Free The First Prophet by Kay Hooper Page A

something, Sarah. It’s worrying her.”
    “Yes, I know.” Sarah turned the coffeepot off, then looked around in sudden awareness.
     “Where’s Pendragon?”
    “Margo fed him his breakfast and let him out, she said.” He hesitated, then said,
     “I never did let him out last night; he disappeared on me. Was he with you?”
    “No, not unless he decided to sleep under the bed.” She shrugged. “Which he might
     have done. This is the first time I’ve spent the night here over the shop since he
     showed up, so I’m not sure about his nighttime habits.”
    “He’s been altered, right? So not as likely to want to wander at night like intact
     toms do.”
    Absently, Sarah said, “I thought you didn’t know much about cats.”
    There was a brief silence, and then Tucker said, “I guess most people know that much.”
    “I guess. Yeah, I made sure he’d been neutered, otherwise I would have taken him to
     a vet. Too many stray cats around for my peace of mind. They live dangerous lives,
     poor things.” With a shrug, she added, “He probably belongs to someone in the area,
     given his condition and that collar. He’s been somebody’s cat, obviously cared for.”
    “Then maybe he went home after his breakfast.”
    “Maybe so.”
    “Ready to go down to the shop?”
    “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
    They left the apartment and went downstairs to the shop, finding Margo occupied with
     a customer.
    “I had something a little more…economical in mind,” the attractive young woman was
     saying somewhat wryly as she studied the price tag of a beautiful early Victorian
     writing desk.
    Margo chuckled. “Antiques are always economical, especially if you’re looking at long-term
     investment, Miss Desmond. Just think of having something this beautiful to pass down
     to your children.”
    “You mean instead of the cash?” Miss Desmond grinned.
    Sarah recognized from Margo’s happy expression that she expected to make a sale, so
     she didn’t try to interrupt. Instead, she led Tucker through the maze of gleaming
     furniture to a back corner, where a stunning ormolu-mounted boulle bureau plat of
     Regency design acted as a desk where Sarah and Margo did the necessary paperwork for
     the shop.
    “Nice place,” Tucker commented.
    “Thanks. It’s taken us almost eight years to get the kind of stock and clientele we
     dreamed about when we started. A lot of long hours and hard work went into Old Things,
     to say nothing of every penny Margo and I could come up with.” She said it matter-of-factly
     but with a trace of wistfulness, filled with the conviction that this part of her
     life was ending. She didn’t know whether her prediction of a bleak future would be
     fulfilled, but she was sure, utterly sure, that her partnership with Margo was ending.
    One way or another.
    Sarah glanced back across the shop at Margo and the customer, then looked at her watch
     uneasily. It was still well before noon, but she wouldn’t feel that her friend was
     out of danger until she was out of Richmond and far away from this shop.
    “I think I’ll wander around a bit,” Tucker told her. “I’ve always been interested
     in antiques.” He nodded toward Margo, adding, “Sing out when you need me.”
    “Okay.” Sarah sat down at the chair behind the desk and opened a file to go over several
     shipping invoices. It was busywork and nothing more; the clock in her head was ticking
     away minutes, and all she could think about was talking to Margo and getting her out
     of here.
    With that tense part of her awareness, she was conscious of Margo talking to the customer,
     leading her from piece to piece but always returning to that Victorian writing desk
     she clearly intended to sell the woman.
    “Let me just sit here and think about it,” the customer finally said, sitting down
     somewhat gingerly in a George III mahogany-framed dining chair.
    “It’s a tough decision, I know,” Margo said sympathetically.
    “I’ll