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  “Yeah. . . . I didn’t intend to call you with such depressing news. I wanted to tell you about Ted . . . and me.”

  She chuckled softly. “It’s about time you saw what was right in front of you. Well, I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you.” What she’d said prior to being happy for me slowly dawned on me. “Wait. It’s about time? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, love, I could tell when I was there the last time that the good detective was completely smitten with you and that the feeling was mutual.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t for me to say. I knew your heart would lead you in the right direction.”

  I huffed, a little put out at how well she knew me and my heart. “What if I’d called and told you I was in a relationship with Todd?”

  “But you didn’t,” she said simply. “Granted, if you had, I’d have been surprised . . . and worried. There’s no chemistry between you and Todd. And, believe me, I know chemistry when I see it.”

  “You could tell that Todd and I don’t have feelings for each other but that Ted and I do?” I asked.

  “Of course, darling. I mean, it’s obvious that you care about Todd, and he’s certainly infatuated with you. But you and Ted share something more passionate . . . more lasting,” she said. “Does Todd know?”

  “Um . . . yeah. He walked in on Ted and me kissing in my office.”

  “Ooh. So he got a jarring revelation rather than a gentle letdown. That’s not ideal. Have you seen him since then?”

  “I had Sadie come and watch the shop while I went over to the Brew Crew,” I said. “He didn’t want to talk with me about it.”

  “Ah, darling, you can hardly blame him there. Bruised ego, ruffled feathers . . . all that jazz. How did Sadie take the news?”

  “Not well. She blames herself for Todd’s broken heart.”

  Mom scoffed. “Todd did not get his heart broken. As I said, he was infatuated, but he was not in love with you. If he had been, he wouldn’t have dragged his feet about asking you to that masquerade ball back in February.”

  “Hey, that’s right.”

  “Of course, I’m right. I’m always right. I’m your mother. Plus, I work in Hollywood. I can always tell true emotions from shallow attractions . . . no matter how real others—even some of the ones with the feelings—believe them to be.”

  I laughed, relieved because I knew Mom was right. “Oh, Mom, I love you.”

  “I know,” she said, laughter evident in her voice. “And I love you.”

  “I know,” I replied. “You’re not the only one with insights and inside information.”

  Chapter Six

  After talking with Mom, I logged on to my computer and did an Internet search for professional treasure hunters on the Pacific coast. There weren’t any Web sites I could find for individual treasure hunters, but I did find a professional association page. I clicked through to the discussion forum and read enough to learn that while some of the treasure seekers limited their efforts to trolling beaches with metal detectors, some were actually in the business of finding and salvaging ships. I registered as a guest and asked if anyone on the forum had ever spoken with Chester Cantor about helping him with a project off the coast of Tallulah Falls, Oregon. I left my e-mail address—marcys@7yrstitch—for interested respondents to contact me. The fact remained that the Cantor family had financial problems and that Chester had died wanting to alleviate them. I’d promised to help him. I intended to keep my promise.

  After I’d finished trolling the Internet for treasure hunters, I looked for a way to facilitate the Fabergé egg project. I didn’t have much luck and decided this might take some creative thinking on my part. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to invest in it today since it was half past four. I dusted the furniture in between waiting on customers while that half hour crawled by.

  Finally, it was five o’clock, the moment I’d been anxiously waiting for all day. I hustled Angus into the Jeep, and we headed home to get ready for my date with Ted . . . my first date with Ted in a sense. I mean, I realized I’d been out with Ted before, but our relationship had taken a turn—a whirl? a spin?—this morning. So, in a way, this date really was a first. It was special.

  I wondered what to wear. We were having dinner at his house, so I didn’t want to dress formally. But I didn’t want to dress too casually either.

  I giggled. “I’ve got a boyfriend, Angus!”

  From the backseat, he woofed his approval before slurping my ear with his tongue.

  We were at a stoplight, so I briefly hugged his face to mine with one hand while keeping the other firmly on the steering wheel. “You know you’re still the head honcho around here, though.”

  He opened his mouth in what appeared to be a wide grin before the light turned and I had to focus my attention on the road again.

  When I got home, I fed Angus and then hurried upstairs to turn on the water in the bathtub. The entire time the tub was filling, I was standing in front of my closet. I must’ve pulled out and returned every article of clothing in it at least twice. I finally decided on black trousers, a gray silk blouse, and strappy silver sandals. I was grateful I’d given myself a pedicure midway through the week.

  After choosing my outfit, I rushed to the bathroom and had to drain a couple of inches of water from the tub so it wouldn’t overflow when I got in. How great would that have been for Ted to come and catch me soaked, disheveled, and frantically running the wet vac?

  I took a deep breath, sank into the tub, and used my favorite scented bath gel. It was wonderfully floral and romantic, and it calmed my jagged nerves.

  It was ridiculous to be so nervous about this date with Ted . . . and, yet, I was. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted to be certain I’d made the right choice.

  * * *

  Ted arrived at about a quarter to six. I was putting my jet chandelier earrings in as I walked down the steps to open the door. He looked fantastic: dark jeans, a navy pinstripe dress shirt, a brown leather jacket.

