Hot Legs

  “Wow. Thanks. I owe you big time for that one.”

  “I just thought you might like some peace and quiet while you’re doing your consultant thingy. I wouldn’t want you to lose your groove because your ex has anger-management problems.”

  “How did you know—and I ask only because I may have to consider that everyone else knows as well . . . which means the news might have reached Arthur.”

  “I hadn’t seen you since Wednesday—and the illustrious Mr. Serre only briefly. You always show up for work barring hurricanes and acts of God, so vulgar mind that I have—I went with the obvious.”

  “Do you think others noticed?”

  “Nah. Everyone’s chasing around with the flower show and the theft, and you’re so pure as the driven snow—who would suspect?”

  “I’m not like that.”

  “I know and you know, but look, honey, you’ve been standin’ by your no-good man for a long time. Most wives would have been warming someone else’s sheets by now . . . that’s all. Don’t give it another thought. Everything’s copacetic. Go on with your detective stuff and have a good time. By the way, if you’re going to see Paige and Sarah, they’re usually at Sarah’s on Friday afternoon. They have a play group together.”

  “Do you keep track of everyone?”

  “Not by choice with them, but I’ve been delegated their fix-it-up chappy for some ungodly reason. They call me for every plumbing and yard man problem they have, as well as school tuition payments, summer camp schedules, and lists of nannies.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I wish I were. Sweet as they may be, and Arthur certainly has an eye for pretty little blondes precisely five years apart in age because he has a short attention span, they are not take-charge kind of women. Which works for Arthur, who’s looking for a docile wife who tells him he’s perfect. So in a way, they’re a little naive—actually a whole lot naive. Which begs the question, why are you and the man in your bathroom going to see them?”

  “He says it’s just routine. A matter of checking on everyone.”

  “Tell him he can interview me anytime—in my bedroom, preferably.”

  Cassie smiled. “I’ll let him know. And we’re not calling ahead, so don’t mention we’re coming should you talk to them. He prefers people not have planned responses. Not that Paige or Sarah need any, I’m sure. And thanks, Emma, for your understanding.”

  “You deserve it, kid. Let me know if you need anything else. Gotta go. The Sun King is walking through—” and the phone went dead.

  “Who was that?” Bobby asked as he came out of the bathroom rubbing his hair with a towel.

  “Emma. She knows. She also said you can interview her in her bedroom.”

  “I figured she knew. The look she gave me yesterday was like the ones my mom gave me when I was a kid and lying through my teeth to her. She’s sharp.”

  “She has to be, working for Arthur. Actually, she’s the only assistant to last more than a few weeks. She’s on a record two years and counting.”

  “It helps that she can wrestle Arthur to the ground.”

  “And he knows it. They have an uneasy truce.”

  “Why are you dressed?” he asked, coming to a sudden stop and frowning slightly.

  “I thought I’d better.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Once we interview them, we’re done for the day, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what would you like to do?”

  “Need you ask?”

  “I was being polite. I thought you might like to see a movie or play golf or go for a bike ride—” her sentence trailed off.

  “I’d like to go for a ride all right.”

  She smiled. “You’re such a dear.”

  TWENTY

  SARAH’S HOUSE WAS A COMFORTABLE BRICK bungalow in an upscale suburb with a swimming pool in the backyard, two white SUVs parked in the drive, and a border of red tulips lining the sidewalk to the blue front door. Large potted hydrangeas decorated both sides of the curved stoop, and the welcome sign hanging from the ornate door knocker was painted with singing warblers.

  It was Midwest frictionless charm.

  Right down to the white ribbon around the neck of the larger-than-life-size bronze bunny rabbit stationed to the left of the door.

  They rang the doorbell, heard a trilling “I’ll get it,” and waited for the door to open.

  “Cassandra! Bobby! What a surprise!”

  “Forgive us for not calling,” Cassie said, “but we were in the neighborhood, so we thought we’d stop by. We’re interviewing everyone who’s connected with the museum,” she smiled, “no matter how remotely.”

