Hidden by Blood. Laurie London

stared at him until he imagined he’d been the one caught parading outdoors in a nightie instead of her.

      Then her gaze abruptly shifted, zigzagging from a point behind him, to the ladder, to Lenny, back to him and finally, to the tools lying on the grass.

      “J.J.’s Landscaping and Garden Center,” she muttered. Obviously she’d noticed his truck.

      “That’s me—Jack Jensen. And this is my nephew Lenny, who’s helping me out today. And you must be the niece.”

      She seemed to be in a daze. “The niece?”

      “Ida’s niece—or is it great-niece?” Jack turned to Lenny. “Is that what she’d be called? Great or grand?”

      Lenny gave him a look as mystified as the niece’s, and Jack swore at himself for babbling.

      “Jack Jensen?”

      Jack and Lenny both turned back to the woman. Disbelief was all over her face.

      “You mean, you’re the other beneficiary?”

      Jack wasn’t certain of the insinuation in her voice but he caught Lenny grinning at it. “Yeah, I guess that’s right. And you would be Miss—”

      “Baines,” she said. “Roslyn Baines.” She stuck out her right hand, releasing the quilt she’d been clutching. It dropped to the ground.

      The nightgown shimmered in the sunlight, its filmy blue fabric undulating against her long slender legs and body like ripples in a mountain stream. Jack and Lenny looked down at the ground. There was a fluttering sound as Roslyn swooped to retrieve the quilt. When they both dared to raise their eyes, she was heading toward the front of the house.

      “I’ll finish this up another time,” Jack hollered after her.

      She paused, turning around only long enough to say, “Come into the house when you’ve put your things away,” then disappeared around the corner.

      There was a moment’s silence that Lenny finally broke. “Geez,” he said.

      Jack nodded, staring at the end of the house. “You can say that again.”

      THEY TOOK their time putting things away. Roslyn peeked out the bedroom window as she snatched clean clothes from her suitcase and carried them into the bathroom across the hall. A room she figured would be safe from accidental sightings. Then she had to smile. What a sight she must have presented!

      Humiliation swept through her. Granted, she’d been startled and perhaps a tad frightened, which came from spending her whole life in Chicago. People who accessed apartments from ladders or fire escapes in the city were usually emergency personnel or cat burglars. Or worse—the stuff of nightmares. But when she’d taken in their smirking faces and the name on the beat-up truck in the drive, the fear had sizzled into anger.

      Roslyn knew from personal experience that her temper could be awesome, although its effect was definitely diminished when teamed with a flimsy nightie. Padding across the cool tiles, she slipped a pale lavender shirt off its hanger and buttoned it up, letting it hang loose over her black jeans.

      The single window in the bathroom gable telescoped out over the roof. Bending low from the waist, she could just see the front of the truck. The men were leaning against the hood, talking. Part of a ladder extended over the cab of the truck. So they were finished, but not exactly rushing to her front door.

      Roslyn sighed. Who could blame them, after such an unfriendly greeting? She closed the last button on her shirt and realized she’d left her makeup bag in the bedroom. If she didn’t hurry, they might decide to leave. For some inexplicable reason, she was loath to have her first meeting with Jack Jensen—the other beneficiary—hang on such a sour note.

      Abandoning makeup, she fought with her hair, twisting it through an elastic band. A quick brush of her teeth and her toilette was complete. One last glance in the mirror on her way out the door made Roslyn realize that no one in her office would even recognize her at that moment. But for Plainsville, she thought wryly, it would do. She headed for the first floor.

      The hesitant tapping at the front door almost made her laugh. Were they afraid of her now? She pulled hard on the heavy door, calling out a hearty “Come in.”

      A short, plump woman of about sixty stood before her. “Miss Baines?”

      “Uh, yes. Sorry,” Roslyn stammered. “I—I was expecting someone else.”

      “You were?” Disbelief echoed in the voice. “Mr. Taylor’s secretary asked me to be here by nine at the latest. And,” she peered at the tiny watch face on her thick wrist, “I make it to be five minutes to…on the dot.”

      “No, no, you misunderstand. You see—”

      “There was no misunderstanding at all, from what I recall.” She squinted hard at Roslyn. “Unless you changed the instructions without letting me know.”

      Roslyn sighed. “Please, come in. You must be my aunt’s housekeeper. Mrs.—?”

      “Warshawski. Folks call me Sophie.”

      “Sophie. Nice to meet you. I’m Roslyn.” She extended her hand, which the other woman ignored. “Mr. Taylor’s secretary mentioned in her note that you’d be coming by this morning.”

      “So there was a note!” Vindication rang in her voice.

      Roslyn looked past the woman’s shoulder to see the men staring up at her from the bottom of the veranda steps. The one who’d introduced himself as Jack had a smile on his face that seemed almost pitying. There was an exchange of glances between the two of them that Roslyn couldn’t read. Perhaps telepathic agreement that the woman from Chicago was indeed a major nutbar?

      Weary of explanations, Roslyn swung the door open wider and made an ushering motion with her left arm. “Please! All of you, come on in.”

      Mrs. Warshawski frowned, then hesitantly peered round her shoulder. Her face softened. “Jack! Didn’t see you standin’ there.”

      He nodded. “Mornin’, Sophie. Hope you brought some coffee.”

      The woman beamed. “Sure did. Even a dozen biscuits right out of the oven.”

      Lenny took the steps two at a time and plucked the canvas bag out of Sophie’s hand. “I’m starvin’. Let’s go.” He crooked an arm through Sophie’s and the two squeezed past Roslyn and headed into the house.

      Jack paused on the door stoop.

      Up close, Roslyn felt dwarfed by his height, a good four or five inches more than her own of five-nine. It was a sensation she hadn’t experienced many times in her life and it made her feel strangely vulnerable.

      “Sophie’s baking is legendary,” he explained, giving an apologetic smile for Lenny’s rush into the house.

      His eyes crinkled in weather-etched lines. Dark as midnight, but kind, Roslyn decided. He swept off the faded baseball cap to reveal a thick head of short, black hair.

      “Well? Shall we join them?” He grinned down at her and before she could reply, was halfway down the hall.

      Roslyn slowly closed the door. She was beginning to feel like a character in a quirky novel. Not Alice in Wonderland exactly, but close enough. She recalled a title from her college days. Yes. More like Stranger in a Strange Land.

      Their voices led her along the wood-paneled hallway to a kitchen she was seeing for the first time. She watched from the door. The three were bustling about the large, airy room as if they’d spent their whole lives in Ida Mae’s house.

      They went about the task of making coffee, getting plates and mugs out of tall, wooden cupboards and extracting jam jars and plastic containers from Sophie’s canvas bag in a routine that appeared to have been performed many times. All the while, snippets of conversation ricocheted off the walls. Bits of talk beginning with “Did you hear that…?” or “Well, I never…”