House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 6

  Maybe he could enlist Ann’s help. He planned to sell the place furnished. He didn’t want any souvenirs of this little venture.

  Or did he? He wandered out onto the sleeping porch that ran across the back of the second floor. With nightfall the air had grown chilly again after the afternoon warmth, but there was no breeze. He felt as though he were in a tree house. Except for the glow from the parking lot next door, he might as well have been in the wilderness.

  Someone had left an old folding chair leaning against the wall. He opened it, turned it to face the backyard, sat down and propped his feet on the railing in front of him.

  He let the darkness envelop him. Somewhere close by a bird called, and frogs were already making noises. His father should have loved growing up in this house. Why had he run away to Paris?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “SORRY. I DIDN’T MEAN to wake you.” Ann stood in the doorway to the little porch.

  Paul sat up quickly. “I wasn’t asleep.” He stretched and smiled at Ann. He felt more relaxed than he had in days.

  “Sure you weren’t. If you’d rather skip that dinner, I’ve got plenty of stuff at my place. I could at least come up with a decent omelet.”

  “I couldn’t ask you—”

  “You’re not asking. I am. Actually, I’m being selfish. I’d much rather cook than have to fix myself up and drive into town and back.”

  “You don’t need fixing up.”

  “Oh, yes, I do.” Ann laughed. “So are you game?”

  “Yes, and thank you.” He pulled himself out of the chair and followed Ann and Dante. His mattress sat in the middle of the bedroom floor. Ann sidestepped it neatly and went ahead down the stairs.

  They walked the short distance across the square and around the three row houses to the short alley in back. The alleyway was pitch-dark. The anemic illumination of the wrought-iron streetlights around the square didn’t reach over the tops of the buildings, but Ann took a small flashlight from her back pocket and switched it on. Something moved in the bushes on the far side of the alley.

  Dante gave a low woof.

  “Hush. It’s just a cat,” she said.

  Something, probably the cat, banged against one of the large garbage cans at the far end, then disappeared in a streak of fur. Dante looked up at Ann beseechingly, but she grasped his collar. “No. No chasing cats.”

  They came to an old wooden staircase at the back of the second building. It looked as though it was ready to collapse into the small parking lot across the alley.

  Paul followed Ann up to the little landing at the top and waited while she unlocked and opened her door. She turned on the lights.

  Paul was no stranger to lofts. Several of his friends had invested in and restored lofts in lower Manhattan. They usually wound up modern, austere, cold and expensive.

  This loft across two of the buildings was still very much a loft. Their footsteps and the click of Dante’s toenails echoed on the bare hardwood floors. The doorway opened into the half that Ann used as an apartment.

  Beyond it, a broad archway led into the workshop half. Since the lights came on in both at the same time, Paul could see a large worktable in the center and cabinets along the back wall.

  There was also a table saw, router table, a lathe, industrial shelving with molds, brushes and all sorts of equipment Paul couldn’t identify.

  To the left of the door they’d come in was a galley kitchen, separated from the rest of the room by a high breakfast bar with stools. A harvest table and two benches constituted the dining room, and a heavily carved Victorian credenza served as a room divider from the living area, which was delineated with a soft, worn Oriental rug. To the right white duck curtains obviously divided the public space from bedroom and bath. The walls were the original rose brick, and overhead naked trusses held up the roof.

  “Take a seat.” Ann pointed to one of the steel stools in front of the counter. She rummaged in a stainless-steel refrigerator and came out with bacon, green onions, sweet bell peppers and a carton of eggs.

  “May I help?”

  “Nope. I’m used to juggling stuff.” She set everything on the counter. “Would you like something to drink? Beer? Wine?”

  “White wine if you have it.”

  “Sure.” She reached into the refrigerator, brought out a bottle and poured them each a glass. “Salut.”

  He looked up into those wonderful gray-blue eyes of hers. Their glances locked and held for too long. He felt his body tighten and knew that she felt the same pull he did.

  He should never have come up here, never have allowed himself to see her in her own habitat. Not if he intended to keep his promise to keep her at arm’s length.

  She broke eye contact first with a tiny gasp. The tips of her ears were red, and she sounded brusque. “Okay, now, you can help me chop the bell pepper.” She seemed to skitter away from him. The reluctant female, aware of him but not certain she wanted to go any further.

  Nor was he.

  His gaze lighted on a pencil drawing in a simple black frame hanging on the wall beside the refrigerator. He was instantly certain it must be one of the caricatures his father was noted for. He wanted to leap over the counter, rip it down and stare at it for any revelation of the hand behind it. Instead, he said casually, “The drawing. Is that Buddy?”

  She laughed. “Look closely.” She reached up, took it down and handed it to him.

  He’d have known Buddy anywhere. The big bullet head with only a fuzz of hair, the black sunglasses. He wore his police uniform, but instead of a Sam Browne belt, he wore a tool belt, and instead of aiming a revolver, he pointed an electric drill. His fierce expression said he was definitely going to “drill” somebody.

  In spite of himself, Paul laughed. “I’d know him anywhere. It’s really good.”

