He'd hate to lose the cover, but the explosion just might be worth it.

She rallied quickly, however, and even managed a brittle smile. "I'm ready. But I'm beginning to think this vacation of ours was a serious mistake."

Burt gave her a sympathetic look. "I know it must have been kind of a shock finding old Leonard the way you did. But don't let it give you a bad impression of Frog Cove Island, Ms. Swift. Heck, we're just gettin' fired up for the big art festival. Starts at the end of the week, y'know. Real popular event."

"Genie's looking forward to it, aren't you, honey?" Cyrus said.

Eugenia bared her neat, white teeth in a brilliant, utterly fraudulent smile. "Yes, indeed. Wouldn't miss it. Definitely the highlight of my vacation."

She whipped her sunglasses out of her purse, pushed them onto her nose, and stalked toward the door.

Burt watched her with a small frown.

"She's a little high-strung," Cyrus explained. "You know these arty types."

Burt relaxed and chuckled. "I know what you mean."

Cyrus picked up the groceries and strolled leisurely toward the door.

By the time he reached the sidewalk, Eugenia was several steps ahead. He refused to break into a trot. A man had his dignity to consider. Cradling the sack in one hand, he took his sunglasses out of his left pocket and put them on.

Eugenia turned her head to glower at him over her shoulder. "What did you think you were doing back there in the store? You're supposed to be my assistant, not my… my—"

"
Lover
is the word you're searching for."

"Don't put words in my mouth."

"The cover story wasn't working." He looked up at the colorful banners hanging over the street.
Daventry Workshops Festival
was printed on them in bold graphics. "Peaceful Jones didn't buy it last night and Burt wasn't buying it today. I had to switch to the other cover story."

"You should have discussed it with me before you did anything so drastic."

"There wasn't time."

She strode ahead of him along the sidewalk in front of a row of small boutique shops. "I liked you much better as my assistant."

"Probably because it gave you the illusion of being in charge."

"This isn't a joke."

"Genie, be fair. I didn't have a choice. I'm supposed to be running an investigation for you. I had to make an executive decision." Cyrus nodded politely at a small knot of people who were staring curiously from the post office steps. "You heard what Burt said. I just don't look like the arty type. Maybe it's the shirt."

"Yes," she said tightly, "maybe it is. You never exerted any real effort to make the assistant curator story work, did you? You deliberately sabotaged it, leaving me no option but to go along. I hate being manipulated, Cyrus. I will not tolerate it."

The argument felt strange, Cyrus thought. People rarely questioned his decisions. They did not always like them, but they rarely questioned them. "I had to think on my feet back there in the grocery store."

"If that's a sample of how well you think on your feet, we're in bad shape."

"Not impressed, huh?"

"No, I am not the least bit impressed."

"I told you back at the beginning that the museum story was weak." The tension in her elegant spine was starting to worry him. "I'm sorry I had to spring it on you like that. I thought you'd understand. You saw the way Burt was looking at me. We don't want to arouse any more curiosity around here than necessary."

"Your dumb version of a cover story is going to be even harder to sell than the assistant curator bit," she fumed. "One look at the two of us, and it's obvious to any dimwit that we couldn't possibly be involved in a… a relationship."

"I don't know about that."

"I do."

The lady doth protest too much, he thought with a flicker of hope. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part. Yeah, probably wishful thinking.

"Genie, I apologize. But what's done is done. We have to go forward from here."

"Do you always do things this way?"

"What way?" he asked, surprised by the question.

"Make decisions without bothering to consult anyone else?"

The accusation startled him. It was true, he was accustomed to being the one who made the decisions, he realized. It was second nature to him. From the day he had dropped out of college to take care of his ailing grandparents, he had been making decisions. The knowledge that others depended on him had been with him long before that.

For as long as he could recall, there had been people who needed him. In the beginning there had been Beau and Gwen Colfax who had depended upon him to fill the void left by the death of their only child, his mother, Jessica. After them had come a long line of people who had also needed him. Crime victims, clients, his wife, Katy, Meredith and Rick Tasker, his employees. The list was endless.

Of course he made decisions, he thought. He had to make decisions. People expected him to make decisions. His one attempt at sharing decision-making power, the partnership with Damien March, had been a disaster.

"I did what I thought was best," he said finally.

"Bad excuse." She fell silent for a few strides.

He was not the only one in the vicinity who was in the habit of making decisions, he thought.

"I think one of the problems we have here is that you're as accustomed to being in command as I am," he said. "I can respect that."

"Can you, really?" she asked in scathing tones.

"Yes, but if we're going to accomplish our mutual objectives, we'll have to learn to work together." He paused and then added as humbly as he could, "I promise to discuss things with you in the future."

He could feel her mulling over the logic of the situation. She was furious with him, but she still had her own agenda to pursue. He was betting that she would not put it at risk just because he'd made the small alteration in the cover story.

"All right, we're stuck with the situation," she said. "But I swear, Cyrus, if you call me Genie or honey again, I won't be responsible for my actions."

He breathed a silent sigh of relief. "I'll keep that in mind."

"And the next time you come up with some bright little surprise, talk to me about it first."

He considered that. It would be a novelty, if nothing else. "Deal."

