The Antique House Murders Read online

  Of course, he could see her feet whenever he wanted. And they were as dead sexy as the rest of her. He reached out and wrapped his fingers lightly around Charley’s ankle. He drew her foot slowly toward him, pressing a soft kiss on that little gold ring, eliciting a sigh full of contentment and sexual languor.

  Hmmm. Something had recently come to light that he didn’t feel he’d completely resolved to his satisfaction.

  Charley was ticklish.

  Before she could pull free, Marc had both her legs securely pinned and was nibbling on her instep. She shrieked and bucked, gasping with laughter, begging him to stop. He released her ankle, but as she tried to roll off the bed, quick as lightning he twisted and pinned her long, lithe body beneath his.

  “Troll.” She smiled up at him, her large eyes silver in a heart-shaped face, her hair a tumbled riot across the pillow, red gold streaked with mahogany and smelling faintly of lemons. He had her arms pinned now, his hands pressing her wrists into the soft mattress. “Police brutality.”

  “Madam, I’m investigating a report of a sexual assault at this address. Witnesses claim that an unidentified female fitting your description launched an unprovoked assault on a—”

  “Assault? Where’s your complainant, Detective?”

  “There’s such a thing as a victimless crime, lady.”

  “A victimless sexual assault. That is just depressing.”

  He could feel the beating of her heart where it pressed against the answering rhythm in his chest. She smiled that secret smile, full of promises, her full, softly curving upper lip begging to be tasted. It made him weak. Mona Lisa, he thought, had nothing on Charley Carpenter.

  He had first tripped over her, literally, when she was an awkward tweener, a skinny tomboy with braces and braids and enormous eyes. He hadn’t given that silent, starstruck kid another thought until years later, when his mother, Evie, reconnected with her old school chum Bobby Carpenter. Marc had had a hard time believing this smoldering redhead with definite opinions on every subject was the same person.

  He was both relieved and quietly thrilled that she had come to him in her hour of crisis. Despite their physical intimacy, she still held a part of herself in reserve. Any attempt on his part to express his feelings about her, or their relationship, was shut down with an abrupt change of subject. She refused to spend an entire night in his bed, claiming it was for Bobby’s sake, but he suspected that wasn’t the whole truth. Marc wondered what—or who—had happened in her past that had made it so difficult for her to trust. He’d decided that, if he ever found the bastard, there would be blood. In the meantime, he’d give her the space she needed. Up to a point, that is.

  “We may not have a victim, but how about a motive? Not that I’m complaining.” He shifted, freeing her to roll onto her side so they were facing each other.

  “Nothing special.” She watched his face intently. “Detective McDreamy.”

  So that was it. Goddamn that Sharon. “Charley,” he began, “she’s like that with everyone. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Not just anyone.” Her eyes held a dangerous glint he had learned to ignore at his peril. She trailed a finger down his bare chest, swirling it through the light matting of hair. “You two were involved. As far as I’m concerned, it’s game on.” Her fingers trailed lower. “You’re really ripped, Detective. Have you been working out?”

  He grabbed her wrist before those wandering fingers sidetracked this conversation. “Involved? We had one dinner, and that was before you and I were together. You can’t possibly be jealous of her.”

  “I can be anything I want.” Charley touched a fingertip to his shoulder where she’d bit him—pretty damned hard—a few minutes earlier, then she poked his chest. “She still wants you, stud, and she never misses an opportunity to remind you, even when—especially when—I’m right there. That is not acceptable. So until she learns to take a hint, get used to being caught in the crossfire.”

  “Do I get to be jealous of Mitch Cooper?”

  “No. Mitch is adorable and completely harmless. ‘Adorable’ gets a free pass.”

  Marc laughed. “Harmless? He’s a black belt and a champion sharpshooter, won every award they ever came up with. Guns, rifles, bow and frigging arrow, you name it.” He reached out and tucked a red curl behind her ear. “Believe me, that kid is deadly.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  Marc decided he liked the idea of Charley being a little jealous. But before he could explore that intriguing possibility further, she changed the subject.

