Finders Keepers Read online

  Had he misjudged her?

  Beth’s evidence to the contrary, he didn’t think so— at least not entirely. He’d looked into those lying blue eyes and he’d seen trouble.

  He decided to head into town.

  The local bookstore had two copies of a collection of tales of the American Southwest written by Holly Paynter. Her picture—lying eyes, and all—was on the back cover. He paid twenty dollars for a copy. The couple who ran the bookstore asked him if he realized Holly Paynter was in town.

  “I just heard.” he said dryly. There were no secrets in a small town, he remembered. He wondered if Ms. Paynter realized that.

  He walked down to the Danvers Memorial Library and found a comfortable nook to look up Holly Paynter, storyteller. By nightfall he’d know more about the strawberry-haired, crowbar-toting, lying-eyed woman from Texas than he did right now. But he had a feeling it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough.

  “You’re hooked,” he said to himself finally, as he left the quiet library.

  He headed back up to the sawmill.

  Bert told him about the map he’d sold Holly Paynter and asked about his missing golden retriever, mumbling something about what the devil he’d want with another damned dog.

  “You pointed out my place to her?” he asked, just to make sure.

  “Yep. Wouldn’t want anyone getting lost up there.”

  “I wouldn’t, either. Thanks, Bert.”

  Yes, he thought, wasn’t Holly Paynter the sweetest, most talented storyteller? Wasn’t it just Mill Brook’s great fortune to have her snooping around town?

  The lady was up to something, and he’d have to be a damned idiot not to realize what.

  She was after his Paul Revere sterling-silver goblets.

  He supposed they’d make a good story. So why not ask him to see them? Why all the secrecy?

  What was her game?

  He got as far as Old Mill Brook Common. It was tea-time at the Windham House, and Holly’s beat-up van was parked outside. He wasn’t sure confronting her before he’d done his homework on her was the smartest idea. But what the hell. Things had been quiet at the mill today, and Aunt Doe always appreciated having one of her nieces or nephews drop in.

  A HOT BATH after her ordeal at the sawmill had revived Holly. She was confident once more she could handle whatever Julian had a mind to throw at her. The man was a difficult audience. He wasn’t one to “willingly suspend disbelief without a struggle. Probably was the type who sat up nights reading car magazines and home-repair manuals instead of a good, juicy novel. A man with both feet flat on the floor at all times.

  She wondered what he did for fun. Rescue worthless old buildings from the wrecking crane? Keep a valuable family heirloom from its rightful owner? What hilarity.

  Suspicious-natured individual that he was, if he started putting this and that together he could easily come up with a prospective thief of “his” Revere goblets. She didn’t want that. He was territorial enough without giving him good reason to be.

  “Will you just stop thinking about that man,” she growled to herself.

  But she couldn’t. She’d been trying, it seemed, ever since she’d crashed through his ceiling.

  She got out her all-purpose sapphire-blue knit dress, unrolled it, gave it a shake and put it on. She could dress it up, dress it down, add a scarf, add her best gold jewelry, wear it with boots or wear it with flats. Any wrinkles would hang out in minutes. The perfect traveling dress. She decided on a scarf, which she tied at a rather rakish angle, then stuck gold posts in her ears, fluffed up her hair with her fingers, dabbed on some lipstick and a little mascara and looked in the bathroom mirror.

  She stared at her reflection. “You’re looking more and more like a Yankee every minute you’re here.”

  She slipped into her black flats and headed downstairs.

  Dorothy Windham had set up for tea in an elegant alcove overlooking the backyard and bird feeders. An oval Queen Anne table was set with a silver tray of tiny muffins and scones, slices of cheese and pots of jam and whipped butter. There were just two cups and saucers—a relief. Holly’s brain was too unsettled to cope with a crowd. She hoped it would be just her and her hostess.

  Such was not her luck.

  Julian came into the little parlor, a scarred leather jacket over his flannel shirt and corduroys. He was carrying a porcelain teapot. “Madam.” he said in a mock snooty accent, “tea is served.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Just happened by.”

