Sharp Edges (23 page)

"Yeah." He cradled her face between his hands. His eyes gleamed in the dawn light. "Change your mind?"

"Not exactly." She ran her fingers through his hair. "But I was wondering if maybe you'd like to try it again?"

He laughed softly, a rich, dark, sensual laugh that wrapped her in warm honey. "Like my Grandpappy Beau used to say, if at first you don't succeed…"

"Try, try again?"

He grinned. "Sounds like you knew my grandfather."

"It was just a wild guess. I told you, I've got excellent intuition."

"I remember." He glanced out the window. "As much as I respect my grandfather, I think my next try had better wait until tonight."

With obvious regret he eased away from her and got to his feet.

She watched him scoop up the aloha shirt that had been tossed onto the floor during the night. His broad shoulders moved with easy power as he slipped into it.

It gave her a strange feeling to have him in her bedroom like this. She could not take her eyes off him as he pulled on his pants. The quiet, confident masculinity that emanated from him riveted all her senses.

"You're going back to your own room because of Rick, aren't you?" she asked.

"I'm sure he's figured out that you and I are sleeping together, and that's okay." Cyrus picked up his moccasins. "But I want him to know that there is such a thing as discretion and common courtesy. A man doesn't flaunt his lover in front of an eighteen-year-old kid."

She smiled. "Is that something else Grandpappy Beau taught you?"

"I figured that one out for myself." He started toward the door.

"Cyrus?"

He turned back, waiting.

"About this eighteen-year-old kid," she said slowly.

His expression darkened. "Don't remind me. I've got to find a way to make things right between Rick and me today. But I'm not sure how to do it."

"Try letting him know that you don't think of him as a kid anymore."

Cyrus studied her intently for a long moment. "You think that's part of the problem?"

"I get the impression you've been a father figure to him for so long that you may not have realized you've done your job."

"My job?"

"You've made a man of him. I think he wants to be treated like one."

Cyrus was silent for a while. Then he nodded. "I guess you're right. Maybe he doesn't need me anymore."

The strange echo of a deeply buried wistfulness in his voice made her frown. "He may not need you to protect him or show him how to be a man, but I can guarantee that there's something else he needs from you a whole lot more. And he's going to want it for the rest of his life."

"What's that?"

"Your respect."

Cyrus gazed at her for a long moment. "Okay, I get the point. See you at breakfast."

Fifteen

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E
ugenia stood near the window of the Midnight Gallery and held the brilliant yellow, red, and turquoise glass sculpture in both hands. Light blazed through the seductive, sinuous curves.

"Beautiful," she murmured, more to herself than to Fenella, who watched from behind the counter. "A lovely thing, isn't it? He calls it
Sun
." Eugenia glanced at her. "A local artist?"

"Yes. Jacob Houston. I mentioned him to you when you came in the other day. He has a house and workshop out on Creek Road."

Eugenia carried the sculpture to the counter and set it down very carefully. "I'll take this, please." Fenella chuckled. "Going to put it into the Leabrook?"

"No. This one is going into my own personal collection. But I think I'll show it at the annual exhibition of contemporary studio glass at the Leabrook this fall." Fenella's eyes widened. "The Cutting Edge exhibition?"

"That's right." Eugenia opened her wallet and took out her credit card. "I'd love to take a look at some other Houston pieces."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Very." Eugenia handed over her credit card.

"Jacob will be thrilled." Fenella worked the cash register as she talked.

"I'd like to speak to him." Eugenia watched Fenella cocoon the glass sculpture in numerous folds of heavy brown paper. "Can you give me directions to his workshop?"

"Creek Road is about a mile out of town. When you see the sign, turn left. Jacob's place is about half a mile from there. But be prepared. He's the temperamental type. Flies off the handle at the least provocation. Except when he's working the glass. Then he's as cool as iced tea on a summer day."

"Thanks." Eugenia picked up the package.

"Enjoying your stay out at Glass House?"

"Very much. Fantastic views."

"So I've heard."