  He handed me a single red rose. “Pretty corny, huh?”

  I smiled. “Pretty sweet.” Despite the heels, I had to put my hand on the back of his neck to draw him down for a kiss. “Let me put this rosebud in water and let Angus into the house, and then we can go.”

  “I have to admit I’m kinda nervous,” he called to me from the foyer. “Doesn’t that sound crazy?”

  I grinned to myself and wondered if I should tell him I was feeling a little nervous too. Naaah. Instead I let Angus in through the back door, and he raced through the kitchen to see Ted.

  “Hey, buddy,” Ted said, stooping down to energetically pet Angus with both hands.

  “He used to make you nervous too,” I reminded Ted.

  He laughed. “Yeah, he did, didn’t he?”

  “So, you’re making your famous chicken piccata for me, huh?”

  “Yep. Speaking of which, we’d better be going.” On the drive to his apartment, he confessed that it wasn’t necessarily his famous chicken piccata but it was actually an easy go-to dish his mother had taught him before he left home for college.

  Ted’s apartment complex consisted of three identical chocolate-and-tan two-story buildings, each sectioned into four individual units. Signs in front of the buildings designated their names: the Westchester, the Somerville, and the Lincoln. Ted’s apartment was the end unit on the right side of the Westchester.

  The apartments’ landscaping was beautiful. Small evergreen trees, smooth white rocks, and round beige stepping-stones lined the walkways from the parking lots to the apartments and the common areas. Each building had two covered maple swings—one at either end. With the verandas on the back of each unit, residents were assured of plenty of room to enjoy the outdoors.

  “Welcome to my humble, messy home,” Ted said, opening the door to the apartment.

  I stepped inside and looked around. “You call this messy?”
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br />   The living room looked more like a just-passing-through room. There was no clutter, no dust, and certainly no mess. The walls were painted taupe, and much of the room was taken up by a long black leather sofa. Directly across from the sofa was a beige brick fireplace. The stone reminded me of those outside, and I appreciated the designer’s attention to the cohesive aesthetic.

  Above the fireplace was a flat-screen television. Its remote control was on the coffee table in front of the sofa. The only other thing on the table was a tray of cork-backed coasters with the Tallulah Falls lighthouse on the front. To the right of the sofa was a matching chair with a neatly folded red-and-black-plaid blanket lying on the seat. A silver floor lamp gleamed in the corner.

  Built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace held a Blu-ray disc player, a video game console and controllers, and an assortment of video games. There was also an eclectic mix of books on the shelves: the Holy Bible, books on forensics and biometrics, criminology textbooks, a volume of Keats poetry, and popular fiction by Koontz, Coben, and Deaver. You can tell a lot about a man by the books he reads. Ted was a complex man—even more so than I’d originally realized.

  I smiled up at him. “I love your apartment. It’s very Ted Nash.”

  He dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “Thank you . . . I think. I just hope that after you’ve seen the whole place, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “I won’t be.”

  “Ah, but you haven’t seen my office yet,” he said. “It’s where I go to think. But it can wait until after we eat. I’m starving.” He took my hand and led me to the kitchen.

  Like the living room, the kitchen was neat, tidy, and efficient. The appliances were stainless steel, the cabinets were glossy black with thin, tubular silver handles, and the countertops were dark gray granite. The room would have appeared too dark had it not been for the skylights and recessed lighting over the island and the chandelier over the table in the breakfast nook. I noticed with pleasure that Ted had set the table—complete with two white taper candles in the center—and had white wine chilling.

  “You’ve thought of everything,” I told him.

  “I wanted tonight to be special.”

  “It is,” I said.

  He smiled and—did I detect the hint of a blush?—went to the sink and washed his hands.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He dried his hands on a kitchen towel on a hook by the sink. “You can sit here and talk to me while I cook for you.”

  I sat down on one of the high-backed stools in front of the island. “Have you lived here long?”

  “A couple years . . . I moved here when Jen and I split up.”

  “That must’ve been hard,” I said.

  “Divorce is never easy. One of my friends—an older guy who’d been both divorced and widowed—said death was easier to go through. He said he didn’t have the lingering questions or doubts and that he didn’t feel as if his time had been wasted.”

  I tilted my head toward my shoulder. “Not sure I agree with that last part. Love given is never really wasted, is it? I mean, I’ve been hurt in the past, but I have to believe that putting my heart out there and being willing to take a chance made me grow into the person I am today.”

  He gave me a warm, lazy smile. “I’m glad you’re taking a chance on me.”

  “You’re worth the gamble.”

  “So are you,” Ted said. He took my face in his hands and gave me a slow, thorough kiss.

  “I’m glad you’re taking a chance on me too,” I said.

  “Hmm . . . let’s see. . . . You’re beautiful, loving, smart, independent . . . heck, the girl of my dreams. Why wouldn’t I take a chance on you?” He laughed. “I’d better get my mind back on our dinner.”

  “I’ll change the subject then. How did Adam Cantor take the news of his father’s death?” I asked.

  “Wow. I wasn’t ready for a topic that serious yet. Pour us a glass of wine, would you?”

