From the Heart

oppressively so. The brick was old, mellowed by sun and sea air. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys on the hipped roof. The gray shutters weren’t just decorative, he noted, but could be used for practical purposes if a storm rose up off the Sound. He smelled the chrysanthemums before he saw them.
    The blossoms were huge, growing near the base of the house. They were rust, gold, and copper, complimenting the violent red of bushes. It charmed him, as did the lazy odor of woodsmoke. This wasn’t indolence but peace. He’d had too little of that. Shaking off the mood, Slade walked up the steps to the front door. He lifted a fist and knocked, hard. He hated doorbells.
    In less than a minute the door opened. He had to look down, quite a distance down, to see a tiny, middle-aged woman with a pleasantly ugly face and gray-streaked hair. Hecaught a whiff of a pine-scented cleaner that reminded him of his mother’s kitchen.
    “May I help you?” The accent was broad New England.
    “I’m James Sladerman. Miss Winslow’s expecting me.”
    The woman scrutinized him with cautious black eyes. “You’d be the writer,” she stated, obviously not overly impressed. Stepping back, she allowed him to enter.
    As the door closed behind him, Slade glanced around the hall. The floor was uncarpeted, a gleaming blond oak that showed some wear under the careful polishing. A few paintings hung on the ivory-toned wallpaper. A pale green glass bowl sat on a high round table and overflowed with fall flowers. There were no overt displays of wealth, but wealth was there. He’d seen a print of the painting to his right in an art book. The blue scarf that hung negligently over the railing of the steps was silk.
    Slade started to turn back to the housekeeper when a clatter at the top of the steps distracted him.
    She came barrelling down the curved staircase in a flurry of swirling blond hair and flying skirts. The hammer of heels on wood disrupted the quiet of the house. Slade had a quick impression of speed, motion, and energy.
    “Betsy, you make David stay in bed until that fever’s broken. Don’t you dare let him get up. Damn, damn, damn, I’m going to be late! Where are my keys?”
    Three inches away from Slade, she came to a screeching halt, almost overbalancing. Automatically he reached for her arm to steady her. Breathless, she brought her eyes from his shirt front to stare at him.
    It was an exquisite face—fair skinned, oval, delicate, with just a hint of cheekbone that added a rather primitive strength. Indian? Viking? he wondered. Celtic? Her eyes were large, the color of aged whiskey, set below brows that were lowered in curiosity. The faintest line appeared between them. A stubborn line, Slade reflected. His sister had one. She was small, he noted. The top of her head barely skimmed his shoulder. Her scent was reminiscent of fall—something musky—blossoms and smoke. The arm beneath his hand was slender under a thin wool blazer. He felt the stir inside him—man for woman—and hastily dropped his hand.
    “This is Mr. Sladerman,” Betsy announced. “That writer.”
    “Oh yes.” The smile cleared away the faint line between her brows. “Uncle Charlie told me you were coming.”
    It took Slade a moment to connect Uncle Charlie with Dodson. Not knowing if he was smothering an oath or a laugh, he accepted her extended hand. “Charlie told me you could use some help, Miss Winslow.”
    “Help.” She rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. “Yes, you could call it that. The library . . . . Look, I’m sorry to rush off the minute you get here, but my assistant’s ill and my buyer’s in France.” Tilting her wrist, she grimaced at her watch. “I have a client coming to the shop ten minutes ago.”
    “Don’t worry about it.” If this frazzled lady can run a business, I’ll volunteer to walk a beat, he decided, but gave her an easy smile. “It’ll give me a chance to get settled in.”
    “Fine. I’ll see you at dinner then.” Glancing around, she muttered again about keys.
    “In your hand,” Slade told her.
    “Stupid.” With a sigh, Jessica uncurled her fingers and stared at the keys in her palm. “The more I have to rush, the worse it gets.” Lifting amused eyes to his, she brushed her hair from her shoulders. “Please don’t bother with the library today. It may shock you so much that you’ll run away before I can smooth things over. Betsy . . .” As she dashed for the door Jessica