House of Strangers

And from being on guard against revealing that he knew or cared more than he should about the Delaneys. One of his friends from the Air Force Academy, Jack Sabrinski, who had grown up speaking Serbo-Croat and Bulgarian with equal facility in English, had done some spy missions. He told Paul that the two months he spent spying in Bosnia took more out of him than five years of a bad marriage and a nasty divorce.

Paul could believe him. Since meeting Ann last night, another element had been added to the mix. Until yesterday these people had been strangers without faces, without personalities. Faceless entities he felt justified in using.

Now they were real to him. Ann especially. She seemed to be completely vulnerable and open. The perfect mark for a con man, which was what he was.

As he and Buddy stood by the counter waiting to pay their bills—they’d refused to allow Mrs. Pulliam to pick up the check—he heard Sarah’s voice behind him.

“Hey, come meet the new owner.”

Paul turned as Sarah slipped her arm under that of a man close to Paul’s size and weight, but with hazel eyes and a shock of blond hair already bleached nearly white by the sun. He wore immaculate chinos that hadn’t come from a discount store, an equally immaculate and expensive plaid shirt, and work boots that were polished to a high shine. Paul glanced at the man’s hand as he took it.

Manicured fingernails.

“Trey, honey, this is Mr. Paul Bouvet who is redoing your grandmother’s house. Paul, say hello to Trey Delaney.”

“Thought I’d see you when you closed on the house, but I had to be out of town,” Trey said. “Glad to meet you at last.”

Paul expected to feel a shock of electricity between them when he touched the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled, but his eyes searched for features he could recognize from the only picture he had of his father. A second later he wondered whether anyone looking at him and Trey could see any resemblance.

“My real name is Paul Edward Delaney, but nobody ever calls me anything but Trey.”

The picture of Paul’s father had been taken with his mother in Paris when his father was no more than twenty-five. It wasn’t a very good one, either, and had begun to fade. Paul was now thirty-five, which made Trey thirty-three.

Trey had their father’s eyes and light hair and skin, already roughened by days in the sun.

Paul had inherited his mother’s dark eyes and hair, but for anyone who looked closely, the resemblance was noticeable. Paul decided that it would be better if he kept his meetings with Trey as private as possible and away from the knowledgeable eyes of someone like Ann, who must be used to analyzing faces for her restoration work.

Only Paul knew that they were half brothers, one raised as a wealthy planter’s son in west Tennessee, one raised by a plumber uncle and a French aunt who baked bread in Queens, New York. He intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.

To everyone around them, it was a casual introduction in a small-town café. Nothing special.

“Glad you’re bringing the old place to life,” Trey said, “though Lord knows why you’d want to. Sue-sue—she’s my wife—and I thought we’d never unload that monstrosity. Oops. Better keep my mouth shut.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to live there yourself.”

Sarah laughed. Trey laughed. Ann snickered.

“Aunt Sarah,” Trey said, “can’t you just see Sue-sue living in a house with itty-bitty closets and no whirlpool? No, Mr. Bouvet. You’re welcome to it. Too much ancestor worship around this town, anyway, and a damn sight too much in my family. Doesn’t matter who you came from, just what you do on your own, am I right, Annie?”

“It helps if you start by inheriting a bunch of land, a few million dollars and a couple of thousand head of cattle.”

“Can’t make a dime farming, isn’t that right, Aunt Sarah?” Trey turned to Paul. “You ever hear the one about the farmer who won the ten-million-dollar lottery? When they asked him what he was going to do with it, he said, ‘I guess I’ll just keep farming till it’s gone.’” He laughed. A little too loud, a little too long.

Paul smiled back.

“Well, y’all, I got to get my nose back to the grindstone.” Trey waved over his shoulder and walked past them out the restaurant toward the square.

Bills paid, the three others went out to where Dante waited patiently with his leash looped around the rail. Paul realized he hadn’t asked about the bear in front of Trey’s office. He’d make it a point to find out when he spoke to Trey about the people who’d bought the antiques at Miss Addy’s house sale.

“Gotta get back to work,” Buddy said. “Ann, you coming?”

