Treasure Me (7 page)

“Is the rat staying while you’re gone?” Melbourne stopped beside her, his furry ears perked, and Finney moved back. “If he tries to mark me, you won’t be putting him out for stud service. Not after I’m through with him.”

“I’ll put him in his cage, all right?”

“With a muzzle? I don’t need him yipping.”

Meade prayed for patience. She’d had a long day. After escaping the office, she arrived at the house to find Blossom filling the place with ear shattering hip-hop. She nearly blew out her larynx before the music was turned down. Blossom insisted on making a strange dinner of Cocoa Puffs and fried chicken, which was probably common fare among the teen set. Once the girl trudged upstairs, Meade tried practicing yoga to regain her center. She’d been about to drag herself to bed when her father had called in such an agitated state she’d felt compelled to drive out to the town of Goose Grove to check on him.

Wrenching a promise from Finney not to harm Melbourne, Meade started on the lonely drive. An autumn moon sat above the tilled farmlands, fat and golden. This close to Lake Erie the temperature was near freezing, the sparkle of water visible between thick stands of trees. Reaching Belfair Lane, she drove with trepidation toward the mansion.

In the moonlight, the large brick Tudor looked like an abandoned fortress. Huge urns, which held massive blooms during Meade’s childhood, stood empty with chips and cracks glinting in the cold light. The windows of the mansion, wrought iron between panes speckled with rust, wore a greasy film of pollen and soot. On the rolling lawn, piles of maple leaves were stiff with November frost.

Regret tightened her throat at everything lost fourteen years ago. Every year since then seemed to whittle away more of the estate’s glamour and beauty. All the memories she’d held dear had collapsed into the black hole of her mother’s death.

With a heavy heart, she went inside.

The housekeeper, Reenie, rose stiffly from the bottom step of the wide, curving staircase. Her white hair was knotted at the base of her skull. As she approached, Meade spotted new lines arcing from the corners of her eyes and an increasing droop to her mouth.

“Thank God you’ve arrived!” The housekeeper clasped Meade’s fingers. “I can’t find your father. I’ve looked everywhere. He must be somewhere on the grounds.”

“Did he wear his coat?” He’d grown increasingly forgetful. Depression was like an acid eating through his mind as surely as his health. “Oh Reenie, he’s not wandering outside in his pajamas, is he?”

“Good heavens, I hope not.”

Meade smoothed the fear from her brow. There was no sense in upsetting Reenie further. Increasing the housekeeper’s anxiety over her stubborn and unpredictable employer wouldn’t solve anything.

“Go back to bed, Reenie.” She strode across the foyer and stepped inside the closet. Coats were everywhere, hung haphazardly or dumped on the floor. She found a pair of hiking boots, the soles crusted with mud. She put them on. “Did you check the boathouse?”

“I didn’t see any lights.”

“Which means he’s sitting in the dark.” She ushered the housekeeper toward the staircase. “Go on. I’ll find him.”

At the back of the house the tiered patio floated in a sea of shadow. An owl hooted from the woods, its voice lonely and strong. The sound of the lake, a low rumble of waves beating against rock, grew in intensity as she started down the path. She’d once loved the open expanse of blue-green water and the rush of wind in her face as her mother drove the powerboat in undulating circles too close to shore, or away from land at ferocious speed to open water. Her father never went on the lake. He preferred a life sequestered in the library surrounded by financial ledgers and dog-eared copies of
The Wall Street Journal
. A banker by training, his days were spent shepherding the assets he’d gained through marriage and growing the legacies of Cat’s illustrious friends. Meade, their only child, was pampered and spoiled. She’d tried to emulate her mother’s grace and had been awed by her father’s prodigious intellect.

Now the sight of the lake stabbed her with regret.

She paused on the path to rub the chill from her arms. The darkened boathouse, nestled beneath fir trees at the water’s edge, was moored in silence. The cream paint was so faded the wooden slats shone through. A shutter on one of the windows hung ajar like a black flag.

She entered with her breath locked inside her lungs. The oblong table in the center of the room was heaped with fishing poles and tackle. The organic scents of marine life clung to the air, and a host of memories accosted her. She shielded herself from the blow and quickly scanned the murky dark.

The moment her eyes adjusted to the darkness she spotted her father perched beneath a window.

