Blue Dahlia

windows.
    All in that dreamy and gracious southern style that reminded her she was a Yankee fish out of water.
    Things moved slower down here, she reminded herself. She would have to remember that this was a different pace from the one she was used to, and a different culture.
    The fireplace was probably an Adams, she decided. That lamp was certainly an original Tiffany. Would they call those drapes portieres down here, or was that too Scarlett O’Hara? Were the lace panels under the drapes heirlooms ?
    God, had she ever been more out of her element? What was a middle-class widow from Michigan doing in all this southern splendor?
    She steadied herself, fixed a neutral expression on her face, when she heard footsteps coming down the hall.
    “Brought coffee.” It wasn’t Rosalind, but the cheerful man who’d answered the door and escorted Stella to the parlor.
    He was about thirty, she judged, average height, very slim. He wore his glossy brown hair waved around a movie-poster face set off by sparkling blue eyes. Though he wore black, Stella found nothing butlerlike about it. Much too artsy, too stylish. He’d said his name was David.
    He set the tray with its china pot and cups, the little linen napkins, the sugar and cream, and the tiny vase with its clutch of violets on the coffee table.
    “Roz got a bit hung up, but she’ll be right along, so you just relax and enjoy your coffee. You comfortable in here?”
    “Yes, very.”
    “Anything else I can get you while you’re waiting on her?”
    “No. Thanks.”
    “You just settle on in, then,” he ordered, and poured coffee into a cup. “Nothing like a fire in January, is there? Makes you forget that a few months ago it was hot enough to melt the skin off your bones. What do you take in your coffee, honey?”
    She wasn’t used to being called “honey” by strange men who served her coffee in magnificent parlors. Especially since she suspected he was a few years her junior.
    “Just a little cream.” She had to order herself not to stare at his face—it was, well, delicious, with that full mouth, those sapphire eyes, the strong cheekbones, the sexy little dent in the chin. “Have you worked for Ms. Harper long?”
    “Forever.” He smiled charmingly and handed her the coffee. “Or it seems like it, in the best of all possible ways. Give her a straight answer to a straight question, and don’t take any bullshit.” His grin widened. “She hates it when people kowtow. You know, honey, I love your hair.”
    “Oh.” Automatically, she lifted a hand to it. “Thanks.”
    “Titian knew what he was doing when he painted that color. Good luck with Roz,” he said as he started out. “Great shoes, by the way.”
    She sighed into her coffee. He’d noticed her hair and her shoes, complimented her on both. Gay. Too bad for her side.
    It was good coffee, and David was right. It was nice having a fire in January. Outside, the air was moist and raw, with a broody sky overhead. A woman could get used to a winter hour by the fire drinking good coffee out of—what was it? Meissen, Wedgwood? Curious, she held the cup up to read the maker’s mark.
    “It’s Staffordshire, brought over by one of the Harper brides from England in the mid-nineteenth century.”
    No point in cursing herself, Stella thought. No point in cringing about the fact that her redhead’s complexion would be flushed with embarrassment. She simply lowered the cup and looked Rosalind Harper straight in the eye.
    “It’s beautiful.”
    “I’ve always thought so.” She came in, plopped down in the chair beside Stella’s, and poured herself a cup.
    One of them, Stella realized, had miscalculated the dress code for the interview.
    Rosalind had dressed her tall, willowy form in a baggy olive sweater and mud-colored work pants that were frayed at the cuffs. She was shoeless, with a pair of thick brown socks covering long, narrow feet. Which accounted, Stella supposed, for her silent entry into the room.
    Her hair was short, straight, and black.
    Though to date all their communications had been via phone, fax, or e-mail, Stella had Googled her. She’d wanted background on her potential employer—and a look at the woman.
    Newspaper and magazine clippings had been plentiful. She’d studied Rosalind as a child, through her youth. She’d marveled over the file photos of the stunning and delicate bride of eighteen and sympathized with the pale, stoic-looking widow of twenty-five.
    There had