  “I hope you don’t mind answering a few questions,” Bobby politely added. “They’re purely routine.”

  “Of course. Come in. Excuse the children everywhere. Paige and I have play day here on Friday afternoons. Paige! Come see who’s here!”

  As they were ushered into a large, sunny room at the back of the house that opened on to a yard filled with every imaginable playground toy, Paige came in from the adjoining kitchen. “Hello. What a surprise.” All Arthur’s wives had met Bobby and Cassie at some time or other.

  “My words exactly,” Sarah declared. “They’re here to interview us about the theft at the museum—just routine, Bobby says.”

  “We’re interviewing everyone, including trustees and docents.” Bobby shrugged. “We have to at least go through the motions of talking to everyone.”

  “Have you talked to Frank Hauser yet?” Sarah asked. “That should be a stitch. Do you remember when he started to lecture us on manners because we weren’t wearing white gloves at the cocktail reception?” She smiled at Paige. “He’s sure the world is going to hell in a handbasket because proper etiquette is no longer a priority. Aaron, honey, don’t climb so high! Aaron, stop this instant! Aaron, if you don’t stop you won’t get any ice-cream sandwiches!”

  The preschooler paused.

  “I mean it, Aaron. Everyone else will have Blue Bunny ice-cream sandwiches except you!”

  The young boy dressed in toddler Patagonia began descending the jungle-gym ladder.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. Your mommy will be pleased. Sorry,” Sarah apologized. “Some of the children are fearless. Do sit down. Would you like coffee, tea, lemonade, or cranapple Juicy Juice?”

  “We’re fine,” Bobby said.

  Cassie was thinking she could use a stiff drink with all the potential accidents waiting to happen on the playground outside—six young children crawling, climbing, and hanging in precarious positions on the Disney Land–size apparatus. That little girl dressed in pink from head to toe looked like she was losing her grip on the monkey bars. Oops. Lucky they had soft sand underneath.

  Bobby was moving several small trucks from the couch and motioning Cassie over. He said in a semi-official way, “If you’d take notes,” and handed her the tablet he carried. Unfortunately, his request in that low, deep murmur reminded her of the very sexy Romano fantasy of recent memory, which hampered her ability to concentrate for a minute. “Do you need a pen?” he asked when she didn’t move.

  She saw the pen he held out to her, forced her brain to rewind and process what he’d said, locked away the tantalizing fantasy behind imaginary closed doors, and took the pen. But he was still looking at her strangely, as were Paige and Sarah, and she wondered if something was unbuttoned. “Thank you very much,” she added, trying to appear normal and quickly sat down, sneaking a quick glance at her blouse buttons just in case.

  Everything was in place, fortunately. She inched sideways on the colorful Provencal print couch, hoping to put sufficient distance between her and the combustible fuel to her libidinous tinder—namely one much too handsome and well-endowed Bobby Serre.

  Bobby was talking about the theft in general terms, putting the two women at ease, explaining what questions he would be asking and why. But the interview turned into a puppets-on-a-strin
g scenario with Paige and Sarah spending most of the time jumping up to avert some childish disaster, sitting again only to hop up once more to run to the door and deliver a barrage of warnings and chiding that seemed to have little or no effect on their charges.

  After ten minutes of spasmodic, disjointed replies, Bobby had gleaned that no, they hadn’t been to the museum lately, neither of them were involved in any of the museum functions any longer, they had no idea what the stolen Rubens looked like—“Is that the one with the man on the white horse?” Sarah had asked—and in terms of understanding anything about the museum alarm system, he’d drawn blank looks when he brought up the subject. Almost too blank, he thought, considering Arthur’s casual attitude toward security. But then again, maybe the women were just slightly fearful at being interrogated.

  When it came to Arthur, he kept his questions as polite as possible.

  “How is your relationship with Arthur?” he inquired.

  “We don’t have one,” Paige replied, but her voice was temperate.

  “Not since Jessica,” Sarah added, her words rushed together, her personality less constrained than Paige.

  “Why is that?”

