Free Skirting the Grave by Annette Blair Page A

who could afford so many homes? I don’t know. Maybe a . . . very high-end call girl?
    “I know,” Werner said. “We’re looking into her financials, too.”
    “Have other family members seen her?”
    “None we’ve talked to, which takes our investigation up a notch.”
    “As in, Giselle’s a suspect? Or she’s dead somewhere, too?”
    Werner nodded. “She could be a suspect, but I’m also concerned about her welfare. We’ve issued a national missing persons bulletin. I’m still talking to Isobel’s father. I don’t know if either set of parents is still married, if any of the three girls lived with their parents. I’d know more if you hadn’t shown up so early. I was in the middle of asking Candidate York a few questions.”
    “I wish you’d told me last night to come in later. I’d have given Isobel more time to sleep this morning, though I think you woke her up with your loud cooking.”
    “I didn’t wake you up, and I didn’t expect my staff’s investigative phone calls to net us a visit from Mr. Quincy York.”
    “Why is he such a big deal?”
    “Highly publicized political aspirations,” Werner said, “though he’s definitely starting at the bottom. Famous family money.”
    “Ah. So famous I don’t know him.”
    “You hate politics.”
    “Oh yeah. Madame Robear sure got it wrong. You’d think the owner of a modeling agency would know her models well enough to identify their faces correctly.”
    “You’d think.” Werner turned to Billings, his sometimes driver, sometimes desk clerk.
    “Knock on this door when the people in my office come out.”
    Billings saluted and tried to hide his grin by focusing on his computer keys, as Werner backed me into a supply closet, hands on my upper arms, and kicked the door shut behind us.
    “Are you seeking revenge?” I asked, coming up against a set of shelves.
    “Maybe. See, I got this knot on the back of my head . . .”
    He lowered his head to show me, his hands braced on the shelves behind me. I combed my fingers through his hair until I found the bump. Couldn’t miss it, really. High and hard, and wow, it must hurt. “It really is huge.”
    “I’ve dreamed of you saying that.”
    I shoved his shoulder. “You’re a pain, but I apologize for knocking your lights out.”
    “You already apologized. Right before you fell asleep in my arms.”
    I gasped. “With Nick on the opposite sofa?”
    “He passed out long before we did. Probably woke up yesterday in Timbuktu, secure in an assassin’s trap, and then he came home to real trouble: you.”
    I kissed the knot I gave him. “Does that make it better?”
    “Not as much as looking down your dress does.”
    I pulled his head up, his grin about cutting me off at the knees.
    “Tell me you were not looking.”
    “Hey, this is you, kiddo. Of course I looked. You make a man’s mouth water.”
    “I am not a pork chop!” Still, stupid me, my heart tripped.
    He took my hand and ran his thumb over my fingernails. “You’re all woman, Mad, especially in that yellow lace bra. I like. But I like what’s inside better.”
    Inside me, he meant, not in my bra, right? Of course, right. “What are we doing here?” I asked. What was I doing here? Alone with the Wiener, and liking it?
    “Testing the waters,” he said. “Though with you, I always try to remember that drowning’s a probability, and yet I forget. You’re like some kind of bewitching sea siren. I’ve got the scars from where you’ve dashed me against the rocks. Yet here I am, ready for another dip. Glug, glug, glug.”
    Thirteen
    Clothes make a statement. Costumes tell a story.
    —MASON COOLEY
    Something that sounded like a paired set of sweat socks thumped against the supply room door. “Yo! Sarge!” A shout from Billings. “The people in your office are asking for you.”
    “Saved by the clerk,” I said.
    In Werner’s office, I opened my arms to the girl her father confirmed as Isobel. “I’m sorry about your