watch it myself, I can’t help but laugh that she’s got no other choice.
Miss Delia has wheeled herself up on the porch and is talking with Cooper. Though his jade-green eyes are filled with concern, they still sparkle when he sees me. “Everything okay, Emmaline?” His gaze shifts between me and Miss Delia.
She waves her hand, dismissing his worry. “Only as much trouble as a horsefly causes a nag. And nothing a swatting tail can’t fix.” She grins, no doubt to dismiss any lingering concerns.
But it doesn’t make me feel any better. Or untwist the knot in my stomach.
…
Twenty minutes later, Cooper and I arrive at the Big House. Being with him has helped calmed my nerves, but the jitters aren’t entirely gone, because deep in my gut, despite Miss Delia’s assurances to the contrary, I know Mr. Claude Corbeau is going to be a problem.
As we step into the foyer, a loud scraping sound echoes down the hall, as if someone’s shoving a large piece of furniture across a stone floor.
Cooper grunts as he shakes his head. “Don’t tell me Missy’s at it again.”
Although it’s been days since her argument with Beau, she’s still on a rampage, tearing apart nearly every room on the first floor, still searching for the Beaumont ruby. To avoid Beau’s rage, Cooper’s taken it upon himself to clean up after her and sometimes even help if it means nothing will get broken.
“Ouch! My nail.” Missy’s voice carries, shrill and angry from the solarium at the end of the east wing.
“Sounds like she’s pushing that wrought-iron baker’s rack around. I hope she removed the margarita goblets from the top rack first.”
Metal grates against flagstone pavers once again. A second later, Missy squeals, followed by a cascade of shattering glass.
Cringing, Cooper and I turn to each other. “Oops.”
Beau’s voice booms from the library. “Missy! What was that?” His words are slurred.
“Nothing, sugar.”
“I don’t want any part of that mess.” Cooper grabs my hand and sprints up the grand staircase toward his room. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the literal mess splattered across the solarium floor, or the inevitable fight that’ll erupt when Beau realizes what she’s done. Either way, I’m with him.
When we get upstairs, Jack is still not there so I sit at Cooper’s desk and open his laptop.
Cooper shuts his door. “You going to tell me what’s going on?”
“As soon as Jack gets here, I promise.”
He pulls up a chair next to me. “Until then, we could do something other than surf the Web.” He grazes the back of my neck with his finger.
A chill, definitely the delicious kind, flits over my skin. Giggling, I inch away. “As much as I’d like that, I need to check something first.” I type Claude’s name into the search engine hoping to find something. The only result is from last week’s
Exhaling, I try to block out the sensations created by Cooper’s lips. It’s nearly impossible, except for the niggling question that keeps running through my brain: if Claude is so awesome and famous, why aren’t there any other references to him or some of the big cases he’s solved? I look away from the screen and stare out the window to ponder the possibilities.
Something on the pane draws my attention. Three slimy smudges smear the glass.
“Ew, what’s that?”
Cooper pulls away. “What? I thought you liked it when I kiss your neck.” He looks insulted. And a little hurt.
I chuckle. “No, I
The clear streaks are thick and goopy, and sort of look like someone’s slathered a handful of hair gel across the glass. But that’s ridiculous because, for one, who the heck would do that? And two, it’s on the exterior side of the pane. Besides, since Cooper doesn’t use gel, I doubt there’s even a tube of the stuff in the house.
Cooper steps beside me and squints at the splotches on his window. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just dirty. I’ll ask your dad to zap it with the power washer.”
My scalp prickles, but unlike a few moments ago when Cooper’s touch made my flesh sizzle, the feeling moves way beyond tickling to almost burning. Though my fingers itch to soothe the fiery sensation, I’ve done this long enough to know it’s got nothing to do with the skin on my head. I’m supposed to take note of this stuff.
“No, I think it’s something else.” I unhinge the lock and release the side buttons to allow the frame to tilt inside. The humid air gushes in, warming his air-conditioned room and carrying the luscious scent of the pink magnolia beside the house.
Bending down, I peer at the smudge. A whiff of something sharp and bitter slams my nostrils, making me pull away. Nausea swells and my mouth floods with sour saliva. “Ugh, gross!” Covering my mouth with my palm, I gag.
I’ve smelled something similar once before. Last summer, while Jack and I were down south and my mom was on her dig at the sandstone cliff buildings in Petra, our freezer broke down. When we got back just before school started, the mildewed and rotting food was a biohazard of epic proportions. Even after we got rid of it, the stench lingered in our apartment for almost a week. This smell, the one coming from the residue on Cooper’s window, reminds me of the funk that hovered in our kitchen those last few days.
Cooper scoops his head to sniff, then looks up at me, quirking his brow. “It’s a little nasty, but it’s not that bad.”
“Seriously?” I cough, my throat burning. “It’s putrid.”
“I guess I must be stuffed up or something.” Reaching over, he stretches his fingers toward the slime.
A jolt of pain shoots down my arm, zapping my hand. I don’t know what it means except Cooper isn’t supposed to touch that stuff.
“Don’t!” I yank his wrist away.
But it’s too late. The gel coats his middle and index fingers. My heart jumps into overdrive, galloping in my chest.
“What’s the matter?” His eyes stretch as wide as half-dollars.
The skin on my hand radiates heat. “You can’t touch it.”
“Why?” He laughs, tapping his tacky fingers against his thumb. The glycerin-like substance is wet and stretchy. “It’s sap or something. Gross, but nothing dangerous. Really. See?” He pushes his fingers toward my face. The scent stings my eyes.
Tugging my T-shirt over my nose, I take a giant step back and trip onto Cooper’s bed. “Get it away from me! I mean it.” My voice is laden with desperation.
Jack sweeps open the door to Cooper’s bedroom, a rolled paper bag in his hand. “Do you know your stepmonster’s going crazy again downstairs?” When he notices me cringing on the bed, he laughs. “What’s going on in here?” He’s way too amused by my obvious discomfort.
“Emma’s afraid of the slime on my window. Seems your sister has inherited your dad’s neat-freak gene.” He walks to his hamper, flips open the lid, and wipes his hand on a towel at the top of the pile. “As for Missy, there’s a reason this was closed.” Hooking his toe around the edge of the door, he pushes it shut again.
My mind is still stuck on the neat-freak quip. Is he serious? Hasn’t he noticed the charcoal pastels caked under my fingernails, or the oil paint that occasionally frosts my hair? I’m nothing like my disinfectant-obsessed father. Still hypersensitive about being a guest in the caretaker’s cottage, Dad takes spotless to a whole new level.
I right myself on the mattress. “It’s not that. I just don’t want that nasty stuff on me. I don’t know how you can stand the stink.”
Jack sniffs the air. “What stink?”
“You too?” I inhale through my cotton shirt, dragging the fresh scent of fabric softener up my nose. It’s almost enough to eradicate the stench now wafting from the still-open clothes hamper.
