Charade by Sandra Brown Page B

full-time mother to a special child. Her retirement and thus the suspension of her income would place no financial burden on them because Mr. Walters was a successful cement contractor. They had seemed ideal to parent one of Cat's Kids. Why would they take the time and trouble to apply for adoption, then go to no effort whatsoever to prepare for their first interview? It was too intriguing a question to leave unanswered. "Curiosity killed the Cat," she reminded herself as she pulled open the door and went inside. The adage would make a clever headline if she didn't come out alive, she thought wryly. The arched opening through which Mr. Walters had disappeared led into a spacious living area. Wide windows allowed for plenty of sunlight and brought the breathtaking Hill Country landscape in
    doors. The furniture had been chosen for comfort and coziness. It would have been a lovely room, if not for the mess. A man's shirt dangled from the arm of the sofa. A pair of cowboy boots and a pair of socks lay in the middle of the floor. The TV was on, but it had been muted, which spared Cat from having to listen to the sound of one cartoon character chasing another and whacking him over the head with a tennis racquet. Newspapers were scattered everywhere. A pillow had been wadded into one corner of the sofa and bore the imprint of a head. There were two soda cans on the coffee table, along with an empty, crumpled potato chip bag and what looked like the remains of a bologna sandwich. Cat stood just inside the arch, disgusted by what she saw. Beyond a dividing bar was the kitchen, where Mr. Walters was taking mugs from a cabinet. He blew dust out of them. "Is Mrs. Walters here?" she asked haltingly. "No." "When do you expect her?" "Can't say. In a few days I guess. Coffee's ready. I set the timer to come on at seven. It's been sitting here for a few hours, but the stronger the better, right? Cream or sugar?" "Really I don't--" "Whew! Forget the cream." He'd taken a carton of half-and-half from the refrigerator and opened it. Cat could smell it from where she stood. "There's a sugar bowl around here somewhere," he muttered as he went searching. "I remember seeing it a day or two ago." "I don't need any sugar." "Good. 'Cause I can't find it." She wasn't surprised. The kitchen was in a worse mess than the living room. The sink was full of dirty dishes that overflowed onto every available inch of counter space. There were crusty pans on the stove. The dining table was littered with more dirty dishes, unopened mail, books and magazines, stacks of paper, and a greasy cardboard box with Carlotta's Homemade Tamales stenciled across the top of it. Something yellow and gelatinous had dripped onto the floor. The neat exterior of the house had been deceiving. Its inhabitants were slobs.
    "Here you go." He slid a mug of coffee across the bar toward her. It sloshed onto the tiles, but he seemed not to notice. He was already sipping from his mug. After several swallows, he sighed. "Better. Now, what is it you're peddling?" She gave a small, incredulous laugh. "I'm not peddling anything. Sherry Parks was under the impression you had an appointment this morning." "Huh. What'd you say your name is?" "Cat Delaney." "Cat--" He squinted at her through the steam rising out of his coffee mug. His eyes took her in, head to feet and back again. "Well I'll be damned. You're the soap opera queen, right?" "In a matter of speaking," she replied coldly. "I'm standing in for Ms. Parks, who had an appointment with you at eleven o'clock this morning." "An appointment? This morning?" He shook his head in befuddlement. Cat waved her hand in dismissal. "Never mind. The signals got crossed somewhere, but it makes no difference." She looked at the clutter surrounding her, then faced him squarely. "I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think you'll do." He slurped his coffee. "Won't do what?" He was either dense or extremely clever. She couldn't tell if he was playing with her or if