From the Heart

uneasy truce. Perhaps it lasted that long because Jessica made a point of staying out of Slade’s way. He in turn stayed out of hers while patiently noting her routine—which, he discovered, was no routine at all. She simply never stopped. She didn’t take time for the social rigamarole he had expected—luncheons, clubs, committees—but worked, apparently inexhaustibly. Most of her time was spent at the shop. At the rate he was going, he knew he would find out little in the house. His next move was the House of Winslow. It followed that he needed to make peace with Jessica to get there.
    From his bedroom window, he watched her drive away. It was barely eight o’clock, a full hour before she normally left. Slade swore in frustration. How did the commissioner expect him to watch her—or protect her if that’s what she needed—if she was always in one place while he was in another? It was time to improvise an excuse to pay her a visit at her place of business.
    Grabbing a jacket on the way, Slade headed for the stairs. He could always claim that he wanted to do a bit of research on antique furniture for his novel. That would buy him a few hours, as well as give him a reason to poke around. Before he’d rounded the last curve in the steps he heard Betsy’s voice.
    “ . . . nothing but trouble.”
    “Don’t fuss.”
    Slade stopped, waiting as the footsteps came his way. There was a tall, gangly man walking down the hall. His mop of dark blond hair was long and straight, cut rather haphazardly just below the collar of a chambray workshirt. He wore jeans and wire-rim glasses and stood hunched over a bit—either from habit or fatigue. Because he was staring down at his sneakers, he didn’t see Slade. His face was pale and the eyes behind the lenses were shadowed. David Ryce, Slade concluded, and kept silent.
    “I told you she said you weren’t to come in today.” Betsy bustled after him, a feather duster gripped in her hand.
    “I’m fine. If I lie around in bed another day, I’m going to mold.” He coughed violently.
    “Fine, fine indeed.” Betsy clucked her tongue, swinging the duster at his back.
    “Mom, lay off.” Exasperated, David started to turn back to her when he spotted Slade. He frowned, choking back another cough. “Oh, you must be the writer.”
    “That’s right.” Slade came down the last two steps. Just a boy, he thought, taking David’s measure quickly. Who hasn’t completely thrown off the youthful defiance.
    “Jessie and I figured you’d be a short, stooped little guy with glasses. I don’t know why.” He grinned, but Slade noted that he placed a hand on the newel post for support. “Getting anywhere with the library?”
    “Slowly.”
    “Better you than me,” David murmured, wishing for a chair. “Has Jessica come down yet?”
    “She’s already gone,” Slade told him.
    “There, you see.” Betsy folded her arms over her chest. “And if you go in, she’ll just send you right back home. Thunder at you too.”
    Because his legs threatened to buckle, David gripped the newel post harder. “She’s going to need help with the new shipment. Another’s due in today.”
    “Lotta good you’d do,” Betsy began. Catching the look in David’s eye, Slade cut in.
    “I was thinking about running down there myself. I’d like to see the place, maybe do a little research. I could give hera hand.” He watched David struggle, caught between his desire to go to the shop and his need to lie down.
    “She’ll try to move everything herself,” he muttered.
    “That’s the truth,” Betsy agreed, apparently switching her annoyance from her son to her employer. “Nothing stops that one.”
    “It’s my job to move in the new stock, check it off. I don’t—”
    “Moving furniture around shouldn’t require any great knowledge of antiques,” Slade put in casually. Knowing it was too perfect to let pass, he slipped into his jacket. “And since I was heading that way anyway . . .”
    “There, it’s settled,” Betsy announced. She had her son by the elbow before he could protest. “Mr. Sladerman will go look out for Miss Jessica. You go back to bed.”
    “I’m not going back to bed. A chair, all I want’s a chair.” He sent Slade a weak smile. “Hey, thanks. Tell Jessie I’m coming back on Monday. The paperwork on the new stock can wait over the weekend. Tell her to humor the invalid and leave it for me.”
    Slade nodded slowly. “Sure, I’ll tell her.”