Treasure Me (9 page)

“I’ll believe you,” she heard herself say, and it wasn’t a lie. She’d lived long enough to wear her skin down to a vaporous film that let her walk right out of herself and into other folks’ shoes. And from Landon’s point of view he
was
telling the God’s honest truth.

He waited half a tick, then said, “In Liberty… I saw…”

Suddenly Theodora understood. “The Greyhart woman? After all this time—that varmint is back?” She lowered the shotgun from her shoulder, setting the butt in the snow. “It’s not possible!”

“I was passing by The Second Chance Grill. I don’t know why I looked in the window—a feeling, I guess. There she was, sitting at the bar. I should’ve gone inside to speak with her but I was overwhelmed.”

“You’re sure it’s her?” The woman had broken Landon’s heart time and again. She deserved to be horsewhipped. “Don’t jump to conclusions. The world is chock-full of pretty blondes with hearts as dark as the devil’s.”

The blunt edge of the insult started a muscle twitching in his jaw. “You never met her. I can’t expect you to understand. She’s had a difficult life.”

“Haven’t we all.”

“She’s not evil. Mixed up, perhaps. She’s always needed my help.”

She’s a swindler
. Theodora wiggled her hunting cap down over her ears. Inside Landon’s imagination he’d built a shrine for the Greyhart woman. Nothing she said would change his views. The toxic brew of love and libido did awful things to a man. It blunted his common sense and made him a willing participant in his own destruction. Damn it all! Landon’s mental state was fragile at best. The possibility of Greyhart tangling him up again was the worst of all possibilities.

She studied him carefully. “Maybe your medication is acting up. That psychiatrist who likes to fish around in your brain—maybe she put you on something punky, something not fit for your constitution. You must’ve been seeing things when you moseyed on by The Second Chance.”

No one else would dare to bring up mental health issues with the proud banker, but Landon trusted her. Didn’t most people have acorns rattling around inside their heads? Whatever problems the man suffered, he was no more off-center than most.

“I’m not taking a hallucinogen.” His voice rose like a guitar string plucked too soon. “Theodore, please try to understand. I’m sure I saw her. I stood outside the restaurant for more than five minutes watching her to ensure I wasn’t mistaken.”

Knowing how to proceed was damn hard. They’d never discussed the love affair in much detail, and it had been years since the black-hearted woman skipped town once and for all. She’d taken a chunk of Landon’s wealth with her, and it had been enough to make him spiral into despair. The banking scandal broke soon after, sending Landon’s wife, the spoiled, self-absorbed Cat Seavers, to the bottom of Lake Erie. All of it was a fine mess. No, Theodore didn’t want to hear the details of the love affair. Delving into the topic would give her a three-alarm headache.

Carefully she asked, “Why would Greyhart return after all this time? After Cat drowned, half the reporters in Ohio were nosing around your affairs. It was enough to scare her away for good.” If she’d returned, was she planning to dip her fingers into Landon’s bank accounts? “Say you’re right and she
is
here. My advice? Stay holed up in your house. Don’t go into town at all.”

“I have to,” he said, and his eyes glowed. Age sifted from his face, making him appear frightfully young—young enough to make a fool of himself. “If there’s any chance she’s returned, if she’s in Liberty… Theodora, I’d be remiss if I didn’t call on her.”

“You’re too old to be unzipping your pants for a lover who’s burned you more times than I can count.”

He flinched beneath her harsh assessment. “I
must
see her.”

The guitar note again, pealing out the man’s desperate love. It brought Theodora to a standstill in frustration and remorse. The hank of flesh the Creator put between a man’s legs was a curse. All the hardships women endured—none were so awful they brought a woman to her knees on account of lust. None broke her mind the way Landon had been broken by desire.

She gave him a hearty thump on the arm. “That woman put you in a heap of trouble,” she said, and thumped again. “I’m not saying I blame her for Cat’s death. Your wife was headstrong. She had no business going out on Lake Erie with God spitting thunder and pouring down enough rain to sink Noah. If you see Greyhart and call on her, what good will come of it? Better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Twigs crackled underfoot. Mention of Cat bowed Landon’s shoulders. He walked on with sadness forming around him like mist. Why didn’t men leave well enough alone? He was in his sixties now, old enough to shut down his mojo. Was he actually hoping to start up again with the woman who’d ruined his life?