  “I’ve been thinking. If robbery wasn’t the motive for the break-in at Prescott’s, then maybe—”

  Marc cut her off. “No. Absolutely not, Charley. I cannot have you involving yourself in this investigation.”

  She sat up, her mane of hair falling around her pale shoulders, her nude body rising from the tumble of sheets like a Titian deity. “Why not? You’ve always been perfectly happy to accept my help before.”

  “I don’t know that ‘perfectly happy’ is perfectly accurate,” he said drily. “And while I will concede,” he continued before she could retort, “that your aid has been invaluable on a few small matters recently, this is murder, Charley. The victim is someone you were close to. If you were a cop, that alone would be reason enough.” He laid a hand on her bare hip. “But you’re not a cop. You are a civilian, and I cannot do my job if I’m worried for your safety. Promise me,” he said softly. “Please. Promise me you’ll stay away from anything to do with Calvin’s murder.”

  Clear gray eyes gazed steadily into his. He wondered what she saw when she looked…well, through him like that. After a long moment she nodded once, and he relaxed, releasing tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding on to.

  “I promise.” Then she grinned impishly. “But only because I don’t want Chief Zehring to yell at you again. Or me.”

  “No one wants that.” He lay back again and stared up at the ceiling. “Babe, you would have loved it. Paul and I are sitting in the chief’s office getting reamed about these burglaries like Zehring thinks they’re somehow our fault.”

  “Burglaries?” Charley asked quickly.

  Marc hesitated only a moment before deciding a few nice, simple break-ins might give her something to think about besides Prescott’s murder. It would all be in the papers tomorrow, anyway. “Three home burglaries Sunday night, then three more last night.”

  “Oh, my God. Was anyone hurt?”

  Marc shook his head. “No one was at home for any of them, thankfully. Last night, a couple on Telford came home from the theater, found the window on the kitchen door broken. Thieves reached in and turned the knob, easy as pie. Why don’t people install basic security? Tossed some stuff around, laptop gone. Woman in a ground-floor apartment on Shafor got home from work about one a.m., same story. Envelope with around two hundred cash missing from a desk drawer, also a digital camera she had sitting on a hall table. Home office trashed, lamp smashed. Fancy house on Runnymede around one-fifteen a.m. Perps set off the security alarm when they tried to force the back door. Didn’t get in, but they didn’t get caught, either. That seems to have scared them into stopping for the night.”

  “You’re thinking all six are the same thieves?” Charley looked thoughtful.

  “Same M.O., smash and grab. The stolen items were small, portable, and basically in plain sight. Paul’s got descriptions out to all the local fences and pawnshops, but nothing so far.”

  “So, Paul’s handling the burglary case. Any chance he might need some help?”

  “None.” Marc pinched her ass, and she squealed. “Anyway, Zehring starts in with threats about bringing in the county prosecutor’s investigative team. And I’m getting pissed, because once again he assumes Paul and I can’t handle anything more complex than a stolen iPod without outside help. So I take your call, knowing he’ll be pissed. He hates cellphones. And you tell me about Prescott. And then, Christ, I leap to my feet, and the first words out of my
mouth are—”

  “ ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ ” Charley finished with him. They stared at each other. Marc’s lips twitched. Then Charley began to giggle, and in a moment they were both laughing hard, hooting and guffawing until they were gasping. Marc tried to get himself under control, then Charley repeated, “Are you sure?” and they were off again.

  They calmed at last, lying side by side, holding hands, catching their breath.

  “Look at me,” Charley murmured suddenly. “I can’t believe I am laughing about the death of a friend. What a heartless bitch.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. No.” Marc went up on one elbow so he could gaze into her bottomless gray eyes. He traced a finger over the delicate curve of her cheek. “After a bad shock, it’s not unusual to experience a little backlash, a swing of the emotional pendulum. And laughter heals. Some people get drunk, some indulge in hysterics, some eat or sleep away their grief. Others laugh their asses off over nothing. Or…”

  “Practically commit rape?” She batted her lashes.

