Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (19 page)

And
then he realized that it was a cry.  A strangled, muted kind of cry— 

Puddle
. 

No,
the dog was fine; he'd only left her a minute ago.  She was probably whining
because she was hungry or maybe she had to take a leak.  He'd check on her
afterward. 

When
Michael entered the studio, he stepped into a room that was white and nearly
empty.  In here, the hardwood floor was scuffed and worn.  A lone easel stood
by the window, holding a canvas with streaks of orange and gold, as though
Nicole's aunt had been testing the colors.  A white sheet was folded neatly on
the wooden table against the wall. 

Distantly,
he heard Puddle whine again, but ignored it and crossed over to the easel. 
Lifting the canvas, he turned and held it up to the window so it could absorb
the sunlight.  Nothing.  He could see straight through the translucent screen,
telling him that nothing lay beneath it.  After he set it down, he gave one
more look around.  With no other items for him to examine in this room, he
headed to the library. 

He
knew that art smugglers often covered an expensive work of art with something
else—a contemporary painting that was in reality a top-cover, not the true
acquisition.  It was then sold off to a knowing buyer.  Typically this would be
a multi-person operation in which every player had his key role. 

With
this in mind, Michael surveyed the paintings hanging, framed, on the library
wall.  Out of these, there were several possibilities. 
Damn
.  Puddle
again.  Guilt edged around his gut.  Maybe something was really wrong with
her. 
It'll only take a minute
, he reasoned and left the library. 
Doubling back, he made his way to the kitchen where he had left Puddle. 

She
was still in her bed, but no longer sleeping.  She was just laying there with
her eyes slanted half open.  Michael's forehead creased as he studied her. 
“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself, “that's the saddest face I've ever seen.” 

He
squatted down and reached for her, stroked her fur behind her neck and when she
didn't react, he gently lifted her paw, then released it.  It flopped down with
a thud.  In fact, the only signs of life were Puddle's slow blink and another
tinny little moan. 

“C'mon
sweetheart, what's the matter?” Michael said, running his hand gently over
Puddle's back.  “You're sick?”  He hadn't had a dog since he was a little kid,
but anyone could see that Puddle here was in pretty bad shape.

So
what the hell could he do?  This was his prime opportunity to find that
painting.  Once he found it, he could take it—chances were, without Nicole even
noticing it was gone—then he would set up his end, tying things up with Lucius
and their mysterious silent partner, and leave town. 

Once
he found the painting, he'd be well on his way to dropping this whole pretense
and getting out of Nicole's life.  The thought sort of disturbed him,
suddenly.  But he shook off the uneasy feeling, and focused on Puddle.  She was
eying him now with such a hopeless look, it could break his heart if he let
himself focus on it.

“Okay,
come on,” he said, gathering Puddle up into his arms, deciding on a
compromise.  He wouldn't leave her unattended.  He'd take her with him until
he'd found what he needed, and
then
he would see what was ailing her. 

As it
was he probably only had two hours, max, before Nicole returned.  And while he
was hoping the library would be the jackpot, the truth was that the painting
could be anywhere in this house.  It could be hidden in plain sight, or just
plain hidden.  Time was crucial.

As
Michael headed down the hallway, Puddle curled deeper into the crook of his
arm, and by the time they reached the library, she had completely buried her
nose in the bend of his elbow.  “Here,” he said, carefully setting her on a
sofa cushion.  Then he turned his attention to business.

There
were fourteen paintings hanging in this room.  According to Lucius the painting
they were looking for was about 24 inches by 18—which meant that if it was
hidden beneath one of these, the selection was narrowed to ten.  The dimensions
of the other four were too small.  Carefully, he approached each and rubbed the
wet cloth over the surface.  If an artist were to paint over a valuable work,
she would use water based paint.  Michael should at least be able to get some
smudges on his cloth as an indication.

Puddle
moaned.   

With
a sigh, Michael glanced over.  The dog was looking straight at him now.  Chin
flat against the couch cushion, pupils all the way to the side, just staring at
him. 

