highly publicized disappearance.
But with Anthony looking like that, no one would have recognized him. He’d better not be up to something. If he was, he’d have much more urgent problems than a stalker.
And she couldn’t get that scar out of her mind. The sight of it was burned indelibly on her brain, and a very unwanted pang of sympathy whispered to the surface.
Stop it, she scolded herself. Don’t let him get to you again. Even in the throes of an unhappy reunion he still had that annoying aversion to explanations, and the live-wire quality was so subdued she could hardly believe he was the same person.
And what was that apology about? It was two years late but she suspected he’d actually meant it.
Something was wrong with him. Something more than a scar.
“You keep at this,” Jim told Hornsby. “Write down anything that strikes you even if it seems coincidental. I’m off to depose Miss Toliver.”
“Depose?” she repeated. “Will I need an attorney?”
“Nah. Is there another private space available? Someplace comfortable. We probably won’t take that long but you never know.”
Emma led him up a discreet staircase tucked in one corner of her store office. They emerged into what used to be a guest room but was now her design office. Passing through it, they entered a hallway and finally convened in her living room.
“Colorful place,” Jim said. “Jewel tones. No surprise there, I guess.”
Emma shrugged. “I love shiny things.”
He sat in a Queen Anne armchair, spreading a file open in his lap. He scanned a few pages and Emma stole the opportunity to examine him more closely. Not what she might have expected an agent to look like. He was way too young, for one thing, and handsome. Not quite in Anthony’s league, but handsome.
“All right,” he said, catching her staring.
He raised his eyebrows and she crossed her arms over her chest. If he planned to grill her she should at least be allowed to stare.
He began again. “I’ll just index the info we already have. If we need to make corrections, go ahead and stop me. Emma Rae Toliver. Age, twenty-six. Five foot ten and I’ll spare you the weight estimate. Blond hair, green eyes. Owner, Toliver’s Treasures. Beautiful Things, too. Started the design business three years ago. No siblings. Mother, Meredith Sullivan-Toliver, deceased—let’s see. Twenty-two years ago. Aneurysm?”
Emma nodded.
Jim continued, “Father, Marshall Toliver, no middle initial. Remarried one, two, three times. Deceased four years ago. Passed in his sleep. Cardiac arrest at age fifty.”
She nodded again and Jim scratched his cheek before saying, “Says here the final Mrs. Toliver, Vivian, retained the family residence upon his death. How’s your relationship with her?”
“Fine. We don’t see each other much but we’re very close.”
“What about the other two wives?”
“We talk once in a while, exchange Christmas cards. That’s about it.”
“It doesn’t say if there were any children,” Jim stated.
“There weren’t any.”
“Why not?”
Emma fought a rising tide of irritation and answered, “My father didn’t want more children.”
“Is Vivian remarried?”
“Excuse me.” Emma stopped him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s just a question. I might ask a lot of seemingly irrelevant things, but please answer anyway.”
“Why? Trying to catch me in a lie or something?”
The agent gave her a tolerant look. “Can I do my job without the hostility, please? I understand you’re less than thrilled to be involved in all this, but the sooner you cooperate, the sooner it’s over.”
Emma sat back in the chair, unrepentant but answering, “Yes. Vivian is remarried. Twin boys, obviously quite young. I baby-sit for them occasionally but I don’t know her husband very well.”
“Better,” Jim said. “Toliver’s Treasures. Opened 1876. Hasn’t changed much. China, silver, art and books still on the main floor, jewelry on the second floor balcony. Famous for its loyal clientele and architectural features like original oak paneling and staircase. Very beautiful, by the way. I was impressed.”
“Thank you.” Emma said. “Now will you humor me by answering a technical question?”
“Maybe.”
“If you didn’t know I was getting e-mails, why do you know so much about me?”
Jim gave her a long look. “Shouldn’t be a surprise that you were a suspect until this morning. Never our chief suspect. You don’t fit the profile. Too much to lose.”
Emma absorbed that as Jim went on. “Next, the security system. Major upgrade when you expanded the workroom for the design business. Many a service call since then. What’s the problem?”
“If the roof component’s set to full sensitivity, it goes off all the time. Thunder, planes, anything can trigger it.”
“Risky. I’ll have Hornsby take a look. See? Something positive. You’ll get your security system fixed for free.”
“Be still my heart,” Emma muttered. The security system worked just fine the way it was.
Jim watched her down the length of his nose. “Sarcastic, aren’t you?”
“Not usually. It’s been quite a morning.”
“Well, we’ll try to keep this as painless as possible. And I should bring you up-to-date quickly….”
He hesitated at the sound of footsteps in the hall.
“That would be Brady,” Emma explained, just before Brady hollered.
“Emma? You up here?”
She said, “He’s my right hand, so I’d appreciate it if he’s allowed to hear whatever you have to say.”
“Saves time.” Jim shrugged.
Emma got up to meet Brady in the doorway. Seeing Jim, he asked, “What’s going on? Who’s that? And who’s the guy in your office?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. Brady, this is Jim DeBerg, FBI.”
“That was fast,” Brady said, crossing to shake Jim’s hand. Emma watched them size each other up. Jim calmly scanned Brady’s dark features as Brady disguised his wary expression.
As the department manager headed for the couch,
