The Case of the Confirmed Bachelor. Diana Palmer
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walked by the house on her way home from school. She was tall, very slender, with curves that weren’t noticeable at all. That hadn’t changed. Her hair was in a bun these days, not long and windblown. She wore little makeup and clothes that were stylish but not sexy. Her body was as slender as it had been in her teens, nothing to make any man particularly amorous unless he loved her. Poor Tabby. He felt sorry for her, angry at Helen because she’d engineered that meeting at New Year’s Eve and made Tabby think he cared about her.
He did, in a sort of brotherly way, mainly because that was how he’d always interpreted Tabby’s attitude toward him. She’d never seemed to want a physical relationship with him. Not until New Year’s Eve, anyway, and she had been intoxicated. Perhaps this colleague she was dating did love her, and would make her happy. He hoped so.
Life in a garret wasn’t for him. He was already thinking about applying to Interpol or as a customs inspector down in the Caribbean. A tame existence appealed to him about as much as drowning.
He pulled into the driveway of his father’s house and sat just looking at it quietly for a long time. Home. He hadn’t ever thought about what it meant to have a place to come back to. Odd, with his need for freedom, that it felt so wonderful to be in his own driveway. Possession was new to him, like the feeling of emptiness he’d had since the Christmas holidays. Loneliness wasn’t something he’d experienced before. He wondered why he should feel that way, as if he were missing out on life, when his life was so full and exciting.
As he unlocked the front door and carried his suitcase inside, he drank in the smells of wood and varnish and freshener, because he’d had a woman come in and clean every week since the house had been vacant. His parents’ things were neatly kept, just as they’d been when he and Helen were children. Nothing changed here. The smells and sights were those of his boyhood. Familiar things, that gave him a sense of security.
He scowled, looking toward the banister of the staircase that led up to the three bedrooms on the second floor. His long fingers touched the antique wood and fondled it absently. Selling the furnished house had seemed the thing to do. Now, he wasn’t sure about it.
As the day wore on, he became less sure. The power had been turned on earlier in the week, and the refrigerator and stove were in good working order. He found a coffeemaker stashed under the sink. He went shopping for supplies, arriving home just as a small blue car pulled in next door.
He paused on the steps, two grocery bags in one powerful arm, watching as a woman stepped out of the car. She didn’t look toward him, not once. Her carriage very correct, almost regal, she walked to the front door of her house, inserted the key she held ready in her hand, and disappeared out of sight.
Tabby. He stared after her without moving for a minute. She hadn’t changed. He hadn’t expected her to. But it felt different to look at her now, and it puzzled him. He couldn’t quite determine what the difference was.
He went inside and started a pot of coffee before he fried a steak and made a salad for his supper. While he was eating it, he pondered on Tabby’s lack of interest in his presence. She had to have seen the car in the driveway, seen him go to the door. But she hadn’t looked his way, hadn’t spoken.
He felt depressed suddenly, and regretted even more the wall he’d built between them at New Year’s. They were old friends. Almost family. It would have been nice to sit down with Tabby and talk about the old days when they’d all played together as children. He didn’t suppose Tabby would want to talk to him now.
After he’d finished his meal and washed up the dishes, he sat down in the living room with a detective novel. The television wasn’t working. He didn’t really mind. It was like entertainment overkill these days, with channels that never shut down and dozens of programs to choose from. The constant bombardment sometimes got on his nerves, so he shut it off and read instead. Nothing like a good book, he thought, to cultivate what Agatha Christie’s hero Hercule Poirot called the “little gray cells.”
He was knee-deep in the mystery novel when the front door knocker sounded.
Curious, he went to open the door.
Tabby stood there, unsmiling, her hair in a neat bun, her glasses low on her nose, her expression one of strain and worry. She was wearing a neat suit with a white blouse, and she obviously had worn it all day. It was nine in the evening and she hadn’t changed into casual clothes.
“Hello,” he said. His heart felt lighter and he smiled.
Tabby didn’t return the smile. Her hands were folded very tightly at her waist. “I wouldn’t have bothered you,” she said stiffly, “but I don’t really know any other detectives. It seemed almost providential that you came home today.”
“Did it? Why?” he asked.
She swallowed. “I’m under suspicion of theft,” she said. Her lower lip trembled, but only for an instant until she got it under control. Her head lifted even higher with stung pride. “I haven’t taken anything, and I haven’t been formally charged, but only I had access to the artifact that’s disappeared. It’s a small vase with cuneiform writing that dates to the Sumerian empire, and they think I stole it.”
Chapter Two
Nick’s dark blond eyebrows rose curiously. “You, a thief? My God, you walked two blocks to return a dollar old man Forbes lost when you were just sixteen. People don’t change that much in nine years.”
She seemed to relax. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I need proof that I didn’t do it. If you’re going to be in town for a few days, I want to employ you to clear me.”
“Employ for pete’s sake!” he growled. “Honest to God, Tabby, you don’t have to hire me to do you a favor!”
“It’s business,” she said firmly. “And I’m not a pauper. I don’t need to impose on our old friendship.”
“You can’t imagine how prissy you sound,” he mused, his dark eyes twinkling as they searched hers. “Come in here and talk to me about it.”
“I, uh, I can’t do that,” she said, glancing uneasily around her as if there were eyes behind every curtain. “Why not?”
“It’s quite late, and you’re alone in the house,” she reminded him.
He gaped at her. “Are you for real?” He scowled and leaned closer, making a sniffing sound. “Tipsy, are we?” he asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“I am not!” she said stiffly, flushing. “And I wish you’d forget that. I was drunk!”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “I’ve never seen you with a snootful. Your mask slipped.”
“It won’t ever slip again like that,” she told him. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
“Not really. Why can’t you come inside? I almost never have sex with women in suits.”
The color in her cheeks got worse. “Now cut that out!”
He shrugged. “If you say so.” He folded his arms across his broad chest. His shirt was unfastened at the collar, where a thick golden thatch was just visible. It seemed to disturb Tabby, because her eyes quickly averted from it.
“I thought, if you had time, we might meet for lunch tomorrow and I’ll fill you in.”
He sighed with mock resignation. “There’s not really any need for that.” He reached beside him and turned the porch light on. Then he escorted her down the steps and neatly seated her on the middle step, lowering himself beside her. “Here we are, in the light, so that everyone in the neighborhood can see that we aren’t naked. Is that better?”
“Nick!” she raged.
“Don’t be so stuffy,” he murmured. “You’re living in the dark ages.”
“A few of us need to or civilization as we know it may cease to exist,” she returned