Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Page 5

  He closed his laptop and swung his feet off the bed. Time to check on Lyman and get back to work on the elevator. Maybe he could drag something useful out of the elusive, tree-climbing imposter at dinner.

  Nick was still in the elevator behind the stairs when slow, uneven footsteps sounded overhead. Zoë must be coming down to fix dinner. He refused to call heating take-out and putting it on plates cooking. By the time he stepped into the foyer and wiped his grimy hands on a rag, she had nearly reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “I see you changed your shoes.” She had switched to a sensible pair of black leather sneakers.

  She sucked in a short breath and grabbed the banister with both hands to keep her balance. When she turned her head, green eyes narrowed in accusation. “You almost made me fall. What’s the matter with you, sneaking up on a person like that?”

  “I was just making an observation.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  He suppressed a grin. “Sorry. Maybe your ankle making you extra grumpy.”

  She took two careful steps down. “My ankle is fine. I used the ace bandage to wrap it after the ice melted.”

  He raised one brow. “If you say so. Just don’t expect any more toting and fetching from me.”

  “Believe me, I won’t.”

  He stood his ground as she crossed the foyer and disappeared through the kitchen door. She appeared to be walking with her usual confident gait, but that didn’t mean much. She would probably refuse to show any sign of pain in his presence out of sheer stubbornness. He retrieved his toolbox and headed back to the garage to clean up for dinner.

  When he returned to the house, the tantalizing aromas of garlic, tomato sauce, and melting mozzarella and parmesan cheeses met him at the door. His mouth watered, and his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten a decent meal since Sunday dinner at his mom’s house two weeks ago with his sister and brother-in-law. While Nick stuffed his face with baked manicotti, Kenny had mentioned a potential job babysitting an eccentric inventor whose wife was afraid someone might be trying to kill him. Nick had spoken to Marian the next day, and three days later here he was, ostensibly working as the Prescott’s chauffeur. Since then, Lyman had insisted he join them for meals, but the pickings had been pretty slim.

  He strolled into the kitchen and found Zoë dumping Giordano’s salad into a large wooden bowl. She’d set the kitchen table with white dishes and red place mats and lit a couple of candles. The big room felt cozy and almost romantic. There was even an uncorked bottle of red wine, three goblets, and a tumbler of ice water for Marian.

  As he approached, she glanced over her shoulder. “Would you let the Prescotts know dinner is ready? Marian is in the library, and I think Lyman is still down in his workshop.”

  “Sure.” He gave an appreciative sniff. “The food smells great. Too bad you didn’t cook it.”

  Her nostrils flared for a second before she turned her attention back to the salad bowl and scattered a small bag of croutons over the contents. “What does it matter who cooked it?”

  He sauntered closer and leaned one hip against the counter. “Well, you are being paid to cook. So far, all I’ve seen you do is pick up the phone.”

  “Fortunately, you don’t sign my paycheck.” She grabbed the bowl and a pair of matching flat wooden spoons and carried them to the table.

  “True. Lyman seems to think you’re a highly-qualified chef.”

  “Who says I’m not?”

  He eased away from the edge of the counter and met her gaze head-on. “Are you?”

  She stared back, then her lips curved in a hard, tight smile. “You’ll just have to find out—if you’re here long enough.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You don’t seem to have much to do. As far as I can tell, the Prescotts rarely leave the house.”

  “I find ways to make myself useful.”

  She spooned the chicken parmesan onto a big oval platter and set it on the table. “Well, make yourself useful now and call the Prescotts. The food is getting cold.”

  Five minutes later, they were all seated around the table, helping themselves family-style.

  “This looks delicious.” Lyman spooned a healthy portion onto Marian’s plate then nodded at Zoë. “I applaud your resourcefulness.”

  She shot Nick a look that all but shouted, “So there!” He was surprised she didn’t stick her tongue out, too.

  Instead, she smiled and poked her fork into her salad. “I thought Marian and I might go to the grocery store tomorrow morning. That way she can show me what you both like and help plan the menus.”

