"Like what?"

  "He didn't say. Amber apparently didn't talk about it."

  "She never was a complainer," Curt said.

  How saintly of her. I tamped down my jealousy along with the barrage of questions that sprang to mind. The poor woman was dead. "We met one of her coworkers, too. He told us one of the guys at the pawnshop had asked her out and she turned him down."

  "And?"

  "And that might be important."

  "If the guy's unhinged, maybe," he said.

  I hesitated. "We're just trying to find out what happened to her, Curt."

  A few seconds ticked past. "I know," he said finally.

  I waited while he washed and rinsed some utensils.

  "Did this diamond expert happen to know the name of the jeweler who was robbed?" he asked.

  "Bin Axelrod. He's working at McDonald's on Sandstone Pike now. You think we should talk to him?"

  "Couldn't hurt," he said. "He might be able to describe the person who robbed him."

  I'd have bet he could, especially if that person had looked like Amber.

  We were quiet for a few minutes while I ate and he finished up the dishes.

  "I asked Cam if he remembered her," he said after a while. "You recall me mentioning Rick Rubino?"

  "Randy Rick?" I recalled it, alright. Rick Rubino was everything a cop should be, if a cop should be thirty-five, single, and a mimbo.

  "Turns out," Curt said, "Rick pulled Amber over in a traffic stop a few weeks ago, and she left quite an impression. He hasn't stopped talking about her since to anyone who had ears, including Cam."

  No surprise there. With those looks, she could have probably charmed her way out of a murder indictment. Then again, I seemed genetically hardwired to assign malign intent to anything Amber had done from birth onward. Probably I should try to keep an open mind.

  "Cam knew her, too?" I asked.

  He put the twist tie back on the bag of hamburger buns and stashed it in the fridge. "Sure he knew her. She came to the house a few times."

  Probably accompanied by choirs of angels, trailing sparkling fairy dust the whole way.

  Possible I needed to work on that open mind thing.

  "Let me guess," I said. "Randy Rick asked her out."

  "Goes without saying," Curt said. "She mentioned to him that she went to school here with a guy who wanted to be a cop, asked if Rick knew him."

  "Cam," I said gloomily.

  He nodded. "Cam."

  And that explained Amber's journey to Curt's doorstep. Thanks a lot, Randy Rick.

  "Why didn't she go to his house, then?" I asked, pretty sure I only sounded peevish because of hunger.

  He slid his glass into the soapy water. "Because she told him we'd gone out, so Rubino decided to tell her where I lived instead." He paused. "Didn't I tell you that we went out a few times in college?"

  "Yep. Yes. Yeah, you did." I laid into an ear of corn with the finesse of a starving wolf. If Curt wasn't put off by the thought of me in lingerie, he'd be good with my having a few carbs. "I just didn't realize it was serious enough to introduce her to your parents."

  He glanced over his shoulder. "I never said I introduced her to them."

  "Oh." I felt my eyebrows rise. "I just assumed…" What? I wasn't sure what I'd assumed, but a cozy meal around the Emerson dinner table hadn't been it. Still, it beat the alternative scenarios bouncing around in my head, what with Curt looking like he looked, and Amber looking like she'd looked, and me looking like I looked. I glanced down at myself. Black pants, purple blouse, slightly scuffed flats. Less than dazzling. Maybe I could've added jewelry, or heels. My secretarial partner Missy would never leave the house without her heels. That's probably why I got the grunt work, like typing Answers to Interrogatories and Requests for Production, while Missy got to open mail and answer the phone.

  Curt's back was turned, but I saw his slight head shake. "You're making way too much out of my relationship with Amber."

  I sure hoped so. I stared at the ear of corn, feeling small.

  "We had the same Psych class," he said. "We went out a couple of times and decided we'd be better off as friends." He hesitated. "She wasn't as strong-willed as you are."

  My ears perked up. Strong-willed was a compliment, right?

  "Sometimes she could be pressured into things," he said.

  Like diamond theft? No, that was unfair. Also, it sounded uncomfortably like every investigation Maizy and I had had.

  "Not necessarily legal things," he added.

