Nightsong (8 page)

The decision was taken from him in a slow, easy pressure of her palms against his upper arms. Elleny eased his fantasy to a lingering close, and reluctantly he forced his hands to his sides. But he couldn’t force his gaze from hers. It was dark now and getting colder by the minute, but Phillip thought he could stay just as he was indefinitely ... and still be warm.

“A.J. is calling me.” Her voice was a regretful whisper.

“I don’t hear anything.” His voice was husky, his logic nonexistent.

“Good night, Phillip. It was a lovely way to spend an evening,” She stepped past him, and for just an instant her fingers brushed his with new awareness. “A lovely way to
end
an evening.”

Elleny wished she could linger for another hour—or two, but she kept moving. Down the stairs, across the yard, away from temptation, and toward the house. A.J. was waiting for her there. She could see him at the kitchen door, his thatch of blond hair frosted silver by the inside light.

She felt Phillip’s gaze on her, and she wanted to turn, retrace her footsteps, relive the magic of a kiss that had been unexpected, but so much more than she’d imagined. But she couldn’t go back to him. She had other commitments at the moment. And even if she didn’t, Elleny wasn’t sure she would follow her impulse. There was no reason to rush the stirring possibilities; it had been only a kiss. There might never be another. Or there might be several. Either way, she was glad Phillip had come to Cedar Springs in his search for inspiration.

“Mom, do I have to take a bath?” A.J. asked in preparation for the usual nighttime battle.

It was a serious question that demanded her immediate attention, and with a soft sigh she went inside and closed the door behind her.

Phillip stared at the rectangle of light visible through the curtains at the kitchen door. There was no getting around it, he thought. He had just walked head on into a serious complication. And if he were fool enough to kiss her again....

His tongue glided over his lips, and he tasted the warmth of her mouth. The wind circled him, and he smelled the lingering fragrance of a delicate scent. His hand touched the wooden railing, and he remembered the silky feel of her skin. He was a fool to think he
wouldn’t
kiss her again – at the first opportunity.

The wisest course of action was to run like hell. But he couldn’t. For reasons that were becoming more incomprehensible by the moment, he had to find that painting. It wasn’t just the money or the satisfaction of following a hunch to its logical conclusion. It was turning into a matter of principle. A principle that had something to do with words like love, sharing, commitment.

And betrayal.

And
that
that had everything to do with his own peace of mind.

“Of course, I know what month it is, Sylvie.” Phillip gripped his cell phone in taut irritation and used his free hand to turn up the collar of his coat. “I also know the day, the year, and the correct time. But I’m standing outside, and it’s too damn cold to argue facts with you.”

“Cold? In March?” Sylvie clicked her tongue in sad commiseration. “And all these months I thought you were enjoying springtime in Missouri.”

“I’ve been away from the office barely six weeks,” he stated flatly. “That hardly qualifies as
all these months.
I don’t know why you’re complaining about my absence. If I were in the office, you’d be asking if I didn’t have somewhere to go.”

“I haven’t said I wanted you back underfoot. I mentioned – innocently, mind you – that as a partner in this business you should check in once a week or even once every two weeks. Just to make sure I haven’t had you declared legally dead, liquidated the corporation of Smith-Kessler, and absconded with the company treasurer to the lower Decadent Islands.”

Phillip grinned despite his ill humor. “There isn’t a company treasurer.”

“There wasn’t one when you left ...
all
those months ago.”

He shifted the phone from one hand to the other and let his icy fingers burrow into the warm lining of his coat pocket. “Sylvie, it’s blasted cold, and my disposition is not sunny at the moment, so why don’t we—”

“—just admit that you’re wasting our time? You won’t hear a whimper of disagreement from me about that.” Her tone became suddenly serious. “Phillip, if the painting was there, you would have found it by now. No one expects you to do the impossible.”

He frowned as a car in need of a muffler roared down the street. The air was thick with gassy fumes, and frustration was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Sylvie, I’m not leaving. The van Warner is here. It’s just a matter of figuring out where Mark hid it. I’ve scoured every square foot of the studio. And I mean that literally. I’ve examined each scrap of paper I’ve come across on the outside chance it might lead to some tangible evidence. There’s nothing of any interest stored in the garage, and I haven’t seen enough of the house to ferret out all the possible hiding places. But I will.”