  Marian’s eyes sparked. “I’d love to. Since I can’t drive with this,” she raised her right arm a couple of inches, “and Lyman’s been too busy to take me, I haven’t left the house in two weeks.”

  “Excellent idea.” Lyman nodded as he sliced a bite-sized piece of chicken. “And while you’re there, will you get more vegetables? I’ve made some adjustments to GRAMPA’s settings and want to give him another try.”

  “Absolutely. Is there anything else you’d like to add to the list?”

  He chewed for a minute then swallowed. “Can you make gingersnaps? Grandfather’s cook used to make them when I was young. I loved her gingersnaps.”

  Zoë smiled. “I love gingersnaps, too. Anything else?”

  Nick seized the opportunity to toss out a test question. “How about some osso buco? It’s great this time of year.” Any trained chef should know how to make his mother’s autumn specialty.

  Zoë froze, and her eyes rounded.

  Gotcha.

  “I’m afraid Italian food isn’t my specialty.” She dropped her gaze to her lap and made a show of rearranging her napkin.

  If the situation were different, he might feel guilty about putting her on the spot, but he didn’t. “What is your specialty?”

  She took a long, slow sip of wine. He could almost see the cogs turning and wondered what she’d come up with.

  “German food. My specialty is German food.”

  “Oh, schnitzel and spaetzle?” He was willing to bet she didn’t know sauerbraten from strudel.

  Her eyes burned with a dark green flame. “Of course.”

  “My grandma used to make bratwurst with the best German potato salad,” Marian said before popping a cherry tomato into her mouth.

  Zoë kept her gaze locked on Nick’s. “Mine, too.”

  “That’s kind of lowbrow cuisine for a professional chef.”

  She tipped her head and slowly flashed her long lashes. “I cook what my clients like to eat.”

  “A very sensible approach,” Lyman interjected.

  “This is a little tricky to eat left-handed, but it’s delicious.” Marian raised a forkful of chicken covered with oozing cheese. “I wouldn’t mind having it again.”

  Nick chuckled. “Looks like you’ll have to brush up on your Italian.”

  Before Zoë could respond, the phone on the wall jangled. Nobody made a move to answer it. Another ring. Nothing. Nick glanced at the Prescotts, who continued eating, then at Zoë. She shrugged. The kitchen phone was too old to have a built-in answering machine, but maybe there was a newer model somewhere else in the house that would pick up. Another ring, then another. After six rings he was ready to jerk it out of the wall or answer it himself.

  Lyman blotted his mouth on his napkin. “Zoë, why don’t you get that?”

  The two exchanged a long look before she pushed her chair back from the table and nodded. “Good idea.”

  She crossed the room and picked up the old-fashioned, corded receiver. “Prescott residence.”

  A brief silence ensued before Zoë frowned. “Who the hell are you?”

  Chapter Four

  “Who was on the phone,” Lyman asked.

  Zoë stared at the receiver in her hand. “I don’t know. He hung up.” She set the receiver back in its cradle. Adrenaline still coursed through her veins. She didn’t know what she’d expected when she pic
ked up the phone, but that wasn’t it.

  “I wonder if it was the same caller who’s been bothering us for the past three months.” Lyman propped his elbow on the table and rubbed a forefinger across his upper lip. “Although that person never spoke. I don’t even know if the caller was male or female.”

  Zoë returned to her chair at the table. “This was definitely a man.”

  “Have a drink then tell us what he said.” Nick pushed her goblet toward her.

  She took a slow swallow of the rustic Chianti she’d found in the back of the pantry and waited for the resulting glow. Ah…there it was. She set the glass down and scanned the three questioning faces at the table. “As soon as I spoke, he shouted, ‘who the hell are you?’ I was so startled I almost dropped the phone.”

  “Your come-back was perfect.” Marian’s eyes widened. “I would never have been able to stay so calm.”

  Calm? Zoë shook her head. “It just popped out. I was too surprised to think.”

