several years ago, but I haven’t been practising. I thought I’d better brush up a little before I tackled the Bar Exam again.”
“The Bar Exam? I thought you only had to take that once.”
“It varies from state to state. I didn’t study in Washington.”
He was hedging; Holly was sure of it. But why? “Where did you study?”
David still would not look at her. “Virginia. Do they pay you extra for washing dishes?”
The sudden shift in the conversation unsettled Holly, as did something she sensed in this man. In a flash it occurred to her that he might be a very clever reporter looking for a story. Her cooking career usually didn’t generate a lot of interest, but being third cousin to the next president of the United States just might. And what if he knew about Craig?
Holly paled and withdrew a little. “I can finish this myself,” she said stiffly. “Why don’t you go?”
Now the inky gaze was fixed on her, impaling her, touching that hidden something that did not want to be touched. “Is there a sudden chill in here or am I imagining it?” he countered.
Holly kept her distance. Gone was the feeling of companionship she had enjoyed earlier. There was danger in this man; there was watchfulness. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? She fielded his question with one of her own. “Why would a lawyer want to learn to bake fruitcake?” she asked.
David went right on washing, his hands swift and strong at the task. “For the same reasons the other people in this class do, Holly. There was a bookkeeper, if I remember correctly, and a construction worker—”
“Maybe a journalist or two,” she put in sharply, glaring at him now.
“A journalist?” He looked honestly puzzled for a moment, and then a light dawned in the blue depths of his eyes. “You think I’m a reporter,” he said.
“Are you?”
“No,” came the firm and immediate reply. And Holly believed David Goddard, though she couldn’t have explained why.
“You really want to bake fruitcake?” Did she sound eager? Lord, she hoped not.
David laughed and touched the tip of her nose with a sudsy index finger. “I really want to bake fruitcake.”
They finished cleaning up and David lingered while Holly put on her coat and reached for her purse.
“Was there something else?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. For some reason Number Thirteen had a strange effect on her.
“Yes,” he answered. “I plan to walk you to your car. It’s late and I don’t want you to get mugged.”
Holly felt warm. Protected. Though she cherished her independence, it was nice to have someone looking out for her that way. “Thank you,” she said.
Her car was in a parking tower in the next block, isolated and in shadow. It probably wasn’t safe, walking there alone, but she hadn’t thought of that in her hurry to get to the store and conduct her class. She was glad David was with her.
He waited beside her sporty blue Toyota until she had found her keys, unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. Toby’s model airplane, a miniature Cessna flown by remote control, was on the seat, and she moved it in order to set down her purse and the small notebook she always carried.
“Is that yours?” David asked with interest, his eyes on the expensive toy.
“Actually—” Holly grinned “—it belongs to my nephew, though I do admit to flying it now and then up at Manito Park.”
Again there was an unsettling alertness in David, as though he was cataloging the information for future reference. But why would he do such a thing?
“I have a plane like that,” he said, and Holly ascribed her instant impression that he was lying to weariness and an overactive imagination.
David Goddard was a kind, attractive man, not a reporter or an FBI agent. She was going to have to stop letting her fancy take over at every turn or she would become paranoid. She said goodbye, started the car and backed out of her parking space.
There was a light snow falling and Holly drove up the steep South Hill at a cautious pace, her mind staying behind with David Goddard.
He could be a reporter, she thought distractedly as she navigated the slick, slushy streets. He could even be an FBI agent hoping to find Craig.
Holly laughed at herself and shook her head. “You’d better take up writing fiction, Llewellyn,” she said aloud. “You’ve got the imagination for it.”
But even as she pulled the car to a stop in her own driveway, even as she turned off the engine and gathered up her purse, her notebook and Toby’s airplane from the seat, she couldn’t shake the conviction that David Goddard was something more than a second-time law student who liked to cook.
Inside the house, Holly found her housekeeper and favorite babysitter working happily in front of the living room fireplace. Madge Elkins was a middle-aged woman, still trim and attractive, and her consuming passion was entering contests.
Now, she was busily writing her name and address on one plain white 3-by-5-inch piece of paper after another.
“What are you going to win this time, Madge?” Holly asked pleasantly, putting down the things she carried and getting out of her snow-dampened coat.
“A computer system,” Madge replied, tucking a paper into an envelope and sealing it with a flourish. “Printer, software, monitor, the whole shebang.”
Another person might have laughed, but Holly had known Madge for several years and in that time had seen her win more than one impressive prize in contests. A car, for instance, and a mink coat. “Is Toby sleeping?”
“Like the proverbial log,” Madge answered, gathering a stack of envelopes, all addressed and stamped, into a stack. “You had a couple of phone calls—one from Skyler and one from a man who wouldn’t leave his name.”
Again Holly felt uneasy. “What did he say? The man who wouldn’t give you his name, I mean?”
Madge shrugged, fussing with her contest paraphernalia. “Just that he’d call back. Skyler wants you to call him.”
Holly was suddenly testy. If Skyler wanted to talk to her, he could darned well call back. She saw Madge to the door and then headed off toward the kitchen, planning to take one of her experiments out of the freezer and zap it in the microwave. She’d been running late before cooking class and hadn’t had a chance to eat dinner.
Just as the bell on the microwave chimed, so did the telephone. Muttering, Holly dived for the receiver, afraid that the ringing of the upstairs extension would awaken Toby.
“Hello?” she demanded impatiently.
The voice on the other end of the line was haunted, shaky. “Sis?”
Holly’s knees gave out and she sank into the chair at the desk. “Craig! Where are you? What—”
Her brother laughed nervously and the sound was broken and humorless, painful to hear. “Never mind where I am. You know I can’t tell you that. Your phone might be bugged or something.”
“Craig, don’t be paranoid. Where are you?”
“Let’s just say that this call isn’t long-distance from Kabul. How’s Toby?”
Holly deliberately calmed herself, measuring her tones. She was desperate not to panic Craig and cause him to hang up. “Toby is fine, Craig. How about you?”
“I’m all right. A little tired. More than a little broke.”
Holly closed her eyes. So that was the reason for his call. Money. Why was she always surprised by that? “And you need a few bucks.”
“You