Maybe he’d written some in the past and had simply gotten to the point where he chose to ignore her — just let her blow off steam. Either way, though, it was clear he was a man who could in fact hold his temper, even in the face of verbal abuse, not to mention in the face of my interrogation of him tonight. He’d been annoyed with me at times, even a little angry with my prying questions, but he’d always been reasonable, never lashed out, never lost his temper or turned on me, and he certainly never raised a hand.
I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
He’s innocent. I knew it then for sure, knew it with every fiber of my being.
Quickly, I went back to the “Old Mail” and continued scrolling. In the days just prior to her death, I saw a few from “IngaBabe34_24_32,” the numbers sounding like her measurements, which was in character for Inga.
The last one read, “Where’ve you been? Are you traveling? I’ve been calling. Let’s get together and…”
The e-mail degenerated into a profane description of sex acts.
I flipped over to the “Sent Mail” and found Bruce’s answer.
“…and I’m sorry. You’re a beautiful woman, but I’m not the man for you. And you’re definitely not the woman for me. Good-bye and good luck. B.”
I shuddered, seeing that B, remembering that’s how Quinn said the note to Inga was signed. But Bruce wouldn’t have kissed her off like this in the e-mails if he’d intended to meet her again. It had to have been some other man she’d been involved with.
I flipped, one more time, back to the “Old Mail,” scrolling all the way to the end of the long stack of e-mails. My eyes caught on one labeled Sahara@darknet.com. The date and time indicated it had come in the evening before.
“Okay…last one…”
I opened the mail, my eyes scanning. Sally “Sahara” McNeil had provided the names addresses and phone numbers of two men she called “my old flames and your old buds…”
These had to be the old friends from college that Bruce had wanted to get back in touch with. Sally came through for him. More text below these addresses talked about how she had enjoyed seeing him again and how she’d love him to come to a gallery show the following week. She also provided a hyperlink at the bottom of the e-mail, which she said would give him more info on Death Row.
“Death Row?” I whispered, shuddering. “What the heck is Death Row?”
“Clare?”
I heard the voice. Faint and distant. Damn. Bruce had woken up.
It would take him at least sixty seconds to get up here. I held my breath and clicked on the hyperlink. The DSL was fast and quickly connected me to a web site for an art gallery.
In the blink of an eye, I skimmed the home page. There were a number of links listed. They looked to be artist’s names, and the tagline on the site read, “Journey into Violent Art and the Art of Violence.”
It seemed Sally McNeil’s gallery was dedicated to “art inspired by lust, morbidity, and obsession.”
When I heard the creak of the sixth step, I began quickly closing all the active windows on the laptop.
“Clare?”
The voice was louder now, slightly tense.
“Bruce?” I called as innocently as I could manage. “I’m up here. In your bedroom.”
I took hold of the open roll-top’s cover. Please god don’t stick.
It didn’t. The cover smoothly and silently rolled down, giving me about five seconds to get to Bruce’s bureau before he appeared in the bedroom’s doorway.
When I looked up from an open drawer, he was standing there barefoot. He’d pulled his jeans back on, zipped them, but hadn’t bothered buttoning them. In the soft bedroom light, the brown mat of hair on his naked chest appeared a shade darker than the coarse stubble now shadowing his jawline.
“I was cold…so I came up here…thought I could find some extra blankets or something to sleep in…”
Bruce smiled. “I like you in that.”
I pinched a bit of the black cableknit. “This old thing? Oh, I just picked it up somewhere.”
He yawned. “It’s way too early in the morning for bad jokes.”
“Agreed.” I headed toward the doorway, still nervous. Still certain he’d heard the roll-top going down, would suspect what I’d been up to and hate me for it.
“Wait right there,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I was kidding. I have something for you to wear.”
He moved to the bureau, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pair of flannel pajamas. “You take the top, I’ll take the bottom.”
“Thanks.”
“And I have something else to keep you warm…”
I thought for sure he was setting me up for another seduction, but instead, he reached for one of two Saks shopping bags leaning beside the bureau.
He reached in and pulled out a classic, floor-length shearling with exposed seams, turn-back cuffs, and a hood. “It’s for you, Clare. Try it on.”
“Bruce? What did you do?” The coat was easily over a thousand dollars.
He shrugged. “You and Joy were going at each other just because of a stupid-looking parka. I thought it was silly. So I bought you both early Christmas gifts. You can give Joy’s to her next time you see her.”
“Bruce, it’s too much — ”
“No, it isn’t.” He cut me off. “It’s a gift, Clare. Don’t turn it down. I didn’t turn down the dinner you made for me, did I? So don’t tell me you can’t accept this.”
“It’s too generous.”
“It’s just a coat. You’ll make me happy if you wear it.” He held it up, waiting for me to slip my arms in its sleeves. “Come on, try it on.”
I did, slipping my arms into the fleece-lined garment and wrapping the buttersoft leather around me. For fun, I even flipped up the hood. “It’s really warm. And it’s really beautiful. To tell you the truth, I’ve been admiring the shearling on one of our customers, and I’ve always wanted one, just could never afford it. Is Joy’s like this one?”
“Exactly.”
I laughed. “She’ll love the coat, but hate having one just like her mother’s. We haven’t had mother-daughter matching clothes since she was four.”
“Well, you can always exchange it for another style — or she can. I just figured one of you might like this version enough to keep it.”
“Thank you,” I said, then turned and kissed him. He smiled, held the kiss longer than expected. My hood slipped off as he pulled me closer, just as I was pulling away.
“You know I have to get up in less than four hours to open the Blend,” I warned him.
He nodded, went to the four-poster, and pulled down the bedcovers. “Okay…I’ll set the alarm, and then drive you.”
“You don’t have to — ”
“I’m driving you, Cosi, so drop it. Now let’s go to bed while we can.”
Seventeen
It was twenty-five minutes to six in the a.m. when I unlocked the front door to the duplex above the Village Blend. That meant I had twenty-five minutes to wash, change clothes, and be back downstairs to unlock the door for our morning pastry delivery.
I didn’t even want to think about the snow removal on the sidewalk — although I knew I’d have to think about it soon, or else risk a very hefty fine from the Sanitation Department. The city gave property owners four hours to clear their sidewalks after the snow stopped falling. I figured we were just about due for the massive ticket.
Matteo wasn’t scheduled to fly out again for another week, and I made a quiet entrance, trying not to wake him. It wasn’t that I was worried about his beauty sleep. In fact, I’d probably be pounding on his door in fifteen minutes, telling him to start shoveling the walk. I just didn’t want him to see me coming through the front door, at this hour, dressed like this.