  Nick leaned forward and placed a hand on her arm. “What can you tell us about his voice?” As he spoke, his fingers tightened.

  Zoë frowned and tugged her arm from his grasp. “Not much. He sounded angry.”

  “Did he sound young? Old?”

  She thought for a second. “Kind of in the middle, I guess.”

  “What about an accent?”

  Nick’s staccato questioning was getting on her still-jumpy nerves. “What is this, some kind of interrogation?”

  He sat back and ran a hand through his thick, black hair. “You heard Lyman—this may be the same caller who’s been harassing them for some time, the caller he reported to the police. Now someone has heard his voice. Sergeant Lewis will want to know about it, and the best time to recall details is right after an incident occurs. Play the call back in your mind. Did the man have any noticeable accent?”

  A tiny burst of satisfaction soothed her nerves. She might not have the answers he wanted, but she now had at least a partial answer to a big question of her own. His words gave him away. Nick Rosetti was now, or had been, some kind of cop.

  “So…?” He dipped his chin and raised his brows.

  “I’d call it a classic Chicago accent—hard and flat.”

  “Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it.”

  Lyman interrupted Nick’s stream of questions. “I don’t think we need to do anything more this minute.” He picked up the wine bottle and topped off their glasses. “I’m sure we’ll be safe for the next hour. I’ll call Sergeant Lewis as soon as we finish eating, and Zoë can fill him in. In the meantime, let’s eat our dinner before it gets cold.”

  The tight lines around Nick’s mouth eased a fraction, and he nodded.

  Marian tapped the rim of her water glass with her spoon. “Tonight I decree there will be no more worrying. We have brownies for dessert, and tomorrow—gingersnaps!”

  Lyman patted her hand with a doting smile on his face. “Hear, hear, my dear.”

  After they had both spoken briefly to Sergeant Lewis, Zoë cleaned up the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, and went in search of Lyman. She found him in his study, poring over a book of what looked like some kind of engineering tables.

  He glanced up when she entered the room. “Come in, come in. I’m working on an issue with GRAMPA’s hydraulics.”

  “May I?” She nodded toward the door.

  He raised his brows. “Oh…of course.”

  She closed the door with a soft click and approached the desk with her small notebook in hand. “I wanted to give you an update on my security assessment this afternoon and make a few recommendations for upgrades.”

  He nodded and waved toward a side chair. “Please have a seat.”

  She scooted the chair closer to the desk, crossed her legs, and flipped back the cover of her notebook. “First, the security system in place appears to be adequate.”

  He bobbed his head. “Good. Good.”

  “But it needs to be extended to the windows on the upper floors.”

  “We can do that.” He hesitated then pulled open the center desk drawer. “And here is the code so you can set the alarm at night.” He handed her a slip of paper.

  An unlocked center desk drawer—the first place a thief would look.

  If it were anyone but Lyman, she would be amazed at the lack of forethought. For him it seemed to be par for the course. “Don’t you have a safe or some other secure place to keep the code?”

  His expression brightened. “Oh, I keep the drawer locked.” Then his face sagged. “That is, sometimes…when I remember.”

  “And where do you keep the key?”

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of keys. “It’s on this ring…I think…” His brow furrowed. “Or maybe…”

  “We need to find a safe place for your valuables. I’m sure Marian has some jewelry you’d like to protect, and you must have important papers.”

  A gleam sparked in his eyes. “Absolutely. Grandfather’s big safe is still in the basement. It would be the perfect place to keep my notes and working drawings for GRAMPA secure from prying eyes.”

  Frankie “No Nose’s” safe would be decades old. What were the chances the lock still worked? “I don’t suppose you have the combination.”

  Lyman opened the drawer again and began rifling through the mass of disorganized papers. “Aha!” He waved a brittle, yellowing piece of lined notebook paper. “I knew it was here somewhere. Grandfather used to let me keep my coin collection in his safe when I was young.”

  Zoë smiled and reached for the paper. “May I? I think it would be best if I held on to this and the key for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll see if the combination still works. In the meantime, I have a few other suggestions to improve security around the estate.”

