Divine Evil

it go?”
    “It went. I stopped feeling nauseated when I saw the white reclining plaster lions.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “The white reclining plaster lions. Where are we going?”
    “Downstairs, to the TV.”
    “You don't want to watch, Cam. It's silly.”
    “Of course I want to watch. Tell me about the lions.”
    “These incredibly ugly statues in front of the Ather-tons′.”
    “There are a lot of incredibly ugly statues in front of the Athertons′.”
    “You're telling me. I'm talking about the guard lions, at their ease. I kept imagining them springing off the stoop and devouring all the plastic ducks and wooden sheep, and chasing that poor stable boy up a tree. It was hard to take the whole business too seriously after that. Cam, I really hate to watch myself on television.”
    “Okay.” He set her down. “Then you can get me something to drink while I watch. Did you wear that blouse?”
    “Yes.”
    “Like that?”
    She wrinkled her nose and began doing up buttons. “Of course not. I unbuttoned it completely for TV.”
    “Good thinking. Why were you feeling sick before the lions?”
    “I hate public speaking.”
    “Then why did you do it?”
    “Because I'm a spineless wimp.”
    “You've got a spine. I know, because you go crazy when I nibble on it. Make it a Coke or something, okay? I'm on duty.”
    “Sure, I live to serve.” She slunk off to the kitchen while he fiddled with the TV dial. When she came back, he was settled on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. “Sorry, I didn't make popcorn.”
    “That's okay.” He pulled her down with him.
    “I really don't want to watch.”
    “Then close your eyes. I bet you knocked ′em dead, Slim.”
    “There was polite applause.” She propped her feet beside his. “Mrs. Atherton made me come all the way back here for a sample of a work in progress. Which—shit—I just remembered. I left it there.”
    “What was it?”
    “A wood carving. Arms and shoulders. Yours, by the way.”
    “Oh, God.”
    His very genuine distress made her grin. “I think some of the ladies recognized you, too. There was some definite snickering. But mostly they wanted to know if I ever carved flowers or children. I think the arms and shoulders made them uncomfortable because without a head it made them think of decapitation, when what I was trying to express was male strength and elegance.”
    “Now I'm nauseated.”
    “You haven't even seen it yet.” She hesitated briefly, knowing how upset he would be, then decided to confess. “Cam, someone stole one of my sculptures. The nightmare work.”
    He didn't move, but she sensed him go on alert. “When?”
    “Had to be between last evening and midmorning. I think kids—”
    “Bullshit.”
    “All right, I don't know what I think. All I know is that it's gone.”
    “Did they break in?”
    “No.” She stuck out her chin. “Yell if you want. I forgot to lock the garage.”
    “Damn it, Clare, if I can't trust you to lock a door, I'm going to have to put you in a cell.”
    “I'll lock the damn thing.” It was easier to be annoyed with him than to dwell on having her work taken. On having someone close enough to steal it away. “I'll put in an alarm system if it'll make you happy.”
    “Move in with me.” He cupped a gentle hand on her cheek. “Make me happy.”
    The little hitch in her stomach forced her to look away. “I don't need protective custody.”
    “That's not what I'm talking about, Slim.”
    “I know.” She let out a shaky breath. “Just be a cop on this one, Rafferty Go find my statue.” After a moment she forced herself to look back at him. “Don't push, please. And don't be mad.”
    “I'm not mad. I'm worried.”
    “It's going to be okay.” She snuggled back against him and was sure of it. “Let's take a little time off and watch me make a fool of myself for the viewing public. Oh, God, here it comes. Cam, why don't we—”
    He put a hand over her mouth.
    “A star of the art world comes to the county,” the anchorwoman announced. “Clare Kimball, renowned sculptress …”
    “Ugh. Sculptress!” she managed behind Cam's palm.
    “Shut up.”
    “… today at the home of Emmitsboro's mayor. Miss Kimball is a native of Emmitsboro who made her mark in the Big Apple.”
    “Any art is an expression of emotion.” As Clare's facefilled the screen, she moved Cam's hand from her mouth to her eyes. “Sculpture is often more personal, as the artist is directly linked to