The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [88]
Then Charlie came over and separated them. Physically. Unapologetically moved her away, so he could speak to her in private. Oliver stared in disbelief, then stalked off to watch a bunch of old men play bocce ball on the grass.
What the hell was going on? Who was this woman? Krystal Smith-Jones—he could barely say her name without an incredulous sneer. What was she, a physical therapist, or an old man’s paid last fling? The latter, every instinct assured him she was the latter, and yet—
Nothing. Just because she didn’t look the part today didn’t mean anything. She’d certainly looked it the day they’d met. Like a streetwalker, practically, in a plunging halter top and garish jewelry, hair teased out to here. She’d dressed down for Cartamack Day, that was all. She wasn’t stupid.
For the rest of the afternoon, they ricocheted off each other. When it was time to eat, he, she, and Charlie shared a table with an elderly couple and their visiting son, so the conversation stayed correct and impersonal. Krystal charmed them with a way she had of asking questions that required thoughtful answers, not just yes or no, and Oliver was as beguiled as any of them. But then Charlie, who kept craning his neck at something or someone behind them, would hijack her attention by moving in till he and Krystal were almost nose-to-nose, then speak to her in urgent whispers, sometimes covering his mouth with his hand. It was beyond rude; it was ridiculous.
Worst was having to watch them dance with each other. Unlike Oliver, Charlie didn’t just shuffle around when he slowdanced ; he was old-school, he knew how to fox-trot to “My Blue Heaven” and “Sentimental Journey.” And Krystal followed him perfectly, thanks to the masterful arm he pressed her whole body to his with. “Fred and Ginger,” one of their tablemates said admiringly, and Oliver thought sourly, Yeah, if Ginger had been a half century younger than Fred.
I’m jealous of my grandfather.
The realization was so humiliating, he decided to leave. How satisfying to just abandon them, leave them on the dance floor wondering what had become of him. But then he reminded himself he wasn’t in middle school anymore. “Have to go,” he told them during a break in their Arthur Murray performance. “I brought your quarterly tax statements, Grandfather. Just sign them, put them in the stamped envelope, and mail them.”
“Got it.”
Oliver turned to Krystal. “Nice to see you again,” was all he could come up with.
“Yes,” was the best she could do.
“Well,” he said after another awkward minute. “ ’Bye.”
The tax papers were still in his car. He retrieved them, jogged the short distance to Charlie’s condo building, let himself in the apartment, and dropped the papers on the hall table. That was when he noticed the missing horses. Five Mustangs Running—Charlie’s showpiece.
Krystal.
By the time he got back to the community center, she was gone. Charlie was sitting by himself on the stone ledge, staring out across the darkening golf course. He looked so forlorn, Oliver changed what he was going to say—some version of “Where is she? That thief!”—to a simple inquiry. “I noticed the big bronze isn’t in its spot, Grandfather. Any idea where it went?”
“Hm?”
He repeated himself.
“Hm?”
A sure sign of evasion. Were Charlie and Krystal in this together?
“Oh, the mustangs,” Charlie said eventually, eyes darting from side to side. “Guy in the building, he admired it, so I lent it to ’im.”
“Lent it to him?”
“Yeah. Guy in the building, horse nut.”
“You lent it to a guy in the building because he likes horses.”
“That’s it.”
He was covering for her. Had to be. Oliver let it go, because he had no choice. But Charlie hadn’t heard the last of this. Neither had Krystal.
Speak of the devil—he almost backed into her in the parking lot when she passed behind him in some boatlike American car with a sputtering muffler. She didn’t see him. At the main exit from The Lakes at Cartamack, she turned left on Georgia Avenue. He was going that way himself. He didn’t