Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
He’d watched her at breakfast as she’d spoken about Callie, telling him about their FaceTime call from the night before. Her whole face lit up when she talked about their daughter, and it made him smile. They were going to have to discuss what things would look like regarding Callie moving forward, and he was grateful Noelle seemed open to that, but for now, the leads they’d obtained from her father’s notebook took priority.
Not Callie, not yet. She was safe and happy in South Carolina. And definitely not taking an afternoon to figure out whether they were still as combustible in bed as they’d once been—not that she necessarily had any interest in that whatsoever. After all these years, they might have a small break. Maybe. And that was the focus here and the purpose of her trip.
“Do you have an office?” Noelle asked when he’d pulled away from the curb, breaking him from his turbulent thoughts. “Or do you work from home?”
“I rent a space that’s somewhat close to the shop we’re going to. I used to work solely from home, but it’s never a great idea to invite clients to the place you live. Especially if they end up being disgruntled former clients.”
She laughed softly, turning his way. “Have many of those?”
He shrugged, shooting her a smile. “Not since I stopped dealing with cheating spouses.”
She laughed but then gave a dramatic cringe. “You used to stake out hotel rooms, trying to get a money shot through the drapes?”
“Luckily, that particular scenario never played out. But let me say this—people do really tawdry things when they’re sneaking around. And they don’t always bother with a hotel room.”
“Tawdry. Oh, I bet.” She grinned.
They chatted a little about his job and the police departments he worked with, and it was easy and comfortable. He realized they’d never really interacted like this, and he enjoyed the hell out of it. He enjoyed her. He’d forgotten how much. Although maybe he’d never had a chance to figure that out, as they’d spent the majority of their time getting to know each other under horrendous circumstances, and then there had been suffering in the aftermath. It was hard to fully enjoy someone—or anything, for that matter—when you were struggling to put the pieces of yourself back together. She was funny and quick and laughed easily. He supposed this side of her had always existed. And if she’d lost it completely for a time, she’d obviously taken it back.
“That’s it there,” he murmured, pulling into one of the street parking spots a few doors down from the sign for BAUDELAIRE’S FINE ANTIQUES.
They got out of the car and began walking toward the storefront. It was a warm day, but the awnings provided shade. There were large planters of tropical flowers on each corner, and people strolled the street, window-shopping.
Baudelaire’s display featured several large pieces of furniture, and though Evan knew virtually nothing about antiques, he knew luxury when he saw it. He’d lived among it all his life. These were obviously items that had come from very wealthy homes.
The bell over the door jingled softly as they entered, inhaling the scents of old leather and furniture oil. “Do you know anything about antiques?” Evan asked, leaning into Noelle, whose head was turning this way and that as she took in the myriad items: furniture, linens, paintings, china, and an L-shaped glass jewelry case in the middle of the dim store.
“A little,” she said. “Chantilly has several pieces handed down through her husband’s family. Chantilly didn’t have a good relationship with them. Or her husband, for that matter,” she said cryptically. “But Chantilly says beautiful things should be appreciated, and so she kept them all.”
He’d like to hear more about Chantilly and this deceased husband of hers, but that was for another time.
“May I help you?”
They looked up, and a tall, thin, middle-aged man was approaching. He was wearing a slight smile on his face and had a rather large strawberry birthmark at his hairline.
“Yes,” Evan said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “I’m Evan Sinclair, and this is Noelle Meyer.”
The man took his hand and gave it a shake, his grip much more robust than his appearance. “Gervais Baudelaire.”
Evan retrieved a business card and handed it to the man. “We’re looking for André Baudelaire.”
Gervais looked down at Evan’s business card. “A private investigator?”
“Yes. My . . . partner and I are investigating a cold case, and his name came up.”
“He’s my father,” Gervais said, a crease forming between his brows. “He’s here in our office. Would you like to speak with him?”
“That would be great.”
Gervais gave a nod, tucking Evan’s business card in his vest pocket and then turning and disappearing through the doorway near the back from which he’d emerged. He heard him climbing a set of steps that must go to their business office overhead.