The Throwbacks (2 page)

“Okay, I’ll try to find him. What does he look like?” Grace leaned down toward Sophia so she could be in on the conversation. She despaired at the generic description Theresa gave them to work with, but she didn’t complain. “Sweetheart, don’t worry—Sophia and I will ask around. We’ll find the chief. And we promise to keep the murder under our hats. I’ll have him call you as soon as we find him.” She shoved the phone back in her bag.

“Gees, and I thought Mabel’s ‘Welcome Scotland Yard Party’ with the Boston police brass and stuffy British big-shots was going to be as exciting as a Latin mass,” Sophia said.

“This is serious. Keep a look out for a tall, middle-aged man,” she said to her friend. But the prospect was daunting. The sounds of crystal and silver clinking like children pounding on xylophones sharpened as Grace drew them further into the crowd, looking around. The high-ceilinged room was bright with chandelier light and warm with the haze of cigars and way too many people.

“You look
decorative
.” Sophia eyed her. “We have a better chance of the police chief finding you first with those colors you’re wearing. Why don’t you stand on one of these pedestals and give a shout out?”

Grace squinted at her diminutive friend. She had no room to talk. Sophia wore her typical offbeat outfit. Tonight she looked as if she’d stepped out of a fifties sitcom with a cinch-waisted dress and pearls. Grace surveyed the room, skimming over the guests to linger on the high style of the art deco furnishings that made this her favorite townhouse in all of Boston’s tony Beacon Hill. She sighed.

“I don’t know where to start. All these men look the same to me.”

Then her gaze caught on a tall man in a dark suit out in the entry hall. He’d just walked in on a breeze with dried maple leaves floating to the floor around him. He strode into the room and straight into the clutches of several blue-haired ladies and shiny-headed men. They immediately embraced him with cheek-kissing and backslapping affection. Grace watched as the mystery man withstood the onslaught with aplomb.

“At least you can see them—I should have asked Theresa for a description of his shoes,” Sophia said.

“No whining. I wonder if that man could be the chief?”

“What man?” Sophia asked, standing on tiptoes.

“The distinguished-looking man. Over there.” Grace pointed as subtly as possible with her brilliant orange fingernails.

“Nice nails,” Sophia said. “Could be the Chief. Or he could be the big-shot from Scotland Yard.”

“What?” Grace said. She only half listened to Sophia. The mystery man had moved, but it was easy to keep track of him by the sound of laughter. He was like a fun island in the middle of an ocean of blue bloods. “We need to start somewhere. Let’s start by asking him.” She took her friend’s arm and steered her in his direction.

Grace got them within two feet of the man and then stopped. She watched the man more carefully as she considered him. “I never met anyone in the crime-fighting field before,” she whispered, trying not to show her simmering excitement.

Sophia rolled her eyes. “Grace, he’s not Batman.”

“But he could be heroic.” She thought the words out loud. She shoved aside the possibility that she might be disappointed, and with a tingle of anticipation, she walked right up to Mr. Distinguished. She figured a man like him, a possible crime-fighting hero, would appreciate a bold approach.

“Hello. I’m Grace Rogers. And I’m hoping you’re Boston’s Chief of Police.” She gave the man her best bold smile.

David turned, and his eyes met a classic Marilyn look-alike with bouncing blond curls, twinkling brown eyes and a single deep dimple. He automatically looked over her colorfully clad va-voom body—out of professional habit. He was proud that he kept his mouth closed and his eyes from popping.

In the year since he’d moved back to the States, he hadn’t felt more adrift and out of sorts than he did at this very moment. What could he possibly say to this ridiculously young and beautiful bombshell? Where’s your father?

“Hello, young lady. Why do you hope that I am the police chief of this city?” He couldn’t wait for this answer as he eyed her dimple and looked into her earnest eyes.

“I need to report a murder.”

Hmmm.

“You look very much alive to me.” Real smooth. Not unlike the one-too-many Scotches he’d been drinking.

But luckily for him she laughed, a full-bodied throaty sound. No halfway little tinkling for this Grace woman. Either she had a refreshing sense of humor or she was putting him on. He wasn’t sure. Not a good sign. Because if there was one thing he was always sure of, it was people.

“That was the last thing I expected you to say. I knew a bold approach would work,” she said. The wattage of her smile increased to a blinding level.

He had to work at regaining his aplomb. After all, he had his reputation to keep up—the professional one. And he’d promised himself and his friend, who was saving his life right now by not letting him sink into the pit of self-pity, that he would slow down with the revolving-door women. He looked her over again—one more time for old time’s sake. He had picked a very inconvenient time to slow down with women. She was exquisite, if flashy, and she beamed with what, he now realized, was a sinfully genuine smile from a shockingly expressive face.

“I very much doubt you could possibly come up with any approach that would be less than superlatively successful, Miss Rogers. You are utterly charming.” David smiled because he actually meant it.

“My, my. You’re not bad in the charm department yourself. I can’t help noticing you have a British accent…are you from England?” She flashed her white teeth. He could feel the waves of admiration emanating from her.

He stood there soaking her in when he realized she’d asked if he was from England. He looked more closely then to make sure she wasn’t putting him on. But no.

“Yes. I’m David Young, semi-retired…”

“You’re not the chief? Oh, no.” She frowned and began looking around, as did her friend. He assumed the small red-bobbed woman was her friend since she was clamped to Grace’s arm.

“You need to find the chief and fast,” the pixie-like woman said. “He needs to call the mayor right away. It’s been ten minutes since Theresa called and—”

“I know, I know.” Grace spun in a slow circle, looking about.

He held himself from laughing. Was it possible?

“Are you serious? Has there been a murder?”