“Have I ever told you how pigheaded you are?”

“Many times.” With a halfhearted smile Phillip absently watched the corner traffic signal turn from amber to red. “Almost as many times as you’ve had to eat crow for saying it.”

“We’re straying from the point of this conversation, Phillip,” Sylvie said in her best let’s-not-go-into-that voice. “Which is – what is it you’re doing there?”

“Freezing, Sylvie, and exercising my frustration level.”

“You should get someone to keep your feet warm at night. I bet that would take care of both problems.” The pause was brief, but effective. “By the way, how is Elleny?”

In that split second Phillip wished he
had
strangled Sylvie years before. “Elleny?” he asked in a puzzled tone that was pure invention. “She’s fine as far as I know. Why?”

Sylvie’s laughter was quick and sure. “You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you never could put one over on me, Phillip.”

Which was true. Sylvie possessed an unhealthy insight into other people’s personal lives, most notably his. And she wasn’t wrong this time either. If there had been little progress in locating the van Warner, there had been undeniable progress in his relationship with Elleny. And he would have denied it if he could. Wearily, he rubbed the ache in the back of his neck.

“You know, Sylvie, I’m positive that Mark Damon fooled a lot of people in this town, but so far I haven’t found a single person who’ll admit it. Everyone is cooperative, but only up to a point. Either they honestly don’t know much about the real Mark Damon, or they know enough to realize that talking is only going to stir up past troubles.” Phillip rubbed a thumb along his jaw. “It’s amazing to me that the town as a whole speaks so highly of him. The guy must have been a hell of a charmer.”

The hesitation at the other end of the phone was almost palpable. “You’re not the D.A., Phillip. All you need is the painting. Guilt or innocence has nothing to do with this investigation.”

“Sylvie,” he began, only to find that the words he wanted to say eluded him. Mark’s guilt and Elleny’s innocence had everything to do with this case. But that was something his business associate would never understand – even if he could find the words to explain.

“Have you told Elleny yet?” Sylvie asked.

“What? That I’m not an artist? Or that I’m here to prove her late husband was not the wonderful human being she believes he was?” A heavy sigh escaped Phillip in a cloudy breath. “No, I haven’t told her.”

The silence from Boston contained a multitude of reservations, but to her credit Sylvie didn’t voice a single caution. Phillip inhaled deeply, and the air felt cold in his lungs as he waited a few seconds before continuing. “I want to have an opportunity to look through Jesse’s studio before I confront Elleny.”

“Do you really think the painting will be there?”

“I don’t know. In all the hours I’ve spent in the house with Elleny and her son, I haven’t seen even a glimpse of Jesse Damon. And I certainly haven’t gotten close enough to look inside his studio. But I’ve been told that he keeps many of Mark’s paintings there.”

“I think you’re grasping at straws, Phillip. In six weeks’ time you’ve found little tangible evidence to support your hunch – a couple of paintings you believe are forged, a couple more that you suspect Mark stole from his father and passed off as his own work. You might be able to prove the connection between Mark Damon’s claim to fame and his father’s very real talent, but that isn’t the van Warner, and it isn’t money in the bank. How long do you intend to stay there hoping the canvas will suddenly drop into your lap?”

“As long as it takes,” he answered firmly, but he knew Sylvie was right. Absolutely. He had reasoned out the same conclusions himself, but he couldn’t quit. It was too important. Because of Elleny. “Look, Syl, I’m going to get out of this wind. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

Phillip tried to smile. “I meant to tell you that I received the information you sent about the art dealer. I already knew the facts he gave about Mark and Jesse Damon’s careers, so it wasn’t all that enlightening, but it was a little embarrassing when the postmistress asked me if I often received small, plain,brown-paper-wrapped packages in the mail.”

Sylvie’s chuckle rippled across the phone lines. “That was a nice touch, don’t you think?”

