Sharp Edges (16 page)

"Any luck with the files?" Eugenia asked.

"Not yet." He glanced at the one he had set aside. "Just the usual paperwork you'd expect to back up a collection of valuable art. Letters of authenticity, sales receipts, photographs, histories. But I've only gone through a third of the drawers. Got a long way to go."

"Maybe I'll try Rhonda Price's phone again."

"You've called her half a dozen times. She's obviously not on the island. No point calling her again until the next ferry arrives."

Eugenia's mouth pursed in a mutinous expression. Then she sighed. "I suppose you're right." She set the paperweight carefully back inside a display case and removed a large, heavily decorated goblet. "Recognize this one?"

He studied it. "That's the goblet in the picture you bought at the Midnight Gallery the day before yesterday, isn't it?"

"Yes." She glanced around the sparkling, neon-green-tinted chamber. "Nellie obviously used this room as a backdrop for it. She used the same green background for the first one in the series. The one she gave me."

"You said there were four altogether?"

"That's what she told me. I've accounted for two of them. I wonder what happened to the other two."

"Maybe she never got a chance to finish them," Cyrus suggested as gently as possible.

"No, she distinctly said she had painted four of them." Eugenia picked up an enameled perfume bottle. "Nice. Very nice."

"What is it?"

"A bottle by Émile Gallé." She touched it reverently. "He was a major figure in the Art Nouveau movement in France."

"Expensive?"

"Mmm. Very." She turned a page in the log. "According to Daventry's records, he acquired it seven years ago at auction."

"Tell me about Daventry," Cyrus said softly.

She looked up, startled. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you meet him?"

"I told you, he came to me for a professional consultation."

"What kind of information did he want?"

Very carefully, she put down the Gallé bottle. "He asked me to evaluate a small Roman glass bowl that he had bought in England." She indicated a display case on the other side of the chamber. "That piece on the right. He had decided to begin acquiring ancient glass, and he wanted some advice."

"He came to you for a consultation?"

"Yes." She shrugged. "Since he had already arranged to leave his entire collection to the Leabrook, I was happy to help him."

Cyrus watched the way the mirror-reflected light gleamed on her dark hair. He remembered what she had said about her criteria for relationships. "Shared interests."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing." He looked at the Roman bowl. It was a dingy, clouded green. There was an odd patina on the surface. "That iridescent sheen is a result of having been buried in the ground, isn't it?"

Eugenia's brows rose. "Yes. The bowl was probably once part of a cache of grave goods. The Romans made vast quantities of glass objects. An amazing amount has survived."

"You don't have to look dumbstruck just because I recognized the cause of the iridescence. I told you, I've done some research on ancient glass during the past three years."

"So you said."

"The Hades cup doesn't have that sheen. And it's incredibly detailed. Persephone's features are so vividly cut you'd swear you can almost tell what she's thinking."

She gazed at him with deep, thoughtful eyes. "What about the face of Hades? What kind of expression does he have?"

"He's pursuing Persephone as she tries to escape the Underworld. He looks pretty much like you'd expect him to look under the circumstances."

"Enraged? Furious?"

"No." Cyrus glanced at her. "He looks desperate."

She frowned. "Desperate?"

"Sure. How else would he feel?"

"I don't know." She hesitated. "He's the Lord of the Underworld. Powerful. Dangerous. Accustomed to getting his own way. I would have thought he'd have been infuriated by Persephone's defiance."

"Whoever crafted the cup understood Hades' reaction," Cyrus said softly. "If he loses Persephone, he loses the woman who can bring light into the darkness of his realm."

"Well, maybe." She paused. "You really did see some kind of cage cup three years ago, didn't you? Are you sure it wasn't a forgery?"

"Positive." He settled deeper into the chair. "We're getting off target here. Let's go back to Daventry."

Eugenia closed the lid of the case that contained the Gallé bottle. "What more do you want to know?"

"Whatever you can tell me." He took a stab in the dark. "Did you date him?"

