Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [232]
“It boggles the mind.” He looked at her then, saying nothing, just looking. “Do you know that you’re looking more like a fairy princess again? I like you in all that black. How’s your scar doing?”
“My innards are fine; the scar itches just a bit. It’s no wonder you like all black since you bought all my clothes. You want me to look like Bat-girl, Simon?”
“I always did like to watch her move.” He grinned at her. “Truth is, I saw the black pants and knew it would have to be black all the way.” He gave her a sideways look. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but did all the underwear fit?”
“Too well,” she said, “and I don’t like to think about it, so stop looking at me.”
“Okay.” For a couple of seconds, Simon kept his eyes on the road. Then he said, chuckling, “As I said, when I saw the black, I knew it was you. But you know, I think the biggest change was your getting all that ash and soot washed out of your hair and off your face.”
Every stitch she was wearing was black, even the boot socks. She said, not intending to, “Why haven’t you ever married?”
“I was married, a very long time ago.”
“Tell me.”
He gave her another sideways look, saw that she really wanted to know, and said, “Well, I was twenty-two years old, in overwhelming lust, as was Janice, and so we got married, divorced within six months, and both of us joined the army.”
“That was a long time ago. Where is Janice now?”
“She stayed in the army. She’s a two-star general, stationed in Washington, D.C. I heard she’s gorgeous as a general. She’s married to a four-star. Hey, maybe someday she’ll be chief of staff.”
“I wonder why Dillon didn’t tell me.”
“He would have been my best man in the normal course of things, but we eloped and he was off in Europe that summer, living on a shoestring, so I knew he didn’t have the money to fly home, then back to Europe again.” Simon shrugged. “It was just as well. Who was your first husband? Beth’s father?”
“His name was Jack Crane. He was a stockbroker for Phlidick, Dammerleigh and Pierson. He was a big wheeler-dealer at the Chicago Stock Exchange.”
“Why’d you split up?”
She tried to shrug it off, give him a throwaway smile, but it wasn’t possible. She drew a deep breath and said, “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Okay, for now. Here we are. Keep your eyes open, Lily, I really have a bad feeling about this.” He turned right onto the narrow asphalt road that led to the cottage, looked back, and saw their protection turning in behind them.
No motorcycle.
Simon did a quick scan, didn’t see a thing. “I really don’t like this.”
“Maybe he just went into town to get some barbeque sauce to go with his snails.”
Simon didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue as they walked up to the cottage. The door wasn’t locked. He didn’t say a word, picked Lily up under her armpits and moved her behind him. He opened the door slowly. It was gloomy inside, all the blinds pulled down. The room was completely empty—no stacked paintings against the walls, no easel, no palette, not even a drop of paint anywhere or the smell of turpentine.
“Check the kitchen, Lily. I’m going to look in the bedroom.” They met back in the empty living room five minutes later.
Agent Colin Smith stood in the open doorway. “No sign of Abe Turkle?”
Simon shook his head and said, “Nope. All that’s left is a box of Puffed Wheat, a bit of milk, not soured, and a couple of apples, still edible, so he hasn’t been gone long.”
Lily said, “He’s packed up and left. All his clothes, suitcase, everything gone, even his toothpaste.”
“Do you think he went to London with that painting he was finishing?”
“I hope not. It was really very good, too good.”
Colin Smith asked, “You were afraid he was dead, weren’t you? Murdered. Like Mr. Monk.”
Simon nodded. “I had a bad feeling there for a while. Let’s tell Lieutenant Dobbs about this. Agent Smith, if you’ll call Clark Hoyt, fill him in. You know, Abe