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Authors: Marianne Stillings
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creeps.”
“Mort the mortician gives you the creeps?” Taylor chided. “Other than the fact his name is Mort, how do you mean?” He kept it light, casual, simple curiosity, that’s all.
She smiled at him as though she had a secret. Her eyes sparkled like mellow sherry, and long dimples appeared in her cheeks. She looked more like the woman he’d met a year ago, the one he’d found so irresistible, the one he’d danced with half the night, and made love to the other half.
“Yeah, Mortie the mortician,” she snickered. “He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Apparently it’s a longstanding family trade, passed from father to son.”
“Hmm. I guess when his dad told him to grab a cold one, he wasn’t talking about beer.”
Laughter bubbled from deep in her throat. It was a thoroughly sexy sound, and he felt himself respond.
“Maybe it was his mother who passed along the trade,” she said wryly. “What would you call a lady mortician?”
Taylor paused for effect. “Mummy?”
She let her head fall back on the seat as she laughed until her eyes were moist and her cheeks rosy. “I hate it when you do that,” she said to the ceiling.
“Bowl you over with my wit?” he ventured. “Captivate you with my humor? Impress you with razor-sharp retorts?”
“I don’t know that I’d call them razor-sharp,” she drawled, “but, well . . .”
She let her words trickle off. Sitting up again, she studied her fingertips, fiercely avoiding eye contact. “Listen, Taylor. I . . . um, we . . . what I mean is . . .” Finally, huffing out a long breath, she said, “Oh, hell. Never mind.”
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Me, too.”
She looked over at him, her expression unreadable. Apparently, they’d leave things at that. No use rekindling a dead fire.
“You were telling me about Mort,” he said, shoving the conversation back in the direction he wanted it to go. “What is it about him that bothers you?”
She relaxed her shoulders, obviously relieved to let the topic shift into more neutral territory. Reaching up, she fiddled with her earring.
“Aunt Sadie told me that he has very extravagant tastes and spends money like a drunken sailor. The engagement ring he gave her is over three carats.”
“Is that a lot?”
She shook her head and looked at him with pity in her eyes, as though he’d just asked whether the Earth was round.
“Yes, Detective Tiffany, three carats is a lot . He wears imported silk suits, owns several high-end automobiles, travels to Europe all the time, and throws catered parties that rival celebrity victories on Oscar night.” She lifted a shoulder. “Of course, he has a steady supply of, um, customers, if you will, but Port Henry isn’t that big, and his isn’t the only mortuary around. He just seems to spend a lot more money than he makes.”
Taylor feigned minor enthusiasm over Claire’s remarks, but the reality was, everything she said fit the profile of a man who was using his legitimate business as a front.
Before he could ask another question, Claire laid her hand on the door handle. “Well, nature calls,” she said. “I need to go in now. I’d offer you some iced tea or lemonade, but—”
“Great!” he interrupted. “I could use some.”
Before she could protest, he’d already jumped out of the truck and was halfway around to her door. She climbed out, glared up at him, and seemed to resign herself to inviting him in and fixing him a cold drink. “I guess it’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”
Silently, she trudged up the steps to the kitchen door. Agatha looked up sleepily from under the rocking chair, yawned until her tongue curled, shifted position, and dozed off again.
Taylor nearly bumped into Claire as she stopped dead in her tracks.
“Great,” she muttered, patting her pockets. “The Seattle PD still has my keys.”
Bending, she picked up the edge of the straw door mat and picked up the shiny brass key lying
“Mort the mortician gives you the creeps?” Taylor chided. “Other than the fact his name is Mort, how do you mean?” He kept it light, casual, simple curiosity, that’s all.
She smiled at him as though she had a secret. Her eyes sparkled like mellow sherry, and long dimples appeared in her cheeks. She looked more like the woman he’d met a year ago, the one he’d found so irresistible, the one he’d danced with half the night, and made love to the other half.
“Yeah, Mortie the mortician,” she snickered. “He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Apparently it’s a longstanding family trade, passed from father to son.”
“Hmm. I guess when his dad told him to grab a cold one, he wasn’t talking about beer.”
Laughter bubbled from deep in her throat. It was a thoroughly sexy sound, and he felt himself respond.
“Maybe it was his mother who passed along the trade,” she said wryly. “What would you call a lady mortician?”
Taylor paused for effect. “Mummy?”
She let her head fall back on the seat as she laughed until her eyes were moist and her cheeks rosy. “I hate it when you do that,” she said to the ceiling.
“Bowl you over with my wit?” he ventured. “Captivate you with my humor? Impress you with razor-sharp retorts?”
“I don’t know that I’d call them razor-sharp,” she drawled, “but, well . . .”
She let her words trickle off. Sitting up again, she studied her fingertips, fiercely avoiding eye contact. “Listen, Taylor. I . . . um, we . . . what I mean is . . .” Finally, huffing out a long breath, she said, “Oh, hell. Never mind.”
“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Me, too.”
She looked over at him, her expression unreadable. Apparently, they’d leave things at that. No use rekindling a dead fire.
“You were telling me about Mort,” he said, shoving the conversation back in the direction he wanted it to go. “What is it about him that bothers you?”
She relaxed her shoulders, obviously relieved to let the topic shift into more neutral territory. Reaching up, she fiddled with her earring.
“Aunt Sadie told me that he has very extravagant tastes and spends money like a drunken sailor. The engagement ring he gave her is over three carats.”
“Is that a lot?”
She shook her head and looked at him with pity in her eyes, as though he’d just asked whether the Earth was round.
“Yes, Detective Tiffany, three carats is a lot . He wears imported silk suits, owns several high-end automobiles, travels to Europe all the time, and throws catered parties that rival celebrity victories on Oscar night.” She lifted a shoulder. “Of course, he has a steady supply of, um, customers, if you will, but Port Henry isn’t that big, and his isn’t the only mortuary around. He just seems to spend a lot more money than he makes.”
Taylor feigned minor enthusiasm over Claire’s remarks, but the reality was, everything she said fit the profile of a man who was using his legitimate business as a front.
Before he could ask another question, Claire laid her hand on the door handle. “Well, nature calls,” she said. “I need to go in now. I’d offer you some iced tea or lemonade, but—”
“Great!” he interrupted. “I could use some.”
Before she could protest, he’d already jumped out of the truck and was halfway around to her door. She climbed out, glared up at him, and seemed to resign herself to inviting him in and fixing him a cold drink. “I guess it’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.”
Silently, she trudged up the steps to the kitchen door. Agatha looked up sleepily from under the rocking chair, yawned until her tongue curled, shifted position, and dozed off again.
Taylor nearly bumped into Claire as she stopped dead in her tracks.
“Great,” she muttered, patting her pockets. “The Seattle PD still has my keys.”
Bending, she picked up the edge of the straw door mat and picked up the shiny brass key lying
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