Allen Taylor didn’t even blink. “When did Corsair start stealing keys?”
“Yesterday. Where’s Mother?”
“Helping Chase, I assume. She went to see if he needed help.”
“Oh. Half a minute, Poppy; let me finish this page and I’ll be through for the day.” Gypsy was trying desperately not to think about Chase’s first meeting with her mother. But… oh, she wished she could be a butterfly poised on a flower out there….
Just as she was pulling the last sheet out of Herman, her father spoke again. He’d wandered over to her bookcase, and now held the masked rider’s souvenir in his hand.
“What’s this?”
“What does it look like? It’s a silver bullet obviously.”
“Silver plated,” her father corrected gravely.
“It’s the thought that counts,” Gypsy reproved.
“Oh. Where did you get it?”
“That’s obvious too.”
“I see.” He placed the souvenir back on the shelf.
Gypsy’s father was very good at not asking nosy questions.
They had just stepped into the living room when her mother and Chase came inside. And Chase looked so utterly bemused and fascinated that Gypsy wanted to burst out laughing.
Many mothers and daughters look like sisters; Gypsy and her mother looked like twins. The same height, roughly the same weight, the same short black curls and wide gray eyes. They were even dressed similarly in jeans and blue knit pullovers. It was an odd thing, but even if they were in different parts of the country, nine times out of ten Gypsy and her mother would wear at least the same colors on any given day.
Rebecca Taylor, née Thorn, looked eighteen. The only thing that set her apart from her daughter in looks was a single silver curl at her left temple. Her voice was different, slower and richer with age, but her conversation made Gypsy’s sound positively rational by comparison. And she never missed a thing.
“Hi, Mother.” Gypsy hugged her mother briefly. “I see you’ve met Chase.”
“Yes. Gypsy, you need to talk to Corsair. Stealing keys is a very irritating habit.”
“I will, Mother.” Gypsy swallowed a laugh as she glanced at Chase. “Poppy—Chase Mitchell. Chase, my father, Allen Taylor.”
Still bemused, Chase nearly forgot to shake hands.
It was a fun day. Gypsy’s parents had the knack of setting anyone at ease immediately, and they both obviously liked Chase. As for Chase, he’d apparently decided to go with the tide. Although he still tended to blink whenever he looked at Rebecca—particularly whenever she and Gypsy were standing near each other—he was quickly back on balance again.
Rebecca commandeered the kitchen to cook lunch, towing Chase along behind her when Gypsy helpfully mentioned his culinary skill. Allen and Gypsy were almost immediately ordered to make a trip to the store when the cupboard was found to be bare. Corsair and Bucephalus got into the act, mainly by being constantly chased from the kitchen by Rebecca.
When Gypsy looked back on the day, she remembered snippets of conversations, frozen stills from the action.
“Why didn’t you tell me that your mother was also your twin? I made a total fool of myself in that tree!”
“There are no fools in my mother’s orbit—just interesting people.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
“Believe it. My mother expects to find strange men in trees.”
“A sane man would run like a thief in the night.”
“Are you sane?”
“Apparently not.”
“He’s a redhead.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Temper?”
“So far, no. But give him time; I only met him Friday.”
“I like his eyes. Would he sit for me?”
“Like a shot, I imagine. He likes your work.”
“He cooks well.”
“Yes, Mother. Military schools.”
“Really? That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“He stands and moves like a soldier. Precise.”
“I haven’t noticed.”
“Of course not, darling.”
“Mother.
“I like your Chase, darling.”
“He’s not mine, Poppy.”
“Better tell him that.”
“I have. The man’s deaf.”
“The man has good taste.”
“You’re prejudiced.”
“Slightly. Not that it matters.”
“Gypsy, Corsair’s sitting in the sink.”
“Check his water dish, Mother.”
“Chase, why do you keep letting Bucephalus inside?”
“Sorry, Rebecca, but he knocks.”
“Do you let in every salesperson who knocks?”
“Only the ones with good legs.”
“Chauvinist.”
“Dyed-in-the-wool.”
“Chase, what were you talking to Mother about? You look strange.”
“I feel strange. She just told me the story of how Allen managed to catch her. No wonder you wouldn’t tell me.”
“Well, it’s their story. Don’t take it too much to heart, by the way.”
“You mean, don’t let it give me ideas?”
“Something like that.”
“I wouldn’t dare. You look like her, but you’re not Rebecca. You’d come after me with a gun.”
“I’m glad you realize that.”
“Military schools don’t produce idiots.”
By the time Gypsy tumbled into bed that night, she was still laughing softly. The little party had broken up only an hour before, with Chase saying good night along with Rebecca and Allen.
Gypsy pushed Corsair off her foot and turned off the lamp, settling down to sleep.
The phone rang. Gypsy reached for it automatically. “Hello?”
“Did you dream about me last night?”
She smiled into the darkness. “I told you I would.”
“Reality’s better than dreams.”
“Oh, really?”
“I could show you.”
“I don’t know who you are,” she told him serenely.
“I could show you that too.”