Eugenia looked at her. "You've never been there?"

"Adam Daventry only invited
artists
to his parties." Disgust glinted in Fenella's eyes. "He was obsessed with them. Liked to surround himself with them, sleep with them, watch them work."

"I see." Be subtle, Eugenia thought. She had a sudden mental image of the dark gallery filled with art created by Daventry's old lovers. "I admit I've heard a few of the tales. Apparently he, uh, had a number of affairs."

"Slept with just about every female artist on the island and a few of the men, too."

This was, Eugenia realized, a perfect opportunity to confirm Heather's gossip about Rhonda Price. "Including the artist who painted the picture I bought?"

"Poor, silly Rhonda didn't last long," Fenella said flatly. "Daventry decided she had no real talent. He only wanted to sleep with talent. But he didn't know real talent when he saw it."

"If what you say is true, he was a fool, wasn't he?" Eugenia said softly. "After all, he failed to recognize Rhonda Price's incredible ability."

A startled look appeared in Fenella's eyes. It was followed by a brief flash of what could have been rage. It was quickly suppressed.

"Yes, he did."

"Sounds as if Daventry was a little sick."

Fenella's mouth tightened. "Well, he's gone now. It'll be interesting to see how long it takes the Daventry estate to sell Glass House. I doubt if there are too many buyers around for a place like that."

"I suppose not." Eugenia walked to the door and opened it. "Very expensive to maintain."

She stepped outside onto the sidewalk. She was surprised by the odd sense of relief she felt as soon as she was out of the gallery. Although they had a lot in common, she could not warm to Fenella. There was a lot of anger there, Eugenia thought. And some of it had been directed at Daventry. Fenella had obviously felt slighted by the fact that he had not invited her to his infamous parties.

Eugenia glanced toward the pier and noticed that the small private ferry had just docked. Five vehicles and a handful of walk-on passengers were preparing to disembark. The first wave of morning tourists was about to hit the island.

She crossed the street beneath the Daventry Workshops Festival banner and walked to where she had parked her Toyota. She opened the door and got behind the wheel. Very carefully she set the Jacob Houston sculpture down on the passenger seat beside her.

She was in the process of inserting the key into the ignition when the small flurry of ferry traffic trundled past. She froze when she caught a fleeting glimpse of a familiar-looking blond-haired woman behind the wheel of a small compact.

Rhonda Price was back on the island.

So much for Colfax Security's professional expertise, Eugenia thought. Rhonda Price was supposed to be in the hospital.

She slammed her car into gear and prepared to follow Rhonda.

She waited until Rhonda had driven to the end of the street and turned onto Island Way Drive. Then she eased her own car away from the curb and pursued her quarry at what she hoped was a discreet distance. There was no reason to follow too closely. It was obvious that Rhonda was headed toward her small cottage.

There would never be a better opportunity to confront her with questions about Nellie's
Glass
paintings.

Twenty minutes later she drove along the narrow, rutted road that ended more or less at Rhonda's front door. The compact was parked in the drive. The trunk was open.

Eugenia stopped her car next to Rhonda's, got out, and walked to the front door. It stood ajar.

She paused on the step and peered into the tiny front room. The sound of drawers crashing in the bedroom told her that Rhonda Price was frantically packing.

Eugenia knocked once. When there was no response, she stepped into the house. She went to the door of the bedroom.

Rhonda was inside, shoving clothing willy-nilly into two battered suitcases

"Leaving so soon?" Eugenia asked politely.

Rhonda gave a stifled scream and spun around. Genuine terror flashed in her eyes. It was replaced by anger when she saw Eugenia.

"You."

"Me." Eugenia propped one shoulder against the door frame and folded her arms. "I'm the one who went into the marina after you."

"If you expect me to thank you, don't hold your breath." Rhonda turned back to the dresser and jerked open another drawer. "I don't have time to express my undying gratitude. I've got to make the next ferry."

"Why?"

"Why?" Rhonda pulled some sweaters out of the drawer. "Because someone tried to kill me the other night, that's why. And I don't intend to hang around waiting for whoever it was to try again."

