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Quinn leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “No boyfriend to cook for?”
She glanced away from him. “I haven’t had a lot of time to date much, especially now with working and going to school.”
“What are you studying?”
“Psychology, with an emphasis on abnormal behavior. I took two classes during the spring semester, which practically did me in. This summer I’m taking it easy and only taking one, on Tuesday nights. I don’t think it will be a hard class. I begin this week.”
“Okay. This is a start. Let’s go back to your house and let me get some measurements in the kitchen.”
“For a man who doesn’t work on Sunday, you’re sure doing a good imitation of working.”
“Measuring’s nothing. I could do it in my sleep.”
The mention of sleep brought Becca back to the fact that the past few nights—ever since Quinn and she had connected on the rooftop—she hadn’t gotten a full night’s rest. In her line of business that could be dangerous. She needed to exorcise the man from her thoughts, but then, that might be most difficult if he was in her house day after day renovating it.
“I thought all cops liked coffee and doughnuts,” Quinn said, taking a seat at Becca’s kitchen table later that afternoon.
She splayed her hand over her chest. “I’m crushed. You must watch too much TV.”
“TV? What’s that?” He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat down to watch even the news.
“Occasionally I’ve caught glimpses of one in people’s houses.”
The twinkle in her eyes spoke to him on a level he hadn’t responded to in a long time. Her renovation project was just what he needed to get back to what he loved doing at Montgomery Construction, what he had done before his father had retired. “I live on coffee,” he said while Becca stood at the old stove waiting for a copper kettle to heat.
“I refuse to bring coffee into my house. Nasty stuff.” Retrieving two mugs from the cabinet, she poured some hot water into each one and then dunked tea bags into them. “Here, try this. Tea is much better for you than coffee.” After handing him a cup, she slid her own from the counter, then took the chair across from him. “This is chai tea. You can even have it cold if you like.”
He stared at his mug as though it were a monster terrorizing him. “It looks like dirty dishwater.” He sniffed it, a blend of spices peppering the air. “What in the world is in it? I like my coffee black, no sugar, strong.”
She took a sip of hers, watching him over the rim of her mug, but she didn’t say a word.
“If I try this, then you’ll have to try my coffee. You haven’t tasted coffee until you’ve had a cup of mine.”
“You aren’t gonna convert me.”
Quinn smiled. “I’ve been told I have powers of persuasion.”
Her laughter rang in the air, filling it with a sweet sound. “Sam’s tried. Even your brother. Nope, I don’t change my mind often once it’s set.”
He cupped the mug in his hands. “So no one can change your beliefs?” Somehow he got the impression they weren’t talking about drinking tea or coffee but something much deeper. From a couple of comments she had said, he didn’t think she believed in God. Is that why You have nudged me toward Becca, Lord?
“I’m slow to form an opinion but just as slow to let it go, too.”
Quinn took a sip, winced, then firmly set the mug on the table. “Doesn’t hold a candle to my coffee. Is that the best you have to offer?” He relaxed back in the chair, enjoying the lightheartedness of the conversation. So much had happened lately that was serious, it had been nice for a brief time this afternoon not to have to think about Escalante seeking revenge against his family.
She shot to her feet and stalked over to the cabinet, thrusting open its door. “Take your pick. I probably have thirty different kinds of tea for different moods.”
“What mood is chai for?”
She narrowed her gaze, but that twinkle still danced in her depths. “It’s for helping me to be patient.” After closing the cabinet, she sat again and drank her tea as though she was seeking that patience she had talked about.
Sliding the mug away from himself, Quinn broke the silence with, “As I said before, I’d like to start Wednesday morning. I’ll be in and out at first because I’m still overseeing a few projects. And since the explosion last month at the hospital, we will start rebuilding that physical-therapy wing soon. I’m training Chad Morrison to do some of what I’ve been doing.”
“How do you want to handle getting into the house? I can have irregular hours and won’t always be here in the morning to let you or your crew in. And I can’t guarantee my neighbor will always be home, either. How do you suggest we do this?”