  The women looked at each other and then Paige answered, “She wants him for herself, I suppose. It’s only natural. We understand.”

  Of the two women, the older Paige seemed to have been designated their spokesperson. “Have you had words with Jessica?” Bobby asked.

  “No.”

  “Except for the picnic,” Sarah blurted out.

  She received a critical glance from her friend.

  “It was an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Paige explained. “We were under the impression the children had been invited to the picnic.”

  “But Jessica said they weren’t,” Sarah said with a little sniff. “Can you imagine?”

  “She doesn’t have children.” Paige half smiled. “She can’t be expected to understand a child’s sensitivities. Flora and Seth were disappointed.”

  “But we took them to the zoo instead, and they had a really good time,” Sarah offered with a smile. “So everything worked out just fine.”

  “It’s difficult for Arthur,” Paige politely noted. “As you can expect.”

  “Do you have any disagreements with Arthur—money, visitation, custody issues?”

  “No, not really,” Paige answered.

  “There was the wall-to-wall carpeting,” Sarah said in her breathy semi-explosive way.

  Paige stepped in smoothly. “Arthur explained the stock market was down. His dividends had been affected.”

  “Jessica got new carpeting,” Sarah muttered.

  “And the children had their trip to Disney World, don’t forget,” Paige declared, giving her friend a pat on the hand. “Arthur does his best.”

  “Yes, Arthur’s a very conscientious provider,” Sarah added, looking to Paige for approval at her well-mannered remark.

  “Arthur can be demanding,” Bobby observed. “And perhaps not as diplomatic as he could be. Has he been difficult in that regard?”

  “No, not at all. Arthur is always polite to us. And now the poor man has this robbery to deal with. We both sympathize, don’t we?” Another pat on Sarah’s hand.

  “It must be awful for Arthur to be involved in something so sinister,” Sarah murmured.

  “It almost makes one fearful of one’s children’s safety,” Paige interposed. “The world is changing. Didn’t I say that, Sarah?” She looked at her friend. “And it’s not changing for the better.”

  “I don’t even like to turn on the news anymore,” Sarah remarked. “There’s so much violence. I’m glad they’re showing the Mr. Rogers reruns. He was such a kind man.”

  “A perfect role model for young children. Matilda!” Paige screamed. “Don’t you dare hit Flora with that whiffle bat! You’ll have a long time-out if you do, and I’ll tell your mother you were very naughty!”

  They all watched the little girl reluctantly lower the sponge bat, stick her tongue out at Flora instead, then lob the soft bat in Aaron’s direction.

  “I’m telling!” Aaron shouted. “She hit me! Tilda hit me! You won’t get no ice cream! I’m gonna tell!”

  “If you’ll excuse us a minute,” Sarah said, coming to her feet.

  “The children need a little conversation about playing together nicely,” Paige observed, rising from her chair.

  “I think we’re about done here anyway,” Bobby said, standing up. “You’ve been a great help.”

  Paige smiled. “It’s the least we can do for Arthur.”

  Sarah giggled, quickly muffled it, and smiled as well. “We’re more than happy to be of help.”

  “Any way we can,” Paige added. “I hope you find the painting soon.”

  “We’re all hoping for that,” Bobby said.

  * * *

  AS THEY WALKED away from the house, Cassie said, “Those two are so weird, they should be on Jerry Springer. ‘I’m best friends with my husband’s ex-wife.’ ”

  Bobby blew out a breath. “That was definitely weird. Were they wired or what? They could barely sit still.”

  “It was just the kids and play day. I’d go crazy with so many kids to watch. They do seem genuinely fond of each other, though. Did you see how they sometimes finished each other’s sentences?”

  “Weirder yet. Could you tell how they felt about Arthur? I was getting some conflicting vibes in their tone of voice or their expressions when his name came up. Like they didn’t really mean what they were saying.”

  “Why would they like him? They’re polite, that’s all. He’s paying for everything; they’d better watch what they say or get a job.”

  “Maybe that’s it. A restrained dislike.”

  “Give them points for the restrained part. He’s a first-class prick.”

