a Touch of TNT (An Everly Gray Adventure) (9 page)

The directory indicated that North Construction was on the third floor, and I vaguely remembered Clyde mentioning he was “suspended” when he’d been here to wash windows. With that thought another shiver chilled my bones.

When we stepped off the elevator, we faced a glass wall that had NORTH CONSTRUCTION
written in discreet black lettering to the right of a beveled door. I squeezed Mitch’s hand and nodded at the door. “There aren’t any fingerprints.”

“And how much satisfaction will you get out of fixing that oversight?” he asked with a wink.

I planted my hand firmly against the door and pushed, then twisted it a little to smear the handprint. Foggy images of the receptionist with a bottle of Windex and a soft cloth flashed through my mind. Damn. My fingers were still acting hinky.

The receptionist greeted us with slightly raised eyebrows. Her cherry red lips surrounded professionally whitened teeth, the contrast jarring in its intensity. She had a smooth, pale complexion framed by straight, black hair, and her eyes didn’t hold a trace of welcome.

“Woman’s the closest thing to a ghost I’ve ever seen,” I whispered through tight lips. Another chill scurried along my spine.

Mitch rested his hand on my shoulder, heavy and reassuring.

“How may I help you?” The sound of her voice resonated cool and brittle against the new-age music that played softly in the background.

I considered the décor of the office, and what it might tell me about North, while Mitch chatted up the receptionist. Black, white, and gray tones blended into stark lines, and the only seating option a modern sofa that looked less than body-friendly. Made my colorful dress stand out against the bland background.

When Ms. Ghost left us with a promise to check on Mr. North’s availability, I glanced at Mitch, then nodded at the sofa. “He must not want clients to get too comfortable while they wait for appointments”

“Yeah? You think that’s some kind of seat? Looks more like modern art.”

I tucked my hand into his. “It feels like we’ve stepped into a vacuum what with the lack of color and the ghost of a mannequin that greeted us. Granted I don’t hang out with the rich and famous, but this is a business. Isn’t there usually some hustle and bustle, people doing things, phones ringing, the sound of commerce? I don’t know, something, anything to indicate life beyond the abyss?”

Mitch glanced around. “If this were a white-glove investment firm or top-of-the-line attorney’s office, I’d say it fit my expectations. Except for the music. They’d be piping in classical in a high-class office.”

“But this is a construction company.” Doubt drifted through my voice.

“My point, exactly.” He shrugged, careless. “But then my work is either outside or in government offices. I’m not up on the latest in the business world.”

Ms. Ghost reappeared and gestured for us to follow her. As we paraded down the hall I had the distinct impression it was only a matter of time before we disappeared into a different dimension. Eerie. Gave me the willies.

There was a large semi-circular alcove cut into the left side of the hallway with a desk, telephone, and computer. The woman sitting behind the desk was slightly older than the receptionist, but she had the same black hair, done in a sleek bob, and the same cherry red lipstick. Must be a requirement to work here—red lips and black hair. North obviously went for the vampire look in his choice of personnel.

She stood as we entered her alcove. Rail thin and slightly shorter than me, her lips curved in a plastic smile. “What can Mr. North help you with?”

Her voice was low with a soft, monotonous rasp, like she didn’t use it much.

“A house.” Quick and to the point. Not my usual style, but I didn’t want her to pick up on the way my body was quivering.

“A consultation, then. I can fit you into Mr. North’s schedule in the next day or two if you’re interested in building a personal residence, but if you have a more complex construction issue, he doesn’t have any openings until after next week.”

Mitch took the lead. “We’re interested in building a house.” He smiled at me with a very non-Mitch expression, a little sweet, a little simple, and a lot like he’d just love to spend as much money as possible on a house. Preferably more than it was worth.

It must have been an effective ploy because Ms. Raspy Voice, who still hadn’t bothered to introduce herself, disappeared down the white hallway toward what I hoped was North’s office.

I shivered.

Mitch slid his arm around my shoulders and turned me into his shoulder. “We can leave any time, Sunshine. Just walk right out of here.”

Ms. Raspy Voice came up behind us. “Mr. North will see you the day after tomorrow—”

“Oh, no, that won’t do at all.” I added a bit of hysteria to my words. Easy to do considering the creepies crawling down my spine.

She gave me another one of those plastic smiles. The Botox must have set her back a few thousand. “No?”

Mitch opened his mouth, and I jabbed my elbow into his ribs. Next week didn’t fit with my plans or my curiosity. “Ms…”

“Marcy Blaine. I’m Mr. North’s assistant.”

I poured on the sugar. “Ms. Blaine, it would mean so much to us if Mr. North could make an exception since we’re here and all. We’re
so
excited about building our house and we heard that North Construction is just the very
best
around. Please, if you could ask him to see us for a few minutes. Mitch—” I glanced up at him with what I hoped were dewy, adoring eyes— “has to go out of town next week and won’t be back until next month. We’re going to have our engagement party then, and he’s planning to make a formal presentation of my ring…and everything is going to be
so
perfect. And we want to announce that we’ve started on our new home at the same time. I’m,
we’re
, really sorry to disturb him, but he
is
here in the office and so are we. If we could just meet with him for a few minutes it would mean
ever
so much to us.”

I could feel Mitch fighting not to laugh and I really, really hoped he’d be successful because Marcy’s fingers had moved away from her keyboard. “He simply isn’t taking any appointments today due to the sudden death of a friend. Now what time would be good for the day after tomorrow?”

She bent over her keyboard, fingers poised to type.

I sniffed and delicately blotted my dry eyes with the tips of my fingers.

Marcy wet her lips. And were tears pooling in her eyes? Her gaze fluttered over me. This was a southern woman who understood that The Wedding trumped death hands down.