“It’s better this way. Ships passing in the night, unseen.”
“But lovers have to meet.”
“It would destroy the mystery.”
“‘But love is such a mystery,’” he quoted softly.
Gypsy found herself automatically quoting the last line of the verse. “And would you be ‘such a constant lover’?”
“Eternally, love. Eternally. Sleep well.”
Gypsy cradled the receiver slowly, gently. She plumped up her pillow and lay back, thinking whimsical thoughts. About a white horse and a masked rider. About an inept gardener and a marvelous cook. About a late-night caller who quoted obscure poetry and called her love.
About a lover.
five
THE OLD SAYING ABOUT TIME PASSING ON winged feet had never meant anything to Gypsy until that next week. The days flew by.
Chase was in, out, and around. Going up the tree after Corsair became a morning ritual; no matter where Chase hid his keys (even under his pillow one night, he said), the cat always found them. Chase began to talk darkly about felines murdered in the night.
He didn’t interfere unduly with Gypsy’s work, although he insisted on making sure that she ate at regular intervals. So he either cooked, carted in a bag of “take-out” something, or took her out somewhere. He kept her laughing, continued his talk of seduction … and never once tried to follow through.
He kissed her occasionally, but Gypsy was never quite sure what kind of kiss it would be or where it would land. A gentle kiss on her forehead, a playful kiss on her nose… or a hungry kiss that left her lips throbbing and her knees weak.
Always prone to talk to herself, Gypsy was fast approaching the point of answering herself as well.
And Chase was obviously having problems o
f his own. He stalked in late Tuesday afternoon, tightly reining the first sign of temper Gypsy had ever seen in him. With what looked like heroic patience he announced, “There’s a white cat in my bedroom closet that has chosen to have three kittens in a box containing my new dinner jacket.”
Looking up from the page she’d been proofing, Gypsy blinked at him in bewilderment. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” she asked reasonably.
Chase hung on to control. “Corsair,” he explained through gritted teeth, “is standing guard at the closet door, and won’t let me near them.”
Frowning, Gypsy said reproachfully, “You aren’t supposed to disturb newborn kittens.”
Chase looked toward the heavens imploringly. Gypsy went on in a puzzled voice. “Why wasn’t your dinner jacket hanging up? It should have been, you know.”
“I didn’t get the chance to hang it up. It was delivered yesterday; I just checked to make sure it was my order and left the open box in the bottom of the closet.” He stared at her. “I thought you only had one cat.”
“I do. She must be Corsair’s girlfriend. I knew he had one around here, but I’ve never seen her.”
“Couldn’t we transfer the family over here?”
“With Bucephalus around? She’d only move them back, Chase. Cats are particular.”
“Would you like me to tell you how much her nest is worth?” Chase asked politely.
Gypsy wasn’t listening. “Chase, does she have blue eyes?”
He blinked. “I don’t know. Corsair won’t let me close enough to turn on the closet light, and it’s dim in there. Why?”
“Well, if she’s solid white and has blue eyes, she’s probably deaf. I’ll bet that’s why Corsair’s protecting her.”
“Deaf?”
“It’s fairly common. Some kind of genetic defect, I think.”
He stared at her.
“There’s cat food in the kitchen,” Gypsy murmured, trying not to laugh. “Help yourself.”
“Gee, thanks.” He left.
Chase apparently became accustomed to his new pets. He gave Gypsy periodic reports and complained of being unable to sleep at night because of squeaks and rustles in his closet. He also made a sort of peace with Corsair, since it was impossible to get to his closet through a hostile cat. But the morning key-ritual continued.
And Gypsy’s “night lover” continued to call. More obscure poems were quoted, and the conversations became more and more suggestive. She looked forward to the telephone calls each night and found that she was sleeping better than ever before. The calls were… a nice way to end the day, Gypsy thought.
Whenever he thought she’d been working too hard, Chase pulled Gypsy away from her typewriter. For a meal. For a walk on the beach. She didn’t protest because she wasn’t far enough into her story to become obsessed by it. But she knew that, sooner or later, Chase would discover a witch with a capital B sitting at the desk where his laughing companion had sat just the day before. She didn’t look forward to that day.
In the meantime he kept coming up with things for them to do together. On Thursday afternoon he announced his latest plan.
“It’s a masquerade party. In Portland.”
“Are you serious? I thought those things went out with hoop skirts.”
“I’m serious. It’s for charity. So be a good girl and rent a costume tomorrow.”
“I’m without a car, remember.”
“I’ll loan you mine.”
“Like to live dangerously, don’t you?”
“Always.”
Gypsy reflected. “A masquerade. What kind of costume should I get? Or does it matter?”
“It matters. Old West.”
“It’d serve you right if I went dressed as Calamity Jane.”
“Don’t do that. Your gun and my sword would get all tangled up when we dance.”
“Your what?”
“Sword.”
“What Old West character wore a sword?”
“Wait and see.”
“Beast. Just for that, I’ll come as a saloon girl.”
“With feathers?”
“And sequins.”
“Oh, good.”
