Claire closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she opened them again, she’d decided not to bother arguing with the cat— experience having taught her that she couldn’t win. Bending over, she flicked confetti out of her hair. “If that’s coffee I smell, I could use a cup. It isn’t safe to eat or drink on the other side.”
“The other side of what?” Dean asked, relieved to see that the bits of paper disappeared before they reached the floor. Well, maybe relieved wasn’t exactly the right word. “Where were you?”
“Looking for the Historian. The odds of actually finding her are better early in the morning before the day’s distractions begin to build.” Straightening, Claire scowled at the pile of beads. “I lost her trail at a Mardi Gras.”
“In September?”
“It’s always Mardi Gras somewhere.” She reached into her shirt to scoop confetti out of her bra, noticed Dean’s gaze follow the motion and turned pointedly around. So much for his grandfather’s training.
Dean felt his ears burn. “It’s somewhere in the wardrobe?”
“The wardrobe is only the gate.” When she turned back to face him and caught sight of his expression, she added impatiently, “It’s traditional.”
“Okay.” First he’d ever heard that Mardi Gras in a wardrobe was traditional, but at least the music had stopped. If his life was after picking up a soundtrack, he’d prefer something that didn’t sound like a marching band after a meal of bad clams.
“I could really use that coffee,” Claire prodded, taking his arm and propelling him toward the door.
“Right.” Coffee, he understood, although, since he’d thought he understood wardrobes, coffee would probably also be subject to change without notice. “We, uh, we need to work out your meals.”
“What’s there to work out? You do your job, I’ll do mine. You cook, I’ll eat.”
“Cook what?” Dean insisted. “And when?”
Suddenly aware she still had fingers wrapped around the warm, resilient curve of a bicep, Claire snatched her hand back. “I’ll eat anything, I’m not fussy, but I can’t cope with Brussels sprouts, raw zucchini, dried soup mixes, and anything orange. Except oranges.”
“Anything orange except oranges,” he repeated “So carrots…”
“Are out. For as long as I’m here, lunch at noon, supper at five-thirty, so I can watch the news at six. I’ll have cold cereal or toast for breakfast and that I can make myself.”
“You’re after saving the world on a bowl of cold cereal?”
“I’d really rather you didn’t start sounding like my mother,” she told him sharply, stepping out into the office just as the outside door opened.
“Yoo hoo!” Clinging to the latch, Mrs. Abrams peered around the edge of the door. “Oh, there you are, dear!” She straightened and rushed forward. “You remember me…” It was a statement of fact “…Mrs. Abrams, one bee and an ess. You should keep this door locked, you know, dear. The neighborhood isn’t what it was when I was a girl. These days with all the immigrants you never know who might wander in off the street. Not that I have anything against immigrants—they make such interesting food, don’t you think?” Penciled eyebrows lifted dramatically toward a stiff fringe of bangs when she spotted Dean standing on the threshold behind Claire. “How nice that you two young people are getting along.”
“What did you want Mrs. Abrams?” Claire didn’t see much point in asking her if she ever knocked.
“Well, Kirstin…”
“Claire.”
“I beg your pardon, dear?”
“My name is Claire, not Kirstin.”
“Then why did you tell me it was Kirstin, dear?” Before Claire could protest that she hadn’t told her any such thing, Mrs. Abrams waved a dismissive hand and went on. “Never mind, dear, I’m sure anyone might get confused, first day at a new job and all. I stopped by because Baby heard something in the drive last night—it might have been burglars, you know, we could have all been murdered in our beds—and I had to come over and see that you were all right.”
“We’re fine. I…”
“I see you have a computer.” She shook her head disapprovingly, various bits of her face swaying to a different drummer. “You have to be careful about computers. The rays that come off them make you sterile. Has that nasty little Mr. Smythe returned yet?”
Finding it extremely disconcerting to speak to someone whose eyes never settled in one place for more than a second or two, Claire came out from behind the counter. “No, Mrs. Abrams, he’s gone for…”
“I remember how this place used to look, so quaint and charming. It needs a woman’s touch. I hope you realize that you can call on my services at any time, Karen dear. I could have been a decorator, everyone says I have the knack. I offered to give the place the benefit of my own unique skills once before, but do you know what that Augustus Smythe said to me. He said I could redecorate the furnace room.”
Claire managed to stop herself from announcing that the offer was still open—although whether she was sparing Mrs. Abrams or Hell, she wasn’t entirely certain.
“Have you done anything with the dining room, dear?”
Short of a full tackle, Claire couldn’t see how she could stop Mrs. Abrams from heading down the hall.
“I haven’t seen the dining room for years. I hardly ever set foot in here with that horrible man in…”
Although dimmed by distance and masonry, Baby’s bark was far too distinctive to either miss or mistake.
“Oh, dear, I must get back. Baby does so love to greet the mailman, but the silly fool persists in misunderstanding his playful little ways. Mummy’s coming, Baby!”
Claire rubbed her temples, throwing an irritated glance at Dean as he finally stepped off the threshold and closed the door to the sitting room. “You were a lot of help.”
“Mrs. Abrams,’’ Dean told her with weary certainty, “doesn’t listen to men.”
“I doubt Mrs. Abrams listens to anyone.”
The barking grew distinctly triumphant.
“I’m not criticizing,” Claire said stiffly,