  That was better. We'd never actually broken the law. Bent it, stretched it, massaged it, but never broken it. Except maybe for that time Maizy had sneaked into a suspect's house, but it's not like she'd stolen anything. Well, except for Ashley, aka Miss Pibbs. Although Ashley had needed stealing, if for nothing else but a name change.

  Curt rested his hands the counter. "Amber had a knack for picking the wrong guys. She needed my help to lose one of them. That's it."

  I stared at his back, incredulous. That's it? That didn't sound remotely like it. That sounded more like the beginning of the story than the end. Who was the guy? Why had she chosen Curt as her savior? What exactly had he done?

  I forced a disingenuous smile. "What did you do, kill someone for her?" I regretted it as soon as I said it.

  Fortunately, Maizy rescued me from myself with a well-timed reappearance. "Uncle Curt, there's someone here to see you."

  Curt turned, reaching for the dish towel. "Who is it?"

  She shrugged. "Some guy, said he's known you forever."

  I raised my eyebrows in question at her. She flashed me a peace sign. I took that to mean the Peterbilt was in good hands. One problem solved. Hopefully Curt's mystery guest wasn't another.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We followed Curt outside, where the man waited on the patio, dressed in a crisp dress shirt, sharply creased slacks, and shoes polished to a mirror finish. His hair was slicked back. A ruby pinky ring glittered when he removed his sunglasses to show eyes that were a mesmerizing cognac color. His teeth were white and straight, with incisors that were slightly pointy.

  Maizy elbowed me in the side. "He looks like a vampire," she whispered. "He's even got the ring."

  I didn't know what the ring had to do with it, but I didn't see the guy as vampire material. I saw him as too slick, like a used car salesman. Or Wally Randall, Boy Lawyer.

  He stuck out his hand. "Curt, it's been a long time." He paused, smiling into the moment of silence. "Bet you don't remember me."

  Curt shook it. "Afraid not."

  "Lorne Trenton." Another flash of incisors. "I think we had some mutual friends back in school."

  Curt crossed his arms, adding heft to his biceps when his biceps were hefty enough. "Did we? Who?"

  "Dan, Mike, Eric."

  "Don't remember them, either," Curt said.

  "No? Well, maybe they were more my friends than yours." Lorne Trenton glanced at Maizy and me. "Is this your wife and daughter?"

  "No," Curt said.

  A strange tension shimmered in the air between them, though Curt's face gave away nothing. Lorne Trenton seemed slightly amused as his strange cognac-colored eyes settled on Maizy. "Your hair is blue."

  Her bland expression mirrored Curt's. "It is?"

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. "Are you a reporter?" Maybe he was chasing the sensational story of a local murder.

  His eyes shifted to me. "Do I look like a reporter?"

  "You look like a vampire," Maizy said.

  Suddenly the gossamer thin veneer of congeniality fell away, and a chill shivered through me.

  "I'm not a reporter," he said. I noticed he didn't deny the vampire part. "I'm just an old acquaintance the big guy doesn't seem to remember. I'll try not to take offense." His smile was brief and insincere. "I should've called before dropping by. I'll come back another time."

  "Yeah, maybe you'd better do that," Curt said. "I'm kind of busy right now."

  Trenton held up both hands. "No problem. Sorry for the intrusion." He turned away, hesitated, and turned back. "Hey, you keep in touch with anyone from the class? We had some real pieces of work, didn't we?"

  I glanced at Maizy, but she was busy with her phone.

  Curt shrugged. "I guess we did." I could practically read his mind. He didn't like Lorne Trenton. I didn't like him, either.

  "Yeah, we sure did." Trenton's eyes rested on him for a moment. "Well, good to see you. Let's get together real soon." His gaze flitted back to Maizy and me, and then he was gone.

  Curt turned to us. "Get in the house." His voice was like steel.

  "What?" I stared at him. "Why?"

  "I'm not leaving you out here alone." He took my shoulder and turned me toward the door. "Go. You too, Maizy."

  "Can't," Maizy said. "Someone's expecting me."

  "Brody Amherst will have to wait." Curt pointed. "Go with Jamie."

  "Brody Amherst is a goober," Maizy said. "I've moved on with my life."

  "Good for you. Move."

