Grace Among Thieves Part 17

"There is one small glitch," he said.

I was about to ask what that was, but then remembered. "You don't have a car."

"Bingo."

"I'll pick you up then. What time?"

We settled on seven o'clock. "I'll make reservations," he said. "Any suggestions as to where?"

"Surprise me."

I heard the smile in his voice when he said, "A challenge. I like that. See you at seven."

As I shut my phone and started to put it away, movement near the door caught my eye. Frances stood there, her eyes bright with interest. "And?" she asked.

I tamped down my grin. "Mark Ellroy and I are meeting for dinner."

Her two little tadpole eyebrows attempted to leap off her forehead. "Oh?" she said.

Why did I get so much enjoyment out of surprising Frances?

"Business or pleasure?" she asked.

"A little of both, I think."

She nodded, which for Frances was as good as approval. She rearranged her face into a glower. "Behave yourself."

Chapter 15.

EVEN THOUGH I COULD HAVE STAYED AT work until it was time for our date, I decided to head home at five to give myself a chance to change clothes and gussy up. "Hey Bootsie," I called when I got in. She came running. I often thought the little kitten was more dog than cat. I picked her up and rubbed her face, which was one of her very favorite things.

"I've got a date tonight," I said.

She closed her eyes and nuzzled for more.

"You're going to be alone here all evening. That okay by you?"

A noise must have caught her attention because she perked her head, wriggled out of my grasp and jumped to the floor in a bound. A second later, she'd disappeared around the corner and I heard her tiny paws pad on the wooden stairs.

"I'll be there in a minute."

I made sure she had food and water, then followed her upstairs to get changed.

Forty-five minutes later, I was ready to go. It took only about twenty minutes to drive back to Marshfield. I didn't want to be ridiculously early, so I snuck one last look in the mirror to ensure that my summer dress was still a good choice-it was-before I grabbed my clutch purse to head down. As I picked it up, however, Bootsie bounded in. "You've been busy," I said, noting the dust on the top of her head. "Exploring the bas.e.m.e.nt again?"

She jumped into my desk chair and circled the seat three times before staring up at me with her sad, large-pupiled eyes. She opened her mouth in a loud meow. "What do you want?" I asked.

She circled the seat again. Meowed again.

I glanced at my computer on the desk behind her. "Hmm . . ." I said, leaning forward to power it up. Plenty of time.

As soon as my Mac sprang to life, I ran a quick Google search on Mark Ellroy. I found four LinkedIn accounts, including one for a jeweler in Denver. Bingo. There were about a dozen other hits with the same name. One was a doctor in private practice in Vermont, another a male model whose racy photos popped up during my image search. I clicked out of that fast. There wasn't much more than that, except a Facebook account for a Mark Ellroy who looked to be about twelve years old.

As a lark, I searched my own name and was shocked by the number of hits. I didn't need to click to know why. Every single mention of my name was a.s.sociated with either Abe Vargas's murder, or Zachary Kincade's, the two men who'd met their demise here at Marshfield Manor in recent months. I was especially sad to see my predecessor's name there.

I tapped the screen. "Hey, Abe," I said softly. "I hope you think I'm doing a good job."

One of the links had my name listed along with Lenore's. Posted by the local newspaper, I was sure it carried an account of the investigation. I knew how far the police were from finding the killer and I didn't want to rehash all that negativity tonight. I opted not to click.

A quick glance at the time posted in the top right-hand corner of my screen made me realize I needed to get moving.

I shut down the computer. "Good night, Bootsie," I said. "Don't wait up."

MARK STEPPED OUT FROM THE HOTEL AS I pulled up. The evening had not yet shrugged off the warm blanket of the day and I watched him wince as he hit the heavy wall of heat. He wore a red polo s.h.i.+rt that set off his dark hair, black pants, and a black sling for his injured arm. He opened the door. "May I?" he asked.

"Of course."

As he settled into the pa.s.senger seat, he turned to me. "You look lovely," he said. "Absolutely lovely."

"Thank you."

"Allow me to apologize for my appearance."

"Why?"

He smiled ruefully and pointed to his arm with his free hand. "I don't know why I didn't think about this before, but it's impossible to wear a sport coat over a sling without looking ridiculous. I hope you don't mind I'm a bit more casual?"

