She took his hand, drew him toward her little library, where she could give a short lesson in antiques while they put the room back in order.
***
When the tall, distinguished gentleman with the trim pewter mustache walked into Remember When, Jenny was contemplating what she might fix for dinner. Since it seemed she was hungry all the time, thinking about food was nearly as satisfying as eating it.
After Angie's big sale, the pace had slowed. She'd had a few browsers, and Mrs. Gunt had come on the run to see the lotus jug and snap it up. But for the next hour, she and Angie had been puttering, and the day took on a lazy tone that had her giving Angie an early out.
She looked over at the sound of the door, pleased that a customer would temporarily take her mind off pork chops and mashed potatoes.
"Good afternoon. Can I help you?"
"I think I'll just look around, if that's all right. What an interesting place. Yours?"
"No. The owner's not in today. Browse all you like. If you have any questions or need any help, just let me know."
"I'll do that."
He was wearing a suit nearly the same color as his mustache and the thick, well-cut head of hair. The suit, and subtle stripe of the tie, made her think money. His voice was just clipped enough to have her assuming North.
Her saleswoman's instinct told her he wouldn't mind a little conversation as he wandered. "Are you visiting Angel's Gap?"
"I have business in the area." He smiled, and it deepened the hollows of his cheeks, turned his eyes into a warm blue and made distinguished just a little sexy. "Such a friendly town."
"Yes, it is."
"And so scenic. Good for business, I'd think. I have a shop of my own." He leaned over to study the display of heirloom jewelry. "Estate jewelry," he said, tapping the glass. "The buying and selling. Very nice pieces here. Unexpected, really, outside a metropolitan area."
"Thank you. Laine's very particular about what we sell here."
"Laine?"
"Laine Tavish, the owner."
"I wonder if I haven't heard that name. Possibly even met her at one of the auctions. It's a relatively small pool we swim in."
"You might have. If you're staying in town for a while, you could come back in. She's usually here."
"I'll be sure to do that. Tell me, do you sell loose stones as well?"
"Stones?"
At Jenny's blank look he angled his head. "I often buy stones—gemstones—to replace ones lost from an antique setting, or to duplicate an estate piece for a client."
"Oh. No, we don't. Of course, the jewelry's just a small part of our stock."
"So I see." He turned, and those eyes scanned every inch of the main showroom. "An eclectic mix, styles, periods. Does Ms. Tavish do all the buying?"
"Yes, she does. We're lucky to have someone like Laine in the Gap. The store's developed a good reputation, and we're listed in several guides to the area, and antique and collectible magazines."
He wandered off, walking in the direction of a table set with porcelain figurines and small bronzes. "So, she's not a local then."
"You're not a local in the Gap unless your grandfather was born here. But no, Laine moved here a few years ago."
"Tavish, Tavish . . ." He angled back around, narrowing his eyes, stroking his mustache. "Is she a tall, rather lanky woman with very short blond hair? Wears little black glasses?"
"No, Laine's a redhead."
"Ah well, hardly matters. This is a lovely piece." He picked up an elegant china cat. "Do you ship?"
"We certainly do. I'd be happy to . . . Oh, hi, honey," she said when Vince walked in. "My husband," she said to the customer with a wink. "I don't call all the cops honey."
"I was heading by, thought I'd stop in to see if Laine was here. Check on her."
"No, I don't think she's coming in today after all. Got her hands full. Laine's house was broken into last night," she said.
"God, how awful." The man lifted a hand to the knot of his tie, and the dark blue stone in his pinkie ring winked. "Was anyone hurt?"
"No, she wasn't home. Sorry, Vince, this is Mr. . . . I never did get your name."
"It's Alexander, Miles Alexander." He offered a hand to Vince.
"Vince Burger. Do you know Laine?"
"Actually, we were just trying to determine, that. I sell estate jewelry and wondered if I've met Ms. Tavish along the circuit. I'm sorry to hear about her trouble. I'm very interested in the cat," he said to Jenny, "but I'm going to be late for my afternoon appointment. I'll come back, and hopefully meet Ms. Tavish. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Burger."
"Jenny. Come back anytime," she added as he walked to the door.
When they were alone in the shop, Jenny poked Vince in the belly. "You looked at him like he was a suspect."
"No, I didn't." He gave her a return, and very gentle, poke in her belly. "I'm just curious, that's all, when I see a guy in a slick-looking suit hanging around the shop the day after Laine's house is broken into."
"Yeah, he looked like a rampaging burglar all right."
"Okay, what's a rampaging burglar look like?"
"Not like that."
***
His name was Alex Crew, though he had proper identification in the name of Miles Alexander—and several other aliases. Now he walked briskly along the sloping sidewalk. He had to walk off his anger, his quietly bubbling rage that Laine Tavish hadn't been where he'd wanted to find her.
He despised being foiled, on any level.
Still, the walk was part business. He needed to get the lay of the land on foot, though he had a detailed map of Angel's Gap in his head. He didn't enjoy small towns, or the burgeoning green view of the surrounding mountains. He was a man for the city, its pace, its opportunities.
Its abundance of marks.
For rest and relaxation, he enjoyed the tropics, with their balmy breezes, moon-washed nights and rich tourists.
This place was full of hicks, like the pregnant salesclerk—probably on her fourth kid by now—and her ex-high-school football hero turned town cop husband. Guy looked like the type who sat around on Saturday nights with his buddies and talked about the glory days over a six-pack. Or sat in the woods waiting for a deer to come by so he could shoot it and feel like a hero again.
Crew deplored such men and the women who kept their dinner warm at night.
His father had been such a man.
No imagination, no vision, no palate for the taste of larceny. His old man wouldn't have taken the time of day if it wasn't marked on his time sheet. And what had it gotten him but a worn-out and complaining wife, a hot box of a row house in Camden and an early grave.
To Crew's mind, his father had been a pathetic waste of life.
He'd always wanted more, and had started taking it when he crawled through his first second-story window at twelve. He boosted his first car at fourteen, but his ambitions had always run to bigger, shinier games.
He liked stealing from the rich, but there was nothing of the Robin Hood in him. He liked it simply because the rich had better things, and having them, taking them, made him feel like he was part of the cream.
He killed his first man at twenty-two, and though it had been unplanned—bad clams had sent the mark home early from the ballet—he had no aversion to stealing a life. Particularly if there was a good profit in it.
He was forty-eight years old, had a taste for French wine and Italian suits. He had a home in Westchester from which his wife had fled—taking his young son—just prior to their divorce. He also kept a luxurious apartment off Central Park where he entertained lavishly when the mood struck, a weekend home in the Hamptons and a seaside home on Grand Cayman. All of the deeds were in different names.
He'd done very well for himself by taking what belonged to others and, if he said so himself, had become a kind of connoisseur. He was selective in what he stole now, and had been for more than a decade. Art and gems were his specialties, with an occasional foray into rare stamps.