Theodora sighed. “Here’s what I’ll do,” she said. “I’ll go into The Second Chance and ask Finney and Delia if they remember the woman. Maybe they talked to her. I’ll check this out if you’ll stay put.”

“You’ll go today?”

They were setting down terms of a wager. Landon’s heart, and his sanity, were held in the balance. Apprehension curled in her belly, greasy and thick. She was getting in the middle of something she shouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

Finally, she gave a stiff nod. “Done.”

* * *

In the back of the Liberty Municipal Library, Hugh flipped open his laptop and stared blankly at the screen.

He hadn’t been himself since Birdie laid a kiss on him last night. A major blunder. She’d ambushed him by the sink and aimed one right on his mouth. Of course, he’d reacted to their sudden détente with a full-out assault, taking command of the kiss with enough fervor to send his common sense fleeing for the hills. What made him pull back, what stopped him from surrendering to her enchanting violet gaze and sweet caresses, was the bone chilling knowledge that Birdie Kaminsky was getting under his skin.

Forcing his attention back on work, he entered one of the websites raising money for the medical expenses of Anthony Perini’s daughter. A collage of patriotic images blinked on the computer screen. People across America were still sending in money. The heart superimposed over the cartoon version of Uncle Sam continued to expand with each new donation.

More donations were streaming in every day. How much exactly was anyone’s guess.

Exiting the site, Hugh jotted down a few notes. If he wanted his job back at the
Akron Register
he had to unlock the secrets of Anthony’s perfidy. Where was all the ill-gotten cash? Anthony was still incommunicado on his honeymoon. Grilling him in person would have to wait. Hugh didn’t relish the thought of staying in Liberty, not with an addiction for Birdie simmering in his veins.

Hadn’t he promised Bud Kresnick, his boss—or ex-boss, if he didn’t bring in the goods on Perini—that he’d stay away from women? Agreeing to share the apartment was a major blunder. Birdie was worse than liquor, a long, smooth drink of a woman. She’d have him intoxicated with lust if he didn’t work on his abstinence training.

If her physical beauty weren’t enough temptation, there was her complex personality to consider. Whenever he tried to pry into her life she hit back with a snitty response. Yet last night she’d displayed unexpected sensitivity. She possessed the long, leggy beauty of a woman who’d look good in mink and pearls, but she skulked around in old jeans and an army coat that had probably seen duty in the Normandy Invasion.

She seemed lonely, the type of woman who avoided serious relationships. And, for reasons unknown, he’d confided in her. He wasn’t in the habit of chatting about his past debacles. He sure as hell never opened up with anyone about the Trinity Investment scandal. Why had he done so with Birdie? All it took was a little prodding and he’d willingly aired his dirtiest laundry.

Shit, he was in trouble.

Despite his determination to stay on track with the Perini exposé, he started tooling around Nexus for information on her. No data was available, not even an old address. Where was she from? Simply asking was an obvious strategy. But shucking clams was easier than getting information from the woman.

Yet he knew she was a thief. She’d lifted a few bucks from his wallet yesterday and he’d caught her red-handed in The Second Chance Grill after midnight. She didn’t break into the restaurant to steal a paltry fifty dollars from the till. She was after something more valuable.

Antiques? The place was loaded with museum-quality furnishings. Still, it was impossible to visualize Birdie hawking Chippendale on eBay. Something else was the lure. What, exactly?

On impulse, he flipped open his cell and dialed Fatman Berelli. The union organizer had friends at the FBI, IRS and Interpol. He knew cops on the beat and had contacts at Homeland Security. If anyone could mine the depths for information on a mysterious thief, it was Fatman.

* * *

“Couldn’t you drag yourself out of bed?” Finney barked. “It’s after ten o’clock.”

Birdie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She’d woken in a bad mood, with the memory of kissing Hugh settled on her chest like a two-ton safe. A long shower and the prospect of locating more clues hadn’t raised her spirits.

“I’m here, I’m dressed like a prostitute. What more do you want?” She yanked down the ruffled hem of her waitress uniform but the skirt rode up. Growling with frustration she added, “I shouldn’t have to wear this thing. Delia’s uniform fits her. Why am I stuck with clothes sized for a Playboy bunny?”