"Yes." She gazed through the lid of another case into the depths of a blue, heavily etched vase. "But not for long."

He was startled by the twisting sensation in his stomach. She had been involved with Daventry.
Damn
.

"Why did you stop seeing him?" He kept his voice neutral. "I'd have thought that he'd be the perfect match for you."

She turned around to look at him. Her eyes were wide with surprise. "What in the world gave you that idea?"

"As far as I can tell, he met all of your requirements. He was interested in glass, well-educated, cultured, classy background. My research tells me that women found him attractive. What went wrong?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Was it because you introduced him to Nellie? Did he drop you to go after her?"

She shot him a scathing glance. "You're not very subtle, are you?"

"Depends. I can be. But sometimes subtlety doesn't pay. Tell me what happened between you and Daventry."

"Why should I? It's my private business."

"Look, Eugenia, I'm trying to do a job here. We're supposed to cooperate, remember? The more I know about Daventry, the easier it will be for me to figure out if Nellie's death was connected to something going on in his life."

"Hah." She made a face. "You want to know about him because you think it might help you to find what he did with the Hades cup."

"That, too."

"All right." She folded her arms beneath her breasts. "I'll tell you why I stopped seeing Daventry. But don't blame me if it doesn't make sense. I'm not sure I fully understand the reason, myself."

"I'm listening."

"Daventry was a bloodsucker."

Cyrus stilled. "You want to enlarge on that point?"

"What I'm trying to say is that Daventry used people. He had charm and charisma, and he employed both to suck whatever he needed or wanted from his victims."

It seemed to Cyrus the temperature in the crystal room plunged at least thirty degrees. "What did he want from you?"

"Information."

"What kind of information?"

Eugenia turned away from the display case and began to prowl through the glittering cases. Her slipper-clad feet made no sound on the glass block floor.

"I told you, he wanted to know about ancient glass. He had just begun to collect it, and he was very enthusiastic about it. You could almost say passionate."

"Passionate, huh?"

"He hung on every word I uttered. To tell you the truth, it was rather flattering at first. Do you realize how rare it is for a woman to go out with a man who listens to her? I mean, really listens?"

For some obscure reason, Cyrus felt obliged to defend his gender. "Maybe you've been dating the wrong men."

She grimaced. "Maybe I have. At any rate, by the third date, I was having a few second thoughts. And by the fourth date, I knew I had to stop seeing Daventry."

"Did he—" Cyrus broke off, searching for a tactful way to phrase the question. "Was he, uh, sexually aggressive?"

"He used charm, not aggression to get what he wanted," Eugenia said crisply. "Although, toward the end of our association, I got the distinct impression that he would have been willing to use force to reach his objective if he thought that was the most efficient way to do it."

Cyrus felt the tension hum in the muscles of his shoulders. "Did he say or do anything that led you to believe that he could turn violent?"

"No. Not exactly." Eugenia quickened her pace and hugged herself more tightly. "But there was something about the way he looked at me when he didn't think I noticed. Something cold and calculating. It was hard to catch him at it because he could turn on the charm in an instant. When I tried to explain that to Nellie, she said I was crazy. No, she said I was jealous."

Cyrus could not help it, he had to know. "Did you sleep with Daventry?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "When, exactly, do you use subtlety? Be sure to let me know, because I wouldn't want to miss it."

"Sorry. Couldn't think of a more genteel way to ask."

"Did you even try?"

"Sure. But it's one of those awkward questions."

"It certainly is. And if I had slept with Daventry, I would refuse to answer it." She raised her eyes briefly to the mirrored ceiling. "But since I didn't, I guess there's no harm in telling you that the relationship never progressed to that point. It remained on a professional level."

"I see. It stopped there because you decided he was some kind of human bloodsucker?"

"I didn't like the feeling that I was being used."

"Understandable."

Eugenia stopped in front of a large case. She peered at a black and gold glass pitcher inside. "But to tell you the truth, I don't believe it would have gone any farther, even if I had been attracted to him."

