Grand Passion

she had gone through four years earlier. At least the gossip would focus on her sex life, she thought ruefully, not death and destruction.
    But then there would be all those questions about the obsessed critic who was pestering her. Patty Loftins at the beauty shop would probably read The Mirror and speculate to her customers on what the stalker would do next. The pimply-faced kid who worked at the drugstore would watch to see if she bought any birth control supplies the next time she shopped for shampoo. Chuck, the gas station attendant, would wonder if she practiced any of the techniques in The Mirror when she went out on a date. He'd probably ask her out the next time she stopped in to fill her tank. Cleo winced at the thought.
    “Maybe it wouldn't hurt to leave town for a day or two,” Cleo said.
    “We'll go to Seattle for a couple of days,” Max said, as if everything was settled.
    “Seattle?” She slanted him a wary glance.
    Max achieved a remarkably earnest expression. “It will give you a real change of scene. O'Reilly will keep an eye on the family for you.”
    “No problem,” O'Reilly said cheerfully. “As long as your kitchen keeps pumping out chocolate chip cookies, I'll be happy to hang around forever.”
    Max glanced casually at his watch. “We can leave in an hour.”
    Cleo scowled at him. She knew perfectly well what he was doing. The tendrils of his willpower were forming an invisible net around her, dragging her slowly but inevitably in the direction he wanted her to go. Max was a difficult man to resist when he put his mind to getting what he wanted. In fact, according to Kimberly, he was unstoppable.
    “Well…,” Cleo said hesitantly.
    “Let's get you packed.” Max gripped his cane and levered himself to his feet. He looked at O'Reilly. “You've got my number in Seattle. Call me if you learn anything.”
    “Right.” O'Reilly stuffed his notebook into his pocket and rose from the wicker chair. “I'll start talking to the staff here at the inn this afternoon. We'll see where it goes from there.”
    “Hold it a minute.” Cleo held up a hand. “I think we'd better discuss your fee before we go any farther, O'Reilly.”
    “Fee?” O'Reilly looked as though he were unfamiliar with the concept.
    “Yes, fee.” Cleo frowned. “I hired a private investigator once. The man spent months on the project. He sent me a bill for nearly fifteen thousand dollars and never turned up a single useful piece of information. I don't want a repeat of that experience.”
    Max and O'Reilly stared at her as if she'd just announced that she was from Saturn. Max recovered first.
    “Why in hell did you hire a private investigator?” he demanded.
    Cleo watched the water froth in the fountain. “I wanted someone besides the police to look into the deaths of my parents.”
    “You told me the cops said it was a case of murder-suicide,” Max said very quietly. “Your father killed your mother and turned the gun on himself.”
    Cleo continued to stare at the fountain. She was intensely aware of O'Reilly's silent, questioning gaze. “I also told you that I've had a hard time accepting that conclusion. Last summer I decided to hire someone to look through the old records of the case and see if there was any reason to think something had been mishandled or overlooked.”
    “Mind telling me who you hired?” O'Reilly asked in a neutral tone. “Professional curiosity. I might know him.”
    “His name was Harold Eberson. He had an office in Seattle.”
    “Yeah.” O'Reilly nodded. “I've heard of him. Did he turn up anything for you?”
    Cleo put her hands between her knees and pressed them together. “No. He strung me along for a couple of months. He told me he had found a few odd things about the case that he was checking out. But it was all a scam.”
    “Scam?” O'Reilly repeated.
    Cleo nodded, embarrassed at the memory of her own gullibility. “I kept paying his bills until one day they just stopped coming. I called his office to ask what was happening. I got a recording saying the number was no longer in service.”
    O'Reilly glanced at Max and then looked back at Cleo. “Eberson died in a car accident in October. The reason you never heard any more from him was that no one took over his business. He worked alone. When he died, the business died, too.”
    “Was he a con man?” Cleo asked bitterly. “How badly did I get taken?”
    “Eberson was a small-time operator.” O'Reilly shrugged.