“Of course, that’s what I just told you. I would never make a false police report, especially not to the chief of—”

“I’m not the chief, but I—”

“I know. I was hoping I’d guessed right. Sorry to have disturbed you. We really need to find Chief O’Keefe.” She looked at him again with those hypnotic brown eyes. The redheaded woman at her side looked at him skeptically.

“Do you know who the chief is, by any chance?” the pixie-like woman asked.

Grace gave him nothing short of a wistful look. He couldn’t possibly be planning to reform his run as a rake tonight. She was too perfect.

“Actually, yes, I do. I’m here on loan with—” he started to say before he lost his head.

“Perfect! Please, take us to him.” Grace beamed at him and slipped her arm into his. “What field are you in?”

He did a double take at that and looked around at the gigantic banner hanging over the second-story railing behind her, proclaiming “The Scotland Yard–Boston Police Department Exchange Program Inauguration.” He looked back down at her and squinted for a closer look. No, she was not putting him on. But…oh well, what the heck.

“Law enforcement.”

“How exciting—that must be how you know the chief.”

He directed his new entourage in the direction of where he’d last seen his childhood friend, known to all as “the chief,” but to him he’d always be Dick Tracy. They headed toward the buffet table through the thick crowd.

“Who are you? How long have you been over this side of the pond?” she asked with her wide eyes aimed at him, hinting of interest.

He laughed. It was too difficult to hold it in and play it cool in her presence. And absolutely no point to it in any event. She was completely without guile. Possibly without a clue, but he didn’t think so.

“I’ve been here long enough to get to know these wonderful people from the Boston Police Department, but not long enough to furnish my home.” It was his stock answer to that question for the evening, but he couldn’t wait to hear what her response would be.

“Oh no. But you have to furnish your home or it’s not a home.” She stopped short and looked distressed. Not exactly the response he was anticipating. She dug through her bright purple purse, and he was newly intrigued. She pulled out a card with a flourish.

“You should call a decorator to help you. If ever there was someone in need of decorating help, I can sense it’s you.” She was confident and alarmingly correct in her assessment. She snapped her purse shut.

“I think you could be right about that, Miss Rogers.” He slipped the card in his breast pocket after a quick glance. It was a decorating firm business card. A small amount of disappointment slipped by him.

She smiled and the dimple showed, again only on one side. His heart and his resolve melted another ten degrees in that moment. He smiled at the pixie-woman next to her.

“And you must be Tinkerbell.” He deadpanned it.

Grace treated him to another one of her throaty laughs, making it impossible for him to mind the scowl of her apparent half-pint friend. Which reminded him, he had no idea what happened to his friend and savior, Dick Tracy. They’d reached the buffet and he was nowhere in sight.

Grace heard the phone in her bag ring again—loudly. She reached in quickly and fished it out, smiled at David, fumbled and tried to open it.

“Why don’t you just ignore it?” Sophia asked, “It’s probably Theresa again, all hysterical about what’s taking so long.”

“It could be the sitter,” she whispered, then clicked the phone on and pressed it to her ear.

“What’s going on? Have you told the chief yet?” Theresa said from the other end.

“We’re still looking for him. But we did find a charming British man who knows—”

“Hurry! And don’t tell anyone else no matter how charming they are. Dad is bursting an artery with worry about the press. Rick is sick with—”

“I get the picture; I’m on it. Got to go.” Grace clicked the phone off and shoved it back in her bag.

“Quite a conversation,” David said.

“That’s Theresa for you.” Grace looked around.

“The mayor’s daughter. I take it the mayor won’t be attending this party after all,” David said, with his reassuring calm. “Are you going to tell me about Theresa’s secret murder?”

“You aren’t supposed to know about that. It’s Theresa’s fiancé’s brother who was murdered. The chief has to call the mayor. We need to find him as soon as we can in this hopeless crowd of people.” She knew she was rambling and not making a good impression, but she felt desperate.

“He’s right over there.” David gave a slight smile and pointed to the large man looking in their direction. “Let’s introduce you.”

He was so calm it was catchy. “Yes, please,” she said. He put his hand at the small of her back. His hand on her and his calm manner soothed her as he escorted her toward the chief. She realized that her breathing and heartbeat had normalized and it was all because of him. Then as the warmth of his touch spread through her, she felt a frisson of excitement. “Are you a good friend of his?” she asked in the most normal voice she could muster with that touch of his palm on her back beginning to take up more space in her mind.

“We go way back,” he said. Without interrupting anyone, and smiling at the small group surrounding the chief, he caught his friend’s attention.

“What’s up, David?”

He motioned Dan aside. “Excuse us, please.” He smiled and the group melted away with deference. “Evidently there’s been a murder and you need to call the mayor. This is Grace Rogers.”

“What the hell—I mean heck—are you talking about?” Dan asked with a predictably cloudy look. David kept his grin to himself.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much more. Grace, this is Dan O’Keefe, Boston Police Chief. Can you explain the phone call to him?”

“Hi, Chief.” She flashed her dimple. “Rick Racer’s brother was murdered at Rick and Theresa’s rehearsal dinner.”

“Theresa Torini? The mayor’s daughter? Her wedding rehearsal dinner?” the chief said in disbelief with his brows raised as he looked at Grace, who vigorously nodded her head. The chief looked to David for more clues, then he looked back to Grace. “And you are?”

“I’m Grace…”

David decided it was time to do his official duty and cut her off. “A friend of Theresa Torini’s. Apparently the mayor didn’t want to make an official call. He wants to keep it out of the media. Instead, Ms. Torini called and asked Ms. Rogers if she would find you here to tell you to call the mayor—on his private cell phone.” David summed it all up as best he could.

With a frown on his face, Dan plucked the phone from its holster at his waist. “What are you smiling at?” he said to David, who realized he was enjoying himself.

He still had his hand at Grace’s back and he decided he was enjoying that too.