“You could give me a key.”
Surprise danced across her face for a few seconds before she masked her expression and took a long sip of her hot tea. “That’s probably the best way to handle it. It’s just that…” Her voice faded into the silence.
“What? You don’t trust anyone else with your key? Your neighbor has one.”
“I’ve known Mrs. Williams all my life. She used to babysit me when I was young.” She shifted in her chair and looked him right in the eye. “No, I’m not a very trusting person. I realize you’ll have to have a key, but I would rather you be the only one who has access to it.” She finished the last of her tea then added, “I know I don’t have much to steal, but my personal space is very important to me.”
“The renovation may be delayed at times. Are you okay with that?” he asked, her trust in him producing a grip on his heart that frightened him. There were too many similarities between Becca and Maggie, especially in their work. He was starting to care and that was just too risky.
She nodded, relief in her expression.
“Then we’ll do it that way and anyone working here with me, of course, will be trustworthy. That’s a promise.”
His fervent look generated a tightness in her throat. She swallowed and said, “Great. I’ll have one made. I’ll make it a point to be here Wednesday to let you in and give it to you.” She shook her head. “I should have thought about this before I decided to renovate. But as you can see, all I could think about was how much this house needs in order to come into the twenty-first century. Actually, I’m thinking the latter half of the twentieth century.” She pointed toward the carved markings in several of the drawers. “That was done by my brother sixteen, maybe seventeen years ago. He got creative with a knife. Hey, maybe I should have pushed him in the direction of carpentry.”
“I probably did some of that in my younger years. But what happened there?”
Becca glanced where Quinn was looking, even though she already knew what he was referring to. “That was the final straw. Last week the cabinet door fell off. That’s when I decided I had to do something fast. Luckily I persuaded you to help me.”
Closing the notepad he had been writing on, Quinn came to his feet. “I’d better be going. It’s getting late and I have a meeting at church. I’m on the building committee. Go figure.”
“No! I would say you are more than qualified.”
He paused in collecting his elaborate tape measure, which put her yardstick to shame. “With God you don’t have to have experience. He’ll take you any way you want.”
“If you say so,” she murmured, remembering how the Lord had turned His back on her family. He took her father then her mother, leaving two small children without their parents and her as their only hope. Remembering that time submerged her in a renewed feeling of overwhelming helplessness she had fought hard not to experience ever again.
“I don’t. The Bible does.”
Her partner’s faith was strong, and there had been a few times Sam had tried to talk to her about the Lord, but their partnership worked because he respected certain boundaries. She could remember crying and pleading with God to spare her mother. It hadn’t helped. She’d still died, leaving her alone at twenty with two young siblings and no ready means of support.
Quinn headed for the front door. The quiet that had descended between them thickened. Before he left, he gave her a weak smile, a sadness in his eyes that made Becca feel she had let him down somehow.
As she closed and locked the door, she couldn’t shake that feeling, and it bothered her that she cared what he thought. Her anger surged to the foreground. She marched back toward the kitchen to make herself another cup of tea, deciding it was best to keep Quinn at arm’s length.
The blare of the phone startled her. Instead of going to the stove, she crossed the room and lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Becca, this is Sam. I’m at the station. Stark is ready to cut a deal.”
FOUR
“If you ask me, Ritchie—” Becca leaned close to the man who slouched at the table in the interview room, his clothes reeking of day old sweat “—claiming Dahlia is the one who hired you to kill O’Brien is mighty convenient since she’s not around to defend herself.”
Stark’s thin shoulders hunched even more and a scowl creased deep lines into his brow. “I ain’t lying. She’s the one. Had me up to her big fancy office at the museum after hours so’s no one would see us together. Never been in such a cold place.”
Becca had felt the same way about Dahlia Sainsbury’s office when she’d gone through it after the woman’s murder. Maybe Stark was telling the truth. She lifted her gaze to Sam, who was lounging against the wall a few feet away. “There’s no deal if we don’t find evidence to support your accusations.”
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