Ashes to Ashes by Lillian Stewart Carl Page B

doctoring the books, in other words, trying to get a little extra for himself after the dust of the insurance and shipping costs settles. I hate to accuse him of… ” He stared glumly at the tangled strand of pasta, as if it were a noose dangling at Michael’s neck.
    “Skimming the cream?” Rebecca suggested.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    Rebecca discovered that her wineglass was empty. She regarded it sadly. “Just something he said. Embezzlement is the word, isn’t it? I must admit he doesn’t seem the sort.” The red drop remaining at the bottom of the glass shone like crystal, but she saw nothing in it. Michael had a distinct secretive streak, yes. But if he had criminal secrets, surely he’d be a lot more poker-faced, less charming and less obnoxious both.
    “Ironic, isn’t it?” Eric went on. “If I had more technical knowledge I’d probably find my suspicions are all wrong. I’m sure he’s quite honest, and simply resents your and my breathing down his neck.”
    “I’ll be keeping an eye on him. He’s already tried to get a few things by me. Jokingly, you understand; I figured he was testing my knowledge just to flatter his ego. But you never can tell.”
    “Thank you,” said Eric. “I really appreciate your help.” He patted her hand where it rested on the table. She could feel the print of his fingers glowing on her skin even after he picked up his fork again.
    Was that the deal, then? A fancy dinner for her services as— well, as a spy? But that wasn’t all he wanted. Every feminine antenna she had was quiveringly alert, responding to the nuances in his voice, his face, his body.
    Rebecca was mellowing fast. The rest of the restaurant seemed as hazy as a scene photographed through a gauzed lens; the conversations of the other diners and the clink of cutlery reached her ears in slow, indistinct eddies. Only the banquette was completely tangible. The candlelit plates and glasses and Eric’s face with the intensity of stained-glass windows lit from behind. Rebecca grimaced at her descent into unashamed sensuality and cut another morsel of veal. She was eating olives, she realized, and enjoying them.
    “So you’ve been handling Dun Iain’s legal matters for several years,” she said. “Does that take up a lot of your time?”
    “Not really. I’m the one-man Putnam branch of the firm, so I have to be here at least once a week anyway. There’s usually something to attend to over at Golden Age Village, for example— wills, trusts, various financial and legal matters to sort out.”
    “Dorothy was saying that James resisted going into the Village.”
    “He certainly did. Dun Iain was his home and that was where he was going to stay. A shame he had to fall down those stairs, but, well, he had had a long life. Not like his mother when she died.” This time it wasn’t Eric’s jaw that tightened but his mouth, its deep curve thinning into a narrow line.
    “That must have been a real tragedy for James, losing his mother like that… ” Rebecca bit her tongue. She didn’t know how Eric had lost his own mother. Or his father, for that matter. No wonder the thought of Elspeth’s death distressed him.
    But his voice was smooth as always. “I’m not saying James wasn’t a little crazy. He was. And yet in many ways he was perfectly sane. He loved his books, and his writing, and all those artifacts were his babies. Even though he felt guilty over them.”
    “Guilty?”
    “He said they shouldn’t have been brought here. He said they wanted to go home.” Eric gazed off over the restaurant as if seeing the old man pottering among the portraits, the letters, and the cut-glass bottles.
    “Not that he wanted to send them home, but that they wanted to go?”
    He turned to her with an apologetic smile. “I said he was a little crazy. But he’s getting his wish now. They’re going back.”
    “I suppose, then, that James resisted selling off the more historically interesting