“In a minute. Dante needs a walk.”

“Okay.”

She unhooked Dante’s leash and walked off toward the little park beside the railroad track. Dante glanced over his immense shoulder as if to say to Paul, “You coming?”

Paul ambled after the pair.

“I promise I’m not sloughing off,” Ann said. “You’ll get your money’s worth out of me, Mr. Bouvet. I’m planning to work late tonight—unless my being in the house will bother you, assuming you decide to stay there.”

“I’m going to give it my best shot. I’m off to stock up on things like an inflatable mattress and some kind of chest of drawers to stow my stuff in. Never did get used to sleeping on a cot even in flight school.”

“Flight school? You were in the military?”

“Air Force. Went to the academy, then served out my time before I left to fly transports for a private company.”

“So you flew F-15s or whatever number they’re up to now?”

“I usually flew C-150s—low and slow. The perfect training to fly civilian package transport.”

“Why’d you quit? Uh…retire?”

He grimaced. “Couldn’t pass the transport-flight physical any longer. I got hurt in a work-related accident. Left me with a bum shoulder.” Technically, the near-crash had been work-related, which was why the payoff had been so large. He was embarrassed that he hadn’t prevented the whole incident. His wound and scars embarrassed him further. He talked about the details as seldom as possible.

She must have heard something in his voice, because she dropped the subject. “I think Dante’s ready to go back to work. See you tonight, Mr. Bouvet.”

“Isn’t it about time you dropped the Mr. Bouvet stuff? I’ve been calling you Ann all morning.”

“Sure. Paul. Do you have a middle name?”

“I have one, but unlike the Delaneys, no one ever uses it. Actually, my middle name is Antoine. My mother was French.”

“You don’t look like an Antoine. You need a nickname. How about Top Gun?”

“I was never that. How about One Wing? More appropriate.”

They had reached the sidewalk in front of the mansion. She waved goodbye and ran up the walk and the stairs. Her ponytail bounced as the bright red scarf she’d tied around it flew in the breeze. Those jean-clad hips had a great sway to them when she ran.

No way. It wasn’t that he was some kind of saint when it came to romancing women, but even he drew the line at seducing a woman merely to gain information. Besides, she was some sort of cousin.

He’d thought he would do anything to find out what happened to his mother. Since meeting Ann and Sarah and Buddy, he knew he had limits. As far as Trey Delaney was concerned, the jury was still out. He seemed pleasant enough, if a little arrogant. No, actually, a lot arrogant. Even Ann picked up on that self-made man crap. Big frog, small pond.

Wonder how Trey would feel if suddenly he was faced with losing it all?

Wills were a matter of record. All he had to do was go to the local county seat and request a copy of Paul Delaney’s will from probate court files. He knew that his parents had been married at the time of his birth so no matter how the will was written, he, as the oldest legitimate son, would be entitled to a portion of it. He hoped, however, that he’d find that the oldest son was heir to everything. He could cut Trey out of everything he owned. Not that Paul intended to keep it, of course. What the hell did he know about farming or cows or cotton or soybeans?

But to be able to take it all, if even for a moment, then graciously give it back would be sweet.

Of course, the people in Rossiter would not take kindly to him if he did that. He’d have to sell the house and move away whether he wanted to or not.

But wasn’t that what he’d intended from the first? Why should he suddenly feel conflicted?

He looked up at the house from the sidewalk. Not so much an old harridan as a sad, gracious lady fallen on hard times. His gracious lady. She needed him.

The only thing on earth who did. He felt the stab of loneliness that always came when he thought of how isolated he’d allowed himself to become since Tracy had left him. She’d kept the friends they’d made together. He hadn’t bothered to make new ones.

After he made his run to the discount store and shoved his air mattress and pump into the back of his car, he decided to drive the thirty-five miles to the county seat. He arrived at three twenty-five, only to find that the clerk’s office closed at three.

On his way out of Somerville, he passed by a rose-brick building with a small sign that said Library in front of it.

Might be as good a time as any to get started on his research.

The man Paul now felt certain had fathered him had died in 1977. He’d discovered that much on an Internet search. Should be some sort of obituary in the country newspaper.

