The Innocents Club. Taylor Smith

legacy was the almost cultlike following inside the gay community, despite Ben’s solid reputation as a ladies’ man. Sounded like Porter was one of those devotees.

      “I have to tell you,” Chap said, “Mariah’s not—a fan, I mean. She was only seven years old when Ben walked out on the family. Doesn’t make for a lot of warm fuzzy memories on her part.”

      The dog had turned back toward the gate, and his claws scratched the sidewalk in his anxiety to move on. “Kermit, sit, dammit!” Porter commanded.

      A waste of breath if ever there was. The dog seemed deaf as well as single-minded. The tug-of-war continued.

      “Incorrigible mutt. Thanks for the warning, Chap. I’d have spent the whole evening blathering on like some star-struck teenager if you hadn’t told me. I’d still love to have you all on board, though.”

      “It sounds like something they might enjoy,” Chap admitted. “Can I ask them and get back to you?”

      “You bet.” The other man finally conceded defeat and gave the scrabbling mutt his head. “Catch you later!” he called over his shoulder, breaking into a loping jog.

      Chap waved after them, grinning, then turned back to the roses and started pruning the few that were encroaching on the Zen-like tidiness of Porter’s courtyard. He grunted as his short arms reached over the top of the pickets. If he had any brains, he’d walk around to the other side of the fence to do this, but he was tired, and he wanted to pack it in.

      “Ouch! Damn!” he bellowed, nearly losing his balance as his bare fingers closed on a stem full of thorns. Now he knew why Em had always worn gardening gloves. He’d always thought it was just to protect her manicure.

      When he’d finally cut back the last of the stragglers, he dumped them in the green waste recycling bin he’d rolled out to the courtyard, then gathered up the rest of the garden tools. His body was a mass of aching joints and muscles. He could do with a nap, he decided, dragging the bin and tools back to the side of the house. Then he had another thought—a wee drink, a nice soak in the Jacuzzi to ease his weary bones and then a nap.

      He parked the bin in the narrow, shady passage between his house and Porter’s, then entered the garage through the side door. Brilliant light assaulted his eyes, bouncing off the concrete lane and gleaming white stucco of his neighbors’ high walls across the way.

      Idiot. You left the garage door open.

      He berated his absentmindedness. The neighborhood was virtually crime-free most of the year, but summer always brought a spate of burglaries—opportunistic crimes, petty thieves slipping through unlocked back doors, stealing wallets and purses while residents sat in their waterfront courtyards.

      Chap walked out, glancing up and down the lane. Not a soul in sight. With its astronomical real estate prices and postage-stamp yards, the area attracted mostly professional singles and empty nesters, so there were no kids out riding bikes. Nor, with its narrow sidewalk and blinding, foliage-free glare, did the lane encourage strolling.

      Satisfied the coast was clear, he went back in, rounding his old, silver-gray Jaguar to Emma’s worktable. He wiped down the tools with an old rag, then gave them a coat of oil, just as she’d always been careful to do, and replaced them in her red wicker gardening basket. He unstrapped the Velcro kneepads and hung them on their pegboard hook, then traded his old, mud-spattered Topsiders for the soft kid slippers he’d left by the inside door. His hand hit the button to close the garage door as he walked into the house.

      Next item on the agenda: two or three fingers of scotch.

      He carried the glass and bottle upstairs, setting the bottle on the nightstand. After a couple of sips from the glass, he set it on the rim of the spa and hit the controls to turn on the jets. He stripped out of his clothes on his way back across the bedroom to the bathroom, then showered off the garden dirt.

      He was wrapping a towel around his waist when he heard a click. A door latch?

      Chap stepped cautiously into the bedroom. Nothing. He padded out to the hall. His office next door was cluttered, as always, with manuscripts waiting to be read. He slid open the closet door. The space inside had been fitted with shelves to hold some of the overflow. There, on the bottom shelf, sat the cardboard box containing the trove of Ben Bolt papers Mariah had sent him.

      Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he really needed an office safe. There wasn’t much of irreplaceable value in the room, but those papers were one of a kind. There were people who’d give a pretty penny to get their hands on an unpublished Bolt manuscript or his private journals.

      No more procrastinating, Korman. Right after the Fourth, you call a contractor and get a safe installed.

      Another noise interrupted his resolution-making. He stepped back into the hall, peering over the banister to the open area below. Mr. Rochester, the old black tomcat Em had adopted from the local animal shelter, was sprawled in a sunbeam on Emma’s favorite blue chintz chair, one rear leg raised high as he washed himself.

      “Keep the noise down, will ya?” Chap grumbled.

      Rochester peered up, blinked disdainfully, then went back to licking his rear end. The cat had stopped coming upstairs altogether. Too bloody fat to make the climb, Chap decided. During the months Em was sick, though, the animal never left her bedside except to eat or use the litter box. After she died, the cat had walked around the house yowling plaintively for days. Now, man and feline cohabited like some interspecies Odd Couple. Rochester lived on Em’s chair, ignoring Chap entirely except at mealtimes. Even then, the Fancy Feast got a suspicious sniff before he deigned to bolt it down.

      “Stupid cat,” Chap muttered, returning through his room to the deck. He’d overdone it in the garden. His joints felt as if they were swelling. He should take a pill, but he was too damn tired to walk back to the bathroom cabinet.

      Instead, he dropped his towel and climbed naked into the churning spa, as he habitually did now that Em was no longer there to fret about peeping Toms with binoculars. The nearest building high enough to see down onto his second-story deck had to be half a mile away. Odds were, nobody out there was looking, but if they were, his round, sagging, hairy-ape body made for pretty poor voyeuristic pickings. Anybody that hard up was welcome to the thrill.

      Reaching for his drink, he took another long sip, then set it back on the edge of the tub and leaned into the molded seat and cushioned neck rest. Soothing amber comfort slid down to his center core. Chap closed his eyes, one hand lazily raking his matted chest. The warmth of the scotch, the sun and the Jacuzzi melted his aches and lulled him. This was as close to perfect as it got, he thought, lacking only Em to share it.

      Suddenly, he felt a distinct vibration under his butt, like the tread of a nearby foot. His eyes opened to the brilliant blue sky, and he looked around. Em’s red geraniums swayed in the breeze, potted in the old whiskey cask she’d transformed into a dual-purpose planter and base for the green market umbrella that shaded their his-and-hers rattan lounge chairs. Except for chirping birds and the dull rumble of distant beach traffic, the afternoon was sunny, hot and blessedly silent.

      Had he locked all the downstairs doors before coming up? The garage he’d closed—that much he knew. But the side door? And the front, leading to the courtyard and the walkway beyond? Must have. He hadn’t lived in New York for nearly sixty years without acquiring a few security tics, after all.

      He strained to mentally retrace his steps. Hadn’t even used the front door today, he realized. Mariah had called just as he was getting ready to put the impatiens in the front bed. He’d taken the call in the kitchen, then gone out through the garage to collect the tools, the flat of plants and the recycling bin.

      The side door of the garage was on a spring. Had he reset the lock?

      He took another sip of his drink and settled back into the gently pulsing water. Check it later. He was a New Yorker. A onetime amateur boxer with a 17–0 record. Never lived timidly before. Wasn’t about to start now. Too tired to sweat it, anyway.

      The churning of the Jacuzzi