occasions, he looked down and caught her eye. She smiled at him, and something sparked. Chemistry.
It had been there all those years ago in London, and it was still beating between them now.
So how did it work, she wondered, that strange confluence of shoulders and limbs and eyes and mouth and those mysteriously
undetectable pheromones that somehow drew one human body to another? Was it all chemical and biological? Was destiny charted
in the hormones? Why, knowing all that she knew about this very dangerous man, did these nonverbal messages still have such
power?
The last person they encountered was Giuseppe Brindesi, who was high on the scaffolding at the east end of the transept aisle.
Matthew wanted to meet him. In fact, he had actually started up the scaffolding ladder when Giuseppe yelled that he’d be coming
down.
“Have the two of you met?” Annie asked as the master craftsman stepped off the scaffolding. She nodded from one man to the
other. “Giuseppe Brindesi, Matthew Carlyle.”
Matthew put out his hand as he had been doing all afternoon. “No, I don’t believe so. Pleased to meet you.”
Giuseppe hesitated a moment before shaking his hand. “I knew your wife, sir,” he said slowly. “Please accept my condolences.”
Matthew looked blank, so Annie added, “Giuseppe is the stained glass expert whom Francesca recommended to us. He did some
work in the old UPC church before it was torn down, so I thought you might have met.”
Matthew’s expression changed—he seemed to grow more alert. But he shook his head and said, “No.”
“I regret I was in my native Italy when Signora Carlyle died,” Giuseppe said. “After that I was in England, doing restorations.
I have only recently returned to this country.”
“I remember that she spoke of you,” Matthew said. Annie thought she detected an edge to his voice, but his face was once again
under careful control, and she had no inkling of what he was thinking.
“A beautiful lady,” Giuseppe said gently. “She is missed.”
“Thank you,” Matthew replied.
He was polite, but there was an audible finality to his words. It was clear that he did not wish to discuss his dead wife.
They spoke briefly about the stained glass, and Giuseppe seemed somewhat preoccupied as he explained what he was doing. Then
he turned to Annie. “May I speak to you a moment?”
She stepped aside with him. “I’m having a few problems installing the largest panel,” he told her. “I’d like to come into
your office tomorrow and have a look at the blueprints.”
“Of course, but don’t you have your own copy of the latest CAD file?” she asked, referring to the computer-aided designsoftware that all architects and designers used to assist in modern blueprint preparation.
“Alas, I seem to have lost a page of the blueprints,” Giuseppe said. “I’d like to see the original file, if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll have to come to my office at the firm for that,” she said.
“That’s fine. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Okay. I’ll be in by nine.”
“Good,” he said, and with a polite nod to Matthew he climbed back up the scaffolding and resumed his work.
“Anything wrong?” Matthew asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
As they left the cathedral, Annie noticed that Jack Fletcher was leaning against a column only a few yards away, half hidden
in the gloom.
Chapter Twelve
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous about this meeting tonight,” Annie said to Darcy as she changed her dress for the third time.
“Hey, I’d be nervous too, having dinner with a murderer. Jeez, Annie, at least you could have insisted on meeting him in a
restaurant! Going alone to his house doesn’t sound very smart.”
“It’s really not fair to keep referring to him as a murderer.”
“He did it—I know he did. I have a strong intuition about these things. Besides, the potential for violence is clear in Carlyle’s
It had been there all those years ago in London, and it was still beating between them now.
So how did it work, she wondered, that strange confluence of shoulders and limbs and eyes and mouth and those mysteriously
undetectable pheromones that somehow drew one human body to another? Was it all chemical and biological? Was destiny charted
in the hormones? Why, knowing all that she knew about this very dangerous man, did these nonverbal messages still have such
power?
The last person they encountered was Giuseppe Brindesi, who was high on the scaffolding at the east end of the transept aisle.
Matthew wanted to meet him. In fact, he had actually started up the scaffolding ladder when Giuseppe yelled that he’d be coming
down.
“Have the two of you met?” Annie asked as the master craftsman stepped off the scaffolding. She nodded from one man to the
other. “Giuseppe Brindesi, Matthew Carlyle.”
Matthew put out his hand as he had been doing all afternoon. “No, I don’t believe so. Pleased to meet you.”
Giuseppe hesitated a moment before shaking his hand. “I knew your wife, sir,” he said slowly. “Please accept my condolences.”
Matthew looked blank, so Annie added, “Giuseppe is the stained glass expert whom Francesca recommended to us. He did some
work in the old UPC church before it was torn down, so I thought you might have met.”
Matthew’s expression changed—he seemed to grow more alert. But he shook his head and said, “No.”
“I regret I was in my native Italy when Signora Carlyle died,” Giuseppe said. “After that I was in England, doing restorations.
I have only recently returned to this country.”
“I remember that she spoke of you,” Matthew said. Annie thought she detected an edge to his voice, but his face was once again
under careful control, and she had no inkling of what he was thinking.
“A beautiful lady,” Giuseppe said gently. “She is missed.”
“Thank you,” Matthew replied.
He was polite, but there was an audible finality to his words. It was clear that he did not wish to discuss his dead wife.
They spoke briefly about the stained glass, and Giuseppe seemed somewhat preoccupied as he explained what he was doing. Then
he turned to Annie. “May I speak to you a moment?”
She stepped aside with him. “I’m having a few problems installing the largest panel,” he told her. “I’d like to come into
your office tomorrow and have a look at the blueprints.”
“Of course, but don’t you have your own copy of the latest CAD file?” she asked, referring to the computer-aided designsoftware that all architects and designers used to assist in modern blueprint preparation.
“Alas, I seem to have lost a page of the blueprints,” Giuseppe said. “I’d like to see the original file, if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll have to come to my office at the firm for that,” she said.
“That’s fine. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Okay. I’ll be in by nine.”
“Good,” he said, and with a polite nod to Matthew he climbed back up the scaffolding and resumed his work.
“Anything wrong?” Matthew asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
As they left the cathedral, Annie noticed that Jack Fletcher was leaning against a column only a few yards away, half hidden
in the gloom.
Chapter Twelve
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous about this meeting tonight,” Annie said to Darcy as she changed her dress for the third time.
“Hey, I’d be nervous too, having dinner with a murderer. Jeez, Annie, at least you could have insisted on meeting him in a
restaurant! Going alone to his house doesn’t sound very smart.”
“It’s really not fair to keep referring to him as a murderer.”
“He did it—I know he did. I have a strong intuition about these things. Besides, the potential for violence is clear in Carlyle’s
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