"I think you look great," I said sincerely.

He shot me a beaming smile. "Thank you."

"Where to?" I asked, putting the car into gear.

"You wanted a surprise, right?"

A little excited, a little nervous, my skin zinged. "I did."

He shot me a sidelong glance. "Any dietary restrictions?"

"None."

"All right then, drive out to the front gate and I'll give you directions from there." He pulled papers from his pants pocket and, using one hand, unfolded them on his lap. "No peeking."

For the first time in a long while, I let myself relax. Tonight, I decided, I'd have fun. It was about time.

Mark's directions took us through Emberstowne, during which I convinced him to allow a detour past my house. "That's it," I said as I pulled up onto the driveway.

"Beautiful."

"You're very polite," I said. "It needs work. Lots of it. Time and lack of funds are holding me back. But there's a glimmer of hope ahead."

"I can't wait to see what it looks like when you're finished."

"I can't wait to show it to you." Backing onto the street, I asked, "Where to?"

He directed me until we wound up at the very outskirts of town where a small copper-roofed restaurant snugged up tight next to a bed-and-breakfast in an odd juxtaposition of old and new. I'd been past here a hundred times, but because the site was a bit off the main road, I hadn't paid much attention to its quaintness until now.

Though larger and in better shape, the yellow Victorian mansion reminded me of my home, with its wraparound porch and pointed gables. White-trimmed peaks were detailed with deep pink, and bright impatiens and petunias burst out from window boxes and decorative planters that perched in every available s.p.a.ce. Next to it, Bailey's restaurant was a modern add-on, but its lines and design complemented its neighbor well.

I pulled into the gravel lot adjacent to the restaurant, my tires crunching as we rolled past a half dozen cars parked there. "The website said it was out of the way," Mark said as I turned off the engine. "It's not as prestigious as the dining room at Marshfield, but then again, I'm not dressed for elegance."

"I've never been here before."

His eyes lit up. "I'm glad to hear it."

Mark was able to manage his way out of my car with one arm and we crossed the lot together, walking next to one another but not too close. I took in the evening and the setting. We were surrounded by tall trees, the heady fragrance of green, and accompanied by a chorus of frogs chirping nearby. A tiny wooden bridge spanning a two-foot-wide creek connected the lot to the restaurant's cobbled sidewalk.

"This is beautiful," I said as we stepped inside. Soft lighting, b.u.t.tery woodwork, and linen tablecloths gave the room an inviting, gentle air. Couples sat at tables s.p.a.ced far enough apart to provide quiet privacy. They chatted and smiled at each other over fat cream-colored candles whose flames flickered and danced.

A motherly hostess with crinkly eyes and beaming smile led us to a table at the rear of the restaurant, next to a wide window. "Oh my," I said as we took our seats, "what a gorgeous view."

We overlooked a small pond centered in a wide garden of luscious greenery and bright blooms. What made the s.p.a.ce special was the way it was encircled by tall pines-creating this hidden gem in the center of a giant forest. Pink, red, and salmon impatiens edged lush flower gardens of purple, gold, and white. Ornate benches were tucked behind wide tree trunks, giving their occupants a little privacy from restaurant-goers' eyes. Paths led out from the pond area, one toward the bed-and-breakfast, and the others deeper into the woods. I could envision myself getting lost out there, hiding among the fresh foliage, reading a book with my back up against a tree trunk and hoping no one would find me until I turned the last page.

"This is even better than it looked online," Mark said. "Smaller, too. I was afraid it would be big and impersonal. This is cozier and much more intimate. I hope the food is as great as the ambiance."

Our waiter overheard. "The food is excellent here," he said as he handed Mark a wine list. "The restaurant has only been open a few months and we haven't built up a following yet. It's growing every day. Your first time here, I take it?"

We admitted it was.

"You'll be back," he said with a smile. "But let's make this evening memorable first. Would you like a few minutes to decide on a beverage?"

Mark's eyes reflected our table's candlelight. "I have to confess I'm not much of a wine connoisseur," he said as he perused the leather-bound list. To me: "Would you like to decide?"