  "What's with the alpha behavior?" Maizy asked him. "Because I've got to tell you—"

  He put his face four inches from hers. "Maizy Emerson, do not test me. Follow Jamie into that house and stay there."

  She rolled her eyes, huffed a sigh, spun around, and stormed into the house. I followed her straight through the kitchen and down the hall into the living room, where we pushed aside the drapes to look out into the placid summer evening. Curt lived in a neighborhood of neat, well-tended lawns, clean midsized sedans in driveways, and tidy Cape Cod homes under mature shade trees. It was the sort of neighborhood where Lorne Trenton's slickness would be likely to stand out. Except Lorne Trenton was nowhere in sight. No strange cars sat parked at the curb. No one was on the sidewalk. The only person we saw was Curt, looking up and down the street.

  "Well, this is weird," Maizy said.

  I craned my neck to look farther. "I know. It's like he disappeared or something."

  "Huh? Oh, sure, that, too." She held up her cell phone. "I meant the obsidian throwing spear Herbie Hairston's selling at his yard sale this weekend."

  I pulled my attention away from the window. "Herbie has yard sales?"

  She nodded. "I told you that before. They're more parking lot sales on account of he lives in an apartment with his parents. But nobody's ever heard of parking lot sales. Herbie's all about marketing."

  Sounded to me like Herbie was all about larceny.

  "He saves some of his best merchandise for his yard sales," Maizy added. "Want me to pick up anything for you?"

  "Thanks, but I'll buy retail," I told her.

  Curt came in the front door with a grim expression. More than grim. He looked like he was ready to disconnect someone's bones. "Did you see where he went?"

  I shook my head. "I didn't even see his car."

  "It was an Acura RDX," Maizy said. "Black. Tinted windows. Keyed on the driver's side."

  We looked at her.

  She shrugged. "I notice things. Remember that, Uncle Curt, next time you're dismissive of a female."

  He stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

  "Did you know it was an Acura RDX?" she asked. "No, you did not. You might be surprised to know women have brains to go along with our bodacious bodies."

  I looked down at myself. Definitely didn't see bodacious.

  "No offense," Curt told her. "But when you're at my house, I'm going to look out for you. Deal with it."

  "Apology accepted," she told him.

  Something niggled at the back of my mind as Curt got a beer from the fridge and sat, restless fingers drumming the table. Outside, the cicadas serenaded the evening. In the distance, a lawn mower fired up. And somewhere out there, Lorne Trenton drove away.

  That's when it came to me. I turned to Maizy. "Are you sure about that Acura RDX?"

  "Seriously?" Her scorn was blistering.

  "I think he came past here this morning," I said. "Driving really slow, like you would if you were looking for an address."

  "Maybe in a prehistoric car like yours," Maizy said. "Cars built in this century have GPS. It's very exciting."

  I ignored her to focus on Curt. "You didn't like Lorne Trenton, did you?"

  He drank some beer. "I never knew Lorne Trenton."

  I blinked. "What do you mean?"

  "There was no Lorne Trenton in my class," he said.

  "But he said you had mutual friends."

  He snorted. "Right. Dan, Mike, and Eric. Probably all named Smith or Jones or Brown."

  Maizy leaned against the counter, listening.

  "He seemed to know you," I said, trying to remember the conversation. I'd been distracted by Lorne Trenton's slickness and Maizy's excavating elbow, but I was pretty sure he'd been waxing nostalgic about their school days.

  Wait a minute. Who did that? Not too many people felt nostalgic about their school days. School was why all those teen angst movies existed.

  "He doesn't know me," Curt said. "He just wanted to get a look at me."

  "Why?"

  "Because he thinks you have the diamonds," Maizy said.

  Curt nodded. "That's my guess."

  A chill tingled along my spine. "Why do all of Amber's roads lead to this house?"

  He groaned. "Not this again."

  "No, not this again," I said. "I mean, sure, it's odd that she showed up after all these years—"

  "With a bag of diamonds," Maizy cut in.

  I nodded. "That could be coincidence. The showing up, not the diamonds. But why would someone else show up right after her?"

  "Who looks like a vampire," Maizy added.

  "I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Curt said.