"Why not?"

"I think Daventry was sexually attracted to artists. Women like Nellie. He was gallant and charming to me for a while because he wanted to drain me of whatever I knew about fourth-century glass. But I don't think he found me very exciting." She stared very hard at the black and gold pitcher. "In a physical sense, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah. I know what you mean." Cyrus studied the delicate curve of the nape of her neck. A deep, aching need settled into his lower body. "I find it hard to believe that he didn't want to seduce you."

She gave him a speaking glance.

"Not that you would have gone along with it, of course," he added quickly.

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Thank you for that vote of confidence."

"You're welcome. Got another personal question."

"I was afraid of that."

Cyrus exhaled slowly. "If he had so much charm and charisma, and if the two of you had so much in common, how did you manage to see past the blinding glare of his perfections?"

"Intuition," she said. "I'm very good at detecting fakes."

At five o'clock that afternoon, Eugenia dropped the gleaming chrome phone back into its cradle and glared at Cyrus. "Rhonda Price is still not answering her phone."

"She's probably not back on the island yet," Cyrus said from the windowed wall where he was watching rain move across the waters of the Sound.

"There's one more ferry at six and that's it for the day."

"A good private investigator has to have patience."

She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. "I don't have all summer to find out what's going on here."

"This is only our fourth night on the island," he pointed out.

"And so far the only thing I've discovered is that someone named Rhonda Price is trying to pass off Nellie's paintings as her own."

"You've had more luck with your case than I've had with mine." Cyrus turned toward her. "I think we both need a break. What do you say we take a leisurely evening drive around the island and then have dinner in town?"

"Where do you want to eat?" She was chagrined by the churlish note in her voice. "This isn't Seattle. I counted exactly two restaurants in town, including the Neon Sunset Café. I refuse to eat there. It's the kind of place that serves day-old doughnuts and greasy hamburgers."

"Guess that leaves the fish house at the marina."

It was a reasonable suggestion, and she knew it. "All right. Maybe it would be good to get away from here for the evening. I like glass more than most people, and this place is interesting, architecturally speaking, but it's a bit much after a while."

"Yeah, that's for damn sure."

For some reason that made her laugh. "It's not that bad. Come on, let's go to town." A thought struck her as she pushed herself up out of the chair. "We can drive by Rhonda Price's house on the way."

"Don't get any ideas." Cyrus eyed her warily. "If you think I'm going to help you break into her place so that you can have a look around, think again."

"Never crossed my mind." Eugenia widened her eyes. "I just thought that we might discover that she's home after all and simply hasn't been answering her phone."

"Sure. And if I believe that, you've got a nice glass bridge you can sell me, right?"

"Are you always so suspicious?" she demanded.

"Goes with the territory."

At eight-thirty that evening Eugenia decided that she was feeling infinitely less waspish. She sat with Cyrus at a secluded window table in the Marina Restaurant and polished off the last of her pan-fried razor clams with enthusiasm.

"Okay, I admit it." She put down her fork. "This was a good idea. I'm glad we got out of the house for a while, even if you didn't let me break into Rhonda Price's cabin on the way here."

His failure to support her in the half-formed scheme had been a disappointment. Cyrus had agreed to cruise slowly past Rhonda's small cottage, but when they had seen no sign of anyone inside and no car in the drive, he had adamantly refused to let Eugenia get out of the car.

"I knew you'd hold that against me for the rest of the evening," Cyrus said.

"You could have been a little more cooperative. I just wanted to look in the windows."

Cyrus's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Trust me, you'll thank me in the morning."

"I thought you tough, private eye guys were very big on sneaking around in order to look for clues."

"Those of us who want to retain our licenses and our businesses try to avoid breaking and entering charges."

A waitress paused to scoop up the empty plates. When she was gone, Eugenia propped her elbows on the well-worn table and rested her chin on her hands. She was aware of a deep and growing curiosity about Cyrus.

"How long have you been in the security business?" she asked.