Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [37]
He hefted himself up from the sofa and headed toward the bar, where he splashed more scotch into his glass. “Right now we need to find the girl,” he continued. “And I don’t need to remind you, Lex, that she hasn’t been charged with anything and we can’t just haul her in here without an arrest warrant. And you don’t think we’re going to get that, do you?”
“No. Although I think her own mother would turn her in,” Lex added. “Mrs. Steinhart is one of the reasons that I don’t believe all this stuff with Angela is a coincidence. The woman is scared, scared because she knows something is going on with her daughter, that she’s somehow connected to all of this. And that’s reason enough for me.” He turned to Dayton. “You’d have to meet her,” he said, “but it seems to me that Angela is an embarrassment to her. She was absolutely livid because she knew Angela had caused the flooding throughout the house. The whole place is ruined—ceilings, floors, the works.”
“She flooded the house?” Harold asked, incredulous. “Why?”
“How the hell should I know? Maybe she thought she was getting back at her mother. Mrs. Steinhart started out by saying she’d had an argument with Angela, then changed the word to discussion.”
Dayton listened with interest. He turned to Eric. “Maybe you could have her brought in for questioning. You’ve got enough to go on. How much does the department know?”
“Only about the threatening letters,” Summers said sheepishly. “So much has happened and so fast.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way for the time being,” Dayton suggested. “Give the department one good lead and they forget everything else. If it turns out to be a blind alley, too much time will have been wasted. We need to find out what the Steinhart girl can tell us. In the meantime, let the police attack the problem from the other end—the letter.”
Eric reached behind the sofa and pulled out a shiny black phone. He dialed a number and motioned for the other men to be quiet. “John Wharton, extension 232.” He waited, tapping strong square fingers. “John, old buddy. How’s it going? . . . Not bad. Listen, you owe me one and I need to collect. I want you to pick up a young woman named Angela Steinhart . . . No, there’s no file on her, at least none that I know of. Go ahead and check it out. When do I need her? Yeah, yesterday . . . You can reach me here, at my house. Or at Timberwoods Mall. Not downtown. If you can’t get me, try Felex Lassiter at Timberwoods . . . Yeah, he’ll know where to reach me.”
As soon as Eric replaced the receiver, Noel stood and checked his watch. “Look, Eric, I’m not sorry I came over. I’m only a half hour away and I’ll come running when you need me. Okay?”
“Fine, Noel, but you’re not running out yet. You haven’t seen Amy. She’s as big as a house!” Eric laughed affectionately.
“But beautiful—and she’s bringing out a pan of brownies.” Harold beamed. “With lots of nuts.”
The persistent wind beat against the north side of the Summerses’ house. Within its brick walls Eric and Amy nestled beneath the bed covers, warm, and content to be in each other’s arms.
“Amy?” Eric ventured.
“Hmmm?”
“You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you?”
“A little, but it’ll be over soon enough and it’ll all be worth it. Imagine, a child of our own, Eric. Our own baby.”
Eric put his lips against the warm, scented skin at the back of Amy’s neck. He loved her like this, warm and loving and looking forward to the future. Sexual desire had little to do with the feelings right now; this was more basic. It was the deep, abiding love a man felt for his wife.
“I love you, Amy,” he said.
“Both of us?” Amy smiled, snuggling closer to Eric’s strong body.
“Both of you.”
The sound of the bedside phone was a rude intrusion into the dark room. Amy reached for the receiver, but Eric stopped her. “Go to sleep, honey. I’ll take it in the living room.”
Eric padded out to the living room and picked up the