Widow - Anne Stuart [67]
He laughed, genuinely amused. “I don’t think so.”
“Then who are you?”
“You know perfectly well who I am. I’m an insurance investigator, trying to catalog your husband’s estate.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” she said quietly.
Hell and damnation. “I don’t know,” he said amiably. “Maybe because you’re naturally suspicious?”
She ignored his comment. “What time is it?” she demanded.
“After two. You’ve been sleeping like a baby.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Maybe I liked listening to you snore.”
“I don’t snore. I need to get back to the house.”
“Why?”
“I need to get to bed. With my fiancé,” she added with a trace of defiance.
If he hadn’t been so annoyed he would have laughed. “All right. I’ll come back with you.”
“I can find my way myself.”
“Well, I can’t, and I’m sure as hell not going to spend the night up here. I was just waiting for you. By the way, I found out who put the picture in your room.”
She was already halfway to the door, but that stopped her. “Who?”
“Who’s the logical choice? Your friend Gia. Problem is, she says she didn’t slash it. Says she found it like that and thought you deserved a little present.”
“Did you believe her?” She’d waited until he caught up with her, and together they started down the pathway.
“As a matter of fact I did. She said she was too pragmatic to ruin an expensive piece of art.”
“She is,” Charlie said slowly. “Did she steal it in the first place?”
“She says no, she just found it.”
“Who took them, then? Does she have any idea where the others are?”
“Not the faintest, love,” Maguire said. “I looked around the old lady’s cottage. They’re not there. I don’t think there’s room for anything there, even the old lady.”
“You’re lucky she didn’t catch you snooping around. She always had a fearsome temper. Did you check the paintings on her walls? Pompasse gave her several over the years.”
“None. Just a bunch of cheap garbage littering every available surface. Watch your step!” he said as she stumbled.
She caught herself before he could grab her. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m like a mountain goat.”
“Sure you are, sugar,” he drawled. “Though I won’t argue that you like to butt heads.”
“Only with you, Maguire,” she shot back.
That’s what I’m counting on, he thought, following her down the pathway. It was a strange consolation. She treated everyone else, friend and foe alike, with calm serenity. He was able to get to her as no one else could. He considered that a small victory.
The house was dark, with no sign of life, when they reached the bottom of the path. “I guess they weren’t too worried about you,” he murmured.
“In case you didn’t notice, Henry’s light is still on,” she said. “He’s probably waiting up for me.”
“Maybe,” Maguire said. “But if I were you I’d let me go on ahead and check things out. Make sure everyone’s where they’re supposed to be.”
“What are you suggesting, Maguire?”
“Nothing. You don’t want to walk in on anything, now, do you?”
“Go to hell,” she said, really angry, and pushed past him, into the hallway, moving up the stairs in the darkness.
She didn’t bother being particularly quiet, and neither did he, but it didn’t matter. Henry and Gia were making enough noise to drown out anyone’s approach.
Charlie had halted outside his door, and in the darkness he couldn’t see the expression on her face. Gia was by far the loudest, probably for the express purpose of announcing herself to the entire household, but Henry was wheezing and groaning away in tandem, and for such a large, immovable bed it was making a surprising amount of noise. He had to hand it to Gia—she’d been more successful than his wildest dreams. Henry must have been ripe for the plucking.
He half expected Charlie to slam the door open and demand an explanation. But then, maybe she didn’t need one. She turned and walked past him, back down the stairs and out onto the terrace, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
16
The moon had set completely, and the terrace was swathed in darkness. It was only a small comfort. When she’d lived here before, been married to Pompasse,