blackened her conscience.
Mac’s dead, Jaynie. Dead and buried. There’s no reason for the livin’ to go on feelin’ guilty
.
But guilt was only a part of the bigger picture.
Reilly stood with his hands planted at the waist of his jeans, staring off across the sweeping expanse of the first floor with something like disbelief in his eyes. He’d never seen anything quite like it. The living areas were divided by various groups of furniture or by curtains of hanging plants. There were heavy posts and beams aplenty, but there was nary a solid wall on this level.
They walked through an enormous kitchen where copper and iron pots and bunches of dried herbs and flowers hung from the heavy ceiling beams, and where a polished, pine harvest table dominated the floor space. The cupboards had been constructed of weathered barn siding. Thecobalt-blue tiled counter tops were crowded with Kentucky salt-glazed pottery.
Beyond the kitchen, on the north side of the building and up three steps, was a more formal dining area. On the south side and down three steps was a sprawling living room with plush lavender carpet. The south wall was virtually all window, decorated by nothing more than a deep purple velvet swag valance artfully slung on a thick brass rod.
The collection of furniture in the room could only be called eclectic. Bon Jovi blared from a tall French armoire crammed with stereo equipment. A low, black-and-gold japanned trunk topped with a thick slab of glass served as a coffee table. It was cluttered with old books and magazines. There were iron floor lamps with fringed shades and a bamboo cage made in the likeness of an elaborate house with two tiny birds flitting about within it—no doubt trying to escape the rock music, Reilly thought.
For lounging there were three huge, ornate Victorian sofas upholstered in purple brocade. Two were piled with paisley-print pillows in shades of mauve and purple and green. One was occupied by Candi, sprawling the length of it with her stocking feet propped on one arm and her spikey hair sticking up over the other. She was thoroughly engrossed in the latest copy of
WE
magazine.
Reilly scowled at the picture of himself staring out from the cover of the magazine with a crooked grin. Turning away, he nearly plowed into an aquarium. He pulled himself up short and stared in utter disbelief at the contents of the tank.
“Bloody hell! That’s a tarantula!”
“I know,” Jayne said calmly, as if everyone she knew kept one. “You shouldn’t be so surprised. After all, you sent him to me.”
Reilly opened his mouth and clamped it back shut. He looked from Jayne to the huge hairy arachnid and back again. He had bought the thing at a pet shop and sent it to her when she’d panned
Deadly Weapon
. It had been a practical joke, just one of many he had played on her over the years. “I never expected you to keep it!”
Jayne leaned over the tank and crumbled in some homemade spider food, smiling as Harry scrambled over a rock to get to the treat. She turned an angelic look up to Reilly. “What else could I have done with him?”
For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He couldn’t name one other woman of his acquaintance who would have kept a tarantula.
“I voted we sent it to that big roach motel in the sky,” Candi said. “That thing gives me the creeps. No offense intended, Reilly.”
“None taken,” he mumbled, shaking his head.
“And you shouldn’t let that ugly thing keep you from asking Jayne out. She’s not
that
attached to it.”
Jayne reached over the back of the couch to pluck the magazine from Candi’s hands. “This doesn’t even remotely resemble an algebra book.”
Candi ignored the hint. Struggling into a sitting position she kept her eyes on Reilly, who had wandered off to inspect a Chinese screen. “Jayne, do you have any idea who he is?” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. She snapped a finger against the magazine cover.
Mac’s dead, Jaynie. Dead and buried. There’s no reason for the livin’ to go on feelin’ guilty
.
But guilt was only a part of the bigger picture.
Reilly stood with his hands planted at the waist of his jeans, staring off across the sweeping expanse of the first floor with something like disbelief in his eyes. He’d never seen anything quite like it. The living areas were divided by various groups of furniture or by curtains of hanging plants. There were heavy posts and beams aplenty, but there was nary a solid wall on this level.
They walked through an enormous kitchen where copper and iron pots and bunches of dried herbs and flowers hung from the heavy ceiling beams, and where a polished, pine harvest table dominated the floor space. The cupboards had been constructed of weathered barn siding. Thecobalt-blue tiled counter tops were crowded with Kentucky salt-glazed pottery.
Beyond the kitchen, on the north side of the building and up three steps, was a more formal dining area. On the south side and down three steps was a sprawling living room with plush lavender carpet. The south wall was virtually all window, decorated by nothing more than a deep purple velvet swag valance artfully slung on a thick brass rod.
The collection of furniture in the room could only be called eclectic. Bon Jovi blared from a tall French armoire crammed with stereo equipment. A low, black-and-gold japanned trunk topped with a thick slab of glass served as a coffee table. It was cluttered with old books and magazines. There were iron floor lamps with fringed shades and a bamboo cage made in the likeness of an elaborate house with two tiny birds flitting about within it—no doubt trying to escape the rock music, Reilly thought.
For lounging there were three huge, ornate Victorian sofas upholstered in purple brocade. Two were piled with paisley-print pillows in shades of mauve and purple and green. One was occupied by Candi, sprawling the length of it with her stocking feet propped on one arm and her spikey hair sticking up over the other. She was thoroughly engrossed in the latest copy of
WE
magazine.
Reilly scowled at the picture of himself staring out from the cover of the magazine with a crooked grin. Turning away, he nearly plowed into an aquarium. He pulled himself up short and stared in utter disbelief at the contents of the tank.
“Bloody hell! That’s a tarantula!”
“I know,” Jayne said calmly, as if everyone she knew kept one. “You shouldn’t be so surprised. After all, you sent him to me.”
Reilly opened his mouth and clamped it back shut. He looked from Jayne to the huge hairy arachnid and back again. He had bought the thing at a pet shop and sent it to her when she’d panned
Deadly Weapon
. It had been a practical joke, just one of many he had played on her over the years. “I never expected you to keep it!”
Jayne leaned over the tank and crumbled in some homemade spider food, smiling as Harry scrambled over a rock to get to the treat. She turned an angelic look up to Reilly. “What else could I have done with him?”
For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He couldn’t name one other woman of his acquaintance who would have kept a tarantula.
“I voted we sent it to that big roach motel in the sky,” Candi said. “That thing gives me the creeps. No offense intended, Reilly.”
“None taken,” he mumbled, shaking his head.
“And you shouldn’t let that ugly thing keep you from asking Jayne out. She’s not
that
attached to it.”
Jayne reached over the back of the couch to pluck the magazine from Candi’s hands. “This doesn’t even remotely resemble an algebra book.”
Candi ignored the hint. Struggling into a sitting position she kept her eyes on Reilly, who had wandered off to inspect a Chinese screen. “Jayne, do you have any idea who he is?” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. She snapped a finger against the magazine cover.
Similar Books
