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Authors: Ellen Hart
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people looking for?”
“You think it’s the bull?”
He didn’t reply. Walking back out into the front room, he picked up a cushion and righted a chair. Irina stood in the doorway and watched.
“We’re not safe,” she said.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Your mother was shot. Dial was stabbed.”
“So what? They’re both dead.”
“It might mean the murders weren’t related.”
“But we don’t know that.”
“No, we don’t. Whatever is going on here, we need to stay focused on getting rid of that statue. Listen.” He moved back to the doorway and looked her square in the eyes. “There are a lot of artifacts from the Baghdad Museum floating around the black market—I’ve bought and sold my share—but nothing as big or as high profile as the winged bull. If someone is on our trail, that’s the reason. We have to work quietly and quickly. Are you with me?”
Her eyes looked glazed, off center. She gave a weak nod.
“You’ve got to be sure. We don’t have time to waste, Irina. We act decisively or we call it off.”
“I’m in, Chess. All the way.”
“You’ve got it hidden away?”
“It’s safe.”
He kissed her with a passion he didn’t feel. She was far more skittish than she’d been when they’d first discussed the sale of the bull in Istanbul last August. She’d turned into a woman who had to be coaxed along, handled with care. If she’d shown that sort of temperament earlier, he never would have cut her in. He’d been in a bind, though. He needed her, needed her connections. Greed motivated her, but it wasn’t her bottom line. She tried to hide it, but after the buy was made, Chess was the prize she wanted. That meant he had to keep her happy until the bull was safely disposed of and the money was in the bank.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said, his arms encircling her, his fingers kneading the muscles in her neck.
She burst into tears. “I feel so guilty,” she said, choking on her sobs. “My mom is dead and it’s all because of me.”
“We don’t know that.” He held her tighter. “You have to be strong, have to think of the future.” He stroked her wispy blond hair, kissed her forehead. “You can be strong, can’t you?”
She backed up and brushed the tears off her cheeks.
“It’s time to call 911. Can I get you anything first? A glass of water?” He eased her down onto a chair, then leaned over her.
“Do you love me, Chess?”
He crouched down, took her hand in his, and pressed it to his chest. “With all my heart.”
8
“He’s back,” said Jane as she stood at the head of the wooden stairs leading down to the lake in front of her restaurant, holding her cell phone to her ear. The lunch rush was over, so she was taking a break.
“Who’s back?” asked Cordelia. She sounded impatient.
In the background, Jane could hear trombones. “Is the Allen Grimby doing an adaptation of The Music Man ?”
“I can’t hear you.”
“ ‘Seventy-six Trombones’?”
“Nah, I think there are only two. And a tuba, a flute, and an oboe.”
“Kind of an unusual band.”
“What?”
“Can you go into another room or something?”
A door slammed.
“There, that’s better,” said Cordelia. “Now, who’s back?”
“That itinerant preacher. The one dressed in the monk’s cowl.”
“Well, yippy freakin’ skippy. It’s really nice of you to keep me updated on the comings and goings of Friar Tuck, but trust me, it’s not necessary.”
“Chess stayed at my house last night.”
“He did? Why?”
“He was mugged.”
“Heavens.”
“I’ll tell you about it when we have more time.”
“Did you manage to get all the deliciously licentious details of his love life?”
“A little more than we got at lunch.”
“Excellent, Janey. Just excellent. Everything ready for the party tomorrow night?”
The catering wing of Jane’s two restaurants was taking care of the food. Her house had undergone a thorough cleaning. The
“You think it’s the bull?”
He didn’t reply. Walking back out into the front room, he picked up a cushion and righted a chair. Irina stood in the doorway and watched.
“We’re not safe,” she said.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Your mother was shot. Dial was stabbed.”
“So what? They’re both dead.”
“It might mean the murders weren’t related.”
“But we don’t know that.”
“No, we don’t. Whatever is going on here, we need to stay focused on getting rid of that statue. Listen.” He moved back to the doorway and looked her square in the eyes. “There are a lot of artifacts from the Baghdad Museum floating around the black market—I’ve bought and sold my share—but nothing as big or as high profile as the winged bull. If someone is on our trail, that’s the reason. We have to work quietly and quickly. Are you with me?”
Her eyes looked glazed, off center. She gave a weak nod.
“You’ve got to be sure. We don’t have time to waste, Irina. We act decisively or we call it off.”
“I’m in, Chess. All the way.”
“You’ve got it hidden away?”
“It’s safe.”
He kissed her with a passion he didn’t feel. She was far more skittish than she’d been when they’d first discussed the sale of the bull in Istanbul last August. She’d turned into a woman who had to be coaxed along, handled with care. If she’d shown that sort of temperament earlier, he never would have cut her in. He’d been in a bind, though. He needed her, needed her connections. Greed motivated her, but it wasn’t her bottom line. She tried to hide it, but after the buy was made, Chess was the prize she wanted. That meant he had to keep her happy until the bull was safely disposed of and the money was in the bank.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said, his arms encircling her, his fingers kneading the muscles in her neck.
She burst into tears. “I feel so guilty,” she said, choking on her sobs. “My mom is dead and it’s all because of me.”
“We don’t know that.” He held her tighter. “You have to be strong, have to think of the future.” He stroked her wispy blond hair, kissed her forehead. “You can be strong, can’t you?”
She backed up and brushed the tears off her cheeks.
“It’s time to call 911. Can I get you anything first? A glass of water?” He eased her down onto a chair, then leaned over her.
“Do you love me, Chess?”
He crouched down, took her hand in his, and pressed it to his chest. “With all my heart.”
8
“He’s back,” said Jane as she stood at the head of the wooden stairs leading down to the lake in front of her restaurant, holding her cell phone to her ear. The lunch rush was over, so she was taking a break.
“Who’s back?” asked Cordelia. She sounded impatient.
In the background, Jane could hear trombones. “Is the Allen Grimby doing an adaptation of The Music Man ?”
“I can’t hear you.”
“ ‘Seventy-six Trombones’?”
“Nah, I think there are only two. And a tuba, a flute, and an oboe.”
“Kind of an unusual band.”
“What?”
“Can you go into another room or something?”
A door slammed.
“There, that’s better,” said Cordelia. “Now, who’s back?”
“That itinerant preacher. The one dressed in the monk’s cowl.”
“Well, yippy freakin’ skippy. It’s really nice of you to keep me updated on the comings and goings of Friar Tuck, but trust me, it’s not necessary.”
“Chess stayed at my house last night.”
“He did? Why?”
“He was mugged.”
“Heavens.”
“I’ll tell you about it when we have more time.”
“Did you manage to get all the deliciously licentious details of his love life?”
“A little more than we got at lunch.”
“Excellent, Janey. Just excellent. Everything ready for the party tomorrow night?”
The catering wing of Jane’s two restaurants was taking care of the food. Her house had undergone a thorough cleaning. The
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