Free Foxy Roxy by Nancy Martin

hand at her publicized good deeds. “My museum work.”
    “That kind of work,” Quentin said, turning purple, “is going to stop immediately. We can’t have you—well, we’ll discuss it when we’re alone.”
    “So I’ll be moving in with you?” The honey thick.
    “No, no!” Flustered, Quentin said, “With my wife in Mexico, I can hardly have my brother’s widow staying in the same house.”
    “She won’t be coming home for the funeral?”
    Unless Quentin’s wife spontaneously enjoyed a miracle cure for her various prescription drug addictions, Henry knew there was no chance she’d be home before hell froze over.
    Henry watched and wondered. There was some kind of dynamic going on between the big ox and Monica. Quentin was the opposite of his brother Julius—not a womanizer or a lavish spender, or even a man who enjoyed many pleasures, so it was hardly a flirtation. Businesslike—that was Quentin. Devoid of subtle people skills. Probably lousy at intimacy. No wonder his wife turned to pills.
    But Monica was looking like a startled doe—ready to dash into the forest if Quentin flashed his big antlers at her.
    What was going on? Quentin ought to be furious with her. She’d lit a match to a considerable part of his inheritance. But there was something else in the air.
    Abruptly, Henry found himself wondering if Quentin was capable of murdering his own brother.
    Monica’s deerlike body language hinted she was thinking precisely the same thing. And yet her eyes sparkled with interest. Confound it, was she actually attracted to Quentin?
    To ease tensions, Henry said, “Monica, why don’t you move into Hilltop? While Mrs. Hyde stays at the nursing home, you’d have all the privacy you could ever want. The staff is engaged part-time at the moment, but it only takes a phone call to gear up for you. I could drive you there myself, if you like.”
    Quentin’s glare was suspicious as he tried to decide if Henry might be outmaneuvering him or whether having Monica out of the public eye was preferable.
    Monica said, “Oh, Henry, you’re so sweet.”
    “Nonsense.” He patted her hand. “Mrs. Hyde will want you to be comfortable.”
    Quentin’s complexion turned an even more dangerous shade.
    Monica gently bit her lower lip, then said, “But the police told me not to leave town.”
    “I’m sure they meant you aren’t supposed to abscond to South America. I can make a phone call on your behalf. Let them know how to reach you.”
    “It’s not a bad idea,” Quentin said at last, apparently concluding it would be best if Monica were to disappear from the public eye. He checked his watch. “I’d take you myself, but I’m meeting my daughter Arden.”
    “Arden’s come home?” Henry couldn’t stop himself from asking the question, and immediately regretted his slip.
    Quentin zeroed in on Henry. “Yes, she’s back from Italy or Budapest or wherever the hell she’s been wasting her time.”
    “It will be good to have Arden around,” Monica said. “She’ll be a comfort to her grandmother.”
    Obviously, the last thing on Quentin’s mind was his mother’s comfort. He whipped out his cell phone. “Let me make sure her flight’s on time. Maybe I can rearrange my schedule and take you to Hilltop.”
    While Quentin made a call, Henry got back to business. With Monica’s BlackBerry in hand, he ran his finger down the long line of local and distant dealers who might have done business with Julius Hyde before his demise. He paused when he came upon a female name.
    Leaning toward Monica, he asked softly, “Who’s this?”
    Monica’s reading glasses had the Chanel interlocking Cs on the frames. She peered at the list in Henry’s hand. “Oh, that’s some woman Julius hired to haul a few things away last spring when we renovated a garage. It was just junk.”
    “Her listing says ‘architectural salvage.’ What does that mean, exactly?” Henry’s radar had begun to hum.
    “I don’t remember.