Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

Across town in an underground garage, Kendall Brodie unlocked the trunk of his graduation present, a black Porsche, and tossed in a leather suitcase. “Come on, Nick, hurry up!” he called to his friend, who had stopped to talk to another resident of their apartment building.

Kendall was annoyed because Nick was wasting time, but more annoyed that Nick seemed to be on a first name basis with every attractive woman they saw. The truth was Nick had even introduced him to Marilyn several months before. When he’d brought them together, he’d said, “You ought to suit each other to a T. And if you run out of other things to do, you can always discuss my bad habits.”

They had hit it off right from the start. Marilyn had everything Kendall liked in a woman: fair hair that hadn’t come out of a bottle, baby blue eyes, delicate features, a soft voice, and a gentle style. She liked having doors opened, chairs pulled out, and all those things so many modern women seemed to take as condescension. She was, for lack of a better word, a lady. He was certain his parents would approve of her.

Nick had met her at the home of another skier. She was the sister of a friend of a friend, and Nick had thought she was perfect for Kendall. Nick went for the modern, no-holds-barred variety. The kind that phoned at all hours, didn’t seem to care how much skin they displayed, and were game to try anything at least once. Kendall found the sum total more like a torpedo than an attraction.

“No class” summed it up nicely.

Nick was through talking now and he strolled leisurely toward the car and tossed his suitcase in beside Kevin’s. “Waiting long?” he asked with a grin. Kendall knew that as usual Nick had read his thoughts.

They took their seats in the powerful car. But the number of horses under the hood was of little use once they hit the Don Valley Parkway. Traffic was stop and go, with more stop than go, and after a while they ran out of mundane conversation. Kendall coughed. “About the job—”

“Not that again!”

“I just want to say—”

“I’ll jump!” Nick unsnapped his seat belt and reached for the handle.

“That’s scary. We’re going maybe five miles an hour.”

“But you promised!”

“I promised I wouldn’t keep bugging you about it. All I wanted to say was please keep an open mind. Talk to my dad and the others. That’s all.”

“And if I promise to do that, you won’t mention it again?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Okay. I’ll keep an open mind. Now, any new CDs?”

They listened to music for a while, but the slow traffic was annoying. Kendall began drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Traffic’s going to be bad all the way,” Nick commented.

“Everybody’s heading out of the city. Cottage time.”

“Yeah. Too bad, but you can’t blame ’em.”

“Wouldn’t have been busy if we’d left a couple of hours ago.”

Nick covered his face with both hands. “I know. All my fault. What’s the penalty?”

“You can entertain my country cousin for the weekend.”

Nick lowered his hands and stared at Kendall. “The one from out west?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure what our relationship is. Her mother is my mother’s cousin. So we’re—second, isn’t it?”

Nick adopted a British accent he sometimes used. “Not close enough to bother about, what?”

“I told you I think my mother is matchmaking. So it’s up to you to run interference. Enthrall her.”

Nick switched to a Clouseauish French. “Aha,
ze
plot thickens. I deduce you have not yet told
maman
about
ze
so-beautiful Marilyn?”

“I was going to before she sprang this cousin on me. I thought it better to wait. She’ll be disappointed when Lorry what’s-her-name and I don’t hit it off, and she’ll be in despair that she’ll never have grandchildren, which is the main reason she wants me to fall for Lorry, and then I’ll pop up with Marilyn and Mom’ll fall all over her with joy. Sound good?”

“Sounds like you’ve been reading trashy romance novels instead of law books.”

“Very funny. Don’t you think it’ll work?”

“Well, I guess when you consider the material at hand, it might work.”

“There’s nothing Mom won’t like about Marilyn. Is there?”

“Nothing I know at any rate. And don’t look at me like that. I thought when I met her she was perfect for you, so I reserved her for you.”

“Thanks.”

“I expect to be Uncle Nick to all your little Brodie brats.”

“How about being Papa to a few Donovans?”

Nick’s cheerful face clouded over. He stared out the window at the cars in the other lanes. “Not a chance,” he said quietly. “Not one in a million.”

A wall had come up, but Kendall pushed against it. “Who knows? Maybe my country cousin will turn out to be a smoldering dark-eyed gypsy who’ll sweep you off your feet in the good old-fashioned way, huh?”

Nick grinned. “Sure she will,” he drawled, relaxing once more into the cushions. “More than likely she’s coming to Toronto because she figures with the higher population of males here she’ll be able to find someone who’s both deaf and blind.”

At that moment, in Pearson International Airport, George Brodie, as promised, was watching for Lorry Preston among the passengers disembarking from Flight 203 from Edmonton.

Ellen proved correct; Lorry was very easy to spot. With that flaming red hair—no, not really red, more what they called auburn—neither too short nor too long, shining like a brand new copper penny, breathing elegance and good-manners against the background of a very smart moss-green suit, she would have caught George’s eye no matter who he’d been waiting for.