  His favorite line, obviously. She scowled. “What about your aunt?”

  “Called away at the last minute. It seems someone found a couple of stray golden retriever puppies up at the academy. Aunt Doe’s such a soft touch. She’s gone to help get them to the vet.”

  “You’re lying,” she said, seating herself on the Duncan Phyfe sofa.

  “You should know.”

  He filled the two cups with tea and sat on the other end of the sofa. He could have chosen one of the wing chairs, but didn’t. Holly forced herself not to scoot down even farther. She was finished being cocky, she thought. She’d talked herself into believing she could march into Mill Brook, Vermont on her own terms. Pure, unadulterated cockiness. She was a Wingate. She was going to have to keep her eyes open, anticipate the worst, be ready for it—and never, never allow herself to be lured into thinking luck was with her. It seldom was, and it certainly wouldn’t be here.

  Hard work and craftiness. They were what she’d always relied on. Never on luck.

  Taking her cup and saucer in hand, she got herself back under control after the shock of having Julian Stiles turn up again. She prided herself on not being a fidgeter. Grandpa Wingate had never tolerated fidgeting. “You need to sit, sit.” he used to say. “You need to walk, walk. Just don’t fidget. It’s a waste of good energy.”

  Grandpa had never been one to waste anything. His teachings on that subject had helped Holly first to be aware of unconscious movements and expressions, and then to learn to control them. It was an ability that came in handy in her storytelling. To truly captivate an audience, she had to be conscious of every part of her body, not just what came out of her mouth.

  She couldn’t fidget.

  With Julian’s vibrant gaze on her, however, she caught herself shaking an ankle, then biting the insides of her cheeks, then twisting her fingers together.

  Fidgeting.

  And wondering what it would take to captivate him.

  Aggravated, she put a stop to all unnecessary movements and intrusive thoughts. The tea was very hot and soothing. It helped calm her.

  “Do you come by here often for tea?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She wasn’t one to beat around the bush, either. “Then you’re here because you’re keeping an eye on me.”

  He leaned back. ‘‘You could say that.”

  His expression was calculating and observant, the wolf figuring out how he could have both Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother for his dinner. Holly reminded herself Little Red Riding Hood had won in the end. She’d had help from the woodcutter, but Holly was used to depending on herself. And unlike the fairy-tale character, she knew not to trust wolves, no matter how charming.

  And especially when they were part Danvers and part Stiles.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a storyteller?” Julian asked.

  Holly tried to conceal her surprise; a storyteller was part actress. “How did you find out?”

  “My sister, Beth, and half the town, it seems, recognized your name.”

  “Oh.” Sometimes she forgot that people knew her from her work.

  “The consensus is you’re here investigating story possibilities.”

  “Not just on vacation?”

  “I’d say not.” He held his teacup close to his mouth, but wasn’t drinking, just watching her. The delicate porcelain looked incongruous and yet curiously right in his big hand. Holly noticed his calluses, his
clipped, spotlessly clean nails. “There’s a difference, isn’t there, between a story and an outright lie?”

  “Usually.”

  “Don’t you ever give a straight answer?”

  “I don’t necessarily give easy answers, if that’s what you want. Truth is often in the eye of the beholder.”

  “Fair enough. What’s it like being a storyteller?”

  “Like anything else, it has its costs, its rewards, its sacrifices. Some stories come easily, but are hard to tell. With others, it’s vice versa. Then there are those that don’t come easily and aren’t easy to tell, but they’re worth the extra trouble. I guess some are easy all the way around, but not many. There’s a great deal of hard work and frustration involved with establishing a career in storytelling, in just making ends meet.”

  “You travel a lot?’’

  “Between performances and research, I’m on the road more often than not.”

  “Hard life.” he said. “What specifically brings you to Mill Brook?”

  She didn’t trust his tone of voice. What’s he know? The man was thorough, tenacious, self-possessed. Of course, so was she. Whatever he’d guessed, she’d just have to outbrazen him.