  “Exactly.” He grinned. “Whatever it takes. My point is, you aren’t disrespecting Calvin. You’re grieving in your own way.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. He leaned down and kissed her, marveling at the softness of her lips, knowing how she hated to show weakness, even to him.

  After a moment Charley asked, “What is the chief’s problem, anyway?” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you done anything to piss him off?”

  “I can’t imagine what.” Marc frowned in turn. “Maybe I should ask him.”

  “Maybe I should.”

  “I really hope you’re kidding.”

  “I am. Mostly. But right now,” she added, rolling over and straddling him, “I’m a witness. And I’m feeling pretty hostile, Detective. Aren’t you supposed to be taking my statement? Pumping me…for information?”

  He wrapped his arms around her, then flipped her on her back so their positions were reversed.

  “As you wish.”

  And Marc proceeded to examine his witness in exquisite detail.

  Chapter 5

  Charley clicked off her cellphone and immediately punched in the number of Prescott Auctions. It was noon on Wednesday, and Safety Officer Camille Bronsen had just called Charley to tell her the police were releasing the crime scene. She was free to collect her purchases any time. Charley’s first call was to Pamela Tate, a teary conversation that led Charley to make a sincere offer to help clean up Calvin’s office. Pamela promptly accepted. Charley ended the call and hit 2 on her speed dial.

  She and her best friend, Frankie Bright, had already conferred at length about Calvin’s murder. Like Charley, Frankie was both shocked and saddened over the brutality of the crime, as well as grimly determined to help the police learn, if they possibly could, who had committed it and why. It took just seconds to bring Frankie up to speed. Joined at the hip since junior high, the two friends communicated in ways that defied normal interpretation. It went without saying that the best way to find out what, if anything, was going on was to be on the scene.

  “So, are you in?” Charley asked.

  Frankie snorted. “Does my mother pine for grandchildren?”

  At three o’clock they presented themselves, dressed in old work clothes, at the back entrance of Prescott Auctions. Charley had a final moment’s misgiving as she remembered her promise to Marc. But in what universe could a heartfelt offer of help be construed as meddling in the investigation?

  They heard locks being snapped back, then Pamela pushed open the heavy steel door. Out of habit Charley confirmed that it was shiny and unmarked—no sign of forced entry.

  Pamela’s eyes were red. She looked haggard and pale, straight brown hair dragged into a bun, a gray cardigan pulled tightly around her thin body. Charley and Frankie both wrapped their arms around her, and the three women stood together, sharing a quiet cry for Calvin Prescott.

  Pamela stepped back and wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “You two are so good to do this,” she exclaimed. “I was dreading it more than you can imagine.”

  Charley suppressed an eye roll. Sometimes Pamela’s histrionics made it difficult to tell when she was being sincere and when she was playing a part to get what she wanted. The woman’s on medication, she reminded herself. And she’s suffered a terrible loss. Allowances would be made.

  Pamela led them back to Calvin’s office. Charley remembered a floor ankle-deep in debris, but all that was gone now. The space had been cleared of every single object, including the area rug that had covered most of it. Books and papers were stacked haphazardly on top of the row of filing cabinets. Most of the smaller items were piled on the massive wooden desk or shoved onto shelves. Fingerprint dust smeared everything. A large garbage can, already half full, stood near the door to the showroom. The poured-concrete floor was immaculate, and the acrid scent of disinfectant and bleach hung in the air.

  “Yikes.” Frankie covered her mouth and nose with one hand. “Are these fumes going to turn my hair blond?”

  “There are companies who specialize in…cleaning up after…” Pamela steadied herself with a visible effort. “Officer Bronsen gave me a number. They disposed of the carpet and cleaned and polished the floor.” She indicated the desk and shelves. “I just sort of piled it all so they could do their thing. There’re more boxes out front.” Her smile was crooked. “It’s not too late to back out, girls.”

  “Not a chance.” Francesca Maria Angelica Cartolano Bright drew herself up to her full five foot nothing and squared her shoulders. “No job too big, no woman too small.”