She stopped and turned around, one hand on her hip, the other gripping her leather shoulder bag. "And for heavens sake, stop dawdling."

"Yes, ma'am."

He circled around a cluster of gallery browsers, who had just walked off the noon ferry, and caught up with Eugenia. She ignored him when he fell into step beside her.

They passed a craft boutique that featured little hand-carved orca whales and a gallery that sold locally designed wooden furniture.

Cyrus focused on dinner. It was unlikely Eugenia would agree to cook again tonight after the unpleasant scene. The knowledge was vaguely depressing. Last night had been a night to remember, he thought. It was the first time someone else had cooked dinner for him outside of a restaurant in a very long time.

"Did you hear what Burt said about the drugs at Glass House?" Eugenia asked.

"Yeah, I heard."

"It fits with what Nellie told me about Daventry's use of designer drugs," Eugenia said thoughtfully.

"Maybe. But I think you can ditch the theory that Nellie was murdered because she witnessed a drug deal."

Eugenia threw him a quick, frowning glance. "Why?"

"Because if Daventry was involved with drugs, it's highly unlikely he'd do his deals here on Frog Cove Island, where people tend to notice strangers. He'd buy the stuff back in Seattle or L.A. Someplace where he and the dealers would all be anonymous."

"What about those regular guests who came on the ferry to attend his parties? The ones Burt mentioned?"

"Probably the other members of the Connoisseurs' Club."

She sighed. "I hate to admit it, but there's some logic in what you said about its being unlikely that Daventry conducted his drug deals here on the island."

"I try to do something logical every once in a while, just like I try to do something dashing."

"To impress the clients?"

"Right." Cyrus halted beside the Jeep. He opened the passenger door and held it for Eugenia. "Tell me something. What are you going to do if you don't get your questions about Nellie Grant answered?"

Her brows rose above the rims of her sunglasses. "But I will get them answered. I'm working with you now, and you're a hotshot investigator, remember?"

"Yeah, that's right. Guess it slipped my mind."

"My turn. What happens if you do manage to locate the Hades cup and you succeed in drawing Damien March out of hiding?"

He shrugged. "When I'm finished I'll return the cup to its rightful owner."

She leaned back against the side of the Jeep and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "It occurs to me that if the Hades cup actually exists, and I'm not ready to admit that it does, it's part of the Daventry glass collection."

"Oh, no, you don't," he warned softly. "Don't get any ideas about claiming it for the Leabrook. The Hades cup goes back to the client who paid March & Colfax to transport it to him three years ago."

Eugenia snapped off her dark glasses and fixed him with a cool look. "How did your client get the cup in the first place?"

"He bought it at auction."

"Did you see the paperwork? Bill of sale? Record of ownership?"

Cyrus smiled faintly. "The Hades cup hasn't ever changed hands on the open market. The kind of people who have owned it haven't been the type who bother with official bills of sale and transaction records."

"Then there is no solid provenance to prove ownership?" she asked briskly.

"Don't go any farther down that road, Eugenia. I told you, the cup belongs to my client. I'm going to see to it that he gets it. What he does with it after that is his business."

"From what you've told me, the cup may have been stolen any number of times in the past. Your client's claim may be no more legitimate than Daventry's was. In which case, it seems to me that the Leabrook has a clear right to it."

Cyrus gripped the edge of the roof and leaned very close to Eugenia. "Forget it," he said softly.

She did not so much as flinch. "I'll talk to Tabitha about the situation, if you like. And I'll also check with our lawyers. But the more I think about it, the more I think we can make a strong case for the cup going to the Leabrook. Assuming you ever find it, of course."

"The hell you will. We had a deal, Ms. Swift."

She gave him an overly bright smile. "Rest assured I have no intention of reneging on it. If you find the cup, I'll authorize you to use it to try to lure Damien March out into the open so that you can turn him over to the police. But I can't make any promises beyond that."

"Eugenia, pay attention. The cup goes back to my client."

She pursed her lips. "The Leabrook will have to arrange for proper security of the cup while you're setting up your scheme to find March."

He set his teeth. "I am a professional security consultant. I will arrange security for the Hades cup."

"I hate to point this out, Cyrus, but from all accounts, the last time you had charge of the cup the security sucked."

He became aware of a dull roar in his ears. "I think you'd better get into the Jeep. Now."

"It would be the find of the decade in the glass world. No, make that the find of the century." Excitement lit her eyes. "I mean, I still can't quite bring myself to believe it exists, but, lord, if it does, well, the sky's the limit. I could organize an entire exhibition around it. Play up the legend angle. People love that kind of thing."

"Get into the damn Jeep," he said. "Or I will put you into it."

"Take it easy, Cyrus." She gave him a placating smile. "I'm getting into the Jeep." She slipped into the front seat. "See? There, I'm in the Jeep. Are you happy now?"

She looked up at him with the same patronizing expression he could imagine her bestowing on a difficult, temperamental artist.

Very carefully, he closed the passenger door. He walked around the front of the Jeep, opened his own door, and got in behind the wheel. He sat there for a few seconds, wondering if he should risk turning the key in the ignition. The experts claimed it was unsafe to drive when one was not in full control.