  “The Wingates,” she said.

  He sat back, obviously thinking he’d succeeded in forcing her to admit something. “I see.”

  “I was planning a trip to Vermont in wintertime anyway, but I’d hoped to come a little later in the season— around maple-sugaring time.”

  “That’s spring,” he pointed out.

  “All in the eye of the beholder.” She set her tea back on the table and reached for a scone, leaving it unbuttered but adding just a dollop of spiced peach preserves. She could feel Julian’s unrelenting gaze on her. “Anyway, I was sitting on a bench behind Cinderella’s Castle at Disney World, just enjoying the mob scene, when I spotted the wire-service piece on your discovery of the goblets. It sparked my storyteller’s curiosity. So I hopped in my van and headed north.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why not tell me sooner?”

  She shrugged. “I prefer to maintain a low profile when I’m investigating a story possibility. Frankly I had no idea anyone in Mill Brook would have heard of me. I’ve never performed in Vermont.”

  He, too, returned his tea to the table, then leaned over toward her. She could smell his tangy cologne and see the tiny scar at the corner of his left eyebrow. Her fingers tingled at the thought of touching him. This is becoming a nasty business, she thought. She wanted to dismiss Julian Danvers Stiles as an uncomplicated, hateful descendant of the two men that had abused her great-grandfather in the last century. As the unthinking, uncaring contemporary Danvers-Stiles who didn’t give a damn who the Revere goblets really belonged to. She wanted to hang on to all her presuppositions, do what she came to do and leave Mill Brook without a whiff of regret.

  That was becoming an increasingly elusive goal.

  Then he said darkly, “Lady, don’t play games with me.”

  She had to fight a smile. Go ahead and make this easier on me. “Lady,” she replied coolly, “is the name of a cocker spaniel.”

  He sighed, sitting back a moment. His eyes seemed to be searching hers. “I surrender,” he said, and rose abruptly. “For now.”

  “Am I supposed to feel intimidated?”

  “Only if you’re up to no good.”

  It was his parting shot. Remaining seated, Holly watched him stalk out into the hall. As hard as she looked, she couldn’t detect a hint of surrender in his walk. His back, his powerful shoulders, his long legs— they all registered confidence and self-assurance.

  Suddenly she wished she hadn’t done anything so precipitous as rousing Julian Stiles to the chase. But she’d never been one to whimper over what she couldn’t change: self-pity wasn’t her style.

  And, she had to admit, if only to herself, the prospect of having that strong-backed Yankee on her tail did have its points. There was the challenge, of course—she did love a challenge—but there was also the simple fact that she was intrigued by the guy. What made Julian Danvers Stiles tick?

  She wanted to know, she decided, and trying— vainly—to blame such idiocy on her storyteller’s curiosity and not any attraction to him on her part, she poured herself another cup of tea.

  Chapter Four

  That Evening, Julian settled into his comfortable chair near the fire, Pen’s head resting against one foot, and methodically went through his material on the storyteller from Texas. He read every word of her book of tales and the photocopied article. He even took notes. It was a way, he knew, of trying to distance himself, but he had already discovered that maintaining objectivity when Holly Paynter was around was impossible.

  Tea had nearly done him in. Even now, as he stared into the fire, he could see the fit of her dress over her slender body, the swell of her soft breasts. The sapphire knit had matched the blue of her tantalizing eyes. Even covered head to toe in plaster dust she’d been damned difficult to resist. He’d found himself wanting to smile at her, laugh with her. Wanting to touch the corner of her mouth with his thumb...his lips.

  Of course, he told himself, that was an element of her challenge. He wasn’t going to underestimate her. She had been just as aware of the sensual undercurrents between them as he was.

  What kind of stories, he wondered, would she tell in bed?

