Fired Up

in his chair, thinking. Jack had given him some serious static about returning the lamp to Arcane, insisting that it remain in his custody in Seattle until an investigation had been conducted into the theft.
    It was a reasonable request. The investigation had begun, but it was probably going to take a while, possibly a couple of weeks or more, to find the Nightshade operative who had infiltrated the museum’s staff, assuming there was an infiltrator. The other possibility was that the para-hypnotist, Victoria Knight, who had drifted through the case like a ghost, had simply walked into the museum, turned a few heads with a couple of well-placed hypnotic suggestions, and walked out with the lamp.
    Just as a woman named Niki Plumer had walked out of Winter Cove Psychiatric hospital after the Oriana case. A few more things went click. He watched lines appear on the multidimensional construct that existed out on the paranormal plane, connecting dots.
    In two or three weeks Jack would no doubt give the L.A. museum a very interesting artifact. It would be safely locked away in the vault. Additional security measures would be put in place.
    But two or three weeks was a long time, certainly long enough for a family of psychically gifted forgers to create a very good copy of the original . . .
    Footsteps sounded on the stairs, interrupting his thoughts. An odd sense of anticipation whispered through him. He had not had any visitors since Grace and Luther left, and he wasn’t expecting anyone. Whoever was coming upstairs was probably bringing the new computer he had ordered online. It struck him that he was in a bad way if he was actually looking forward to a visit from the delivery guy. But the regular carrier was a man. The footsteps were feminine, not masculine.
    A sudden jolt of awareness snapped through him. He checked his watch. It was six o’clock. The Sunshine Café had closed half an hour ago. He had watched Isabella wave to him and walk away toward the inn, her umbrella raised against the steady rain. It couldn’t be her. She had gone home for the night. She had no reason to come here, anyway.
    There was something about the pattern of those footsteps on the stairs, though. He knew them.
    He sat very still, waiting for the knock. It came a few seconds later. He started to call out to her; to tell her to enter. The words got jumbled up in his throat. It dawned on him that a gentleman would open the door.
    Galvanized, he stood and started around the desk. The door opened before he got three steps. Isabella walked into the room, rain dripping from her coat and the folded umbrella. She smiled.
    “I’m here about the position,” she said.
    He finally found his tongue. “What position?”
    “The one that’s open here at Jones & Jones.”
    “I never advertised a job.”
    “No need to put an ad in the papers.” She looked around the cluttered room with great interest. “It’s obvious you need an assistant. You’re in luck. I’ve always wanted to work in a detective agency, and I’ve been looking for something that pays a little better than the Sunshine Café. People in this town are lousy tippers. Except for you.”
    He suddenly knew exactly what the expression deer in the headlights meant.
    “I hadn’t gotten as far as thinking about how much the position will pay,” he said, grasping at straws.
    “Not a problem.” She plopped her umbrella in the old Victorian umbrella stand, the one that had graced the original offices of J&J. “I’ll handle the accounting and financials from now on. Get you organized. No need for you to worry about pesky details. I’m sure you have much more important things to do.”
    “Miss Valdez, you don’t understand. This is not an ordinary investigation agency.”
    She took off her raincoat and hung it on the elaborately wrought cast-iron coatrack, another relic from J&J’s early years in London.
    “I know,” she said simply.
    Shock reverberated through him. “How do you know?”
    “Because you are not an ordinary man.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “It looks like we’ll need to order a second desk. I’ll get on that right away.”

59
    PHYLLIS WAS SEATED IN THE GRAND WICKER CHAIR IN THE sunroom, her feet propped on the matching footstool. She had the morning paper in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looked up when Chloe entered the room. Then she glanced at the floor behind her.
    “Well, well, well,” she said. Quiet satisfaction hummed in the