  “I suppose,” Bobby murmured, shrugging away an undefinable inconsistency, telling himself anything would seem strange when you were talking to two ex-wives who not only had shared a husband but looked so much alike they could be sisters. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Sarah and Paige were related. They look alike; they even dress alike.” The women had worn slacks and camp shirts in coordinated shades of melon and aquamarine.

  “Arthur’s eye for women is confined to petite blondes.”

  “Not necessarily.” Bobby grinned. “He likes you.”

  “Don’t say that. It gives me the creeps. The last thing I need is creepy Arthur staring at me in a way I don’t want him staring, if you know what—” Cassie’s voice trailed off as Bobby came to a sudden stop midway down the sidewalk, his gaze on the passenger getting out of a cab.

  The woman was tall and slender, her short black hair cropped in a freshly tousled hairdo, her glamorous face the kind that stared out at you from magazine covers. Her long, tan designer raincoat swung away as she stood upright, revealing the longest legs, shortest skirt, and most perfect breasts under a pale cashmere sweater that Cassie had ever seen.

  Shit. The cover model was waving at them. Correction. At Bobby, ‘cuz if she’d met a woman like that, she would definitely have remembered her.

  “Bobby! My God! What are you doing here?” the woman from some modeling agency exclaimed. “Don’t say you’ve come to meet me,” she lightly added, smiling like some ingenue starlet as she moved toward them with a graceful model’s walk, the traveling bag in her hand a sleek, expensive leather.

  Why did glamorous people always dress in muted tans and neutrals that seem to proclaim their elevated station without saying a word? Suddenly, Cassie felt de trop in her favorite chartreuse slacks and tangerine T-shirt. Not to mention jealous because Bobby Serre was standing there staring like he’d seen a real, bonafide angel descend from a cloud.

  “How long has it been, darling?” the gorgeous woman asked, smiling faintly. “I’d say too long. Give me a hug.” And she dropped her at least two-thousand-dollar bag—more, if that was real crocodile and not stamped—and held out her arms.

>   Bobby hesitated marginally before giving her a hug, stepping away after only the briefest moment—but not before the woman smiled at Cassie over Bobby’s shoulder. Her smug smile said, “You don’t have a chance.”

  “Cassie Hill, Claire Dumont. Claire, Cassie.”

  “And who are you?” Claire inquired, her gaze critiquing.

  “Cassie’s a curator helping me check out clues on the Rubens theft. You probably heard about the robbery. We’re interviewing a cast of thousands, including Sarah and Paige.”

  “They didn’t tell you I was coming in, did they?” Claire said with what could only be defined as a breathy coo. “I told them not to. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Why?” His voice was wary.

  And that made Cassie super wary.

  “Just for fun.”

  “Is that so?” A distinct constraint colored his words.

  “Don’t panic, darling. I’m godmother to Sarah’s youngest. You wouldn’t know that, I suppose, because she’s only . . . well . . . not very old.” Claire had no idea how old Flora was.

  “Arthur mentioned it.”

  Claire touched his cheek. “No need to get all grim, sweetheart. I’m not stalking you. It’s little Flora’s birthday. I was invited.” She turned to Cassie. “I’m Bobby’s ex-wife. We weren’t married long, but we had a very long engagement, didn’t we darling, traveling the world—Peru and Florence, Istanbul, Paris, St. Petersburg in the summer. You can’t say it wasn’t fun.”

  “It was nice seeing you, Claire. Enjoy your birthday party.”

  “You’re trying to brush me off,” she said, with a lilting laugh. “Have it your way, dear, but we’ll talk again before I go.” She waved her fingers in a casual flutter, picked up her bag, and moved toward the house.

  For a fraction of a second, Bobby remained motionless.

  Then he exhaled softly. “I need a drink.”

  If he needed a drink after seeing his ex-wife, Cassie needed at least two and counting.

  That woman was flawless.

  Damn, damn, damn, she silently swore. Not that she had any long-range plans for Bobby Serre, but her short-range plans would fly out the window if gorgeous Claire decided to take him into her bed.