“One of these days, Ms. Smith, I’ll return the favor.”

“Words are cheap, Kessler. Just find that painting and ... don’t get involved, okay?”

“You know I won’t. Good-bye, Sylvie. And thanks.”

“Good-bye, Phillip. I’ll send you a postcard from the islands.”

Phillip ended the call and shoved both phone and hands deep into the warmth of his pockets. It was a frosty Monday morning, but the sun was climbing steadily in a sky as blue as the morning glories that once had entwined in the trellis at his grandmother’s home.

The thought brought an image of the house and the flowers, but try as he might, Phillip couldn’t visualize his grandmother in the setting. Instead he saw Elleny, transposed from the present to his past as if she always had been a part of his consciousness.

With a lift of his chin, he dispelled the picture in his mind and glanced at the traffic signal. Green, now. Or again. He didn’t know how many times it might have changed color while he’d talked with Sylvie.
Listened
to Sylvie would be a more accurate description, he supposed. And for the sake of truthfulness, he’d have to admit that she made good sense.

Something he was having trouble doing these days.

Phillip frowned and began walking toward Dan’s Cafe, halfway down the next block. He was meeting Elleny there. As he had many times during the past weeks. Although he was living only a few dozen steps from her back door, he’d never accepted her open invitation to breakfast. It was safer—less intimate, more platonic—to share coffee at the cafe before she went to work at the bookstore and he returned to the studio and the pretext of painting.

Actually he had done some painting, more to alleviate his restlessness than for any other reason. Trying to piece together facts, impressions, and conjecture into solid evidence was a complicated and frustrating process. And he always was conscious of his masquerade. There were canvases, sketches, and finished pictures in his studio. All borrowed from an artist friend in Boston and transported from Massachusetts to Missouri in the back seat of his car. All displayed inside the garage apartment. All part of his cover and necessary to his investigation.

Necessary
was becoming the word he used to rationalize his every action. He wasn’t sure how his daily routine had evolved into the pattern of Elleny’s life, but he’d told himself it was
necessary.
After all, she was his link to the painting, his source of information about Jesse and Mark. Lying to her was a
necessary
evil. Spending evenings with her, with A.J. acting as unsolicited chaperon, was
necessary.

But his definition of the word was undergoing a subtle change. The more time he spent with Elleny, the more necessary it became to be with her. And the feeling had nothing to do with art, insurance, or rationalizations.

Don’t get involved,
Sylvie had said, and he’d assured her he wouldn’t. But he was. Without his consent, yet not without his knowledge, he was getting involved.

His footsteps slowed as he caught sight of Elleny’s car at the far end of Second Street. It was a late model SUV.  Certainly nothing to take away his breath. But the driver did. And as the car came closer to where he stood on the sidewalk, his mouth felt suddenly dry.

The SUV pulled to the curb beside him in an illegal parking maneuver, and Elleny rolled down the window. “Good morning.”

The huskiness in her voice warmed him and he smiled of simple necessity. “Good morning. You’re early for our coffee date.”

“Early? There’s no such thing on a glorious morning like this one.” She raised her eyebrows in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I’ve been up for hours. You would have known, too, if you hadn’t slipped out of the studio before I could get dressed and knock at your door.”

This time
his
brows rose.

Elleny never came to the studio. Since the night he’d kissed her on the landing, he hadn’t extended an invitation and she hadn’t trespassed on his privacy. Usually their time together was spent in surroundings that weren’t conducive to intimacy. In the evenings they took long walks in the neighborhood or sat in her front room, talking or sharing a companionable silence. As often as not in the mornings they lingered over coffee at Dan’s Cafe. But Phillip never allowed himself to forget that an interruption was only a moment away. And Elleny didn’t seem to mind that he hadn’t kissed her again. Or even so much as touched her hand.

He, however, minded very much. The situation he’d created was frustrating to say the least.

It was also
necessary.

“I didn’t think I’d be missed.” He offered the excuse absently, his thoughts preoccupied with the sunlight that glistened gold in her hair, with the subdued tint of moist color on her lips.