Promise Not To Tell(4)

Virginia seemed unaffected by the infamous Cabot Stare. If anything, she appeared amused.

“Sorry,” Cabot said. “Didn’t know we had a visitor.” He held out one of the paper cups. “Want Anson’s coffee? It’s straight. No sugar, no mocha, no foamy milk, no chocolate sprinkles, no caramel.”

Anson winced. Some people might have assumed that Cabot was trying to make a small joke. They would have been wrong. Cabot was inclined to take things literally. He often spoke the same way. He possessed a sense of humor but you had to know him really well before you could tell when he was joking and when he wasn’t.

Virginia glanced at the cup Cabot was offering and then looked at the other cup.

“Out of curiosity, what are my options?” she said.

Cabot’s brows rose. “Options?”

“You’ve got two cups of coffee,” Virginia said with an air of grave patience. “You just told me that one is straight. I am inquiring about the status of the second cup.”

“That would be mine,” Cabot said. “It’s straight, too. Anson’s the one who taught me how to drink coffee.”

“I see,” Virginia said. “Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

Cabot nodded once, as if she had just confirmed some conclusion that he had made. He placed one of the cups down on the desk in front of Anson. Every move was fluid and precise. There was no wasted motion.

“You’re the fully-loaded-latte type,” he said.

“Actually, no,” Virginia said smoothly, “I’m not.”

She did not elaborate.

Cabot’s eyes tightened a little at the corners. He did not take his attention off Virginia. Anson recognized the expression and suppressed a small groan. Cabot’s curiosity had been aroused. It was a fine trait in an investigator but it could also cause problems.

Cabot was not the subtle type. What you saw was pretty much what you got. That was, of course, why he had trouble when it came to his relationships with women. They were inclined to believe they could smooth out the rough edges and still keep the tough, strong core. Big mistake. And then, inevitably, they concluded they no longer wanted to deal with the inflexibility that was a part of that core.

“This is Virginia Troy,” Anson said before the situation could deteriorate further. “One of the kids in the barn.”

He did not need to say anything more.

Cabot went very still.

“Virginia,” he said. He spoke very softly. “I remember you. Little kid. Dark hair. Big eyes. You had a book that night. You wouldn’t leave it behind.”

On the surface his tone was devoid of all inflection. Anson wondered if Virginia heard the echoes of the nightmares that moved in the depths.

“And I remember you,” Virginia said. Her voice was equally neutral. “You were the one who told the rest of us to go low to avoid the smoke.”

Oh, yeah, Anson thought. She had sensed the bad stuff, all right. He could hear the same grim echoes in her words.

“I assume you’re here because of what happened that night,” Cabot said.

That was Cabot for you, Anson thought. He had the gift – or the curse, depending on your point of view – of being able to put a couple of stray facts together and add them up in a hurry.

“How did you know?” Virginia asked. Curious, but not surprised.

“No other reason you would show up now, after all this time,” Cabot said.

“No, I suppose not,” Virginia agreed. “I was just telling Mr. Salinas —”

“Anson,” Anson said.

She dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment of the invitation to use his first name.

“I was just telling Anson that my grandparents encouraged me to put the past behind me,” she said. “I have tried to do that.”

“Didn’t work, though, did it?” Cabot said.

Some people would have been offended by the observation. Virginia gave Cabot a wry smile.

“No,” she said. “Did it work for you?”

“No,” Cabot said. “Gave up trying a long time ago. Makes more sense to acknowledge the power at the core and channel it.”

Virginia studied him intently for a moment and then she nodded. “I see.”

“Don’t mind him,” Anson said. “He says things like that from time to time. It’s martial arts crap – I mean, philosophy.”

“Sort of like saying that ‘some things are best appreciated in their purest, most essential forms,’” Cabot said, deadpan.

Anson groaned. But Virginia did not miss a beat. To his amazement, a smile came and went in her cool green-and-gold eyes.

“I see that martial artists and art gallery owners have a few things in common,” she said. “We both get to say pretentious stuff that sounds way more insightful than it actually is.”

Cabot looked intrigued by the concept that they might have something in common. “Do you say pretentious stuff a lot?”

“Mostly just when I’m trying to sell some art. You?”

“Mostly just when I’m trying to sound like I’m a hotshot private investigator.”

Time to move on, Anson decided. He sat forward and clasped his hands on his desk. “Virginia owns an art gallery here in Seattle. She wants us to investigate the death of one of her artists who was living on an island in the San Juans. Says the local authorities are calling it suicide. She has her doubts.”