Absolutely, Positively (8 page)

“Terribly.”

Sean whispered, “We have company.”

Two men leaned against Sean’s Mustang. Thoreau had his little black nose pressed to the window as if he could sniff through the glass. He hadn’t barked at all. A watchdog he wasn’t.

The men were dressed in dark suits and dark trenches and wore dark sunglasses. They flipped open thin black wallets, revealing golden shields inside. “FBI,” the man on the left said. He was cute in a nerdy, grumpy kind of way. The kind of guy a woman loved to fall for in hopes she could change him into something wonderful. The kind of guy who would never change. The ultimate Mr. Wrong. “I’m Special Agent Thomas.”

“Agent St. John,” the other added. He was bald and a head shorter than his partner.

“It’s Donahue, right?” Agent Thomas asked, then nodded to me and added, “And you’re Lucy Valentine? What’s your business with Maureen Rourke?”

I shouldn’t have been surprised the agents knew who we were. If they’d been watching Maureen Rourke’s house when we pulled up, they could have easily called in Sean’s license plate. It wouldn’t have taken much more investigation to tie my name with Sean’s.

But … I glanced at Maureen’s house. There was also a very real possibility the house had been bugged, that they’d heard our whole conversation with Tristan’s grandmother.

Sean said, “We’re looking for Tristan Rourke.”

This news hadn’t surprised them. The house was definitely bugged. This pretty much sealed the deal that Tristan was living a life of crime. Law-abiding citizens didn’t often have the FBI looking for them.

“And having no luck finding him,” I added, passing them a business card. “We were hired to reunite him with a lost love.”

“Lost loves?” St. John smiled. Spirals of steam rose off his bald head. His skin was so tight against his bumpy skull it looked more like a topographical map.

I kept that observation to myself as I struggled not to be offended. “We all have our callings.”

Agent Thomas pinned me with a warning glare. “I suggest you stop looking for Rourke.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He’s the prime suspect in an ongoing federal case.”

Sean squared his shoulders. “Has there been a warrant issued?”

Baldy said, “Not yet.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“That’s need-to-know information.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Sean said, unlocking the car.

“Do us a favor, Ms. Valentine,” Agent Thomas added. “Go back to playing with the Staties. We’ll be watching to make sure you do.”

They turned away, walked toward a black SUV parked two houses down.

The Staties—slang for the state police. The parting comment stung, but their dismissal hit a nerve. I didn’t like being told what to do. “Charming,” I said to Sean as he held open my door.

He stared after the men. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this case.”

That made two of us. Instinct. Intuition. They weren’t feelings I pushed away easily. It was only the look on Meaghan Archibald’s face that fueled my desire to find Rourke.

Well, that and the fact that the FBI had told me to stay out of it.

As I nudged Thoreau aside to sit, my eye caught movement in the upstairs window in the house next door. A lacy white curtain swayed.

The FBI weren’t the only ones who’d been watching us.

8

The Porcupine was packed. I sidled up to the lunch counter, waited until someone left, and snagged a stool on the end. Raphael bustled back and forth, setting down orders, taking others, clearing plates.

I checked my phone for messages. I was still waiting to hear from Aiden. He was supposed to have met with the investigator on Mac’s case first thing this morning, then gotten in touch with me. Curiosity was killing me. I wasn’t known for my patience.

I had a voice mail—from Mum. “Oh, happy day, LucyD! My ring was right where you said it was. Thank you, thank you! Smooches!”

Smiling, I rolled my eyes and dropped my phone back into my tote.

“Good news?” Raphael asked. He gave me a quick kiss on my cheek. He motioned for another server to cover his station.

“Mum. She found her engagement ring.”

His dark eyes turned serious. “So she told you.”

“About her and Dad? Not so much told as I figured it out.”

How long would they have waited?

“Are you staying for lunch, Uva?”

“Not today. I just need some coffee and two turkey spinach wraps to go.”

“Something for the pooch?” he asked, nodding to Thoreau, who was nestled in the crook of my arm. Sean was looking for a parking spot.

I supposed Thoreau could have a little treat. “A plain turkey wrap.”

“To go? You sure?” Raphael punched the order into a computer.

“Definitely. This place is a nuthouse.” All the tables were full, and there was a line forming at the take-out counter.

