celery. Tempest dug through the freezer, pulling out several frost-encrusted Lean Cuisine meals and a half-eaten pint of frozen yogurt. Nothing more.
The cupboards were equally bare except for some rice cakes and large containers of vitamins.
‘‘Where did she eat?’’ Tempest said going through Peggy’s trash. The trash at least produced a couple of Chinese carry-out cartons. ‘‘Fried rice and chow mein, a girl meal,’’ Tempest said and dropped the small white containers back into the can.
She stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the kitchen, dining room, living room. ‘‘There’s no beer, no alcohol, no mix. If she had a boyfriend, he didn’t come over here. They must have met someplace else.’’
Jack picked up the phone book, not surprised when it fell open to the restaurant section of a town forty miles away. Several of the more expensive dinner places had the numbers circled, the pages dog-eared. He held it out for Tempest to see.
She nodded. ‘‘Either she was a secret eater who took her love of food out of town or she had a boyfriend. Someone who didn’t want to be seen with her.’’
‘‘Maybe she didn’t want to be seen with him.’’
Tempest shook her head. ‘‘No way. Not when he’s footing the bill for all this fancy stuff. He’d be calling the shots. This guy’s got something to hide.’’
Jack had to agree with her as he dug through the desk drawers. No record of any rich uncle or lottery winnings. Her last month’s bill on her credit cards showed that she’d paid them off in full.
‘‘It looks like she’s only recently come into some money,’’ he said, tossing the bills back into the drawer. He could hear Tempest in the bedroom. He followed the sound of her opening and closing dresser drawers.
‘‘The drawers are full of new sexy lingerie,’’ she said mugging a face. ‘‘Some of the price tags are still attached.’’
He opened the closet. It was packed with clothes, most with price tags still dangling from the sleeves. He moved to the night stand. Tempest went around the bed to the opposite one.
Next to the phone on the night stand, he found an address book. He thumbed through it, looking for a boyfriend. There were only a few names and numbers. Peggy didn’t seem to have a lot of acquaintances, let alone friends. Not surprisingly, Oliver’s cell phone, home and office numbers were listed, written in a big, bold script.
That’s when he noticed the scratchpad, its corner caught under the phone. He pulled it out. Peggy Kane was a doodler. Hearts, flowers, stars. He turned the pad to read the words doodled around the edge, his breath catching as he saw what she’d written.
‘‘Look at this,’’ he said and passed it across the satin comforter to Tempest. Peggy had written three little words around the edge of the paper. Mrs. Peggy Sanders.
Tempest looked at the scratchpad for a moment, then handed him what she’d found in the opposite nightstand. A date book.
He flipped it open to January to find small neat notations. Dentist appointment 8:30 a.m. Pick up dry cleaning. Reschedule teeth cleaning appointment. Call landlord about leak in tub.
Spread among the mundane were small little notations: ‘‘O’’ at 8 at condo. ‘‘O’’ at Cafe´ Italiano. ‘‘O’’ weekend. ‘‘O’’ lunch.
He looked up at Tempest. She just nodded and said, ‘‘I don’t think the ‘O’ stands for orgasm, but what do I know? Look at February first.’’
He moved to February. ‘‘‘O’ promised, Feb. 14.’’ After that the days had been marked off with red ‘‘Xs’’ and exclamation points up to February 14.
‘‘Valentine’s Day,’’ Jack said, thinking about the Valentine Peggy had clutched in her hand. When he’d checked the handwriting it had been hers. ‘‘She thought Oliver was going to leave his wife.’’
‘‘You know, there is one other possibility,’’ Tempest said. ‘‘That this love affair with Oliver
The cupboards were equally bare except for some rice cakes and large containers of vitamins.
‘‘Where did she eat?’’ Tempest said going through Peggy’s trash. The trash at least produced a couple of Chinese carry-out cartons. ‘‘Fried rice and chow mein, a girl meal,’’ Tempest said and dropped the small white containers back into the can.
She stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the kitchen, dining room, living room. ‘‘There’s no beer, no alcohol, no mix. If she had a boyfriend, he didn’t come over here. They must have met someplace else.’’
Jack picked up the phone book, not surprised when it fell open to the restaurant section of a town forty miles away. Several of the more expensive dinner places had the numbers circled, the pages dog-eared. He held it out for Tempest to see.
She nodded. ‘‘Either she was a secret eater who took her love of food out of town or she had a boyfriend. Someone who didn’t want to be seen with her.’’
‘‘Maybe she didn’t want to be seen with him.’’
Tempest shook her head. ‘‘No way. Not when he’s footing the bill for all this fancy stuff. He’d be calling the shots. This guy’s got something to hide.’’
Jack had to agree with her as he dug through the desk drawers. No record of any rich uncle or lottery winnings. Her last month’s bill on her credit cards showed that she’d paid them off in full.
‘‘It looks like she’s only recently come into some money,’’ he said, tossing the bills back into the drawer. He could hear Tempest in the bedroom. He followed the sound of her opening and closing dresser drawers.
‘‘The drawers are full of new sexy lingerie,’’ she said mugging a face. ‘‘Some of the price tags are still attached.’’
He opened the closet. It was packed with clothes, most with price tags still dangling from the sleeves. He moved to the night stand. Tempest went around the bed to the opposite one.
Next to the phone on the night stand, he found an address book. He thumbed through it, looking for a boyfriend. There were only a few names and numbers. Peggy didn’t seem to have a lot of acquaintances, let alone friends. Not surprisingly, Oliver’s cell phone, home and office numbers were listed, written in a big, bold script.
That’s when he noticed the scratchpad, its corner caught under the phone. He pulled it out. Peggy Kane was a doodler. Hearts, flowers, stars. He turned the pad to read the words doodled around the edge, his breath catching as he saw what she’d written.
‘‘Look at this,’’ he said and passed it across the satin comforter to Tempest. Peggy had written three little words around the edge of the paper. Mrs. Peggy Sanders.
Tempest looked at the scratchpad for a moment, then handed him what she’d found in the opposite nightstand. A date book.
He flipped it open to January to find small neat notations. Dentist appointment 8:30 a.m. Pick up dry cleaning. Reschedule teeth cleaning appointment. Call landlord about leak in tub.
Spread among the mundane were small little notations: ‘‘O’’ at 8 at condo. ‘‘O’’ at Cafe´ Italiano. ‘‘O’’ weekend. ‘‘O’’ lunch.
He looked up at Tempest. She just nodded and said, ‘‘I don’t think the ‘O’ stands for orgasm, but what do I know? Look at February first.’’
He moved to February. ‘‘‘O’ promised, Feb. 14.’’ After that the days had been marked off with red ‘‘Xs’’ and exclamation points up to February 14.
‘‘Valentine’s Day,’’ Jack said, thinking about the Valentine Peggy had clutched in her hand. When he’d checked the handwriting it had been hers. ‘‘She thought Oliver was going to leave his wife.’’
‘‘You know, there is one other possibility,’’ Tempest said. ‘‘That this love affair with Oliver
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