attracted to her, she’d be the first to know.
Wouldn’t she?
UNLOCKING AND OPENING the door, Callie stepped inside the rambling beach house she’d inherited from her aunt Louise. Late afternoon sunshine poured through the windows, adding a golden glow to the cream-colored walls, honeyed pine furniture and vivid colors of the upholstered pieces. Pickering got up lazily from his spot in front of the back door and came to greet her.
“Hello, boy. Did you miss me?”
He licked her hand in answer.
Callie slipped out of her shoes and left them at the door, loving the feel of the polished wood against her bare feet as she padded to the kitchen to drop off the white deli bags that held tonight’s dinner. Finger foods that she and Max could eat around the pool as the sun settled to a ball of fire and dropped into the Pacific.
Taking a minute, Callie rummaged through the day’s mail, which she’d picked up on her way in. A few advertising circulars, a couple of catalogs, and an engraved invitation to a wedding reception. Which reminded her of another engagement. The Cravens’ annual garden party was Saturday afternoon. She’d have to remember to call her regrets tomorrow.
Though the party would be nice—social affairs in Marjorie Craven’s beautiful English garden always were—Callie wanted to drive up to the center on Saturday and have a talk with Gail. Keeping the mother of twins healthy took precedence over tea and scones.
Callie’s thoughts drifted back to Max as she chose an assortment of wine and arranged the food on serving plates. The last time he’d been to this house had been a rainy night eight years ago, just three weeks after she and Tony had moved in. Looking back, she’d never been sure why Max had stopped by that night. He’d never done it before or since.
The room grew warm as the memories rushed in. Okay, if she kept this up, she was likely to hurl herself into Max’s arms again and he’d run off for another eight years.
It was only six-forty. If she hurried, she’d have time for a quick swim before he arrived. That should cool her off.
She slipped into a black bathing suit and was about to dive into the pool when her cell phone rang. The caller ID said Mary Hancock. The swim could wait a few more minutes.
“Hi, Mary.”
“I was visiting a friend in San Diego today, and I just heard about Bernie,” Mary said, her voice hoarse and broken. “The newscaster said he’d been murdered.”
“I’m sorry, Mary. I had no idea you didn’t know or I would have called you earlier.”
“They’re saying the Avenger killed him.”
“That’s speculation.”
“Not according to the news. The Avenger made a mistake. Bernie wasn’t involved in drugs. That was just a story concocted by his enemies. He explained it all to me.”
“I know it’s hard to believe something bad about friends, especially…”
“We were more than friends.”
Callie’s spirits sank. “How much more?”
“He’d asked me to marry him. I was thinking about saying yes.”
Marriage. That did come as a surprise, and not only because of the age difference. “How long have you known him?”
“Only about three months, but he was so thoughtful. And we had fun together.”
“You certainly seemed to.”
“Bernie’s collapse at my party may not have been an accident, Callie. Whoever shot him yesterday may have tried to kill him at my party.”
“I suppose that’s possible.” No reason to lie about that.
“I may have invited this Avenger person into my home.”
“You didn’t do it knowingly.”
“No, but it makes me sick to think he could be one of us. I plan to find out for sure.”
“I don’t think you should try to handle this yourself, Mary. Just cooperate with the police.”
“I’ll cooperate, all right. I don’t want Bernie’s killer going free.”
By the time she got off the phone with Mary, Callie really needed a swim. She dove in and tried to drive the images of murder from her mind with vigorous breast strokes. Instead, the troublesome thoughts merged and mingled with the old memories. Murder, mayhem and Max—a sure recipe for disaster.
The doorbell rang as she pulled herself from the pool. Her guest had arrived.
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