He stepped forward to greet her, and was surprised to see that her complexion was not the combination of freckles and easily burned skin that was the bane of many redheads. Rather, it was clear and creamy. Her eyes, like her suit, were green. Green and intelligent and clear. Not a cover girl, perhaps. Her mouth was a trifle large, and her chin a little too square. But she would never lack for admirers. He began to understand Ellen’s desire for Kendall to meet this young woman.

As their eyes met, a smile lit her face, and he was caught off guard. In his business he was used to meeting people who were trying to hide something. Rarely had he seen a smile so genuine.

They shook hands. George took command of her luggage, and within a few minutes the canvas suitcases were stowed in the back of his Lincoln and Lorry was comfortably seated on the passenger seat in the front.

They spoke briefly about the flight and the weather, and George mentioned that his partners and son would be at the house. Then they relaxed into silence.

Lorry didn’t mind. She needed time to assimilate what was happening. She was in Toronto! Seated in what she thought was rightly called a limousine, in traffic that seemed to go wall to wall, being driven by a wealthy city lawyer. She shivered with excitement; then glanced over at George. He was staring straight ahead at the road and he seemed completely preoccupied. With all this traffic, one would have to concentrate.

Her eyes narrowed. George was dressed in clothes that looked well-cut and expensive. But he didn’t quite live up to the clothes or the car. In fact, her first impression was that he reminded her of a neighbor who worked as a plumber. The smallish stature (Lorry was 5’ 5” and, when she was standing beside him in her heels, George had been only slightly taller), thinning gray hair, matching mustache—somehow it didn’t add up to what she would have expected the senior partner of a very prestigious law firm to look like. But he was certainly at ease behind the wheel of the expensive car.

She allowed herself to relax into the cushions. Her mind drifted. She’d come to Toronto for the summer to join a group of people who worked with street kids. She didn’t expect to have a lot of fun. Rather, she knew there would be long hours of hard work and lots of frustration. Still, she couldn’t wait to get started! After four years of studying youth and psychology, she was ready to put what she’d learned into practice.

Spending the summer in Toronto also would give her a chance to look objectively at her life. While there were several young men whose company she enjoyed, she wasn’t ready to settle down with any one of them. “Haven’t met Mr. Right!” was how she put it.

But in actuality there was someone who had been trying for several months to persuade her she was mistaken.

So far, she wasn’t convinced. But lately she’d been wondering if she knew her own mind. After all, Dean was intelligent, trustworthy, capable, and, as he repeatedly said, crazy about her. And she liked him very much. But was that liking the kind of love that would last for fifty years? It was hard to decide. So it was good to get away, to have the opportunity to think about him from a distance.

Her mind returned to the weekend before her. In a way, it was an unwelcome distraction. So different from what the rest of the summer would be like. When the letter came inviting her, she’d wanted to write back and refuse. Frankly, she didn’t feel some people should have large houses and everything money could buy when there were starving people in the world.

But not to go or to cause a scene would be rude.

So here she was, committed to spending a weekend with relatives she barely knew and didn’t expect to like.

Butterflies took up a fast polka in her stomach.

She shut her eyes and began to pray that she wouldn’t do or say anything really stupid.

Beside her, feeling guilty because of his lack of conversation, George Brodie glanced over and noticed her eyes were shut. He was pleased. He intensely disliked small talk and had no idea what to say to this girl. Good that she was taking a nap. With all the traffic, he hoped it was a long one.

Watching the other cars with one part of his mind, he allowed the other, larger part to return to where it had been before he went in to meet Lorry. He knew his doctor would just say this uneasy feeling was caused by the ulcer he was treating. But George honestly didn’t think so. The only thing he’d inherited from his Irish father was a sort of second sight that often gave him a premonition of good or bad to come. Right now, he felt that something bad was about to happen. But what?

If George had known what was going on in a very modern, beautifully decorated and furnished apartment in North Toronto, just a few miles from his new home, more warning bells might have pealed in that receptacle of his intuition which he privately acknowledged as his gut.

In that apartment, which was a dream of soft taupes and warm grays highlighted with splashes of vivid red, a woman stood in front of a stone fireplace and stared intently at the single picture on the mantel. A blond, blue-eyed child stared back at her, his face captured permanently in a sweet boyish grin.

But the woman’s face bore no sign of an answering smile. Her red mouth was set in a hard line, and her gray eyes were cold and grim.

She turned away and paced the room for a bit, her feet in their sensible low heels sinking into the taupe carpet, her hands restlessly clenched at the sides of her expensive charcoal suit, man-tailored, relieved only by white ruffles at the neck of the silk blouse and rubies on the lapel and in her ears. She stopped pacing and stepped close to a mirror framed in oak. For a long moment she stared intently at her face.
Not bad,
she thought. In another year she’d be forty, but she looked five years younger. A bit hard, maybe, but what could you expect? She’d had to make it up every rung by her own sweat.