  With a growl of pure frustration, he took the dogs outside for a while, walking through the snow, just them and the wind for company. It was after midnight, and he was bleary-eyed and stiff from poring over Holly Paynter’s words and profile, thinking about her. The sky was clearing, the clouds pushing off to the east, and the stars and sliver of a moon were glittering in the blackness to the west.

  He found himself wishing he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t always like that. He enjoyed his solitude. But tonight was different. He’d have liked to point out stars with someone—a woman, he thought. They could hold hands, get cold together. Afterward they could go inside and warm up by the fire, making love.

  And he could still see Holly studying him from the opposite end of the couch over tea. Trying to calculate how much he knew. Trying to keep her own attraction to him at bay. She was so damned lively and energetic, so quick-witted, so relentless.

  “God, man, what are you doing to yourself?” he muttered, and called the dogs, heading inside. It was time to get back to work.

  The brisk air had given him a second wind, and he decided to listen to one of her recordings. Her voice filled the small room, enveloping him, instantly pulling him under her spell. He closed his eyes, willingly transported into the world she created for her listeners, seemingly without effort.

  At the end, he realized he hadn’t taken down a single note or done anything except sit there like a damned lump and listen. Annoyed with himself, he rewound the tape and listened again, notebook in hand, and jotted down any names, dates, places, possible clues as to why she had come all the way to Mill Brook, Vermont, after a couple of Paul Revere sterling-silver goblets. Just because they might make a good story? Given her abilities and obvious devotion to her craft, he supposed it was possible. But he didn’t believe it. There had to be another reason—a deeper motive, as they said in storyteller talk.

  He took her book and trudged up to his loft bedroom. He couldn’t remember feeling so tired, and he’d hardly done a lick of physical labor all day. What in hell was wrong with him? He sighed, aggravated and kicked off his boots, falling into bed with his clothes on and staring at the exposed beam-and-wood ceiling. Then he flipped on his bed-stand light, and once more opened Holly Paynter’s book, beginning with the title page. He must have missed something.

  He had.

  Dropping his stockinged feet to the floor, Julian sat up straight. By God, there it was.

  The book was copyrighted in the name of Holly Wingate Paynter.

  Wingate.

  “I’ll be damned.”

 
He glanced at the clock. It was 2:00 a.m. Too late to head into town and roust the blue-eyed Texan out of her cozy bed. He wasn’t worried about disturbing her. She was going to be plenty disturbed when he got hold of her! He wanted some answers. But they’d have to wait, because he wasn’t going to go pounding on his aunt’s door in the middle of the night and get her all worried.

  Maybe Felix Reichman would know something by now. He looked like the night-owl type.

  Julian grabbed the phone and dialed.

  Felix answered on the second ring. Julian apologized for the late call, but Felix assured him it was no problem. “I love to listen to opera on winter nights, especially after midnight.”

  “Is that what I hear warbling in the background?”

  “That’s the last act of Madame Butterfly. Just a moment, I’ll turn it down.”

  The man, Julian thought, was an eccentric.

  Felix was back in a few seconds. “There. What can I do for you?”

  “Well.” Suddenly Julian felt like an idiot. “I know you’ve only just gotten started, but in your research into the goblets, have you come across any indication that Zachariah Wingate might not have stolen them after all?”

  “Nothing specific, no. But I haven’t discovered anything that would confirm that he did steal them. It seems to be a case of his word against that of the headmaster and the chairman of the academy’s board of directors.”

  Edward Danvers and Jonathan Stiles. The two families had intermarried after the scandal, in 1900, when Jonathan’s daughter married Edward’s great-nephew. Zachariah Wingate was long gone by then, to where no one knew—or particularly cared.

  Julian leaned back against his headboard. “I need proof, one way or the other.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out, but I must warn you. It’s been over a hundred years. There may be no way to prove either side.”

  “Fair enough. Stay on the case, Felix. And thanks.”

  As he hung up, Julian could hear Madame Butterfly moving toward its tragic, inevitable conclusion. In twenty years, he wondered, will I, too, be home alone listening to sad operas so late at night?