Zinnia by Jayne Castle

by the sight of his powerful long-fingered hands, as he punched in the emergency number.
    He glanced at her, an expression of polite interest in his green-and-gold eyes. “Something wrong?”
    She would not let him reduce her to a trembling mass of jelly-ice. She was a Spring. The family coffers might be empty and the tabloids may have labeled her the “Scarlet Lady,” but she still had sufficient pride to face down the owner of a gambling casino.
    â€œI just wondered why you bothered to wear a pair of gloves here tonight,” she said. “No offense, but it gives the impression that you came prepared for something illegal.”
    â€œYes, it does, doesn’t it? At least one of us was prepared. Unfortunately, you’ve probably left your prints all over the windowsill and everything else you’ve touched so far.”
    His sarcasm outraged her. “I have no intention of denying that I was here tonight. Why would I lie to the police?”
    â€œIf you can’t think of a reasonable answer to that question, there’s no point getting into an in-depth discussion of the subject.” Nick broke off to speak into the phone. “Give me Detective Anselm, please.”
    Zinnia listened as Nick spoke briefly with the person on the other end of the line. There was a marked note of casual familiarity in his voice. This was obviously not the first time he had dealt with the police. Given his line of work, that was probably not surprising, she thought.
    â€œYes, we’ll both wait until you get here,” Nick concluded. He replaced the receiver with his black-gloved hand and looked at Zinnia. “Anselm said he’d be here in a few minutes.”
    She relaxed slightly. The authorities were on their way. It would all be over soon.
    â€œPoor Morris.” She tried to think of something constructive to do. “I wonder if I should call his wife.”
    Nick’s gaze sharpened. “Fenwick is married?”
    â€œYes, I think her name is Polly. The two of them haven’t lived together for several years. Morris told me once that Polly moved out a long time ago because she thought he was getting too weird.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œA very sad situation. They couldn’t get a divorce, of course, so all they could do was separate. Morris blamed himself. Everyone knows matrix-talents are difficult to match properly.”
    â€œSo I’m told,” Nick muttered.
    â€œMorris said that when they were dating, he and Polly had gone to an agency where the syn-psych counselors warned them that it wasn’t a good match, just barely passable. But they went ahead and got married, anyway.” Zinnia closed her eyes. “Good lord, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
    â€œLet the police notify Mrs. Fenwick,” Nick suggested with surprising gentleness. “It’s their job.”
    â€œYes. Poor Morris.”
    â€œDo you think you could stop calling him ’poor Morris’?”
    â€œHe was irritable and eccentric and secretive, and he was forever concocting conspiracy theories the way matrix-talents are inclined to do, but I got to know him. I was fond of him. At heart he was just a harmless little man who loved old books. I can’t imagine anyone killing him. Unless—”
    â€œUnless what?”
    She glanced around uneasily. “I wonder if this is connected to the Chastain journal.”
    â€œNot likely.” Nick surveyed the room with a singleassessing glance. “For one thing, as far as I know, I’m the only one who wanted the journal badly enough to do something this drastic.”
    She felt as if she had just stepped into an empty elevator shaft. “My God, are you saying that you would have murdered someone in order to get your hands on the journal?”
    His mouth curved with deep cynical amusement, as if he had expected her to make the accusation.
    â€œOnly as a last resort,” he said.
    â€œIf