“I’m not buying a new uniform until I’m sure you’ll stay for more than a few weeks. Will you?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then you’re stuck with the whore suit.” The cook wagged a wooden spoon at Birdie’s legs. “Besides, you’re good for business. The men at the courthouse? The lawyers and the judges? Once they get an eyeful it’ll be standing room only in the dining room.”

“Then buy me a feather boa and find some guy to play the piano. I can’t do burlesque without music.”

“Now, that
would
bring in business.”

Birdie fiddled with the buttons on her blouse. Sucking in air with the fabric pulling taut across her breasts was a bitch. “When do I get off work today?”

The cook slapped a plate down at the pass-through window. “Why don’t you stay through the dinner rush?”

“Pass.”

“How ‘bout till four o’clock?”

“I’ll miss my nap. I’m running a sleep deficit.”

Finney stalked back to the stove with her chin jutting forward. “What are you, made of money? I’d think you’d be grateful for the work.”

“Then you’d be wrong.”

“You sure are mouthy, aren’t you?”

“You bet.”

An indefinable emotion worked across the cook’s face, dousing the ire from her gaze. Uncomfortable, Birdie shifted from foot to foot. Rage she could deal with. Or lies. Was this compassion? She didn’t like anything that made her feel too much or too deeply, and the cook’s eyes had grown soft.

Muttering under her breath, Finney strode to the massive refrigerator and poured orange juice. “Delia says you don’t have family in Ohio,” she said, offering the drink. “Are you all alone, child?”

Birdie took the glass. “I’m not a child. I’m thirty-one.”

“Are you alone?”

“I travel light. Only way to go.”

The quip merely increased the warmth in the cook’s steady gaze. “Lived through a couple oil fires, haven’t you?” Birdie looked at her with confusion and she added, “When I was learning to cook there were some mistakes I only made once. Like the oil fire in Brubaker’s Café. Nearly torched myself. The lead chef put out the blaze. There are scars all over my arms from the oil spatter.”

She turned her arms over. Mottled scars gouged the soft skin.

Birdie flinched. “They look painful.”

“I’m guessing you have scars too, that’s all.”

Emotion clogged Birdie’s throat. Yes, she had scars, too many to count. Her mother using her in con games despite her objections. The lover in Miami who took off with her cash while she slept. The years of traveling alone without hopes or dreams to sustain her. So many scars. She hid them in her heart, stuffed them down deep. Staying fixed in the moment—on the next mark, the next theft—kept her emotions at bay and her cunning intact. It was the only way to survive.

Resignedly, she tied on an apron and tried to shake off her gloom. She only had to pretend to be a waitress until she deciphered the clue on the parchment and found the loot.

A jewel beyond compare stitched tight

With red, blue and white.

Mulling over the lines of poetry, she dropped an order pad into her apron pocket. The clue revealed, at least in part, the most pressing mystery—what
was
the hidden treasure? Was
a jewel beyond compare
a flawless diamond of rare color and impressive weight? Maybe it was a gem on par with the Hope Diamond.

All she had to do was unlock the mystery while waiting on customers and picking a few pockets. She’d find the diamond and ride out of Dodge before someone caught wind of the theft and put her in the pokey.

An exasperated Finney waved her toward the dining room and Birdie hurried out. Delia was arguing with a portly geezer beside table five while Ethel Lynn cowered before a pint-sized nemesis. The old woman was decked out in another one of her vintage outfits, a plum colored dress with tiny rosebuds spilling across the fabric in a shower of blooms. The redheaded girl hurled a handful of sugar packets at her and she warded off the barrage.

The dining room was nearly empty. Birdie leaned against the counter to watch.

Approaching, Delia said, “The brat terrorizing Ethel Lynn? Her name is Flame Sanson.” The old guy Delia had been arguing with headed for the door. She flipped him the bird then resumed the conversation, unfazed. “Don’t you love it? The kid is a redhead and her name is Flame. People are sickos when it comes to naming their children.”

“Maybe we should rescue Ethel Lynn,” Birdie said as the kid grabbed more ammo from a table.

“I hate to bug her mother. Mrs. Sanson tips like Midas. She probably thinks Ethel Lynn is babysitting the monster.”