A Gift for Murder

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

The alarm jerked me awake. A shower got my sluggish body moving, but it took those first few sips of the venti quad-shot cappuccino to rouse my mind into something resembling consciousness. As I stood on the Metro platform with all the other Friday morning commuters, I harbored a sneaky hope the trains would stop running for a while to give me an excuse to go back home and back to bed. Not that fate ever managed anything so convenient.

The train arrived with disgusting promptness, and I squished into the nearest car with the rest of the waiting crowd. At least tonight I could look forward to another cab ride home. Small thrills.

The building was already open when I got there at seven-thirty, though the show floor remained locked up tight. Exhibitors weren't allowed in until eight and it opened for everyone else at nine. As usual, I was the first person in the office. I liked having a few quiet minutes to myself, to catch up on paperwork and messages, before the madness of the day started.

I'd only gotten halfway through the new email messages when I heard the elevator ping and the sound of footsteps in the lobby.

I looked up and, after a disorienting moment, recognized Scott Brandon. A suit and tie made such a difference. Or maybe it wasn't the suit and tie. There was something else different about the way he carried himself. It was almost as if he'd lowered his own level of alertness so it was closer to normal, allowing himself to blend in with the rest of the sales-obsessed business people who populated the show.

"How do you do that?" I asked him.

He looked confused. "Do what?"

"Change yourself so much. It's more than just the clothes and the way you've combed your hair. It's like you've changed your attitude, your expression, even the way you walk. How do you do it?"

Instead of answering, he frowned. "You worry me, Heather McNeil."

"Why?"

"You're too smart, too observant, and too curious for your own good."

"Is this the cop warning the civilian to stay out of the way?"

A flash of something that looked like pain crossed his face so quickly I barely saw it. "I'm not a cop. I just act like one for fun and profit."

That second sentence cost him something. I remembered what Craig had said about it not being a good idea to get interested in him. Deep waters here and probably nothing I wanted to dip my toes in. Except there was that curiosity Scott had mentioned. And the fact that I didn't like the thought of him being in pain.

I did the only thing I could think of that might help. I took it the way he wanted. "When you find either fun or profit around here, would you let me know? I'm looking for some myself."

"But do we define either one the same way?"

He had me there and his laugh said he knew it. "One of these days," he continued, "we'll have to compare notes on what fun and profit mean to us. But for now, we have work to do."

I wondered if we would ever do that comparison. It would be interesting to know how Scott defined those things.

When Scott and I went down to the show floor, I have to confess that I gave him more than a once-over in the elevator. The suit looked good on him. The blue shirt and navy striped tie brought out the blue in his oddly colored eyes.

He noted my examination. "Coffee stains on my tie already?"

I felt a flash of heat in my face. "You look fine."

"So I pass the inspection. You think I'll blend in?"

"Well enough." I didn't mention that every woman on the floor would be taking a second and third look at him. The bell pinged and the elevator doors opened, sparing me the need to say more.