dinner dishes took all of a minute and a half. She wiped down all her cabinets and the counters. Managed to impose a tiny measure of order in a world of chaos by swapping the cinnamon and the cardamom in her spice rack, which had somehow got switched out of their normal alphabetical order. Then she brewed a pot of chamomile tea, which was supposed to be calming.
She had a couple of children’s books she wanted to read so she could classify them properly, but her mind wouldn’t settle. And the tea didn’t calm or soothe her tonight. Her mind dashed in a disorganized fashion from the dead man to Gillian’s call and, most often of all, to the kiss Forbes planted on her.
It had been steamy and erotic and she’d responded with all the passion of a woman starved for steamy and erotic. Worse. She’d kissed a man with blood on his hands.
She rose so fast the calming, soothing chamomile tea splashed
everywhere. She had to get out of here.
Before she’d finished gathering her keys and purse, she knew where she was going. To her grandparents’ house. Foolish it might be, but her instinct was to run home—or, as she’d told Duncan Forbes, to the only home she’d ever really known.
She’d been helping her grandfather with his memoirs when he died. Fortunately, he’d preferred talking to writing, and he’d completed the telling of his life story on tape up to his official retirement five years earlier.
The book wouldn’t get written if she didn’t carry on. It was her monument to him. Of course, the memoirs of an ordinary man who’d lived an ordinary life weren’t going to be the stuff of bestseller lists, but his passion for art meant he’d actually known and supported some of the better known artists of the 20th century. He had stories and anecdotes that were worth preserving and sharing.
She’d already decided to donate a copy to the city’s archives whether they wanted the book or not. She’d also have one copy bound and indexed in the library system. Franklin Forrest would have gotten such a kick out of that.
She could have brought all his papers and the tapes to her own home, but she’d left them at his house. She convinced herself it was because he had a bigger desk and a larger study than she did, but in truth, she still felt his presence in the house where he’d lived since returning to the States after the war and marrying.
Her mother and her aunt had grown up in that house. Her cousin had grown up there, and, in many ways, Alex had also grown up in the old Victorian.
Once she’d moved permanently to Swiftcurrent, her grandpa had hired her to help him on weekends and in the summer. In his poky, dusty antiques and art shop, she’d learned more about art than she’d ever learned touring the greatest galleries of the world. She’d inherited her grandfather’s passion. Not that she could paint or draw, as he did, but her organizational skills were superb. She cataloged, recorded, and filed. It was in working for her grandfather’s store that she discovered her true calling. She was a born librarian.
She pulled on a black hoodie and ran lightly down the stairs and out the back door of her apartment building to the parking lot.
Soon she was driving through the quiet roads to her grandparent’s house. As she drove past the central municipal building, she shuddered, thinking of the body now resting in a steel cubicle in the morgue.
As she headed out of the downtown core, she quickly hit leafy side streets named for presidents. She pulled into the gravel drive of the two-story shingled house on Lincoln Street, its original yellow paint faded to pale butter, moss clinging to the roof edge like bushy eyebrows. She felt the familiar pang of loss. It had been almost two months—when would she grow accustomed to her grandfather’s death?
In a gesture of self-comfort, she rubbed the gold necklace he’d given her for her twenty-first birthday. It was in the shape of a key. The key to your heart,
She had a couple of children’s books she wanted to read so she could classify them properly, but her mind wouldn’t settle. And the tea didn’t calm or soothe her tonight. Her mind dashed in a disorganized fashion from the dead man to Gillian’s call and, most often of all, to the kiss Forbes planted on her.
It had been steamy and erotic and she’d responded with all the passion of a woman starved for steamy and erotic. Worse. She’d kissed a man with blood on his hands.
She rose so fast the calming, soothing chamomile tea splashed
everywhere. She had to get out of here.
Before she’d finished gathering her keys and purse, she knew where she was going. To her grandparents’ house. Foolish it might be, but her instinct was to run home—or, as she’d told Duncan Forbes, to the only home she’d ever really known.
She’d been helping her grandfather with his memoirs when he died. Fortunately, he’d preferred talking to writing, and he’d completed the telling of his life story on tape up to his official retirement five years earlier.
The book wouldn’t get written if she didn’t carry on. It was her monument to him. Of course, the memoirs of an ordinary man who’d lived an ordinary life weren’t going to be the stuff of bestseller lists, but his passion for art meant he’d actually known and supported some of the better known artists of the 20th century. He had stories and anecdotes that were worth preserving and sharing.
She’d already decided to donate a copy to the city’s archives whether they wanted the book or not. She’d also have one copy bound and indexed in the library system. Franklin Forrest would have gotten such a kick out of that.
She could have brought all his papers and the tapes to her own home, but she’d left them at his house. She convinced herself it was because he had a bigger desk and a larger study than she did, but in truth, she still felt his presence in the house where he’d lived since returning to the States after the war and marrying.
Her mother and her aunt had grown up in that house. Her cousin had grown up there, and, in many ways, Alex had also grown up in the old Victorian.
Once she’d moved permanently to Swiftcurrent, her grandpa had hired her to help him on weekends and in the summer. In his poky, dusty antiques and art shop, she’d learned more about art than she’d ever learned touring the greatest galleries of the world. She’d inherited her grandfather’s passion. Not that she could paint or draw, as he did, but her organizational skills were superb. She cataloged, recorded, and filed. It was in working for her grandfather’s store that she discovered her true calling. She was a born librarian.
She pulled on a black hoodie and ran lightly down the stairs and out the back door of her apartment building to the parking lot.
Soon she was driving through the quiet roads to her grandparent’s house. As she drove past the central municipal building, she shuddered, thinking of the body now resting in a steel cubicle in the morgue.
As she headed out of the downtown core, she quickly hit leafy side streets named for presidents. She pulled into the gravel drive of the two-story shingled house on Lincoln Street, its original yellow paint faded to pale butter, moss clinging to the roof edge like bushy eyebrows. She felt the familiar pang of loss. It had been almost two months—when would she grow accustomed to her grandfather’s death?
In a gesture of self-comfort, she rubbed the gold necklace he’d given her for her twenty-first birthday. It was in the shape of a key. The key to your heart,
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