Diamond Bay (Page 20)

Though it had just opened for the morning, the local K mart was already swarming with customers who had all decided to do their shopping before the worst heat of the day was upon them. Rachel got a shopping cart and maneuvered it through the crowded aisles, dodging the darting preschoolers who had managed to escape their mothers and were headed, one and all, for the toy department. She steered around browsers, idled behind a frail white-haired woman who walked with a cane, then spotted a clear aisle and broke to the right.

A package of underwear, a few pairs of socks and a pair of jogging shoes, size ten, went into the cart. She had measured his feet that morning, so she was fairly certain the shoes would fit. Two button-up shirts and a cotton terry pullover shirt were piled on top of the shoes. She was uncertain of what size pants to get, but finally selected a pair of jeans, a pair of black denim cutoffs in case the jeans were too uncomfortable on his leg and a pair of khaki chinos. She was ready to head for the checkout counter when a tingle ran up her spine, and her head lifted. Glancing around, she saw a man casually examining some sale items, and the tingle became a fullfledged chill. It was Agent Lowell.

Without breaking stride, she diverted her path to the women’s section. The men’s clothes, though androgynous enough that they couldn’t be recognized as men’s unless the sizes were examined, would be a dead giveaway under close scrutiny. Unfortunately Agent Lowell was exactly the type to subject everything to just such an examination. The undershorts, socks and shoes, beneath the pants and shirts, could have no logical explanation.

Ruthlessly she went through the underwear section. Several pairs of panties, all lace and satin, were thrown on top of the pile. A frothy confection of a bra and a matching half-slip were added; she hoped she could trust in the normal male’s aversion to handling female lingerie in a public place to keep Agent Lowell from examining the contents of her shopping cart. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him casually moving closer, pausing every so often to examine certain items with absent interest. He was good; he slid through the crowds without attracting notice. He tracked, while giving no appearance of being a hunter.

A grim look entered Rachel’s eyes. He would have to be determined indeed to get to the bottom of her cart. Wheeling around, she headed for the drug-and-health section. Intimate female items, some of which she never used but chose now for their conspicuous packaging, were thrown into the cart. If he dared reach for anything she would accuse him of being a pervert in a voice loud enough to bring every store security guard at a run.

He was closing in again. Rachel chose her moment, then turned her cart and all but rammed it into his knee.

"Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry!" she gasped in apology. "I didn’t see youoh," she said again, startled recognition in her voice. "Ag" She stopped, looked around, then lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. "Agent Lowell."

It was an Academy Award-winning performance, but it might have been wasted on Agent Lowell, who was preoccupied with rubbing his knee. He straightened, a look of pain still in his eyes. "Hello again, Ms….I don’t believe I got your name yesterday."

"Jones," she said, holding out her hand. "Rachel Jones."

His hand was hard, but his palm was a little moist. Agent Lowell wasn’t quite as relaxed as he appeared.

"You’re out early," he commented.

"With the heat the way it is, it’s best to either get out early or wait until after sundown. You really should wear a hat if you’re going to be walking around today the way you were yesterday." His face was already sunburned, so her advice was too late.

His expressionless eyes drifted down to the contents of the cart, then jerked back up abruptly. Rachel felt a moment’s grim satisfaction at her choices. His presence could be pure coincidence, or it could be deliberate, but he was automatically curious; it was part of his job. She sensed that he had been less disarmed by her studied nonchalance and innocence than the other agent had been.

"You, uh, may have to float a loan to pay for all that," he said after a slight pause.

She ruefully examined the cart. "You may be right. Every time I go off on a trip it seems as if I never have what I need."

His eyes sharpened with interest. "You’re going on a trip?"

"In a couple of weeks. I’m doing some research on the Keys, and it always helps to see an area firsthand."

"Research?"

She shrugged. "I dabble in several things. I have my souvenir shops. I do a little writing, teach a few night courses. It keeps me from getting bored with myself." Looking at the checkout counters, where the lines were growing, she said blithely, "I’d better get in line before everyone in the store gets ahead of me. Ohdid you find anything yesterday?"

His face was a blank mask, though his eyes were once again peering at her cart. "No, nothing. It may have been a false lead."

"Well, good luck. Remember to get a cap or something while you’re here."

"Sure. Thanks."

She joined one of the lines at the row of checkout counters and selected a magazine to flip through while she waited, gradually nudging the cart forward. He had moved to the side and was looking at paperback books. Damn, would he never leave? When it came her time, she unloaded the cart and tried to keep her body between Lowell and the counter. The clerk picked up the package of undershorts and held them in front of her while she punched in the code number on the computerized cash register. Rachel shifted to that side, and when the clerk set the package down she pushed a shirt over it. Lowell was moving closer.

"One-forty-six eighteen," the clerk said, reaching for a large bag.