She sniffed, and then ran her hands down her thighs, straightening her skirt. “Well, I’ll ask if he’ll be willing to see you for a minute—just to get things started.”

When she’d disappeared down the hall, Mitch sucked in a breath. “Sunshine, if I hadn’t heard that with my own ears I wouldn’t have believed it. So much BS. Such a tiny woman.”

I winked.

Marcy came back all smiles. “Mr. North will see you for a few minutes, but he’s expected at the funeral home to make arrangements. We’ll set up an actual appointment when Mr. Hunt—” her gaze crawled down Mitch’s body— “Mitchell, returns from his trip. This way please.”

I slid my foot out to trip her, but Mitch hauled me against him. “Not a good move, Sunshine,” he whispered next to my ear.

We followed her down the hall to a glass-walled office, the effect made me dizzy. It was like floating in space. A wave of nausea crept up from my belly and lodged in my throat. I swallowed and shifted my focus to North. He sat behind a shiny ebony desk, the picture of yuppie perfection—blond hair with just the right amount of shag, blue eyes, and whitened teeth.

Marcy used her shoulder to push against the door separating us from North’s inner sanctum. It matched the one at the main entrance, the glass devoid of fingerprints. I reached out and planted my hand, leaving a perfect print.

Mitch bit down on his lower lip.

More foggy images of the receptionist with the Windex touched my awareness. Nothing else.

We all mumbled socially correct greetings, and then North shook hands with Mitch. I was next. I’d been caught up in my debutante act, leaving handprints, and keeping the nausea at bay, and hadn’t thought ahead to the touching part of this encounter.

I planted a smile on my face, offered North my right hand and braced the knuckles of my left hand on the edge of his desk—just in case I was hit with the image of him killing Jacobson.

My fingers curled around his hand and pictures flashed across my mind. Some clear, some with gray edges. None of them made him a murderer. I sank into the chair Mitch had thoughtfully slid behind me, and reached for the reassuring warmth of his hand. Now that I was here and had a bunch of images to process, I was suddenly tongue-tied.

Mitch filled the silence with an explanation about building our dream home and how happy we were. He managed to sound nothing like the Mitch I knew, which was good under the circumstances, but also bad because it sent me deeper into the eerie world of make-believe.

He squeezed my hand. Steady and strong, the real Mitch shining through the fabrication of yuppie Mitch. Who knew the man was such a good actor?

North was not at his best. Rumpled clothes, beads of sweat dotted his upper lip, and he kept clearing his throat and fiddling with the knot in his tie. He pulled out some drawings, scattered them across his desk. “Some of our current projects,” he said, running his hand over the array.

Mitch leaned forward and focused on the pictures, all the while keeping up a patter of sympathetic comments about Jacobson’s death, mixed with a description of the type of home we were looking for.

When I realized he was describing his house, I opened my mouth to add some design features from the property my parents had left me, and then promptly clamped down on my tongue. I couldn’t talk about my refuge. Not out loud. A shrink would say I haven’t accepted my parents’ death, even though it’s been ten years since I lost them. Only one person knew about the house. Tynan Pierce. But Pierce keeping a secret isn’t a problem. The man didn’t share his favorite flavor of ice cream, much less information of any importance.

Mitch squeezed my hand. Hard. Brought me back to reality and I realized North was standing behind his desk, expectant. I filled the gap with a Julia Roberts smile, then added a society-girl simper to explain my vacant mind.

It worked.

Gave Mitch time to fill in the conversational gap so I could catch up with the discussion. Apparently, North suggested we look over some properties currently under construction and we were to stop by Marcy’s desk to collect the list of addresses.

The goodbye ritual was over before I could blink, and then Marcy handed a sheet of paper to Mitch.

She offered him her hand and a smile. And then she turned to me, arm outstretched. My fingers brushed her skin. Foggy images of her typing the addresses flashed on my internal monitor and fear slithered down my spine.

What the heck was that about?

It was just a list of properties.

SEVEN

“What did you see when
you touched North?”

I had to give him credit. Mitch waited until we were on our way to lunch before he asked. Gave me time to regroup.

“He didn’t kill Jacobson.”

“Okay,” he said, watching me carefully. “Keep talking.”

I pulled my iPad out of my handbag. “North is creepy, and I want to get some notes down while I’m talking to you so I don’t lose any of my impressions.”

“Your touch thing working okay?”

I took another swallow of water and a deep breath, then let my mind go back to the sensations and images I picked up from North. “No. It’s fluctuating between normal and foggy with the gray edges.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Not great, but okay.” I shook off the worry. Now wasn’t the time to go postal about it, not with the North issue front and center on my to-do list.

“The first thing I noticed wasn’t connected to my touch thing. The anxiety North was experiencing, you know, how he was sweating and the agitation he couldn’t seem to get under control.”

Mitch steered around a semi that couldn’t get in gear and then nodded.

“Well, for someone who selected the décor of that office, it didn’t make sense that he would be anything but collected. It threw me. Enough so I was off balance when we shook hands.”

“You’re not typing.” He pointed at the blank iPad.

“Yeah. Can’t seem to type and talk at the same time. North didn’t kill Jacobson, Mitch. Mostly what came through were images of Jacobson taking him under his wing. Seemed protective. Like a big brother.”

I gave up trying to type and waved my hands around. “Until today, the difference in their ages didn’t register.”

“How much difference?”

“Annie said Jacobson graduated from college ten years before North. But I think there’s a bigger difference in their ages than that. More like twenty years. Maybe Jacobson didn’t go to college right after high school.”

I tapped a few words into my North file. “In any case, they bonded through that club they both belong to.”