Actually, there were two weeklies. The librarian told him proudly that both had been in operation since Reconstruction. He asked for the microfiche for the time around when his father died and began to reel through.

Maybe he remembered the date incorrectly. There seemed to be nothing in the obituaries about his father. He scrolled back through to rewind the microfiche when suddenly a banner headline on the front page caught his eye.

His father’s death had been reported not on the obituary page, but on the front page.

Leading Citizen Killed in Tragic Riding Accident.

Killed? Nobody said he’d been killed. Paul had assumed his father’s liver or heart had given out.

Paul Francis Delaney, one of Fayette’s leading citizens, was tragically killed in a freak riding accident Sunday morning. Mr. Delaney served as master of foxhounds for the local Cotton Creek hunt. During a chase last Sunday morning at his farm, Mr. Delaney was thrown when his horse fell while jumping a fence. He died before emergency services could reach him. An autopsy revealed that Mr. Delaney’s neck was broken in the fall.

One of Fayette County’s largest landowners, Mr. Delaney was also known for his charming and sometimes caustic caricatures. Many local citizens frame these quick sketches and display them prominently. The local fairs, bake and Christmas bazaars, and church fetes will sorely miss his talents, as he has over the course of the years raised considerable amounts of money both with his artistic skills and his personal philanthropy.

Mr. Delaney leaves his wife, Karen Bingham Delaney, his young son Paul Delaney III and his mother, Mrs. Maribelle Delaney, widow of the late Paul Delaney, Sr. A scholarship fund to send a talented high-school student to the Art Institute each year for the summer program has been established in Mr. Delaney’s name. The family asks that in lieu of flowers memorials be sent to this fund. Time and place of services are pending.

Paul sat back in the hard wooden chair and ran his hand over his face. A charming caricaturist? Philanthropist? Sorely missed? He didn’t know what he’d expected to find. How could such a man have deserted and then killed a wife who loved him?

Paul stared down at the grainy black-and-white newspaper photograph that someone had dredged up from the files. In what could only be a pink hunting coat, his father stood with his gloved hand on the reins of a big bay horse. A woman sat on the horse and smiled down. Too old to be this Karen Bingham, his wife. Paul’s grandmother Maribelle?

He looked closer. Neither he nor Trey had inherited that aquiline nose, but Paul could certainly see where Trey got his arrogance. This was no knitting, sit-by-the-fire granny. From the casual ease with which she sat on her horse, she was used to command.

“Sorry, sir, we’re closing the library,” the librarian whispered.

“Oh, sure.” He smiled up at her and received a timid smile in return. “I’d like to come back and look some more.”

“Certainly. We open at ten o’clock every morning and close at five.”

He started to rewind the microfiche.

“I’ll be happy to do that, sir.”

Paul nodded and walked out, vowing to return as soon as possible to look up obituaries on everyone he could think of in the direct line of Delaneys.

And then there were social events. Didn’t hunts have balls and things? Sure the county weeklies would report on them. And graduations. Weddings. There would be names of others who had known his father. He had to discover as much as he could.

He climbed into his car and turned on the air conditioner. It might be March with chilly nights, but the afternoon sun had heated the car beyond his comfort zone. He pulled out and started the drive back to Rossiter.

Weddings. Birth announcements. When had his father married Karen Bingham? Or rather, when had his father committed bigamy with Karen Bingham? He had been, whether he acknowledged it or not, legally married to Paul’s mother, Michelle, until she died.

Even longer. He had been legally married to Michelle until seven years after her disappearance when Uncle Charlie had finally convinced Aunt Giselle to declare her sister dead.

He wondered where the Delaneys were buried. Would he feel anything if he stood over his father’s grave? Could he curse him then as he had cursed him many times before?

Maybe there was a historical society that kept personal correspondence and histories that were of no interest to anyone except scholars.

Ann’s mother would probably be younger than his father would have been, but she must have known him. He needed some excuse to see her again.

And what about Karen Bingham, his father’s so-called widow? Was she still alive? How could he wangle an invitation to see her?

