“I’m sure the cops did, even if they didn’t ask him about the sapphires. Besides, what motive would he have for knocking off a Jersey P.I.?”
“According to you, motive doesn’t really matter that much. It’s all means and opportunity. That was what you said before. And even if she’d known about the secret passage -- which I don’t believe -- Jane wouldn’t be able to drag Swiss anywhere. Or Tiny. And the same goes for Miss Dembecki. Which leaves David Center, Mr. Stein, and you.”
Nick cut off his immediate exasperated response. He really didn’t want to get into an argument with Perry over this. They had little enough time left as it was. He said, “The sheriff is satisfied that Center is not faking his blindness. Which doesn’t mean that he couldn’t supply the muscle if Bridger needed help carting a body around.”
“If they were on those terms, I think Janie wouldn’t be worried about his leaving here with her,” Perry said tartly.
Nick privately thought he had a point. Which also brought up the fact that if Bridger had killed two people, wouldn’t she be calling her pals in Witness Protection to come get her so she wouldn’t have to deal with a murder investigation?
He said, “Just because motive isn’t the only thing that cops look at doesn’t mean it doesn’t factor in at all. I never said that.”
Perry raised his eyebrows in haughty skepticism -- a look that sat oddly on his pointed features. Instead of pissing Nick off, it made him want to laugh, and grab the kid, and wrangle away his bad mood in the best way he knew.
He controlled himself however and said, “I think maybe in this case motive is a factor, and I think the motive of a bunch of loonies searching for some lost sapphires is kind of farfetched.”
“You think a million dollars is a farfetched motive?”
“I think those jewels are probably scattered all through the woods. I think I don’t want to waste time arguing with you.”
That got through. Perry’s eyes raised to Nick’s, and the set lines of his face relaxed.
“Come here,” Nick said softly. “I want to share another one of my theories with you…”
* * * * *
The other event of note that day was Miss Dembecki nearly getting killed when a deputy sheriff, exploring the back passages, opened a wall panel that unexpectedly led onto the grand stairway and nearly knocked her down the steps. Fortunately, Miss Dembecki was nimble enough to escape unscathed.
She scurried back downstairs, locked herself in her rooms, and refused to answer all inquiries through the door as to her health.
“What the hell was she doing climbing up here anyway?” Nick asked.
“I think she was trying to get in my rooms again,” Perry said unhappily. “I’m telling you, she thinks the jewels are in this house somewhere.”
“I think you’re giving her too much credit,” Nick said. “I think she’s batty.”
That seemed to be the consensus of the house. But the only person with a suggestion on what to do about it was Mr. Stein, who voiced the opinion that Mrs. Mac should phone the loony bin posthaste.
By dinnertime the cops had cleared out again, and the rest of the household seemed comfortably locked up behind their doors for the night. Nick made pot roast and commented that he would need to go grocery shopping soon -- and then fell awkwardly silent.
Nick would not need to replenish his cupboards. He was going to be leaving very soon and was supposed to be packing even now. Of course, he could always stock up on groceries in the hope that Perry might occasionally remember to eat something.
Perry was not eating much even now, but he was chatting animatedly about an art exhibition he wanted to see in Burlington, and to his astonishment Nick heard himself say, “If I’m still here, I’ll go with you.”
Perry checked, and then gave Nick one of those dazzling smiles. “It’s next month. But yeah, it would have been fun.”
Neither of them spoke for a time, and the kitchen was silent but for the scrape of forks on china. Nick said suddenly, roughly, “Why don’t you call your parents?”
Perry blinked. “Why?”
“Because you can’t --” Nick stopped himself. What was he doing? But he couldn’t help himself. “Because it’s a good time to call. It’s almost Christmas. They probably want to hear from you.”
They’d have to be pretty fucking cold to shut Perry out of their hearts for good -- and Perry was not the product of fucking cold. He’d been sheltered, protected, adored all his life. Mom and Pop Foster were probably sick with worry about him. And lonely. He grew on you, that was for sure.
But Perry said coolly, “They know where to find me. If they wanted to talk to me, they’d get in touch. It’s for them to make the first move. I’m not going to apologize for being gay.”
You can’t make it on your own.
For one horrified second, Nick thought he’d said the traitorous words aloud. It wasn’t even true. Perry was surviving. He was relatively healthy, he had a job, a place to stay. He was painting; he was going to make it. It wouldn’t be easy, and it would knock a lot of the sweetness and innocence and optimism out of him, but he wasn’t a coward.
Nick was the one who was afraid. And what the hell sense did that make? He gritted his jaw against a lot of things he knew he would regret saying, settling for a curt nod and finishing his meal while Perry -- not unexpectedly sensitive to his mood -- chatted lightly about art and painting and a local artist named Anna Vreman. Anything but murder and sapphires and crazy people.
* * * * *
In wordless accord they turned in early that night, and it was just as good as it had been every time so far -- only now it was becoming dangerously, seductively familiar.
And it was safe in the dark to be tender -- to be gentle with each other in the dulcet silence. To ask nothing but give everything, caress and kiss, touch and taste until the wanting, longing, needing overswept them again, and they moved in frantic union, breath harsh, the tiny grunts and sighs, the whisper of skin until it rose to a crescendo -- the catch in Perry’s throat turning to a sob, Nick shouting out once in the keenest of knife-edged pleasure.
“I never really got a chance to see California,” Perry said when they were lying quietly, comfortably. “What’s it like?”
Nick shrugged. “Warm. Sunny.” He almost opened his mouth and made the fatal mistake of saying, “It would be good for you.” He caught himself in time, but the thought remained. Instead he said, “Expensive.”
Perry nodded. “Do you think you’ll ever come back here?”
“To this house?” He was stalling and surprised to find himself doing so. Since when did he pull his punches? He wasn’t coming back. Not ever. He couldn’t wait to put this place behind him. At least…that had been true until a few days ago. Now…
Now it was harder.
Harder than it should have been.
Perry said dispassionately, “To Vermont, I mean. Some place I could see you again.”
He opened his mouth, and Perry said still very calmly, “I mean casually, of course. Just friends. I know how it is.”
And that steady acceptance made Nick’s chest ache as though he’d fallen wrong on ice. It was hard to get his breath, and he felt cold all the way to his heart.
He said huskily, “I don’t know.”
A few minutes later he could tell by Perry’s breathing that he was asleep. Nick kissed his forehead, and Perry murmured pleasurably. Nick kissed his eyes and his ears and found his mouth, and before long, Perry was awake again, and they were moving against each other.
He yanked down the pajama bottoms with the uncomfortable feeling of robbing the cradle, but Perry wasn’t a baby, and he wanted this as much as Nick did -- and sooner or later he had to realize that happy endings were for movies. Real life didn’t end that tidily. There was a price for everything, and the price for this was that it would be harder for both of them when Nick left -- but at the moment, the price seemed worth it.