  “Kinder than a lot of Uncle David’s sketches. If he didn’t like somebody or thought they needed taking down a peg, he could be really wicked. I like that one. It’s Buddy to a T.”

  “I guess he didn’t want it hanging in the police station.”

  “Actually, I had to beg him for it. He gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. He couldn’t very well refuse his own kid, now could he?”

  Paul turned slowly toward her. “His kid?”

  “Yeah. Buddy’s my father. Didn’t you know?”

  “I had no idea. How come you call him Buddy?”

  “I started when I was a teenager because I knew it got his goat. Then when we started working together, it seemed an easier way to maintain a professional relationship and reassure the clients. It’s better for me to yell ‘Hey, Buddy,’ than ‘Hey, Daddy.’ Would you trust a contractor who hired his own daughter to restore your woodwork?”

  “I would if the contractor were Buddy. But I understand clients might feel uncomfortable, especially if they had a complaint about your work.”

  “Never happens. I’m too good.”

  “Do you work with your father—Buddy—exclusively?”

  “I try to give him first dibs, is all.” She began to break eggs into a glass bowl with one-handed expertise. “He has to bid for me just like everybody else. I’ve just gotten back from three months in Buffalo restoring the proscenium arch of an old movie theater that’s being converted into a community theater. Before that I spent a couple of months in Colorado Springs redoing woodwork for a prairie mansion that’s being restored. This is actually the first job I’ve had this close to home since I moved back to Rossiter.”

  All the time she talked, she was constructing the omelet. He was impressed. He knew the way good cooks maneuvered in the kitchen.

  “There are some fresh bagels in the bread box. Split us a couple, would you, and stick them in the toaster.”

  Paul did as she asked, then returned to his place at the counter.

  He enjoyed watching her. She worked efficiently, and before long was ready to pour the omelet mixture into a hot frying pan.

  “Okay. While I’m doing this, y
ou can set the table,” she said. “Place mats and silverware are in the top drawer of the Welsh dresser. I’ll bring the rest. Honey all right for your bagel?”

  Ten minutes later he sat down to an omelet, green salad and hot buttered bagels. He was growing mellow from his second glass of wine.

  His small sojourn on his porch had begun the job of relaxing him. Sitting opposite Ann in this pleasant place completed the job. Even the ache in his shoulder had subsided. He felt Dante’s heavy head against his ankle and looked down to see hungry eyes.

  She noticed and said, “Don’t you dare. Dante doesn’t eat at the table. He’d be impossible if he ever started.”

  “The omelet is as good as I’ve ever eaten. Thanks for taking me in tonight. I promise you dinner in return.” He wasn’t flattering her. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until his first bite. After a moment he said, “Tell me about the artist who did that caricature.”

  “Uncle David tossed off those little sketches. He sold them at charity functions.”

  “And gave the money away?”

  “He certainly didn’t need it himself.”

  “Did he do other things—portraits, landscapes, still lifes?”

  “A few portraits. He never sold anything, never had an art gallery to represent him or did a show that I’m aware of. His studio was in the old summer kitchen behind your house.”

  Paul caught his breath. “I haven’t even tried to get into it. I assumed it was derelict. Buddy said it would probably have to come down to make way for the new garage.”

  “You didn’t go in when you were looking at the house before you bought it?”

  “It was padlocked, and Mrs. Hoddle didn’t have the key. I’ve tried to see in the windows a couple of times, but they’re filthy. The door may be old, but it’s solid, and the padlock is one of those that can’t be broken open even with a pistol shot.”

  “Don’t need a pistol. Just need a good strong pair of bolt cutters. I can get you in there tomorrow morning if you like.”

  “Do you think there might be other drawings left after all these years?”

  “Possibly. More likely the rats and mice have shredded them for nests.”

  “Wouldn’t Trey have included any sketches he found in the estate sale?”

  “Somebody else handled the details of the sale. Besides, Trey always thought his father’s artist thing was a pose. He hated it. Trey and Sue-sue came by two days after Miss Addy’s funeral and took what they wanted. Then the estate people moved in, set up the sale and ran it. They probably didn’t even attempt to get into that summer kitchen. Must have thought it was empty the way you did. Besides, work by an unknown artist wouldn’t be worth much, and most of the stuff at that sale was going for premium prices. I could barely afford the button box.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Miss Addy’s button box. Come on, I’ll show you. It’s in the workroom.”

  He followed her to a shadowy corner of the workroom where a small table stood. Fitted neatly within a rim on top was a tole box less than two feet long, a foot or so wide and perhaps five inches deep. It was formed and painted to look like an old leather-bound book.

  “She had the table built specially to hold it. She used to tat and sew while her students played their pieces. I was always dying to look into it, but I never did until after I bought it and brought it home.”

  “The title on the cover reads Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. Interesting choice for a woman who never married.”

  “She didn’t have it painted, silly. She bought it that way.”

  “So what treasure does it conceal? Or was it empty?”

  “No, it was just the way she left it.” Ann raised the lid. Inside lay a jumble of different colors of embroidery thread, a pair of elaborately carved silver sewing scissors, several hand-painted thimbles and forty or fifty small packets, some in yellowing envelopes, others in small plastic bags.

