Still Lake - Anne Stuart [40]
The two King men were looking at him, clearly waiting for him to take his leave. “Can I shave first?” He didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.
“If you make it snappy. I’ve got work to do in the bathroom.”
Griffin managed to take almost a full hour showering and shaving, a petty revenge that nevertheless left him inordinately pleased with himself. By the time he got back to the kitchen Addy King was busy sweeping the back porch, and she didn’t look up when he filled a travel mug with the last of the coffee. Maybe she was deaf.
He didn’t think so.
He grabbed his keys, heading for the front door, then came to an abrupt halt.
Sophie Davis was standing on the porch, a plate of cookies in her hand, a wary, determinedly pleasant expression on her face.
Griffin leaned against the doorjamb, barring the entrance. “What’s this?”
He frightened her. It was fascinating how easy it was to unnerve her, but it suited him just fine. Sophie Davis didn’t strike him as someone who’d respond to charm or seduction, both of which he could turn off and on with sublime ease. She didn’t trust him, wisely. And he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that she had something to hide.
She was too young to have remembered the media coverage of the murders. She was maybe in her early thirties at the latest, more likely late twenties, and she’d been in Colby for only a few months. Not really time enough to develop secrets, unless she’d brought them with her.
He knew nothing about her, apart from the fact that she didn’t particularly like him. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered him, but he couldn’t afford to ignore any anomaly while he was here. So he managed a faint, predatory smile, just to see her squirm.
“I brought you cookies,” she said in a nervous, breathless voice.
“I can see that. Why?”
“To thank you for bringing my mother home.”
“I could hardly let her wander around alone at that hour, could I?”
“You strike me as the kind of man who’d do just that,” she said.
He didn’t blink. She’d taken her white kid gloves off, ready to get down and dirty. He was more than willing to join her. “So this isn’t really a social call,” he said. “You want to tell me why you’re really here?”
There was a muffled crash behind him as Addy dropped something in the living room. He didn’t bother to turn and look, but Sophie turned pale. “Who’s here?”
“Marge Averill sent the people you recommended out here to do some of the maintenance. You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”
“I need to talk to you.” She looked about as happy as a woman facing a firing squad.
“Fine. We can’t talk here—too much going on. I was going for a drive—you can come with me.”
“I’ve got things to do….”
“You want to talk to me or not?”
She hesitated. “All right. Where should I put the cookies?”
“Bring them with you. I haven’t had breakfast yet.” He moved past her, onto the porch, noticing with wry amusement that she backed well out of his way, just to make sure he didn’t get too close to her. You’d think she suspected him, the way she was acting. He hadn’t had people treat him like a leper since he’d gotten out of the Chittenden Correctional Center. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.
But she followed him, anyway, ten paces back like a dutiful Muslim wife, only to come up short at the sight of his car.
He was prepared for her caustic reaction. Few people understood or appreciated his attachment to his car—even Zebulon King had thought it was an old junker. Old it certainly was. Worth more than Zebulon King probably made in a year. The simple fact that it was a Jaguar was far outweighed by its advanced age and seeming state of decrepitude. The