“You’ll have to fight the other cowboys off me with a stick,” she warned him gravely.
“I’ll use my sword. I’ve always wanted to challenge somebody to a duel.”
“Murder?”
“An affair of honor,” he corrected nobly.
“Only if he’s bigger than you. Otherwise it’s murder. And you’re talking to someone who knows murder.”
Chase perched on the corner of her desk, obviously willing to stay and talk for a while. “So tell me, what’s the perfect murder weapon?”
“No such animal.” She chewed on a knuckle thoughtfully, her chair leaning backward until it was in imminent danger of going over. “I’ve always wanted to use the jawbone of an ass as a murder weapon. Interesting, huh?”
“I think that’s been done.”
“Not recently.”
“You’d know better than me.”
“Naturally.”
“What’s your plot in this book?”
“I don’t talk about them until they’re finished.”
“That’s cruel. You know I’m a mystery buff.”
“No exceptions.”
“Orders from the muse?”
“I suppose.”
“I’ll rig a Chinese water torture.”
“Go feed your cats.”
“That’s ‘the unkindest cut of all.’”
Gypsy drove Chase’s car—very carefully—into Portland on Friday to get a costume. She toyed with the idea of finding the briefest saloon-girl costume possible, but discarded the notion.
She wanted something else.
She found the something else in the first costume-rental shop listed in the Yellow Pages. So far, Chase had seen her in nothing but shorts or jeans, and she wanted to wear something feminine. And what could be more feminine than a long dress with a hoop skirt?
Gypsy didn’t question her desire to look feminine. She wasn’t questioning anything these days. And that was a bad sign. But she didn’t want to question that either.
The boxes were loaded into the trunk of the Mercedes, and Gypsy left the rental shop. She ran a few errands in Portland, and then headed back toward the coast. It was late afternoon when she arrived back home.
She parked Chase’s car in his driveway and collected the boxes from the trunk, absently putting the keys in the pocket of her jeans. Chase was nowhere to be seen; she shrugged, then carried the boxes across to her house.
She hung the costume in her bedroom, put away the few odds and ends she’d bought, and then settled down in the living room with the book of poetry she’d found in a used bookstore. Obscure poems and poets. Her “night lover” had her on her mettle, and she wanted to refresh her memory. She ended up going through two more books from her shelves, discovering a treasure-trove in Donne and Shakespeare.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading poetry. You did say that the masquerade is tomorrow night, didn’t you?” She looked up from her cross-legged position on the floor to peer at Chase over the tops of her study glasses.
“Tomorrow night it is.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaned against the bookcase, gazing down at her with a smile that looked as if it were trying hard to hide. “Do your murderers read poetry to their victims at the eleventh hour?” he asked gravely.
Gypsy pushed the glasses back up her nose. “Are you kidding?” She narrowed her eyes expressively. “My murderers stalk their victims on cloven hooves.”
“Mmm. Then why are you reading poetry?”
“I like poetry, peasant.”
“I beg your pardon, I’m sure.”
Gypsy pulled off the glasses and waved them magnanimously. “You’re forgiven.”
“Thank you. There’s another pair on top of your head.”
“What?”
“Another pair of glasses.”
That explained his trying-not-to-smile expression, Gypsy thought. She pulled off the second pair and set them absently on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.
“Does it take two pairs for you to read poetry?” he asked politely.
“Never mind.”
He went on conversationally. “I’ve counted eight pairs of glasses scattered throughout this house. All in strange places. Like the pair I found in the refrigerator yesterday.”
“I wonder why I put them in there?” Gypsy murmured, more to herself than to him.
“I haven’t the faintest idea, and I don’t think I want to know.”
“Smart man.”
“But what I would like to know”—he pointed at the corner of her desk, where a new acquisition was sitting—“is why you got that during your trip into Portland.”
That was a statue of an eleven-inch-tall Buddha with a clock in its stomach. A broken clock.
Gypsy ran her fingers through her black curls and gave him a harassed look. “I asked myself that. What do you want with a Buddha with a clock in his tummy? No answer. I must have been possessed. There was a garage sale, and somehow or other… Anyway I paid five bucks for it.” She shook her head darkly.
Chase reached down and pulled her to her feet. He removed the glasses from her hand and tossed them lightly onto the desk. Then he caught her in a tight bear hug. “Gypsy,” he said whimsically, “I can’t tell you what a delight you are to me.”
She pulled back far enough to look up at him blankly. “Because I bought a Buddha?”
He laughed. “No, because you’re you. I thought we’d cook out tonight; how do you like your steaks?”
“Cooked.” Gypsy made no effort to disentangle herself from his embrace.
“There goes that sharp tongue again, Gypsy mine. You shouldn’t sass your elders; you’re liable to get paddled.”
“Are you my elder? I didn’t know.”
“I’m thirty-two, brat.”
“Methuselah.”
He swatted her jean-clad bottom lightly. “How do you like your steak?”
“Well done. And stop hitting me!”
“It’ll teach you not to sass me.” Chase was unrepentant.
“I’ll sic Bucephalus on you!” she threatened.