“It’s the Lone Ranger.”

I whipped my head around to look out the glass storefront. “Where?”

Raphael laughed. “Not literally, Uva. He’s caused the upswing in business. People are using the Porcupine as home base while they hope to get a look at him.”

“More like take his money.”

“More like use our restrooms.”

I smiled, but my heart wasn’t in it. Too much going on in my mind.

Raphael took a long look at me. “Is there something wrong?”

He had been part of my life since I was three years old. If I were being completely honest, I’d admit he’d been more a father to me over the years than my own. But being completely honest made me feel slightly traitorous.

He’d nicknamed me Uva, Spanish for “grape,” when I was a tiny thing, throwing a temper tantrum of such proportions I’d turned myself as purple as a grape. Not long after, I’d begun calling him Pasa, “raisin,” because one day I hoped to turn into someone as good, as nurturing, as wise, as him. Well, that and he’d looked like a raisin, his whole face squished, wrinkled, when he scolded me over the hissy fit.

It didn’t surprise me he’d seen trouble in my eyes. I doubted there was anyone who knew me better, who could look straight through my many masks.

“Too many things to go into.” Like Mac, like Tristan Rourke, like the FBI watching me, like wanting Sean to move in with me.

“Hmmm,” Raphael murmured.

Maggie Constantine hurried over, carrying a plate of salad. She set it in front of the man next to me with a smile. “Lucy! Are you staying for lunch?” She looked around. “I can clear your favorite table.”

I wasn’t sure how the couple currently sitting at my favorite table would feel about that.

“I’m actually not staying,” I said.

I saw how very happy Maggie and Raphael were with each other, even though on paper it wouldn’t seem as though they’d make a good match. She was a Yankee fan; he was a die-hard member of Red Sox Nation. She liked classical music; it made Raphael’s ears bleed. She was younger by a good decade. Yet … they worked. Perfectly.

Something crashed in the kitchen. Maggie winced. “I should check on that.” She leaned across the counter, kissed my cheek. “We’ll have dinner soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

Raphael watched her leave, his eyes glowing.

“When are you going to marry her?” I asked.

“There’s time enough.”

“Is there?” I asked.

He rubbed an imaginary spot on the countertop. “I have a feeling you’re not talking about me.”

A server appeared and dropped off a to-go bag. I grabbed it and hopped off the stool. “Look at that. Gotta run. Sean’s probably already waiting upstairs and—”

“Uva.”

“Pasa, do you think it will last?”

He immediately knew what I was talking about.

My parents.

He tipped his head back and forth as if weighing options, then narrowed his gaze on me. Softly he said, “Does it matter?”

I knew what he was saying. They were happy now. In this moment. Wasn’t that what mattered most? Honesty hurt. “To me I guess it does.”

“Then it’s not so much about them as it is you, no?”

He was right, of course. He was always right.

“This is about Sean?” he asked.

Thoreau licked my chin. I rubbed his head, scratched under his chin. “I’m trying. Really trying to not to fear the future.”

“The curse,” he tapped his temple, “is here.”

“How can you say that? Without the auras…”

“Uva, even with auras love isn’t easy. There are still compromises, concessions. Still the need to understand, truly, the person you love. Their hopes, their fears.”

“But in the end the auras don’t lie. If you know for certain you’re a perfect match it’s easier to work through any problems. You know, without a doubt, that love will conquer all. With Sean, I don’t know. I don’t have that guarantee.”

Raphael tapped his temple again. “You do, Lucy. You just need to choose to believe.”

I closed my eyes in frustration.

“You’ll see,” he said.

Opening my eyes, I found him smiling. “Will I?”

Smugly he said, “Of course. When have I ever been wrong?”

I shifted Thoreau to my other arm, readjusted my tote bag, and made sure there were three sandwiches in the to-go bag. “There was that time you insisted a tomato was a vegetable.”

He snapped his hand towel at me. “Get out of here, you.”

As I pushed open the door, I heard his voice over the crowd: “Just believe.”

If it were only that easy.

9

Suz stood at the window, binoculars in hand. “Preston,” she said by way of an explanation as I opened the door to the office.

I set Thoreau down. He ran over to Suz, sniffed her boots.