By the time he pulled his car into a parking space in the road in front of his house, the workmen had apparently left for the day. There were several lights on both upstairs and down, but no trucks parked on his lawn.

He carried the package containing his air mattress and pump to the front door, then set them down so that he could unlock and open it.

As he stepped in, he called, “Hello! Anybody here?”

He heard the click of Dante’s toenails on the wooden floor before the dog skidded around the doorway to the butler’s pantry, slid to a stop in front of him and sank onto his haunches, waiting to be petted.

“Good boy. This time you didn’t knock me down.” He rubbed the dog’s wide forehead. “Where’s your mistress?”

“In here,” came a muffled female voice. He followed Dante through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen. For a moment he didn’t see her, then he spotted a pair of jean-clad ankles sticking out of the dumbwaiter. A moment later Ann emerged. Her face was dust-smeared and so was her shirt. She carried a large hand lantern.

“Hi,” she said, and wiped her free hand down the front of her jeans. “I figured if we could get this thing to work I could use it to carry supplies to the bedrooms so that I can strip the fireplaces.”

“You checked it out by climbing into it?”

“It was a tight fit, but there’s plenty of room for paint and stripper and stuff. It’s actually in good working order.”

“Ever hear of rust? What if those cables had broken? You could be in the basement with a broken back and no one to hear you yell for help.”

“I was careful. Besides, for its time, this is a top-of-the-line dumbwaiter. It’s got automatic brakes. If the cable breaks, these little feet keep it from going more than one floor down. I don’t normally do truly stupid things. I do not like risk. I’ve had more than my share for one lifetime.”

“I doubt if we could replace you easily.”

“There are plenty of other people who do what I do. I worked for a really high-class restoration firm in Washington before I came home. I still freelance for them when Buddy doesn’t have any work for me. They’d send someone—for a bunch more money than you’re paying me.”

“I don’t know what I’m paying you, but I’ll bet it’s not chicken feed.”

“I’m worth it. Now, I’ve got to start working that stripper off before it dries too much. Then Dante and I will get out from under your feet until morning.”

He followed her to the front hall and started up the staircase. Halfway up he leaned over the banister. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Then join me for dinner.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m alone. If you’re alone, why not be alone together?”

She laughed. “The café?”

“I was thinking about maybe driving into town. Don’t you have good barbecue in this area?”

“Oh, for sure. If we do that, I’ll have to stop by my place to shower and change. I’m filthy.”

“Fine. I prefer to eat late, anyway.”

“It’ll be midnight if I don’t get started.”

Upstairs he unloaded his mattress. It took barely ten minutes to turn the lump of plastic into what looked like a comfortable double bed. He’d already hung the few clothes he’d brought with him in the small closet, but he would have to start looking for suitable furniture for this room soon. He had a few decent pieces of furniture from his old apartment, but they were sleek and modern, nothing that would be suitable for this house.

Maybe he could enlist Ann’s help. He planned to sell the place furnished. He didn’t want any souvenirs of this little venture.

Or did he? He wandered out onto the sleeping porch that ran across the back of the second floor. With nightfall the air had grown chilly again after the afternoon warmth, but there was no breeze. He felt as though he were in a tree house. Except for the glow from the parking lot next door, he might as well have been in the wilderness.

Someone had left an old folding chair leaning against the wall. He opened it, turned it to face the backyard, sat down and propped his feet on the railing in front of him.

He let the darkness envelop him. Somewhere close by a bird called, and frogs were already making noises. His father should have loved growing up in this house. Why had he run away to Paris?

CHAPTER FIVE

“SORRY. I DIDN’T MEAN to wake you.” Ann stood in the doorway to the little porch.

Paul sat up quickly. “I wasn’t asleep.” He stretched and smiled at Ann. He felt more relaxed than he had in days.

“Sure you weren’t. If you’d rather skip that dinner, I’ve got plenty of stuff at my place. I could at least come up with a decent omelet.”

“I couldn’t ask you—”

“You’re not asking. I am. Actually, I’m being selfish. I’d much rather cook than have to fix myself up and drive into town and back.”

“You don’t need fixing up.”