  “Buttons,” Ann said. “When women buy a new dress or blouse, usually the manufacturer includes a couple of extra buttons in case one falls off. The average woman takes the dress home, removes the little envelope with the buttons, stuffs it in a drawer, forgets where she put it and can’t ever find it again when she needs it.”

  “Miss Addy was organized.”

  “She sure was. She must have inherited some of these buttons.” Ann picked up one of the envelopes and opened it so that Paul could look inside. “See—these are real ivory. They’re not made any longer.” She put back that envelope and chose another. “And these are hand-painted cloisonné. Very old and very fine.” She chose a third envelope. “These are hematite—that’s a kind of jet Victorian ladies liked to use on their dresses. Some of them are museum quality. I really lucked out. I wouldn’t sell this for a million dollars.”

  “So there actually might be something worth having in the old studio?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, although I doubt it.”

  “I would like to get in there.”

  “Not a problem. How about another bagel?”

  “No, thank you. I’m stuffed. Much better than any restaurant we could have gone to.”

  “I like to cook.” She gestured at herself. “Like to eat, too. Honestly, I have no idea how those skinny models do it.”

  “They’ve inherited high metabolism and they starve. I know from firsthand experience.”

  “With stewardesses?”

  “Not stewardesses any longer. Flight attendants. My fiancée was a flight attendant.” He’d barely spoken of Tracy to anyone, not even Giselle, since they’d broken up. Somehow the pain he’d been expecting at the mention of her desertion hadn’t come. He felt relief, instead.

  “I didn’t know you were engaged.”

  “I’m not. She left me and married another guy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Better this way. It was my fault. After I got hurt I turned really nasty while I was recuperating. Tracy stood it as long as she could, then she left. She was right. I was impossible.”

  “You seem so even-tempered.”

  He laughed. “I was a monster.”

  “So you had to retire? No wonder you were a monster.”

  “Yeah. Look, can we change the subject?”

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  “Tell me more about the Delaneys. Every day I’m in that house I get more curious about them.” He ignored the small voice in his head that reminded him of his intention not to use Ann for information.

  “Let’s see, you know about the first Paul Delaney, who bought a lot of land, married a rich wife and built your house for a bunch of children he never had.”

  “And I know about his son Adam. And his son Barrett, the forecloser.”

  “Right. Barrett’s son, my uncle Conrad, married my aunt Maribelle.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows. “Am I detecting a pattern here?”

  “So tacky!” Ann laughed. “But disgustingly Southern. The Paul Delaney who built the house had some sort of weird biblical middle name like Hezekiah or Elijah. He named his son Paul Adam. Then came Paul Barrett and Paul Conrad.”

  “Then Paul David?” Paul asked.

  “Right. And Trey’s real name is Paul Edward. His son is Paul Frederick. I pray Freddie doesn’t name the next generation something like Paul Gormless.”

  “If he does, he’d better teach the kid to fight.”

  “Gram says the only good thing about this stupid name business is that by the time they get past Zebediah and have to start over with Aaron and Billy Bob, we’ll all be dead and gone.”

  Paul thought about his own middle name—Antoine. Did that perhaps signify the start of a new dynasty?

  “Uncle Conrad was sweet as pie so long as he got exactly what he wanted when he wanted it. The only person he could never bully was my aunt Maribelle. Nobody could bully her.”

  Paul wanted to tell Ann about the news photo he’d seen, but couldn’t think of a safe way to introduce the sub
ject.

  “Gram says he and Aunt Maribelle had the fanciest wedding since the depression began. Twelve bridesmaids and people arriving from as far away as St. Louis. Then they went to Hawaii for their honeymoon. Back in those days you had to take a ship from San Francisco. So romantic. Gram says by the time they got back they were so bored with each other she thought they’d get a divorce.”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “Nope. Aunt Maribelle was pregnant with the next Delaney, and once they both got back to doing some real work, they got along fine. Too much togetherness will kill any relationship.” She glanced away quickly.

  Paul had an idea she wasn’t talking about her great-aunt and uncle. Ann’s last name was Corrigan—another reason he hadn’t twigged to her relationship to Buddy. There was apparently no husband in the picture, so she must either be divorced or widowed. She wore no wedding ring—no jewelry of any kind. Of course that could be because the chemicals she worked with would damage her jewelry.

  “I assume Conrad ran the farms.”

  “By that time it was agribusiness—another word for a hell of a lot of land, crops and money.”

  “What kind of work did your aunt Maribelle do?”

  “She made a career out of driving everybody nuts.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Aunt Maribelle not only had an opinion about everything, she expected that opinion to take precedence over anybody else’s. One time my mother bought a sofa—a big expenditure on a policeman’s salary. Aunt Maribelle took one look at it and said the color was only appropriate if we expected the dog to throw up on it nightly. I thought Gram would kill her.”

  She stood and began picking up the dishes. He rose to help, but she pushed him down again. “Nope. It’s a one-person kitchen with a dishwasher. Want some decaf?”