Smoke in Mirrors(20)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

“Everything is fine.”

He glanced around her, trying to get a look at the living room. “Furniture working out?”

“Yes. Some of the pieces are a little oversized for the space, but they’ll do for my purposes.”

He remembered how he had stood in the showroom at the furniture store and made his selections from the three basic rental packages that had been offered. In the end he had gone with the Traditional Rustic Comfort set-up because it had the largest bed and he liked a big bed, himself. What the hell had he been thinking? Not like she would ever invite him to join her in it.

Contemplating that big bed in her small bedroom was not helpful. Time to change the subject.

“Had dinner yet?” he asked.

“No. I was just about to fix something.”

“Want to join me? There’s a café in town that serves some good fish. Very casual. We can have a couple of drinks. Talk about our, uh, investigation.”

She pondered that for a few seconds. Then she shrugged. “Okay, I guess that would be all right.”

“Hey, thanks,” he said. “I really appreciate the enthusiasm, you know? I was braced for outright rejection.”

“Really?” She arched one brow. “Do you get rejected a lot?”

“It’s a case of love me, love my dog. Not everyone takes to Wrench.”

She looked down at Wrench. “You blame your dog when you get rejected?”

“He doesn’t mind taking the heat and it saves a lot of wear and tear on my ego.”

“A win-win situation.”

“Yeah, that’s how I look at it. Why don’t you get your coat and we’ll be on our way?”

“What about Wrench?”

“We’ll go back across the bridge and leave him at my house.”

She nodded, turned, opened the hall closet and removed a long, black, down-filled coat.

He helped her into it. The small task gave him an opportunity to examine the curve of her neck and get a whiff of her scent. He liked the elegant line of the first and figured the latter for a mix of lemon-infused soap and warm woman. No heavy perfume. He appreciated that. He was not a fan of strong fragrances.

They walked across the footbridge and along the lane to his house. Wrench gave him a pitiful look when he realized that he was about to get left behind.

“You know they won’t let you in the café,” Thomas reminded him. “You’ve tried sneaking in before and it didn’t work.”

“Management probably finds it hard to overlook a wolf coming through the front door,” Leonora said dryly.

“I keep telling you not to judge by appearances.” Thomas unsnapped the leash.

“Sure, right. A poodle in his former life.”

“A miniature poodle. Pink, I think.”

Wrench abandoned the pathetic look and wandered off in the direction of the kitchen and his food dish.

Leonora watched Thomas lock the door. “You’re sure he doesn’t bite?”

“I told you, he’s a pacifist at heart. Totally harmless.”

“What breed is he, anyway?”

“Beats me. Got him out of a shelter when he was a pup.”

They went down the steps and took the footpath into the small town of Wing Cove. The tiny business district consisted of two bookstores, a hardware store, a post office, a handful of miscellaneous shops that catered primarily to students, a pub and some small restaurants.

Thomas ushered Leonora through the double doors and into the cozy warmth of his favorite café. A fire crackled on the stone hearth. Hardwood floors gleamed in the subdued light. Two college-aged waiters in white aprons and black trousers circulated among the small crowd.

He recognized several of the diners. They nodded to him when he and Leonora followed the hostess to a table in the corner. Polite nods. A little reticent. Cautious. He was the brother of that obsessed Deke Walker, after all.

When he pulled out a chair for Leonora he noticed Osmond Kern, silver-haired and vaguely regal-looking in the manner of the tenured aristocrats of the academic world, sitting at a nearby table. He was with the woman Ed Stovall had identified as Kern’s daughter, Elissa.

Even from here it was easy to see that Osmond’s movements had the careful, exaggerated quality that indicated he was attempting to compensate for too much alcohol. A half-finished martini sat on the table in front of him. It was obviously not the first of the evening.

Elissa was steeped in that grim tension that was unique to those who were obliged to appear in public with relatives who drank too much and who might prove extremely embarrassing at any moment.

He sat down across from Leonora and opened his menu. “How did things go at Mirror House?”

“So far, so good, but I haven’t got anything exciting to report. I’m settled into the office in the library. I was surprised by the book collection, though.”

“How’s that?”

“It really is quite extraordinary. I only did a quick survey but it looks like it contains a number of old and rare works. Everything from scholarly papers on ancient Greek bronze hand mirrors to technical treatises on the manufacture of looking glasses in seventeenth-century France and England. There’s a good deal of material on the symbolism of mirrors in art and mythology, too. Humans have a long history of being fascinated with reflections.”

He smiled. “Mirror, mirror on the wall?”

“To cite just one instance.” She unfolded her napkin and placed it neatly on her lap. “There’s a wealth of mythology in a lot of cultures that relates to mirrors and reflections. Remember the story of Narcissus?”

“Fell in love with his own reflection and pined away, right?”

“Yes. In addition to the myths and fairy tales that feature mirrors, there are all those old master painters such as Jan van Eyck and Rubens and Goya who used them for symbolic purposes in their art. Leonardo da Vinci studied mirrors.”

“I’ve seen pictures of pages from his notebooks,” Thomas said. “He kept them in something called ‘mirror-writing,’ didn’t he? Left-handed and moving right to left.”

“Yes. Mirrors were a big part of Aztec rituals and the ancient Egyptians were really into them, too.”

Her enthusiasm amused him.

“Okay, I believe you,” he said.

She made a face. “Didn’t mean to bore you. It’s just that the Mirror House collection is very unique. It really should be put online and made accessible.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been told that a lot of the antique mirrors and looking glasses hanging on the walls are extremely valuable, too. But according to the terms of Nathanial Eubanks’s will, neither they nor the books can be sold or donated to any other institution unless the house itself is demolished for some reason.”