he answered. “I plan to walk you to your car. It’s late and I don’t want you to get mugged.”
Holly felt warm. Protected. Though she cherished her independence, it was nice to have someone looking out for her that way. “Thank you,” she said.
Her car was in a parking tower in the next block, isolated and in shadow. It probably wasn’t safe, walking there alone, but she hadn’t thought of that in her hurry to get to the store and conduct her class. She was glad David was with her.
He waited beside her sporty blue Toyota until she had found her keys, unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. Toby’s model airplane, a miniature Cessna flown by remote control, was on the seat, and she moved it in order to set down her purse and the small notebook she always carried.
“Is that yours?” David asked with interest, his eyes on the expensive toy.
“Actually—” Holly grinned “—it belongs to my nephew, though I do admit to flying it now and then up at Manito Park.”
Again there was an unsettling alertness in David, as though he was cataloging the information for future reference. But why would he do such a thing?
“I have a plane like that,” he said, and Holly ascribed her instant impression that he was lying to weariness and an overactive imagination.
David Goddard was a kind, attractive man, not a reporter or an FBI agent. She was going to have to stop letting her fancy take over at every turn or she would become paranoid. She said goodbye, started the car and backed out of her parking space.
There was a light snow falling and Holly drove up the steep South Hill at a cautious pace, her mind staying behind with David Goddard.
He could be a reporter, she thought distractedly as she navigated the slick, slushy streets. He could even be an FBI agent hoping to find Craig.
Holly laughed at herself and shook her head. “You’d better take up writing fiction, Llewellyn,” she said aloud. “You’ve got the imagination for it.”
But even as she pulled the car to a stop in her own driveway, even as she turned off the engine and gathered up her purse, her notebook and Toby’s airplane from the seat, she couldn’t shake the conviction that David Goddard was something more than a second-time law student who liked to cook.
Inside the house, Holly found her housekeeper and favorite baby-sitter working happily in front of the living room fireplace. Madge Elkins was a middle-aged woman, still trim and attractive, and her consuming passion was entering contests.
Now, she was busily writing her name and address on one plain white 3-by-5-inch piece of paper after another.
“What are you going to win this time, Madge?” Holly asked pleasantly, putting down the things she carried and getting out of her snow-dampened coat.
“A computer system,” Madge replied, tucking a paper into an envelope and sealing it with a flourish. “Printer, software, monitor, the whole shebang.”
Another person might have laughed, but Holly had known Madge for several years and in that time had seen her win more than one impressive prize in contests. A car, for instance, and a mink coat. “Is Toby sleeping?”
“Like the proverbial log,” Madge answered, gathering a stack of envelopes, all addressed and stamped, into a stack. “You had a couple of phone calls—one from Skyler and one from a man who wouldn’t leave his name.”
Again Holly felt uneasy. “What did he say? The man who wouldn’t give you his name, I mean?”
Madge shrugged, fussing with her contest paraphernalia. “Just that he’d call back. Skyler wants you to call him.”
Holly was suddenly testy. If Skyler wanted to talk to her, he could darned well call back. She saw Madge to the door and then headed off toward the kitchen, planning to take one of her experiments out of the freezer and zap it in the microwave. She’d been running late before cooking class and hadn’t had a chance to eat dinner.
Just as the bell on the microwave chimed, so did the telephone. Muttering, Holly dived for the receiver, afraid that the ringing of the upstairs extension would awaken Toby.
“Hello?” she demanded impatiently.
The voice on the other end of the line was haunted, shaky. “Sis?”
Holly’s knees gave out and she sank into the chair at the desk. “Craig! Where are you? What—”
Her brother laughed nervously and the sound was broken and humorless, painful to hear. “Never mind where I am. You know I can’t tell you that. Your phone might be bugged or something.”
“Craig, don’t be paranoid. Where are you?”
“Let’s just say that this call isn’t long-distance from Kabul. How’s Toby?”
Holly deliberately calmed herself, measuring her tones. She was desperate not to panic Craig and cause him to hang up. “Toby is fine, Craig. How about you?”
“I’m all right. A little tired. More than a little broke.”
Holly closed her eyes. So that was the reason for his call. Money. Why was she always surprised by that? “And you need a few bucks.”
“You can spare it, can’t you?” Craig sounded petulant, far younger than his thirty-six years. “You’re a rich lady, sis. Didn’t I see you on Ellen a few months ago?”
“Craig, come home. Please?”
He made a bitter, contemptuous sound. “And do what? Turn myself in, Holly? Give me a break—I’ll be in prison for the rest of my life!”
“Maybe not. Craig, you’re not well. You need help. And I promise that I’ll stand by you.”
“If you want to stand by me, little sister, just send a cashier’s check to the usual place. And do it tomorrow if you don’t want me to lose weight.”
“Craig, listen to me—”
“Just send the money,” he barked, and then the line went dead. Holly sat for five minutes, letting her ka-bob get cold in the microwave, holding the telephone receiver in her hand and just staring into space.
Finally she hung up, forced herself out of the chair, and took the ka-bob from the microwave. Although she ate, she tasted nothing at all. The ka-bobs she had taken such pride in making might as well have been filled with sawdust.
David Goddard locked the two Webkinz into the trunk of his rented car, shaking his head as he remembered the way he’d had to scramble for them. He sighed, then grinned. The kids would like them, so it had been worth a few scars.
On his way back to the parking garage’s lonely elevator, he passed the place where Holly’s Toyota had been. Instantly, his mind and all his senses brimmed with the scent and image of her.
He reached the elevator and punched the button with an annoyed motion of his right hand. Walt Zigman was full of sheep-dip if he thought that woman was capable of espionage. Holly Llewellyn was harried and she was haunted,