  They spent the next few hours washing shelves, wiping off lamps and knickknacks, and throwing away anything that was damaged beyond repair. Once or twice Pamela became emotional over something she sadly consigned to the garbage. Charley guessed these were things that had held special significance for her and Calvin. Frankie shot Charley a look and shook her head, and Charley nodded agreement. As ever, the two friends didn’t need words to communicate; no way could they ask Pamela even one question about Calvin today. That would be too cruel.

  While her two volunteers cleaned, boxed, bagged, and hauled, Pamela focused on the task of sorting through the mountains of paper files and ledger books. Once the desk was cleared off, she began creating piles, organized roughly by date.

  After they’d been working for two hours, Charley made a phone call. Twenty minutes later Lawrence Whittman’s massive figure filled the office doorway, his smile gleaming in a handsome face the color of antique walnut, a delicate basket in his enormous hand. He pulled back a blue cloth napkin to reveal sandwiches and freshly baked cookies.

  “Dinner is served, ladies.”

  “Thank God.” Frankie fell on the contents of the basket as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks. “Get over here, girls,” she commanded, her words muffled by a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie. “Hard labor requires serious fuel.”

  While they ate, Lawrence hauled Charley’s precious garment bags and boxes down to Old Hat, where Heddy would begin sorting and cataloging. Then he easily hefted the overflowing garbage can and emptied it in the Dumpster behind Prescott’s. He enfolded Pamela in one of his gargantuan embraces, murmuring something very quietly into her ear, before stepping back and collecting the now empty basket.

  “You bring her around for dinner real soon,” he commanded Charley. “She needs fattening up.” Then he winked. “If you ladies will excuse me, there’s another beautiful business owner who needs walking home.” Charley smiled, knowing he and Dmitri were rotating Afiya escort duty for the duration.

  Shortly after the dinner break, Pamela began frowning and muttering to herself. They had made good progress, and nothing remained but the sea of paper. Charley and Frankie were now helping with this, placing invoices and letters into the piles Pamela had established.

  “I’m amazed that Calvin could run such a large volume of business entirely on paper,” Charley commented. “I’d be lost without my inventory sof
tware and Web-based accounting program.”

  “He was a real throwback,” Pamela said distractedly. “I’ve been trying to get him to computerize for the longest…Now why can’t I find…This is just so odd.”

  “What’s odd?” Frankie’s curly dark head popped through the door from the hall.

  “The Mulbridge estate sales records.” Pamela indicated a small stack at the edge of the desk. “This pile contains transactions from the last thirty days. None of the Mulbridge paperwork is here. I noticed it earlier, but I assumed they were buried, perhaps dumped out of the expanding files Calvin used on-site. We’d filled three of them by Sunday afternoon, and hadn’t had a chance to file any of it yet. But I’ve sorted all of those, and they still haven’t turned up.”

  “I’ve carried in everything from out front,” Frankie confirmed. “Nothing left out there but empty boxes.”

  Charley looked around at the modest stacks of papers still awaiting their attention. “Let’s see if you’re right.” Together the three women quickly searched the remaining documents.

  “They’re gone,” Pamela said in bewilderment. “Everything from that event is missing. What could have happened to them?”

  “Well,” Charley said, her mind racing, “someone killed Calvin and ransacked this office. Maybe that person stole the files.”

  “Why?” Pamela stared, horrified, her voice rising. “There was nothing in there worth killing for!”

  “Are you sure?” Frankie asked gently. “What exactly is missing?”

  “Nothing of value. Paid invoices, records of purchases, copies of cash receipts, a complete inventory of the house, that sort of thing.” Pamela appeared ready to cry. “Do you really think Calvin died over a bunch of worthless papers?”

  Papers? Charley recalled a most intriguing discussion about a particular missing piece of paper that concerned Mulbridge House. She hesitated. She didn’t want to upset Pamela needlessly. Leaping to conclusions without all the facts was never a good idea.