  I did as he asked, handed him a glass of wine, put mine on the island, and sat back down. Ted took the chicken breasts, which he’d already butterflied, from the refrigerator and placed them in flour on a small plate. He salted and peppered them before dredging them through the flour and placing them into a frying pan with olive oil and butter.

  Finally, he turned to me. “Adam didn’t take it well. He seemed legitimately shocked and devastated.”

  “So you aren’t considering him a suspect?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He frowned. “I’ve been on the force long enough to know that people can fool you, but I didn’t get the feeling he was faking his grief.”

  “What about Melanie?” I asked. “She must be heartbroken.”

  Ted nodded. “And I think she’s kind of scared.”

  “Was she told that her grandfather was murdered?”

  He used a fork to gently turn the chicken breasts. “No. But she knows that now they aren’t leaving, and I think that’s why she’s scared. Officer Dayton talked with her and her mother in the school guidance counselor’s office before Mary took Melanie home. Melanie wanted to know how mad her dad was and if anyone had let their plans slip to him.”

  “Poor kid.”

  He sighed. “It’s sad. She loves Adam—she and Mary both do—but they can’t live with his violent temper.”

  “Why won’t he get help?”

  “Because he doesn’t think he has a problem,” Ted said.

  “Do you have any other suspects in the murder?”

  He grinned at me over his shoulder. “We’re working on it, Inch-High. We’re working on it.”

  * * *

  We finished the main course, and then Ted took a turtle cheesecake from the refrigerator.

  “That looks terrific,” I said. “Did you make that too?”

  “Of course.” He grinned. “I made it down to the bakery and picked it up.”

  I laughed. “I’m really stuffed right now. Can we save it for later? I want to see the rest of your apartment.”

  “You want to see my mess, huh?”

  “I do.”

  Shaking his head, he returned the cheesecake to the fridge. “Follow me.”

  I pushed back my chair, stood, and joined Ted in the hallway.

  He gestured to the right. “As you can see, this room is the bedroom.”

  Like the living room and kitchen, the walls were painted dark taupe. This room had white molding, which provided a stark and interesting contrast. In the middle of the far wall was a king-sized mahogany sleigh bed.

  An overstuffed navy recliner was in the corner. By the recliner was a magazine rack filled with detective, crime, and sports magazines and a remote control. A small television was mounted on the opposite wall. On the wall above the bed, a photo collage of the Oregon coast at sunset was displayed.

  There were matching nightstands on either side of the bed, and I noticed that the one on the right obviously got the most use. “You sleep on the right side,” I mused.

  “Yeah. Is that okay?”

  “Sure.” I could feel my face burning. “Um . . . let’s see that nightmare of an office.”

  The office was, indeed, on the messy side—especially when compared to the rest of the apartment. Like the kitchen, the office carried over the black-and-silver color scheme. A black desk and manager’s chair sat in the middle of the room. There was a laptop on the desk, but I couldn’t see much of what else was on the desk for the loose papers and file folders scattered on top of it. Against one wall were three tall silver filing cabinets.

  On the longest wall was a white dry-erase board. One side of the board contained writing that had been partially erased. The other side had been wiped clean, and CHESTER CANTOR had been written at the top. Beneath Mr. Cantor’s name, there were two columns titled SUSPECTS and MOTIVATION. In the Suspects column, Ted had written ADAM CANTOR. Under Adam’s name was written TREASURE HUNTER, and under that was UNSUB. There was nothing written in the motivation column.
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  “What’s an UNSUB?” I asked.

  “Unknown subject,” Ted answered. “This case is going to be tough. The old guy didn’t really go anywhere, so it’s hard to imagine he had any enemies.”

  “Other than the one under his own roof.”

  “There is that. But, as I told you earlier, Adam seemed honestly hurt by his father’s death.” He sighed. “I’m still waiting, though, to see if his alibi checks out.” He gently turned me toward the door. “Let’s try not to think about Chester’s death anymore tonight.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I didn’t know if that was entirely possible, though—for Ted or for me.

  He took my hand and led me out onto the veranda. He had a tan wicker glider and two chairs facing the mountains. In the corner was a large gas grill, which was currently covered. A small glass-topped table sat between the two chairs.

  Ted and I sat on the glider, and he slipped his arm around my shoulder. As I nestled against his side, listened to the distant surf, and gazed up at the stars, I knew I’d made not just the right choice but the only choice.

  Chapter Seven

  When Angus and I got to the shop the next morning, the first thing I did was check my e-mail. Sure enough, one of the treasure hunters from the discussion forum had e-mailed me. He said he’d like to meet and that he’d stop by my shop “tomorrow morning.”

  I checked the date of the e-mail and saw that he’d sent it last night. Then I racked my brain to determine if I’d given any information about myself in the message I’d posted on the forum. I’d hoped to be at least a little ambiguous about my identity in case Chester Cantor’s murderer read the forum entries.

  I was thinking maybe I should call Ted and tell him what was going on when the bells over the door jangled to let me know I had a customer. Or, at least, I hoped it was a customer.

  I stepped out of my office to see that Angus had already greeted the rather grizzled-looking older gentleman who’d entered the shop.