“Dad?” His silvered head turned. Moonlight caught the side of his face, turning his fierce blue eyes a smoky grey. “What are you doing out here?”

“Thinking.” He stared at her for a long moment as if needing to reboot his brain. His expression clearing, he asked, “Why are you here? Did we have an appointment?”

“You called several hours ago. You were upset. Don’t you remember? Reenie called later when she couldn’t find you.”

“Reenie doesn’t need to look after me. Why isn’t she asleep?”

Knowing how to proceed was difficult. Through the grime on the window, the lake shimmered like a galaxy of stars. Meade looked away from it, praying for strength. Her father’s hair was pungent and unwashed. His pants were spotted with grease or food; it was hard to tell which, and she didn’t have the courage to turn on a light. Dampness pooled beneath his eyes.

Taking care not to startle him, she stroked his arm. “Why are you upset?”

He looked out at the lake. “I’m trying to decide.”

“Tell me what’s going on. You’re scaring me.”

He sighed and the long, drawn-out sound tightened her resolve. He didn’t like confrontations and his temper rose from within his agonized silences with stunning unpredictability. There wasn’t a road map for depression, no sign-posts to aid with navigation. He’d be withdrawn for months before something set him off, the least little thing.

He surprised her when he checked his temper behind a thinly veiled defiance. “I saw her today,” he said. When she merely stared at him, he added, “Don’t try to talk me out of it. When I was in Liberty, I saw her.”

“Dad—”

“No. She was there.”

Did he actually think he’d seen Cat in town? The sorrow nearly swamped her. She’d lost her mother in a mishap on Lake Erie that had been relentlessly televised throughout Ohio. She’d lost her father soon after. The maelstrom of bad publicity had destroyed his career, then hurtled him into despair.

She let the heartache roll through her, allowed it overtake her for one excruciating moment. Then she tamped it down and clasped his shoulders. “Stop it. She’s been gone for a long time now.” She gave him a shake to impart some of her pain, to make him share the weight of an unnecessary burden. “Your mind is playing games with you.”

The words fell like thunder. Her father was deaf to them. “You don’t understand.” He pulled away and stumbled to his feet. “I saw her in Liberty. I wasn’t imagining things.” His voice broke. Then he drew himself straight. “She’s come back to me.”

* * *

The slip of yellowed parchment—a clue to the location of the hidden treasure—was safely tucked inside Birdie’s bra. Containing her excitement was a struggle. She’d have to wait to read the message until after finishing the late night supper with Hugh.

Entering the apartment with her plate balanced on one hand, she fought for patience. How easy it would be to hurry off to the bathroom, lock the door, and read the clue.

Even as she imagined ditching Hugh her attention strayed to his face. To his eyes, which were red-rimmed and framed with faint shadows. When he’d discovered her in the restaurant he’d mentioned waking from an upsetting dream. Actually it was a nightmare, something about a play by play, as if, while he slept, he’d relived some distressing event in his life. Not that it was any of her business.

If she started asking questions, she’d ramp up the intimacy between them. They were already sharing close quarters. They could bicker all they liked but the sexual attraction between them was nearly thick enough to see. The last thing she needed was a short-lived romance mucking up the works. She’d found a clue in the portrait, hadn’t she?

She’d wondered her entire life if Lucas Postell had sent untold riches north with his beloved. The clue hidden in the portrait gave the story weight: At the dawn of The Civil War, something of great value was spirited out of the Deep South by the freed woman slave, Justice, who was probably his lover. She kept the treasure for safekeeping in a northern state—Ohio. The slip of parchment found inside the portrait might lead to a bag of Civil War gold bullion hidden somewhere in the restaurant. Or a cache of jewelry waited to be unearthed by a determined thief with a reporter on her tail and a plate of eggs in her hand.

Skirting around her, Hugh asked, “Where are we dining?”

“I’d rather eat alone. No offense.”

“None taken. But I’m joining you.”

“If there’s no other choice.” Birdie came to an abrupt standstill in the kitchen. “Hold the phone, Parsnip. What happened in here?”

The kitchen was immaculate. A lemony scent wafted from the linoleum floor. The countertops gleamed. Even the window above the sink looked sparkly and new. Did Mighty Maids have a satellite office in bucolic Liberty, Ohio? Doubtful, which meant Hugh had done the cleaning.