“She’s recruited you as a Lone Ranger lookout?”

Suz sheepishly said, “She didn’t need much arm-twisting. I have my eye on a new camera, a fancy-pants Nikon, for Teddy’s birthday. I could use some extra cash.”

I looked down over the snow-covered Common. “Is she down there?”

“Yep. Has been for the last hour. The Lone Ranger usually shows up around lunchtime.”

“But he was just there yesterday. He won’t be back for another few days.”

“You don’t know that.”

I smiled. “Not this again.”

She laughed but didn’t budge from the window. “By the way, Sean and Aiden are in your office.”

Aiden must have learned something juicy if he came in person. I tapped my leg for Thoreau to follow me. “Is Dad in?” I asked Suz. I wanted his take on the Meaghan situation.

“Nope. Took the afternoon off. I think he had plans with Judie.” She made smoochy noises and winked at me.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Laughing, she lifted the binoculars and continued her watch.

Sean and Aiden were both leaning on the conference table when I walked in. Thoreau pranced over for love and attention.

Aiden said to me, “Well, if it isn’t the FBI’s newest best friend. I got a call from Special Agent Thomas himself. He’d very much appreciate it if you would keep your, and I quote, ‘cute little nose’ out of his case.”

“The nerve!” I said.

“It
is
pretty cute,” Sean agreed.

“Gag, gag,” Aiden said, dropping into a chair.

I opened Thoreau’s wrap, pulled out chunks of turkey that he ate from my fingers. The Dog Whisperer would have a fit.

Detective Lieutenant Aiden Holliday of the Massachusetts State Police had come into my life when a little boy had disappeared in Hingham’s Wompatuck State Park. Because of the outcome of that case Aiden, acting as a liaison for the state police, had offered me a position as a special consultant. Using my psychic abilities, I helped with missing-person cases, cold and new.

Some with happy endings.

Most without.

Over the course of the last few months Aiden had become more than my link to the state police—he’d become a friend.

“You could be just as gag worthy if you’d ever ask Em on a date,” I prodded.

“How’d this get turned around on me?” he asked Sean.

“I think it was the gag comment.”

Aiden looked between the two of us. “As I was saying, the good Agent Thomas phoned. Told me all about your visit to Maureen Rourke’s house.”

Thoreau bounced up and down on all fours, waiting for his next bite of lunch. I didn’t mention the change of subject, but I wasn’t giving up on getting Em and Aiden together sooner rather than later. Apparently Cupid needed a little nudging. “Does he have the power to keep us from investigating?”

Aiden popped a Tic Tac in his mouth. “Not formally.”

“But,” Sean said, “he can make our lives fairly miserable if we don’t comply.”

Aiden swiped a hand through his hair, a high and tight blond crew cut. He wore a pair of navy blue pants, a white button-down with a dark blue tie, and a corduroy blazer. His police credentials were clipped to his waist. “You two have apparently stepped on some big toes.”

“Why? Who
is
Tristan Rourke? What’s he done?”

“Something’s going on with Tristan?” Preston stood in the doorway. By the hangdog look on her face I had the feeling the Lone Ranger hadn’t made an appearance.

Sean waved her in. Since she was writing Meaghan’s story, Preston had every right to hear the news.

Aiden said, “Tristan Rourke is the suspected mastermind of the biggest art theft ring in the United States. Private homes, museums—doesn’t matter. The Heinz theft—Tristan Rourke. The Mayhew? Tristan Rourke.”

Preston’s eyes had widened as big as saucers as she sat down. “The Mayhew?” she whispered.

The Mayhew was a small, privately owned museum here in Boston, with some of the greatest masterpieces in the world under its roof. Three years ago it had been robbed, millions of dollars’ worth of paintings stolen. There had been no clues, no leads, no arrests. It was the biggest heist in U.S. history.

“How do they know Tristan is the mastermind?” Sean asked.

“And why haven’t they arrested him?” Preston added.

“I’m just the messenger,” Aiden said. “I don’t know anything about the case at all.”

“But you can find out?” I asked hopefully.

“I can poke around.”

I glanced at Sean. “We have to tell Meaghan.”

Preston said, “Of course we have to tell Meaghan!”

I eyed her. “This isn’t about her reaction and the quote you’re going to get.”