Once
she had Michael's eye contact, she cried again, louder this time.  “What do you
want?” he said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.  Of course it
wasn't the dog's fault, but damn it, what timing.  Puddle just blinked at him,
then whimpered loudly, obviously aware of her audience.  “Just hang on, okay,
please,” Michael urged, “I'll find a vet in town after I'm done here, okay?” 
Only after he'd said the words did he realize how asinine he sounded trying to
bargain with a dog.  And Puddle, for one, was unmoved.  She cried again.  She
sounded like she was in pain.  But what did he know about this stuff?  Maybe
she had a cold, no big deal—did dogs get colds?

He
shook his head, unwilling to get sidetracked further.  Willfully ignoring
Puddle, Michael rubbed the cloth over the third painting, and then peeled it
away from the wall.  Gingerly, he ran a hand along the back panels—

Puddle
whimpered and Michael sighed and rolled his eyes.  Then, in spite of himself,
looked back to see if she was okay.  Still shaggy and miserable. 

Along
the back seam of the fourth painting, Michael felt something.  It was a catch
in the backing, like a small, inverted dent.

Suddenly
he heard a thud.  He whipped his head around.  Puddle wasn't on the couch.  All
he could see in her place were the creases in the cushion.  Shit!  Had she
jumped down—or fallen?  Genuinely worried, he hurried around and found the dog
standing by the end table.  She shook off vigorously and then flopped down on
the rug like a sack of quarters. 

“Christ,
I can't work like this,” he muttered, annoyed, and shoved the cloth into his
back pocket.  He reached down, gathered her up.  “C'mon, sweetheart, it's gonna
be all right.”  Sounding grateful, Puddle sighed into Michael's forearm and the
two headed for the door.  (Until then, Michael hadn't realized that dogs
sighed.) 

Later
he would ask himself how this had all gone so awry.

***

What
the hell?
Nicole thought, shaking her head.  She had been stood up!  Granted,
she'd been almost fifteen minutes late, but still, she figured Abel Kelling
would show up or at least give her a call if he had to cancel.  After waiting
forty-five minutes for him, though, Nicole finally gave up and left the
Squire. 

Wait...had
she stupidly forgotten to give him her cell number yesterday when they had made
the plans?  Maybe when she returned to the house, she would find a message on
the home machine.  The wind kicked up, sending a shower of crisp brown and
orange leaves down from the trees.  She loved the sound the leaves made when
they crunched under the wheels of the bicycle, which she was rolling on the
sidewalk alongside of her.

“How's
your puppy?” a voice called. 

Startled,
Nicole looked over.  On the other side of
Main Street
, a white-haired
woman was waving to her.  Nicole recognized her suddenly.  It was Mimi Frances
from the Preservation League of Ladies.  “Your doggy!” Mimi added.  “How's the
doggy?”

“What
do you mean?” Nicole called back.  Her stomach tightened, suddenly panicked. 
“Did something happen to my dog?”

“She
was over at the vet's on
Plum Lane
,” Mimi replied.  “Yours is the shaggy
grayish one, right?  I was just there, dropping my cat off to get—”

Frantically,
Nicole cut her off.  “Oh my God, is she okay?  What's wrong with her?  How did
you know she was mine?”

“A
young man brought her in.  Heard him say as much to the receptionist.”

“Thanks!”

Hurriedly,
Nicole turned away—and then abruptly realized that she didn't know where
Plum Lane
was.  Mimi
Frances must have sense it, because she said, “Turn left up ahead at
Shore Road
, then a right.  It's
the brick building with the white awning.” 

Nicole
thanked her again and hopped on the bicycle.  As she pedaled, her mind raced
with worry.  Poor Puddle—what was wrong with her?  Why had Nicole ignored the
signs and gone to meet stupid Abel Kelling whom she really didn't give a damn
about anyway?

Right
now she had to suck up her guilt and make sure Puddle was okay.  She had to
find Michael.  She was going to owe him again.

