Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (top books of all time txt) 📗

TWELVE

THE DUO DROVE me back to The Nest same way as we had left. They handed me a card with their direct number just in case, and that was that. Oops, to their credit they did check that my Fiat was still where I had left it.

Inside the main entrance, the table that had been set up for the open house was gone. No sign of Kay either and since it was after four p.m., there was no reason for me to hang around. The detectives made it crystal clear that the condo was off-limits. The legal owner would be contacted. They didn’t tell me by whom or when. Boy, that was certainly not the kind of news that poor seller was waiting to hear. And it was suggested I let the Brown sisters know that their listing was now off the market indefinitely.

In my opinion, such notice could wait until morning. And I had no intention of being the one to break the news to that mean Leeann. Sounded like a job for Sunny.

Time to head home to my lonely place, even Brenda and her always-ready yummy food wouldn’t be there tonight. In a way, having Dior go with Brenda turned out to be a wise decision. The idea of fast food was just too depressing. I drove straight home. Some Christmas lights were already on along our street, but none at our house. Brenda didn’t trust timers, not sure why, so our home was dark—but not so dark I wouldn’t have noticed Bob Clarke’s car parked across the street on the widow’s driveway—his own car, not the police squad.

How cozy. Planning on spending the night? Oh, I forgot...he fixed things for her. Wonder what the weasel was there to fix this time.

I hated myself for being so cynical. Maybe not cynical, maybe a little envious. How come I couldn’t find someone special? On that thought I unlocked my front door and kicked off my shoes. Ah, that felt...liberating. I had worn high heels all day, minus pantyhose. I hated pantyhose. Had to check my cell and return some of the calls before I poured myself a glass of wine. On an empty stomach even a small amount of alcohol would put me to sleep. I dragged myself and my purse to the couch and fished the phone from the bottom of the bag. Wait...I left the file with the condo information at The Nest. That couldn’t be good. Especially since the papers weren’t mine for start with. Damn.

What now? My stomach growled. I should eat. Instead I clicked my cell on and began to sort through the many missed calls. If only Brenda could be on her way home—with food. I heard a soft knocking at my front door. No, not soft...cautious? No, no, no. It had to be that annoying Bob Clarke. He must have seen me driving in. I really should get one of those peepholes for the door, I kept saying that and then never did a thing about it. Peephole, funny name. Another knocking, a little louder.

“I’m coming.” It slipped out a little louder than I intended as I walked over, yanked the door wide open and—found myself staring at Tristan Dumont standing there, looking right back at me, and I couldn’t tell if he was happy or annoyed. Annoyed? I couldn’t think of a thing to say, my lips moved, or so I thought, but nothing came out of them. It was like one of those stupid games I saw American teenagers playing on television—chicken?

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Ah! He spoke first. Somehow, winning didn’t feel that good. I felt...shorter than usual beside him. And I looked at my bare feet. He followed my glance, and smiled.

I moved a little to the side. “Huh, yes. Sorry. Just got home.”

“Everyone’s worried about you.” He must have left his car on the street because I didn’t hear any engine, and I couldn’t see any automobile.

“Everyone? Like who?” Smart Monica, super smart. By now I also felt utterly silly and rude, while I fought the impulse to grab his arm and pull him inside.

“Your Aunt Brenda. Sunny.” He was counting off on his fingers. His eyes locked on mine. “Me...”

Me.

His voice trailed on the word, and time slowed. A lump blocked my throat, and I couldn’t speak, and all the pent-up stress and concern I had experienced all those hours spent sitting in the damn police office weighed against my chest. And for reasons I couldn’t explain or justify, I rested my forehead against his chest.

I will not cry. I fought really hard, but then his fingers brushed the top of my head, and the lump pushed harder, and a feeble, lonely sob escaped my lips.

“Fiat, I’m—please don’t cry.” He kept me close to his chest, and I could feel the beat of his heart against my cheek.

“I’m not crying,” I sobbed.

He moved back a little and blew my nose with a white handkerchief that smelled of sunshine and lavender, like my grandma’s linen drawer, and that was reason enough for me to cry harder. And for good measure, to make my humiliation complete, my stomach roared. And it was as if we hit pause. Tristan was now inside the door, he pushed it close and steered me to the couch. He tripped on my high heels, and we both ended up landing on the couch in a rather clumsy way. And just like that, we smiled at each other, and then he bent and kissed my forehead. I could feel him tremble.

“Girl, what am I going to do with you?” He repeated his old mantra softly, and I knew everything would be okay.

“When was the last time you ate?” The question was as pedestrian as could be, but the warmth in his amber eyes told a different tale.

I shook my head, “This morning? The only food they offered me was some