First Impressions (Edenton 1)

“No!” Eden shouted when the man pointed his gun at Melissa. Eden leaped to put her own body between the path of the bullet and her daughter.

“Ain’t that sweet?” the man said. “But I ain’t never killed no pregnant woman and I don’t plan to. Now you,” he said, motioning to Eden, “you come with me. I got a couple of men waitin’ to load up the paintin’s, then we’ll get out of your way.”

“Mother,” Melissa said from behind her. “Please—”

“I’ll be all right, won’t I?” she said to the man.

“You behave yourself and you’ll be fine.” He stepped back in the doorway to let Eden pass him, then glanced back at the two people in the icehouse before he shut the door, leaving them in the dark.

Eden walked through the night, trying not to trip on anything. She had an idea that if she fell, the man would shoot her. In fact, she couldn’t see why he hadn’t just stolen the paintings in the first place.

Far ahead of them, behind the house, she saw the outline of a car. His? Or did it belong to the FBI? She glanced back at the man, and he motioned for her to go toward the car. She took another step, then tripped over something and fell to the ground. She braced herself, expecting death.

The man behind her pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and flicked it on. Eden had to work to keep from screaming. Lying on the ground, his nose inches from hers, was a man whose dead eyes were staring into hers. She put her hand in her mouth and bit her knuckles to keep from screaming.

“He a friend of yours?” the man asked, humor in his voice.

“I—” Eden began, trying hard to keep herself together. The man behind her shone his light on the dead body.

“I asked if you know him,” the man said, this time with no humor in his voice.

“He’s—” She went to her knees to try to get up. She thought that perhaps she had been hurt when she fell down the steps in front of the house, and she knew that there were thorns in her body from when Jared—She blinked to keep from remembering him. He couldn’t be dead, could he?

“He worked for Brad,” she said when she was standing. When the man looked puzzled, she said, “Brad is the man you shot in the leg.”

“Oh, him. I’m too nice. Anybody else would have killed him.”

Eden gave him a weak smile that seemed to please him. He motioned for her to step over the body and go to the waiting car. Eden put her head up and tried not to think about what she was doing as she stepped over the legs of Drake Haughton, the young man who was Brad’s architect for Queen Anne. She remembered what Brad had said in the car about the man who was demanding the necklace wanting to go somewhere to paint. Had Drake been a frustrated artist? Had he been the one to paint the watercolors that Tess Brewster had sent to the frame shop?

“I tell you,” the man behind her said, “I don’t know what the world’s comin’ to. With just plain, ordinary people kidnappin’ and robbin’ their friends, what’s left for us professionals to do?”

“You’re a professional criminal?” Eden asked, sounding as though she was asking him if he was a plumber.

“Yeah. Been one for years now. Most of my life, really.”

“Do you enjoy your work?”

“Was that one of them veiled things?”

At first Eden didn’t know what he meant. “A veiled insult? No. I was just curious. How did you find out about the paintings?”

“Applegate. Or whatever he called hisself. Did you know he was a spy? I might have to kill a few people now and then, but I’d never betray my country. But he did.”

“Was the U.S. his country?”

“I don’t know. Hey! Whose side are you on?”

“My daughter’s,” Eden said quickly. “Did you kill Mr. Applegate?”

“Yeah. But he didn’t do nothin’ for my country. He played the ponies and owed my boss a lot. He sold some info and paid some debts, but he’d just rack ’em up again. When my boss got sick of him, I went to see him. He said he knew where millions of dollars in paintin’s were.”

“I see,” Eden said, looking ahead toward the car. She was walking very slowly, but the man didn’t seem to mind. She had an idea that he thought it was a nice night for a stroll. “How did he find out about the paintings?”

“He said he figured out a riddle. That’s what he told my boss. Applegate said he was good at solving riddles and he figured out the one in some book. You read that book?”

“I think perhaps I wrote it,” Eden said softly.

“Not the smartest thing you ever done, was it?”