Free Flash Flood by Susan Slater Page B

it had been closed out. He had talked with Junior. Made it seem pertinent to his investigation because he had witnessed the drowning—or almost. But unless he was being lied to, though that didn’t make sense, the two million didn’t exist, which made him suspect that the two million had not been gathering interest for seven years, had never been deposited. Might be just as well the poor bloke never found out. Talk about being ticked.
    So Roswell, instead of soothing his soul or whatever with its high dry sparkling sunshine, was making him feel caged. Antsy to do something and he wasn’t even sure what that was supposed to be. He was anxious to get the investigation over with. He still needed to meet with Hank, tour the barns, start the inventory. Carolyn was probably right. Maybe, he did need a diversion.
    He pulled a loose-fitting sweater over his head. A splash of Polo and he’d be ready to meet the guests—correction, guest. The fifth grade teacher had called last night. She missed him. He probably should have told that massage therapist that his current love interest was thirty-two. And that he was old enough to be her father. Actually, who cared?
    He didn’t think he had too many hang-ups with age. He’d read that graying around the temples instilled confidence. But somehow now the temple grayness met behind his head. Could be time for that Grecian stuff. But then again, maybe not. A head of thick gray hair was better than a shiny scalp.
    There was a hint of thickening around the waist. Now that was something he did need to work on. The Nordic-Track was probably still folded up under his bed. He tugged the Levis in place, still a thirty-two, snug or not. Carolyn had assured him that the dinner wasn’t a dress affair. He’d take her at her word. He reached down to tie his Nikes.
    Carolyn had gone to pick up Phillip. Something about his car stalling. But Dan smelled a rat. More like let’s let Dan meet date by himself. Give them some time alone. Get the amenities over, start to feel comfortable, establish a rapport—
    The doorbell interrupted. He better get going. Dona Mari was on one of her yearly pilgrimages, wouldn’t be back for awhile, so door-answering duties were all his. He decided against the splash of Polo and reached for the Lime, then let the doorbell ring a second time before walking to the front of the house.
    Later he would ask himself why he couldn’t stop staring, but maybe he knew the minute he opened the door. Opened the door, held out his hand, and made contact. Real skin to skin and for a split second, he didn’t want to let go, drop her hand, break that buzz of feeling.
    Dan led the way to the kitchen. He’d been asked to open the wine, let it breathe before dinner. And she followed him, then perched on a stool at the breakfast bar and kept him company. As easily as if she had been doing it all of her life. At one point he wanted to ask if she felt the same uncanny comfort in being with him. But that would come later. And there would be a later; he was sure of that.
    â€œYour work sounds dangerous, exciting even.”
    From anyone else Dan would have dismissed the comment as patronizing. But it only made him open up more. He was halfway through the 1987 case of a jewel theft on Long Island when Carolyn and Phillip walked in.
    Even the watchful eye of his sister didn’t slow him down. He was witty, dug back into the recesses of some forgotten poetry class to comment accurately on iambic pentameter, then segued that neatly into why Faulkner and the Southern angst was a milestone in American lit. He caught a “What the hell?” glance between Phillip and Carolyn, but he didn’t miss a beat. And what was even more remarkable, neither did Dr. Elaine Linden.
    Everyone else might as well have been invisible. The eggplant hors d’oeuvres disappeared and the beef Wellington, but somewhere between the Guatemalan coffee and