Sacred Sins

She'd left it open, he noted, and the temperature had yet to climb to sixty. He took out his carpenter's pencil to mark the wood. He knew that face. It was both a matter of business and personality that he never forgot one. It would come to him.
    Inside, Grace pulled on a pair of sweats. Her hair was still damp from the shower, but she wasn't in the mood to fuss with blow dryers and styling brushes. There was coffee to be drunk, a paper to be read, and a murder to be solved. By her calculations, she could put Maxwell to work and have enough carved out to be satisfied before Kathleen returned from Our Lady of Hope.

    Downstairs, she put on the coffee, then checked out the contents of the refrigerator. The best bet was the spaghetti left over from the night before. Grace bypassed eggs and pulled out the neat plastic container. It took her a minute to realize that her sister's kitchen wasn't civilized enough to have a microwave. Taking this in stride, she tossed the top into the sink and dug in. She'd eat it cold. Chewing, she spotted the note on the kitchen table. Kathleen always left notes.
    Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen. Grace smiled and forked more cold spaghetti into her mouth. Don't worry about dinner, I'll pick up a couple of steaks. And that, she thought, was Kathleen's polite way of telling her not to mess up the kitchen. Parent conference this afternoon. I'll be home by five-thirty. Don't use the phone in my office.
    Grace wrinkled her nose as she stuffed the note into her pocket. It would take time, and some pressure, but she was determined to learn more of her sister's moonlighting adventures. And there was the matter of finding out the name of her sister's lawyer. Kathleen's objections and pride aside, Grace wanted to speak to him personally. If she did so carefully enough, her sister's ego wouldn't be bruised. In any case, sometimes you had to overlook a couple of bruises and shoot for the goal. Until she had Kevin back, Kathleen would never be able to put her life in order. That scum Breezewood had no right using Kevin as a weapon against Kathleen.
    He'd always been an operator, she thought. Jonathan Breezewood the third was a cold and calculating manipulator who used family position and monied politics to get his way. But not this time. It might take some maneuvering, but Grace would find a way to set things right.
    She turned the heat off under the coffeepot just as someone knocked on the front door.
    Her trunk, she decided, and snatched up the carton of spaghetti as she started down the hall. An extra ten bucks should convince the delivery man to haul it upstairs. She had a persuasive smile ready as she opened the door.

    “G. B. McCabe, right?” Ed stood on the stoop with a hardback copy of Murder in Style . He'd nearly sawed a finger off when he'd put the name together with the face.
    “That's right.” She glanced at the picture on the back cover. Her hair had been styled and crimped, and the photographer had used stark black and white to make her look mysterious. “You've got a good eye. I barely recognize myself from that picture.”
    Now that he was here, he hadn't the least idea what to do with himself. This kind of thing always happened, he knew, whenever he acted on impulse. Especially with a woman. “I like your stuff. I guess I've read most of it.”
    “Only most of it?” Grace stuck the fork back in the spaghetti as she smiled at him. “Don't you know that writers have huge and fragile egos? You're supposed to say you've read every word I've ever written and adored them all.”
    He relaxed a little because her smile demanded he do so. “How about you tell a hell of a story?”
    “That'll do.”
    “When I realized who you were, I guess I wanted to come over and make sure I was right.”
    “Well, you win the prize. Come on in.”
    “Thanks.” He shifted the book to his other hand and felt like an idiot. “But I don't want to bother you.”
    Grace gave him a long, solemn look. He was even more impressive up close than he'd been from the window. And his eyes were blue, a dark, interesting blue. “You mean you don't want me to sign that?”
    “Well, yes, but—”
    “Come in then.” She took his arm and pulled him inside. “The coffee's hot.”
    “I don't drink it.”
    “Don't drink coffee? How do you stay alive?” Then she smiled and gestured with her fork. “Come on back anyway, there's probably something you can drink. So you like mysteries?”

    He liked