The Magician Murders (The Art of Murder 3)

“Well, howdy!” She pushed the door wide. “Come in, come in. I’ve got a pot on now. And call me Ruby, honey. Mrs. Kennedy was my mother.” She wore jeans and a baggy white sweater. Her blue eyes, so like Sam’s, raked him over. “I’m surprised to see you. I figured you’d be down for the count today.”

“No way,” Jason said. “I’m a fast healer.”

“You must be.” She had to raise her voice over the yapping poodles. “You looked sicker than a dog last night. How about hot cinnamon rolls to go with that coffee?”

“Thanks!” Jason called back.

“Have a seat.” She nodded to a small table covered by a yellow and white cloth featuring smiling rabbits hunting for Easter eggs. “I saw Sam drive out.”

The killer poodles were falling over each other in their effort to keep him ringed and at bay. With a mutter of exasperation, Ruby scooped all three of them up and tossed them into what appeared to be a laundry room off the kitchen. She closed the door on their outraged protests.

“Shut up, you mutts,” she called without heat. To Jason, she said, “Sam thinks I should get a police dog, but they’re good company. How do you like your coffee?”

“Black.” Jason gazed around the cozy kitchen. There was an abundance of dishrags and tea towels featuring cute barnyard animals, canisters and jars following the country-kitchen motif, and ivy and herbs growing out of copper tea kettles and creamers. Several framed photos sat on the corner shelf of the island. Even across the room, Jason thought he could spot Sam, though it was hard to picture Sam as a toothless baby. More easy to recognize him in that skeptical-looking second-grader with the cowlick.

A small television sat on the end of the sink counter. Fox News was on, and as usual everything was the previous administration’s fault.

“How’s the ankle?” Ruby asked, pouring coffee into another of those vintage Hazel Atlas mugs.

“Okay,” Jason replied absently.

She followed his gaze to the television. Her sideways grin reminded him a little of that tiny twitch Sam’s mouth made when he was privately amused. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” she said.

“Ah.” He took the plate of cinnamon rolls she offered. “Do you bake these yourself?”

“It’s my recipe. They bake ’em over at the Cactus Café.”

A newspaper lay on the table. The mention of the official opening of a new

magic club called Top Hat White Rabbit caught Jason’s eye. Once upon a time, like a lot of boys who felt they didn’t quite fit in, Jason had been interested in magic. And, like a lot of boys—and girls—he’d been disappointed once he realized the prosaic solutions behind most of the baffling illusions that fascinated and thrilled him. He still appreciated a great magic show, though nowadays he refrained from performing his own card tricks unless very, very drunk.

Ruby was asking, “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a log. That’s a very comfortable bed—and a very comfortable guest house you have. You don’t try to rent it out?”

Ruby laughed. “No. I keep it ready for Sam. I keep hoping he’s going to visit more. Maybe when he retires.” She made a face and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “If I’m still alive.”

Mandatory retirement for brick agents was fifty-seven, but the Bureau had limited discretion to keep agents on until age sixty-five. When it came to legendary BAU Chiefs? Who knew? Jason suspected Sam privately intended to leave feet first.

He took a bite of one of the cinnamon rolls. Mm. Soft, fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. Not too sugary and just enough cinnamon. He chewed, swallowed, took another bite. “This is great.”

She nodded in agreement. “You work with Sam?”

“I have in the past.” Jason explained how he’d first met Sam in Massachusetts, working the Kingsfield case. He didn’t tell her how he and Sam had disliked each other at first or how personal that case had been for him. Mostly he stuck to describing his role on the Art Crime Team.

Ruby listened politely. “So you live in Los Angeles?”

“Yes.”

Her thinly plucked brows rose in some private doubt, but what she said was, “Do you just protect other people’s work, or are you an artist too?”

“No. I gave up the idea of being a painter early on.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you’re the first you-know-friend Sam’s ever brought home. I’m naturally curious.”

You-know-friend. Was that a euphemism, or was she fishing? Fox News had raised some questions in his mind.

He kept his expression impassive. “I think the job keeps him pretty busy.”