"Are you telling me that you think someone pushed you into the water?"

"I'd call it a little more than a push." Rhonda touched the bandage on her head. "I don't care what everyone thinks. I didn't fall and accidentally knock myself unconscious on the way over the side. Someone hit me first."

Eugenia straightened. "Did you see anyone?"

"Only you."

"I swear I didn't hit you."

Rhonda gave her a disgusted look. "I guess not. You wouldn't have jumped into the water to pull me out if you had wanted me to drown. But I'm sure that what happened to me was no accident."

Eugenia remembered the footsteps she had heard that night. "Do you remember anything at all?"

"No. The doctor at the hospital in Bellingham said something about it being common to lose some memory of events during the last few minutes before a head injury."

"Who would want to kill you?"

"I don't know." Rhonda went to the closet and started yanking shirts off hangers. "And since I can't prove that someone did try, I'm going to do the smart thing and disappear for a while."

"The same way Nellie Grant disappeared?"

Rhonda swung around, clutching the shirts. Her eyes widened. "Nellie Grant didn't disappear. She's dead."

"So they say. And you passed off at least one of her paintings as your own, didn't you?"

"That's a lie." Rhonda's eyes flickered toward the chest of drawers.

"I'm in the art business, remember?" Eugenia said gently. "I can recognize an artist's style and technique. I've seen Nellie's work. I've got
Glass I
hanging over my fireplace at home."

"So that's what happened to it," Rhonda muttered.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing." Rhonda raised one thin shoulder in a shrug. "You can't prove a damn thing."

"That's debatable. But we'll let it slide if you'll tell me why you took her paintings."

"I'm not going to tell you anything."

"Come on, Rhonda, you owe me something for pulling you out of the water."

Rhonda hesitated and then sighed. "What the hell? When he dumped me, Daventry made a point of telling me how
genuinely talented
my replacement was. So after they were both gone, I decided to help myself to those
brilliant
works of art."

"Why?"

Rhonda gave her a scathing look. "The usual reason. I needed the money."

"How did you get into Glass House? Leonard Hastings was supposed to keep an eye on the place."

"Leonard was old. His hearing was so bad he wouldn't have heard a train wreck if it had happened next to him. Besides, he had to sleep sometime, didn't he? I went in at night. I knew my way around because I'd stayed there for a while. I had the security codes for the doors."

Eugenia felt a piece of the puzzle click into place. "You used the pantry entrance, didn't you?"

Rhonda looked startled. Then she scowled. "Yes."

"When did you enter the house to get the paintings?"

"It took me a while to work up my nerve. But when I heard that some people from Seattle were coming to stay at Glass House, I knew I had to make my move." Rhonda's eyes slid away. "I went in a couple of nights before you got there."

"Was it the same night that Leonard Hastings collapsed with a heart attack?"

"How should I know?" Rhonda shuddered. "I never saw him. He may have been dead when I went in through the basement, but I swear I never saw him."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Be hard not to notice a dead body. I grabbed the two paintings I found in the studio that night and left."

"You came back, though, didn't you?" Eugenia said slowly. "The night that Cyrus and I arrived on the island."

Rhonda grimaced. "All right, yes. I took a chance. I told you, I only found two of the
Glass
series the first time. I knew there were four. When Fenella told me that she thought she could get at least three hundred for the first one, I decided it was worth the risk of going back to search for the others."

"Even though Cyrus and I were there?"

"It's a big house. Like I said, I knew my way around. Thought I could manage it. But I had just opened the door at the top of the basement stairs when I heard you shouting from the balcony above. I ducked back inside and took off."

Eugenia pursed her lips. "Well, that answers a couple of questions. How did you learn that there were four paintings in the
Glass
series?"

"Daventry told a friend of mine about them." Rhonda's face twisted. "Adam was so damned proud of his newest little artist, you see. Said he was having her paint portraits of his glass because he didn't have any children for her to paint. He said his glass collection would be his legacy."