“Definitely odd,” she said as they turned onto Stockton Street by their hotel. “It was almost as if Mr. Pickering was downplaying the stolen book’s value. Which doesn’t make sense. I’d hate to have been shot over a reprint. Which brings me to my next point. What happened to that promised week of no one trying to kill us?”
“You didn’t think I meant today, did you? Tomorrow. The week starts tomorrow.”
“Well, then. Glad that’s cleared up.”
Inside the lobby, they stopped at the concierge desk, where Remi asked the woman working there to mail the book to their home with the other item she’d purchased earlier that morning—a large ceramic rooster from an antique shop—a gift for their researcher, Selma Wondrash, who said she’d always wanted a rooster for her kitchen.
“Insurance?” the woman asked. “Or special packing instructions?”
“No,” Remi said. “It’s just a book. It’ll be fine.”
“Same address as the rooster?”
“The same.”
“I’ll take care of it for you, Mrs. Fargo.”
“Thank you.”
At the door of their suite, Sam swiped the key card in the lock, then took a quick look inside before allowing Remi to enter. “Good to go,” he said, holding the door for her.
She steppe
d into the room, and on a table in front of the sofa found a plate of sliced green apples, cheese, and a bottle of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé champagne on ice. He was pleased to see that someone from Guest Services had noticed they were later than expected and so refilled the ice bucket. The champagne was chilled to perfection, and the gift he’d arranged to have waiting there was next to the two fluted glasses. He handed the small, distinctively blue Tiffany box to Remi.
“And I didn’t get you a thing.”
“You got me a book.”
“A copy, as it turns out.”
He uncorked the champagne. “You’ll make up for it later.”
“Maybe,” she said, untying the ribbon and lifting the lid to find a gold chain with a vintage-looking diamond-studded oval key charm. “The key to your heart?”
“No key needed there.”
“Let’s hope it’s not to my new front door.” She slipped the necklace over her head. “Imagine the cost to replace it every time we had to rekey.”
“With all the security features we have recently added, diamond-studded keys would be the least of our expenses.” In fact, they’d spent a small fortune turning their house into a veritable fortress after it had nearly been destroyed during a massive home invasion. Peace of mind, he thought, handing her a glass. Then, raising his own, he said, “New promise. Starting tomorrow, nothing but rest, relaxation, and a week of no one trying to kill us. Ah, yes . . . and my undivided attention.”
“I’m holding you to your promise on that last part, Fargo.”
“No one trying to kill us? Or my undivided attention?”
“Both would be nice,” she said, touching her glass to his.
“Indeed.”
Remi was still asleep when Sam awoke the next morning. He quietly rose from the bed and ordered their breakfast from room service. By the time it arrived, Remi emerged from the bedroom, her lithe form wrapped in a cream silk robe, her long auburn hair still damp from the shower. She kissed him, then took a seat at the table.
He poured her coffee and slid it across the table toward her, then resumed reading his paper. “Sleep well?”
“I did,” she said, spooning fresh fruit into a small bowl of Greek yogurt. “Where are we off to today?”
“And spoil the surprise? Not saying.” Sam turned the page of the Chronicle, scanning the articles, when his gaze caught on the headline Robbery Victim Dies from Apparent Heart Attack. “This changes things . . .”
“What?”