  She laid out her recommendations for increasing exterior lighting and repairing the wall, and Lyman agreed to make the calls first thing in the morning.

  She pushed back her chair and stood. “Excellent. I’ll make one last sweep of the house around eleven before I arm the security system. Will that be too early for you and Marian?”

  He responded with an impish chuckle. “Oh, no. I used to work late some evenings, but these days Marian gets sleepy by nine, and I like to go up with her to keep her company. I rub her feet. It helps her relax.”

  He rubs her feet without being asked. Absent minded professor business aside, the man’s a saint.

  At the door, she paused with her hand on the knob and turned. “I’ll leave you to your work and see you for breakfast at eight. Please remind Marian about our trip to the store in the morning.”

  “I will, but I know she’s looking forward to it. She’s been feeling pretty cooped up the past couple of weeks.”

  She left him to his work, closing the door with a soft click, and turned to find herself face-to-chest with Nick Rosetti. Her heart jumped to her throat and, without thinking, she shoved hard against his rock-solid chest with both hands.

  Nick stumbled back a step and rubbed his chest. “You pack a quite a wallop.”

  “Oh, stop it. I didn’t hurt anything but your pride.” She kept her voice low but made no effort to suppress her annoyance. “That’s the second time today you’ve snuck up and nearly scared me to death. If you startle me again, you’re going to get a lot more than a bruised ego.”

  His expression was all innocence. “I was coming to ask Lyman a question.”

  She stepped past him. “I don’t believe you. I think you were listening at the door, or maybe even peeking through the keyhole.”

  He snorted. “Nobody peeks through keyholes except in old British mystery movies. Besides, was there anything going on in there that would interest me?”

  Nice try, Sherlock. “Not a thing.”

  He glanced at her feet. “You ankle seems a lot better. Lucky for you I know my way around an ice pack.”

  She lifted her left foot and rotated the injured joint. She
hated to admit it, but he was right. “It is better.”

  Humor glinted in his eyes, and his damned dimple reappeared. “Do you want some help upstairs?” He made a show of glancing around the foyer. “No witnesses.”

  Zoë closed her eyes and counted to three. “No, thank you. I’m going to the kitchen to work on my grocery list for tomorrow. You might as well go out to the garage and do whatever it is you do.”

  “I think I’ll watch television in the living room with Marian for a while.”

  “When I walked past, she was watching The Bachelor.”

  “Oh, good. One of my favorites.”

  One eyelid flashed so quickly she almost missed it before he strolled off toward the living room. Her jaw sagged as she stared at his retreating back.

  What the…? Did I imagine it, or did that jackass just wink at me?

  She shook her head and returned to the kitchen.

  Since the fridge and pantry had so little to offer, she started her list with basic staples. After that, things got complicated. Besides the gingersnaps Lyman had requested and the bratwurst Marian wanted, Zoë had no idea what to prepare. She knew how to boil water for dried pasta and dump a jar of marinara in a pot but suspected that would only invite more snide comments from Nick. She tapped her pen against the notepad for a couple of minutes then had a brainstorm. Pulling out her phone, she started searching, and twenty minutes later she had two pages of ingredients—including everything she needed to make schnitzel and spaetzle.

  Take that, Nick Rosetti!

  She stayed awake half the night, chewing on the problem of the Prescott’s so-called chauffeur. An email from Risa had been waiting for her when she returned to her room. True to form, the Phoenix, Ltd. super sleuth had dug up enough information to confirm that her Nick Rosetti was indeed the same man who, until last year, had been a detective with the Detroit PD. He had left the force after a shootout with a gangbanger in which an innocent civilian had been killed. The exact circumstances of the incident had been under investigation at the time the article was written, and Risa hadn’t found any follow up.

  She had, however, found a recent address in Arlington Heights, as well as evidence that he’d applied for and received an Illinois Private Investigator’s license, but that was all. Nothing to suggest he’d gone to work for an existing agency or set up his own.