Although Bruce and Scott had been tutoring me with regard to wines, I was still far from an expert myself. Our waiter seemed to sense my hesitation and after a few pointed questions, wherein I discovered that Mark preferred reds, like I did, he suggested we opt for a bottle of claret he'd sampled. "Smooth, with a velvet finish," he said. "You won't be disappointed."

"A new restaurant, a new wine, a first date," Mark said. "Sounds like a perfect combination."

The waiter's eyebrows rose ever so slightly at the "first date" comment, but he didn't remark. A moment later he returned with our choice, going through all the ceremony that comes with ordering a bottle of wine at a fancy restaurant, and finally Mark and I were left alone to talk.

"I don't want our entire evening to be taken up with discussion about the investigation," he began, "but it is the rhinoceros in the room."

"It is," I agreed, "and I truly don't mind starting there. I do have a few questions for you."

He sat forward, as though eager to hear anything I'd say. "I thought you might."

"Have you talked with Rodriguez or Flynn since we last spoke?"

His gaze flicked out toward the pond for a second before he turned to me with a sardonic smile. "How do those two keep their jobs?" he asked. "Rodriguez isn't the worst, but that Flynn . . ." Turning to face me again, he said, "You remember I told you that I was down at the station to look at mug shots."

I nodded.

"They called me again this afternoon to tell me that I'm free to go."

"What?"

"They said they're finished with me. They'll get in touch whenever they need me again-if they need me again. What's wrong with these people?" He leaned forward, at once angry and eager. "I'm a material witness. I got closer to the killer than anyone did." With a sudden thoughtful frown, he added, "At least, anyone who's alive to tell. John saw the man, but not up close and personal"-he indicated his injured arm as his voice rose-"like I did. They should keep me nearby until the case is closed."

"I'm so sorry." I was, but not only because Rodriguez and Flynn appeared to be making a tactical error. If Mark was free to go, then this first date was likely our last. I was surprised by how much that prospect disappointed me.

He sat back and took a sip of his wine. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't want to talk about all this and here I go, first thing out of my mouth. I didn't want you to know until later that I'd be checking out in the morning. I wanted to enjoy our evening together."

I kept my voice neutral. "You're heading home then? In the morning?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Unless, of course, you wouldn't be opposed to my finding a hotel in town for a few more days." The candlelight danced again. "I'd originally planned to be on vacation through next week and it would be a shame to return home when there's so much here I'd rather see and do."

His flirtation was dragonfly light, but it was there all the same. As was the little twist in my stomach, which thrilled at the prospect of him staying in town longer. I wasn't fooling myself. I knew he had a home and business back in Colorado and this relations.h.i.+p probably wouldn't go anywhere beyond the next few days, but I wanted-no, I needed-this. I needed to feel attractive. I needed to feel desired again. It had been far too long.

"Why not stay where you are? You know you're welcome at the Marshfield Hotel for as long as you care to stay."

He sat back with a short laugh. "You've been generous and gracious to a fault. I couldn't imagine staying in a better location. But it isn't right to impose."

"It's more right than you think." I scooched forward in my seat, wine forgotten, intent on convincing Mark to remain our guest awhile longer. "Bennett Marshfield, the owner of the estate, asked to meet you." I answered Mark's reaction. "Seriously. I told him I'd check with you to see if you're willing. How would it look for Bennett to find out you're staying at a local hotel instead of at Marshfield?"

"I feel guilty taking advantage," he said, then asked, "Why does he want to meet with me?"

"Bennett feels personally responsible for everything that happens in his home. He's beside himself over Lenore's death and your injury."

"That's very kind of him, but it wasn't his fault."

"Either way, are you willing?" I held my breath. I was surprised to discover how much I wanted Bennett to meet Mark.

"Are you kidding? Of course. I'd be honored."

"There's the added bonus of keeping you close to the investigation. Even if Rodriguez and Flynn don't think they need you, I know I wouldn't mind."

Mark shook his head, but he was smiling. My heart was thumping a happy beat and I hoped the restaurant's dim lighting provided enough cover for my warm cheeks. "You're quite convincing. Thank you. I would be very pleased and very grateful to stay."

"Excellent, it's settled."