  "That doesn't work," I told him. "She'll only say it louder."

  "Is it so inconceivable that a vampire bit her before she died?" Maizy demanded.

  "Yes," Curt said, "it is."

  "That doesn't answer the question," I said. "Why did all of this end up at your door?"

  "Before we can know that," Curt said, "we need to find out who Lorne Trenton really is."

  "That's easy," Maizy said without turning around. "He's Quentin Norris."

  Curt put his bottle down hard. "How do you know that?"

  She blew some hair out of her eyes. "That's what license plates are for, right? I didn't trust him. He had a weird vibe. It was that whole vampire thing."

  I had to agree with her. Lorne/Quentin did have a weird vibe. But. "Will you stop with the vampire talk?"

  "Fine." Her mouth twisted. "Stay in your provincial little bubble forever."

  "That's all I'm asking," I said.

  "Can we please stay on Quentin Norris?" Curt asked.

  "I can," I said pointedly. I glared at Maizy. "Can you think of anything better than vampires?"

  "Maybe," she said. "Give me a minute."

  I waited.

  She crossed her arms, rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, and twisted up her mouth in an exaggeration of deep thought. "Nope," she said finally. "That's all I've got."

  The corner of Curt's mouth quirked up. Sometimes he appreciated Maizy more than I did. "How about this. Let's return the favor and show up at Quentin Norris's house tomorrow night."

  "Why not now?" Maizy asked. "We could beat him there, maybe even look in the basement for his coffin while we wait."

  I rolled my eyes. "Will you please—"

  "Tomorrow," Curt said. "We'll knock on the door like regular people."

  Maizy shrugged. "Sure, I guess. If you want to do things the boring way, like old people."

  "Let's give it a shot," I said.

  "Whatever you say, Grandma." She scooped up her backpack, which was lying on the floor near the door. "Can we take my Civic? I need to become one with it."

  "You need to become one with the DMV first," Curt said. "You don't have a license."

  "I fail to see the problem," Maizy said.

  "Look in the mirror," Curt told her. "We'll take the Jeep. You'll sit in the back."

  "I can deal with that," Maizy said. "I'll take notes on your technique. Maybe I can give you some tips."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We sat in the circular driveway of Quentin Norris's home, a sprawling two-story brick Colonial with forest green shutters and an electric candle burning in each front-facing window. Neatly manicured shrubs marched across the front of the house like plump leafy soldiers. A two-car garage sat to the right of the house, a little bronze weathervane perched at its peak.

  "Nice place," Curt said.

  I touched his arm. "What will you say if Norris answers the door?"

  A muscle flexed in his jaw, buried beneath a layer of five o'clock shadow. "I'll figure it out as I go."

  I wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound good for Quentin Norris. I didn't know how Norris intersected with Amber, but I knew that Amber's diamonds were real, and that just seemed too coincidental to be…coincidence.

  We got out of the Jeep.

  At the front door, the sidelights were covered with a gauzy white drape, making it impossible to peek inside, but Curt wasn't in a peeking mood. He banged on the door with his fist. A few seconds later, Fred Rogers' doppelganger answered it. Lean and trim, clad in neatly pressed slacks and a wool cardigan over a dress shirt and tie, with a flattop haircut and a small, inquisitive smile.

  "I'm looking for Quentin Norris," Curt told him.

  "I'm Quentin." The smile slowly dropped away. "Do I know you?"

  Curt and I exchanged a look.

  "You're Quentin Norris?" Curt asked.

  He nodded.

  Maizy stepped forward. "I'm Penelope Wiggleworth, Private Detective." She stuck her cell phone in his face. "Do you know this guy?"

  "No, I—" Quentin Norris hesitated before pulling a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from under his cardigan. "May I?"

  After a nearly imperceptible moment of resistance, Maizy gave up her phone. I glanced at the screen, where she'd captured a shot of Lorne Trenton talking to Curt. And I'd thought she hadn't been paying attention. I should have known better.

  Norris perched his glasses on his nose. "I've seen this man before." He pressed his fingertip to the screen, as if trying to touch Lorne Trenton. "What's his name, what's his name." He removed the glasses and stuck the tip of one arm in his mouth, thinking.

 

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