Later
that night, Michael didn't come to dinner.  After the events of the afternoon,
Nicole had just supposed that he would. 

After
Nicole had found the vet's office on Plum Lane, she'd reached for the door just
as Michael was stepping out, carrying Puddle in one hand and a bag of medicine
in the other.  Michael had filled her in on Puddle's dilemma.  “The bad news
is: she has a parasite,” he told her.

“Oh
my God...” Nicole murmured.

“The
good news is: she's on antibiotics and she'll be fine.”

Relief
crashed through her chest.  “Thank God,” she said.  “I'm such an idiot.  I
should have taken her myself.  She was so lethargic.  I shouldn't have made it
less than it was.”

As he
set Puddle into Nicole's arms, Michael shook his head.  “No, she got a lot
worse.  She was whining and crying—really, Nicole—I wouldn't have noticed
otherwise.”  He took the bicycle and rolled it beside them, as they walked down
the street together.  “By the way, the shot he gave her is supposed to make her
even sleepier.  So don't worry if she's tired later.” 

“Thanks
again, Michael.”   After a few minutes of walking quietly, Nicole added, “By
the way, does it ever end with you?”

Tipping
his head, Michael asked, “What do you mean?”

“Being
indebted,” she replied. 

“Oh...”
he began with a brief, rough laugh.  Suddenly, he grabbed Nicole's arm and
stilled her.  “Wait up,” he said, keeping her from crossing the street into an
oncoming car. 

God,
where was her mind?  She felt like she was losing it slightly, becoming more
scattered than organized.  Which was a disconcerting thought to a librarian. 
“Thanks,” she said, relieved.   Like the rest of him, Michael's grip seemed
strong, solid...yet elusive in some way.  A thought struck her.  “You know, we
should really have each other's cell phone numbers.  If you'd had my number,
you could have just called me about Puddle.”  With agreement, he stopped on the
sidewalk to take his cell out of his pocket.

Right
there, they programmed each other into their phones, and for some reason,
Nicole was charmed by that moment, found it cute and sort of sweet.  Maybe it
was the little smile Michael had given her as he hit “save.”

That
was hours ago. 

Now
Nicole sat in her kitchen, recalling the afternoon, tapping her fork against
her plate, thinking how suddenly unfulfilling it was to eat store-bought mac
& cheese alone.

Why
hadn't he come tonight?  Granted, they hadn't made any plans.  They'd said
goodbye shortly after returning from the vet's.  Nicole had put Puddle to bed,
covered her with a sweater, and Michael had gone off to do his own thing,
whatever that was.  Now she sighed.  She wished she was more a part of whatever
his
thing
was.  Whatever he did in his real life when she wasn't with
him.  She wished she knew him more.

Don't
get too close to him
.  That was what her friends had said to her, and they were
probably right. 

Yet,
impulsively, she found herself flipping open her cell phone, and when he
answered she blurted, “Are you busy?”

“Please,
what am I busy with?  What's up?”

“Um...well
I wondered if you would come meet me on the beach.  I have something to give
you.”

“Yeah?”
he said, sounding intrigued.  “You get on another baking kick?”

Actually,
she had been bluffing, and now would have to come up with something.  Roving
her eyes around the kitchen, she spotted a decorative candle perched on a corner
shelf.  It was wrapped in cellophane and a gold ribbon.  “No, it's something
else,” she improvised.

“How
about this: I'll meet you on the beach, but you don't have to give me
anything.  You're too giving; we need to work on that during your next Poker
lesson.”

“Fine,
but I was going to go for a walk down by the water anyway,” she lied.

“See
you in a few minutes,” he said. 

When
she got down to the water's edge, Michael's dinghy was halfway there.  The
motorized little thing plowed through the water like a rake through soft soil. 
A shiver skittered across Nicole's skin as she watched him, and she wrapped her
arms around herself.  The night was blue-black and cold, with wind that cut
brutally across her face and nearly carried her scarf away.