Only the very wealthy and well-connected could afford a divorce, but they usually avoided it because the repercussions were major. Politicians could expect to be kicked out of office if they dared to break free of a CM. CEOs got fired by their boards of directors. Exclusive clubs canceled memberships. Invitations to important social functions dried up.
Most sensible people who found themselves in an untenable marriage simply agreed to live separate lives. But their social and legal responsibilities toward each other and their offspring were not affected. Family came first. Always.
The downside of making a poor choice when it came to a spouse ensured the stability of one profession in particular, that of matchmaking. Families did their utmost to make certain that couples were well matched by certified marriage consultants.
“You know,” Slade said, “I always figured you’d be matched by now. Maybe even have a few kids.”
“Did you?” She smiled over her shoulder. “I’m amazed you even remembered me, let alone thought about me during the past fifteen years.”
He reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out the black crystal pocketknife she had given him the morning he had sailed off to his new career in the FBPI.
“I thought about you every time I used this,” he said.
Delight sparkled through her. “You kept it all these years.”
“It’s a good knife.” He dropped it back into his pocket. “You were right about the blade. Still sharp and still strong. It saved my ass more than once.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She smiled, ridiculously pleased. “Nothing like a Takashima knife. How long did it take you to figure out how to open it?”
“I had it down by the time the ferry reached Frequency City. Takes a little talent to rez it.”
“Yes,” she said. “It does.”
“Since we seem to find ourselves stuck together on this rock for a while, would you be interested in having dinner with me tonight?” Slade asked quietly.
Although she had been fantasizing about him since she had watched him walk off the ferry last week, the invitation nonetheless caught her by surprise. She had to work hard to keep her response calm and light.
“Sounds great,” she said. “There are not a lot of options when it comes to restaurants around here. How about the Marina View?”
“I was thinking my place,” Slade said. “I’ll pick up some fresh salmon at Hank’s.”
“All right,” she said. “What can I bring?”
He pondered that briefly. “You’ll probably want something green to go with the salmon.”
“A few veggies on the plate is always good. In addition to the zucchini bread, Mrs. Duncan has been inundating me with tomatoes and basil. I’ll make a salad.”
“My keen cop intuition tells me you probably drink white wine, right?”
“I drink red, too,” she assured him. “It’s not like I’m inflexible. But white goes better with fish.”
“I’ll pick up a bottle on the way home,” he said. “All I’ve got in the refrigerator is beer.”
There was a faint thump from the back room.
“Sorry.”
Rex appeared in the opening between the two rooms. He carried a small black evening bag studded with glittering black beads. The dainty purse was barely large enough to hold a lipstick and a compact.
Charlotte confronted him, her hands planted on her hips. “Step away from the clutch.”
To her amazement, Rex dropped the object at her feet.
“I think he likes you,” Slade said. “Usually he ignores commands like that. What is that thing?”
“A very nice Claudia Lockwood evening clutch bag. It’s worth several hundred dollars in good condition and this purse is mint.”
Rex sat back on his haunches and fixed her with an expectant expression.
“He wants you to throw the purse,” Slade said.
“Forget it. This thing is too valuable to be used as a dust bunny toy.” She hesitated. “I didn’t know dust bunnies liked to play fetch.”
“Rex doesn’t exactly play fetch,” Slade said. “Not like a dog, at any rate. But if you throw an object he goes after it.”
“What does he do with it?”
“He kills it,” Slade said.
“Obviously you want to be careful what you throw for him.”
“Very careful,” Slade agreed.
She looked down at Rex. “Sorry, Rex. I can’t let you rip this to pieces.”
Rex’s expression intensified. He was utterly still on his rear legs, a statue of a dust bunny.
Charlotte laughed. “Do you think he’s trying to use psychic power to make me do what he wants?”
“Wouldn’t put it past him.”
“You can’t have the purse,” she said to Rex. “How about a duck?”
She went to the counter and picked up the small, yellow rubber duck sitting near the cash register. She squeezed the duck a couple of times. The duck squeaked. Rex was electrified with excitement.
She tossed the duck into the back room. Rex leaped to follow. There was a thump. Several increasingly faint, desperate squeaks could be heard. Eventually there was silence followed by much gleeful chortling.
“Something tells me the duck didn’t make it,” Charlotte said. She went behind the counter and poured the coffee. She set the mug on the counter in front of Slade. She studied his cool cop eyes.
“You know who was inside my shop last night, don’t you?” she said.
“Yes,” Slade said. He picked up the coffee mug. “I’ll talk to him. It won’t happen again.”
Chapter 2
HANK LEVENSON TOSSED THE HEADLESS, TAILLESS FISH onto the scale. “Lot of expensive Amber River salmon for one person to eat. Planning on sharing with the dust bunny? I can always sell you a smaller piece of the salmon and give you some cheap bottom fish for Rex. Doubt if he’d know the difference.”
Slade leaned one arm against the glass display case and contemplated his options. There was no point trying to finesse the situation. The news that he’d had dinner with the owner of Looking Glass Antiques would be all over Shadow Bay by tomorrow morning, no matter what he did.
“I’m not so sure that Rex wouldn’t know the difference,” he said. “He’s damn picky. He’ll get some of that salmon but I’m planning on sharing the rest with a dinner guest.”
“A guest, hmm?” Hank swept the salmon off the scale and wrapped the silvery fish in brown paper. “Would that be Charlotte Enright, by any chance?”
“What was your first clue?”
Hank snorted. “Saw you come out of her shop this morning. Had a feeling you and she might get on well together.”
Hank was in his late sixties. He had grown up on Rainshadow and he was endowed with the tough, weathered features of a man who had spent his life on or around the water. When he reached for a strip of tape to seal the package of salmon, a portion of an old tattoo appeared beneath the rolled-back sleeve of his shirt. The image was that of a mythical sea serpent.
“Charlotte thought she had a breakin last night,” Slade said. “I went to her shop to check it out.”
“Yeah?” Hank looked up, eyes faintly narrowed in concern. “Anything stolen?”
