Tips for Living(36)

Funny, Ben seemed very much like a boss again.



I hunkered down on the motorcycle, held on tight to Ben, and felt the wind’s bite through my trench coat as we rode into the dark evening. Not even six o’clock and the sun long gone. The trip home from the Tea Cozy took only minutes, but if we’d driven any longer, my legs would’ve frozen in straddle position. We turned down Crooked Beach Lane. The bike bounced and rattled on the unpaved road. The moon hadn’t risen above the trees yet, and the Triumph’s single headlamp cast the only light as we pulled up in front of the Coop. I climbed off stiffly, handing the helmet back to Ben. He dropped it into the saddlebag.

“Listen, about Tips,” I said. “I know you’re trying to do what you think is best. For me, for the town. All I ask is you keep an open mind.”

He nodded. I sensed something else weighed heavily on Ben’s mind, but he was quiet. I couldn’t see his expression through the shadowed visor on his helmet.

“Well, thanks for everything,” I said. “I mean thanks for calling Gubbins, for the ride, the drink. The intel.”

No “you’re welcome” was forthcoming. There was only the sound of the idling bike engine while Ben sat there looking like Darth Vader. What was going on with him?

“Okay, then, good night,” I said.

I started for the door and Ben’s hand shot out unexpectedly. He caught my arm, spinning me back. What was he doing? He flipped his visor up and fixed me with his eyes. The air between us began to vibrate. My pulse soared as he pulled me closer. His warm body was trembling. I could smell his spicy scent. He lifted my chin and kissed me full on the mouth. A deep, passionate kiss that left me breathless. I liked how it felt.

“Get some sleep,” he said, and quickly popped the visor back down.

He kicked the bike stand up, rolled out of the driveway, and roared off into the night before I could gather my wits. I wasn’t cold anymore. I stood in the driveway, flushed, my heart racing, trying to take in what had just happened. He was my boss. He was my friend. He was my boss. He was a man. He was my boss. He tasted good.

What had that kiss meant? How long had Ben been attracted to me? Did I miss the signs? Or had he given in to a spontaneous urge? Why the approach now, after the police labeled me a person of interest in my ex-husband’s murder investigation? My head was trying to tell me that what just happened was wrong even as my body said it was right.

I heard the faint crunch of gravel behind me and I spun around, frightened. Nothing but darkness. The sound was there and then it wasn’t. I listened closely. Nothing. Then crunching again. I whipped out my keys and hurried to unlock my door. Safely inside, I switched on the outside light and peered through the window. Something moved at the end of the drive in the shadows by the trash can. Then it was gone. Probably a raccoon trying to dine on the garbage.

I checked the door’s lock, peeled off my coat and wrenched off my boots. Still abuzz with adrenaline, I marched to the kitchen, removed a bottle of vodka from the freezer, poured a shot and drank it down. Tracing my moistened lips with my finger, I closed my eyes and relived Ben’s kiss. I forgot my heart could flutter at the thought of a man. Ben’s eyes. Soft beagle eyes. How had I not noticed Ben’s eyes before?

Hold on. Eyes or not, this was complicated. Had Ben really gotten over his wife? How much emotional baggage was he carrying?

Mad. Sad. Glad. Bad. Jumbled. That’s what I was feeling. Part of me wanted to snuggle up under the covers and fantasize about Ben. But the other part was resisting. I made my way to the bedroom, hoping I’d finally manage to sleep deeply.

Maybe I’d dream about him.





Chapter Nine

I woke naked and cold, tangled in sheets with the cell phone vibrating next to my head. The lights in the bedroom were blazing. I thought I’d turned them off? I grabbed the phone as the buzzing stopped. Unknown Caller again. Should I try Grace? Not now. I needed to check the news on the murders.

I wrapped myself in my blanket and went to the bedroom window first, parting the curtains to check the garbage can. It stood upright. No trash in sight. If a raccoon had been foraging out there, it hadn’t done any damage. I thought of Ben for a moment as I trundled out of the bedroom, still amazed and confused by what had happened.

I paused when I saw that the lights in the hallway were on. And in the bathroom, too. I didn’t remember leaving them on, either. Had fatigue made me forgetful or . . . I pulled the blanket around my body more tightly.

Stop.

There was good news in the medicine cabinet mirror. The antibiotic cream that I did remember putting on before I went to bed had worked. The scratch was healing. I dropped the blanket, snatched my robe off the hook and headed for the living room to switch on CNN.

They were already in the midst of airing Point Murders: Special Report. A graphic labeled the petite Latina woman onscreen as the Walkers’ housekeeper. She was exiting her home and explaining tearfully in Spanish what her teenage son translated as: “The district attorney told her not to talk to anyone.” Could the housekeeper have killed Hugh and Helene? She was such a tiny, frightened-looking woman. She seemed genuinely upset. It was hard to picture her putting bullets in people’s heads and posing dead bodies.

But you’ve already pictured yourself doing it, haven’t you?

The glass exterior of the Masout Gallery in Chelsea appeared next. A voice-over identified it as the gallery that represented Hugh Walker. The program cut to a dapper but grief-stricken Abbas standing outside his loft building on West Twenty-Second Street, flanked by some of the artists he represented.