The Art of Deception

up?”
    “Yes.” Because he stood on the bottom landing blocking her way, he stood aside to let her pass.
    “You take this up to her then, and see she drinks it.” Tulip shoved a tall glass of milky white liquid into his hand. “All,” she added tersely before she clomped back toward the kitchen.
    Where did they get their servants? Adam wondered, frowning down at the glass in his hands. And why, for the love of God, had he let himself be ordered around by one? When in Rome, he supposed, and started up the steps again.
    The she obviously meant Kirby. Adam sniffed doubtfully at the glass as he knocked on her door.
    “You can bring it in,” she called out, “but I won’t drink it. Threaten all you like.”
    All right, he decided, and pushed her door open. The bedroom was empty, but he could smell her.
    “Do your worst,” she invited. “You can’t intimidate me with stories of intestinal disorders and vitamin deficiencies. I’m healthy as a horse.”
    The warm, sultry scent flowed over him. Glass in hand, he walked through and into the bathroom where the steam rose up, fragrant and misty as a rain forest. With her hair pinned on top of her head, Kirby lounged in a huge sunken tub. Overhead, hanging plants dripped down, green and moist. White frothy bubbles floated in heaps on the surface of the water.
    “So she sent you, did she?” Unconcerned, Kirby rubbed a loofah sponge over one shoulder. The bubbles, she concluded, covered her with more modesty than most women at the party that night would claim. “Well, come in then, and stop scowling at me. I won’t ask you to scrub my back.”
    He thought of Cleopatra, floating on her barge. Just how many men other than Caesar and Antony had she driven mad? He glanced at the long mirrored wall behind the sink. It was fogged with the steam that rose in visible columns from her bath. “Got the water hot enough?”
    “Do you know what that is?” she demanded, and plucked her soap from the dish. The cake was a pale, pale pink and left a creamy lather on her skin. “It’s a filthy-tasting mixture Tulip tries to force on me periodically. It has raw eggs in it and other vile things.” Making a face she lifted one surprisingly long leg out of the bath and soaped it. “Tell me the truth, Adam, would you voluntarily drink raw eggs?”
    He watched her run soap and fingertips down her calf. “I can’t say I would.”
    “Well, then.” Satisfied, she switched legs. “Down the drain with it.”
    “She told me to see that you drank it. All,” he added, beginning to enjoy himself.
    Her lower lip moved forward a bit as she considered. “Puts you in an awkward position, doesn’t it?”

    “A position in any case.”
    “Tell you what, I’ll have a sip. Then when she asks if I drank it I can say I did. I’m trying to cut down on my lying.”
    Adam handed her the glass, watching as she sipped and grimaced. “I’m not sure you’re being truthful this way.”
    “I said cutting down, not eliminating. Into the sink,” she added. “Unless you’d care for the rest.”
    “I’ll pass.” He poured it out then sat on the lip of the tub.
    Surprised by the move, she tightened her fingers on the soap. It plopped into the water. “Hydrophobia,” she muttered. “No, don’t bother, I’ll find it.” Dipping her hand in, she began to search. “You’d think they could make a soap that wasn’t forever leaping out of your hands.” Grateful for the distraction, she gripped the soap again. “Aha. I appreciate your bringing me that revolting stuff, Adam. Now if you’d like to run along…”
    “I’m in no hurry.” Idly he picked up her loofah. “You mentioned something about scrubbing your back.”
    “Robbery!” Fairchild’s voice boomed into the room just ahead of him. “Call the police. Call the FBI. Adam, you’ll be a witness.” He nodded, finding nothing odd in the audience to his daughter’s bath.
    “I’m so glad I have a large bathroom,” she murmured. “Pity I didn’t think to serve refreshments.” Relieved by the interruption, she ran the soap down her arm. “What’s been stolen, Papa? The Monet street scene, the Renoir portrait? I know, your sweat socks.”
    “My black dinner suit!” Dramatically he pointed a finger to the ceiling. “We’ll have to take fingerprints.”
    “Obviously stolen by a psychotic with a fetish for formal attire,” Kirby concluded. “I love a mystery. Let’s list the suspects.” She pushed a lock of hair