“Oh, yes, I do.” Ann laughed. “So are you game?”

“Yes, and thank you.” He pulled himself out of the chair and followed Ann and Dante. His mattress sat in the middle of the bedroom floor. Ann sidestepped it neatly and went ahead down the stairs.

They walked the short distance across the square and around the three row houses to the short alley in back. The alleyway was pitch-dark. The anemic illumination of the wrought-iron streetlights around the square didn’t reach over the tops of the buildings, but Ann took a small flashlight from her back pocket and switched it on. Something moved in the bushes on the far side of the alley.

Dante gave a low woof.

“Hush. It’s just a cat,” she said.

Something, probably the cat, banged against one of the large garbage cans at the far end, then disappeared in a streak of fur. Dante looked up at Ann beseechingly, but she grasped his collar. “No. No chasing cats.”

They came to an old wooden staircase at the back of the second building. It looked as though it was ready to collapse into the small parking lot across the alley.

Paul followed Ann up to the little landing at the top and waited while she unlocked and opened her door. She turned on the lights.

Paul was no stranger to lofts. Several of his friends had invested in and restored lofts in lower Manhattan. They usually wound up modern, austere, cold and expensive.

This loft across two of the buildings was still very much a loft. Their footsteps and the click of Dante’s toenails echoed on the bare hardwood floors. The doorway opened into the half that Ann used as an apartment.

Beyond it, a broad archway led into the workshop half. Since the lights came on in both at the same time, Paul could see a large worktable in the center and cabinets along the back wall.

There was also a table saw, router table, a lathe, industrial shelving with molds, brushes and all sorts of equipment Paul couldn’t identify.

To the left of the door they’d come in was a galley kitchen, separated from the rest of the room by a high breakfast bar with stools. A harvest table and two benches constituted the dining room, and a heavily carved Victorian credenza served as a room divider from the living area, which was delineated with a soft, worn Oriental rug. To the right white duck curtains obviously divided the public space from bedroom and bath. The walls were the original rose brick, and overhead naked trusses held up the roof.

“Take a seat.” Ann pointed to one of the steel stools in front of the counter. She rummaged in a stainless-steel refrigerator and came out with bacon, green onions, sweet bell peppers and a carton of eggs.

“May I help?”

“Nope. I’m used to juggling stuff.” She set everything on the counter. “Would you like something to drink? Beer? Wine?”

“White wine if you have it.”

“Sure.” She reached into the refrigerator, brought out a bottle and poured them each a glass. “Salut.”

He looked up into those wonderful gray-blue eyes of hers. Their glances locked and held for too long. He felt his body tighten and knew that she felt the same pull he did.

He should never have come up here, never have allowed himself to see her in her own habitat. Not if he intended to keep his promise to keep her at arm’s length.

She broke eye contact first with a tiny gasp. The tips of her ears were red, and she sounded brusque. “Okay, now, you can help me chop the bell pepper.” She seemed to skitter away from him. The reluctant female, aware of him but not certain she wanted to go any further.

Nor was he.

His gaze lighted on a pencil drawing in a simple black frame hanging on the wall beside the refrigerator. He was instantly certain it must be one of the caricatures his father was noted for. He wanted to leap over the counter, rip it down and stare at it for any revelation of the hand behind it. Instead, he said casually, “The drawing. Is that Buddy?”

She laughed. “Look closely.” She reached up, took it down and handed it to him.

He’d have known Buddy anywhere. The big bullet head with only a fuzz of hair, the black sunglasses. He wore his police uniform, but instead of a Sam Browne belt, he wore a tool belt, and instead of aiming a revolver, he pointed an electric drill. His fierce expression said he was definitely going to “drill” somebody.

In spite of himself, Paul laughed. “I’d know him anywhere. It’s really good.”

“Kinder than a lot of Uncle David’s sketches. If he didn’t like somebody or thought they needed taking down a peg, he could be really wicked. I like that one. It’s Buddy to a T.”

“I guess he didn’t want it hanging in the police station.”

“Actually, I had to beg him for it. He gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. He couldn’t very well refuse his own kid, now could he?”