Navy Seal's Match. Amber Leigh Williams
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you stop thinking of it as a racket,” she replied, “I’ll tell you. Maybe. Anything else?”
“When’s the naked séance? I might need to see that.”
“You won’t.”
He cursed. “Are you really here working or are you keeping tabs on me for the folks?”
“Well, now’s a good a time as any to make an entrance,” Zelda said as she breezed past him. She patted him on the biceps. Her sleeve brushed his arm. It was long and silky. She raised herself to her toes so he could hear her mutter, “For God’s sake, handsome, stop while you’re ahead.”
“When was I ahead?” he wondered out loud.
“Mavis thinks well of you,” she pointed out. “She rarely thinks highly of anyone. Be a good soldier. Keep to her good side.” She spoke briskly. The arm pat became a squeeze before she moved on, and Gavin found himself murmuring a quick, “Yes ma’am.”
He’d already decided that he liked the mistress...er, matron of the manor. Meeting her in person, he’d had difficulty assimilating the keen woman with old age despite her pixie mop of silver-tinged hair. She was tall—like Harmony, nearly as tall as him—narrow as an arrow, and shrewd. Like Mavis, she smelled great. Herbal, refreshing. He saw the bright streak of her head scarf as she moved to the counter. She made him think of jewel-colored birds in the tropics.
The river house was everything Mavis had promised. Clean lines. Open space. In the daytime, there was the added benefit of a flood of natural light with the outside literally coming in, as he’d discovered in the shower. The furniture was sparse and, oddly, close to ground. The low-level effect from the dining room to the bedroom brought to mind an Oriental theme. Judging by some Mandarin words he’d traced on the wall of his bathroom, he didn’t think he was far off there.
Zelda lived in the bedroom downstairs facing the river. My wing, as she called it in her deep silky voice. Rules are, I don’t enter your space, you don’t enter mine.
That’s fair, he’d said.
He was told to expect an odd assortment of visitors on weekdays and weekends and phones ringing late into the night. He’d thought that was due to Zelda’s so-called yoga school, which also operated out of the river-facing first floor. Now he knew to attribute it more to her and Mavis’s side business. Thankfully he’d found the soundproofing in his wing of the house to be impressive, despite the warning.
“Stunning rhododendrons!” Zelda said, approaching a tall spray of bright flowers in the corner. “Carlton Nurseries. Must be. The Bracken family trade always comes up with the best.”
Mavis made an assenting noise. “Dad picked it out. The Leightons sent it, as a thank-you for Saturday.”
“I’ll have Errol plant it in the front bed, in front of the office window,” Zelda announced. “That is, if he doesn’t mind working in the rain. We’re going to have a wet week. How’s the research coming for the Muculney case? Find anything?”
“It’s more in what I’m not finding,” Mavis said, her head low over her book again. “I can trace the girl’s Acadian line to Canada, but it stops expanding after the Civil War. No records that I can find of a child born of the Isnard estate after fighting broke out. Nothing at all under her name anywhere in Louisiana.”
“Did you try the internet?” Zelda asked as she fussed over the stovetop. Pots rang with the sound of silver as she removed a lid. The scent of soup filled the air. “Censuses? Area cemetery records?”
“I spent most of the afternoon at the computer.”
“Omissions can be telling. How hungry are you, Gavin?” Zelda asked him. “Soup’s been simmering since the a.m. and there’s more than Mavis and I can eat.”
Gavin lifted a hand. “I don’t expect you to cook for me. I can find my way around the kitchen.”
“Yes, I see you’ve been at the apples. Errol brought these from his backyard.”
“Who’s Errol again?” Gavin wondered aloud.
Zelda’s tone warmed over a purr. “Mon choupinou.”
Gavin frowned. “Is that code for boyfriend?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s French for ‘cabbage,’” Mavis said.
Gavin leaned into Zelda. “You sayin’ there’s another man around here?”
“Don’t you worry, toots.” She dug her elbow into his side. “There’s plenty of Miss Zelda to go around.”
Gavin felt a grin cracking across his face. “I like her,” he said, pinpointing Mavis over Zelda’s bright head scarf.
“Peas in a pod,” Mavis decided for herself.
Zelda used the ladle in her hand to tap him on the rear. “Have a seat at the counter, sugar loaf. There’s nothing heartier than minestrone soup at the day’s end. And you look like you could use some soul food.”
Gavin thought about going up to the solitude of his room. They were talking business and he couldn’t pretend not to be weirded out by the ghost-hunting side of it. However, the fragrance of minestrone hit him in the gut.
He crossed the room and rounded the counter, following the edge of it with his hand around the elevated bar. He tripped over something and looked down to see the prone dark lump on the floor. There were sounds coming out of it. Gavin realized it was Prometheus. “Is he okay?”
“Just sleeping,” Mavis informed him. “Why?”
Gavin waited for the noise to rise from the beast again. “When a helo makes that noise, it’s time to bail.”
“You know this from experience?” she inquired.
“Among other things.” From his previous, adrenaline-loaded life.
“The only thing he’s suffering from is exhaustion,” Mavis said. “I don’t know if you noticed, but he’s shadowed your every move since you got here.”
“I noticed,” Gavin said. He skimmed the side of his foot along what felt to be the dog’s ruff in a quick rub before grabbling for the back edge of the stool next to Mavis’s and pulling it out from under the ledge.
“If he bothers you, all you have to do is say so,” she said while he took his seat.
“He doesn’t.” Gavin had forgotten how companionable the silent presence of a canine could be, though he’d felt a clench when the shaded form of Prometheus had blurred into another dog’s as the late-afternoon light failed.
Gavin turned his attention to the stacks of books on the countertop. The rubbed scent of lignin stirred memories of libraries and secondhand bookshops. They were old books, he assumed. Big, from the sound of her closing and stacking them. He squinted at the spine of one. When the letters blurred, he scowled. He’d never been a big reader, but there had been freedom in knowing, should he choose, it could serve as a distraction.
A bowl clacked onto the granite in front of him. The steam wafted up his nose and his stomach grappled for the contents. Sustenance. “Mmm,” he said, unable to help it. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“No ma’am,” Zelda insisted, waving a napkin in front of her face before she set it down next to his bowl with a spoon on top. “It makes me feel retro.”
“Are you?” he asked experimentally, picking up the utensil.
“You’re a rascal,” Zelda realized. “I like that in a man.”
“Is Errol a rascal?” Gavin muttered in an aside to Mavis.
“He’s been known to listen to metal on occasion...”
“All men are rascals in some vein,” Zelda chimed in. “Even the