She spun around and gaped at him.

Which must have rattled his tender emotions because he blushed. “Who’s Parsnip?” he asked, no doubt to steer her away from making wisecracks about his feminine side. “A friend of yours? Does he run numbers with your other pal, Mr. Potato Head?”

“It’s an old joke. When I was a kid, a man who dated my mom called me vegetable names.”

“How endearing.”

“Not nearly as endearing as your domestic skills. You’re quite the nester.”

With jerky movements, he set his plate on the table. “The place was filthy. I cleaned up. So what?”

She cocked her hip against the doorjamb. “You keep a fine house, darling.”

“Give it a rest, Turnip.”

Grinning, she ran her fingers across the gleaming counter. “You steal my apartment, take a nap and when you wake up, you… clean. Like a happy housewife from one of those sixties shows on late night cable. I’m touched.”

The chair made a scraping sound as he pulled it out and sat. “I’m all about order. Everything in its place.”

“Will you do laundry and leave chocolates on my pillow?”

“It depends on what I get in return. For starters, tell me why you broke into the restaurant. Were you robbing the place?”

A direct assault, and there was no way to prepare for incoming. For an excruciating moment her brain turned to mush. Not the best state of affairs for a thief who survived by her wits.

She sank into a chair. “I was just looking around.”

“Sure you were.” He studied her with unnerving intensity. “Do you always steal from your employer? There’s not much loot in a restaurant. Maybe they need a bank teller at Liberty Trust.”

“I never steal from people I like.” Horrified by the outburst, she backpedaled. “I mean, Finney is a little tough and Ethel Lynn is weird. But Delia is nice—they’re all nice.”

Hugh rubbed his jaw. “So if you didn’t like them you
would
steal from them?”

She would, but it wasn’t his business. “I can’t chew and talk at the same time.” She dove it into her omelet. “Shut up and eat.”

“I knew it. You
are
a thief.” He dug in with relish. “It must be a hard life. Do you worry about prison?” he asked between mouthfuls. “Waiting until someone hides a file in a pastry and you can escape? I would.”

Frustrated by Hugh’s powers of deduction, she shrugged out of her army coat. And immediately regretted her decision when he stopped eating. Leaning sideways in his chair, he took in the skimpy waitress uniform while she squirmed. His attention danced from the gold piping embellishing her breasts to the ruffled hem, which revealed no small section of her thighs.

He pointed at her with his fork. “You’d draw rave reviews in whorehouses across Paris.”

“Go to hell.”

“I meant it as a compliment.” He shoved eggs into his mouth, tried to swallow, and choked.

When he grabbed his throat, Birdie rushed to the sink. She filled a glass with water and thrust it at him. After the long day waiting tables she didn’t need a run to the nearest emergency room. Not unless she could dump Hugh off on the curb and get away with his car. She gave him a few good thumps on the back. Oh, why hadn’t she learned the Heimlich maneuver? Concern for his welfare warred with the lure of grand larceny and she cringed when he pushed the glass away and stomped his foot.

When he finally sucked in air, she drew back. What if Hugh drove a Mercedes or a Beemer? Maybe she
should
offer to take him to the hospital.

Before she decided her position on auto theft, he began mouthing the words stuck in his throat.

“Fishnet stockings,” he croaked. When she crossed her arms, he had the sense to ditch the bedazzled expression. “I mean it. All you’re missing is a little whore’s netting on your gams.”

Searching for a hostile retort, she noticed Mr. Clean’s duffel bag still propped in the corner. Given the amount of gear he’d arrived with, he’d probably run out of shelf space in the bedroom closet. Sifting through the bag, she found a pair of sweatpants and another softly worn sweatshirt like the one she’d stolen from him earlier today. This one was emerald green.

Pulling it on, she threw back the only rejoinder that came to mind. “In the restaurant, what did you mean about a play-by-play?” She sat back down and reached for her plate.

Thankfully the question doused the passion in his gaze. “I don’t want to go into it.”

“Why not?”

Darting his fingers through his hair, he gave himself a sexily disheveled appearance. When his ebony gaze wavered, her heart lurched. Doubt bloomed on his face.