Free Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil by Barbara Silkstone Page B

Boy. My greatest fear is that some regular bloke will trip across it, not know what he has, and stick it on his mantel or in the back of his closet.”
    I zeroed in on the nasty Ms. Bone. Not one to nag, I hated myself for repeating, but I did…“It has to be Darcy.”
    There was a transatlantic pause. I could feel it hit the back of my throat.
    “Darcy’s also missing.”
    “Is anybody left in London?”
    “Wendy, you’ve got to make yourself available to the police.”
    “Am I in danger?”
    “You could be. Fly back. I’ll pick you up at Gatwick.”
    The concern in Roger’s voice plus the loss he suffered as a child squeezed my heart until it hurt. I caught my reflection in the kitchen window as I spoke, “Okay. Today’s Friday. I’m on responsibility overload at this moment. I’ll be on the Sunday evening Virgin flight arriving Monday morning.”
    “How will I know you? It’s been so long. Are you still wearing that angry scowl?”
    “Are you still wearing that big-boned blonde? Oh that’s right, you’ve misplaced her.”
    “Funny.”
    “You’ll know me when you see me. I’m in the middle of the rat race, tap dancing like crazy.”
    I hung up feeling dizzy from the emotional high brought on by the idea of returning to broiling London as an investigator, missing person suspect, and possible archaeologist-lover. A little voice in the wee corner of my brain said… if there’s a murder, there’s a killer. I shivered.

Chapter 21
    I needed to make sure my houseguests were taken care of before I left. It was time to run to the grocery and stock up on kid-friendly provisions for Treanna, crunchy stuff to keep Matty awake, and dog food for Tinkerbelle. They’d be safe with the guard on duty as long as they stayed inside or close to the buildings. Mr. Smith and his pet Ox shouldn’t be able to get at them. I prayed I’d scared off Smith for the time being.
    “Treanna, I’m running to the store. You take good care of our tent. Anything special you’d like for dinner or breakfast?”
    Her eyes lit up at the thought of having a choice of things to eat. She rattled off a selection I knew had to have come from television ads.
    “You sit tight. When I get back, we’ll take Tink for a walk.”
    I woke Matty, got her list of basic needs and extra treats, and grabbed my purse. I jumped in the car, looking both ways for dogs on strings, then put the vehicle in reverse. I exited the garage waving at the guard as I left our gated compound.
    So much to do and so little time. Half my brain was on food supplies and the other half was creating a mental list of lightweight clothing for my return to hot London. What to wear when you’re being interrogated by the cops? Basic black or innocent pastels? I don’t own any pastels.
    ***
    The supermarket was nearly deserted. I was racing so fast with the grocery cart and so deep in thought, I found myself absent-mindedly hitting a non-existent turn signal on the basket. Zipping toward the cereal aisle, I realized I’d forgotten the pet food. I negotiated a sharp U-turn and banged into a wall of steroids, otherwise known as Ox.
    Stopping dead in my tracks, I walked up to him and matched him toe to toe. “You better have a pet, big guy, or I am so going to have your butt for stalking me.”
    “Where’s the old lady and the kid?”
    “In Bermuda.” I grinned. That was an easy lie. I pulled my cell phone from my purse. “Wait right here while I dial 911.”
    I turned my back and pretended I’d made a connection and then spoke in a theatrical voice. “He’s right here. Big jerky looking guy, name’s Ox. He works for a Mister Smith, a shoe salesman and gambling racketeer.” I continued my imaginary conversation for a minute longer, turned, and Ox was gone. Smiling, I tucked my phone back in my purse.
    By the time I’d loaded up on dog food and finished the kid-food shopping, the cart was full to the brim. I hit the check out and ran up a four-hundred dollar tab.