Tommy grinned. Sam gave his shoulder a squeeze. “What do you say?”
“Thank you!” He threw his arms around Jennifer, who toppled back onto her behind then laughed at his exuberance.
Sam’s heart squeezed uncomfortably at how good she was with the boy. He scooped Tommy into his arms then offered Jennifer a hand. “Sorry about that.”
Laughter continued to brim in her eyes. “No need to apologize. That’s the best hug I’ve had in a long time.”
“How have you been? Did the police catch the jerk who vandalized your car?” Sam knew they hadn’t, but he hoped his concern would win her confidence.
“No, but thankfully there haven’t been any more incidents.” She fussed with the delicate gold cross resting on a fine chain at her throat, and Sam wondered if the symbol actually meant something to her. She bit her bottom lip, looking way too vulnerable for his comfort.
She’s a suspect, he reminded himself. Just because she got threatened didn’t mean she wasn’t guilty. Criminals threatened other criminals all the time. For all he knew, she was aware of who was behind the attack and couldn’t identify him without revealing her own crimes.
“Except...” She let out a breath. “Last night someone kept calling my apartment and not saying anything.”
That wasn’t good. “You tell the police? Try getting the number from the phone company?”
Her rejected grant applicant hadn’t had an airtight alibi for the night of the attack, but without fingerprints or security video to connect him to the scene, the local PD hadn’t been able to charge him.
“No, I just unplugged the phone.” She offered a self-deprecating smile.
“That works, too.” He didn’t want to examine too closely why seeing that smile made him happy. She’d confided in him. It was a good start. His job was to gain her trust. Pure and simple. He set Tommy down as they stepped out of the gallery.
“Hold up a sec.” The clerk hurried over and pressed a small note into Jennifer’s hand. “The information you wanted.”
“Thank you.” She quickly tucked the note into her pocket before turning back to Sam.
Instinctively he knew the exchange had to be connected to his case. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place. So why did he feel so disappointed?
* * *
Jennifer fingered the paper in her pocket, debating how to get away from Sam for a few minutes to make the call in private. She’d recognized the ship’s curator from the Seattle gallery where he used to work—one that had had a scandal he’d exposed, much to the owner’s dismay. He’d seen right though her veiled questions about his experience and offered her the number of the PI he’d used.
Sam steered his nephew a wide berth around the art displays lining the hall. “I guess the art world’s tight-knit?”
Reflexively Jen’s hand crumpled the paper with the PI’s number. “Pardon me?”
Sam motioned to the ship’s gallery curator. “You all know each other.”
“Oh, yes, he used to be at a Seattle gallery, but I’m not actually all that involved with the gallery, aside from attending the odd opening night for special exhibits.” She glanced around at the ship’s eclectic collection. There were few pastoral scenes like her mother’s beloved early works. “My uncle insists I put in an appearance. Says it’s bad for business if the owners don’t show.” Why was she telling Sam all this?
“Your uncle?”
“The gallery’s curator. He’s not really an uncle. He was our guardian after our parents died, so we call him Uncle.” She bit her lip to stop her nervous rambling. She wasn’t sure what had her more rattled—the idea of hiring a PI to spy on him while they were away, or the thought of what other illegal activities he might be up to. “Um... could you excuse me a minute? I need to make a phone call before I catch up with my sister.”
“Go ahead. Tommy and I will browse for a few minutes.”
Jennifer moved to the groupings of couches and chairs on the other side of the wide hall opposite the specialty dining room next to the gallery and, turning toward the ship’s windows, pulled out her cell phone.
The same sense of being watched that she’d felt outside the gallery last week shivered down her spine. Surreptitiously she scanned the wide hall and dining area beyond. A waiter in a crisp white shirt and black pants and vest approached. A linen napkin lay draped over his arm, and a glass of amber liquid on ice sat on his small round tray. He presented it to her with a slight bow.
“You have the wrong person. I didn’t order a drink.”
“It is complimentary,” he said in broken English.
Jen glanced toward the bar, wondering if he meant someone had bought it for her, but she didn’t see anyone looking her way. Her gaze skittered down the hall to the gallery where Sam stood with a cell phone pressed to his ear, frowning at the waiter. His attention jerked back to Tommy.
“Thank you,” she said to the waiter without reaching for the glass. “But I don’t drink.”
“Not alcohol. Ginger ale,” the waiter assured.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
She scanned the bar area again, but no one seemed ready to take credit for the offering. “Did someone buy this for me?” she enunciated each word slowly, hoping the waiter would understand.
He shook his head. “First day. First drink free.”
The ice tinkling in the glass sure looked tempting. Everyone else sitting along the window seats held similar glasses. “Thank you.” She accepted the drink and took a sip.
After a slight bow, the waiter withdrew.
Jennifer dialed the PI’s number, but the call rolled immediately to voice mail. She waited a minute and tried again. Then a third time. She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. They had two and a half hours before the ship left port and perhaps another hour after that before she lost cell phone reception. She’d try again later.
She stuffed her phone back in her purse and rejoined Sam and Tommy, who’d plopped himself on the floor and started coloring.
“Get ahold of who you were after?” Sam asked.
“Busy. I’ll try again later. Ready to go?”
“First, what do you think of this piece?” Sam pointed to a Native American sculpture. “I’ve heard the artist’s work is internationally sought after.”
She shrugged. “Not really my taste.”
“But for what it is, do you think it’s a good value or overpriced?”
She eyed him speculatively. Men—the kind who were guaranteed to be wrong for her—inevitably tried to gain her attention by feigning an interest in art. That or they really were connoisseurs. Yet the curious sparkle in Sam’s eyes didn’t give away any hidden agenda. Then again, her track record for spotting them wasn’t the best. She glanced at the four-figure ticket price. “I don’t know what its market value is. Sorry.”
He studied her intently then chuckled. “But you’d never pay that much for it.”
She let a smile slip. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Fair enough.”
“Hey, you found her.” Jake’s voice boomed from behind them.
“Dad-eee,” Tommy snatched up his coloring book and scurried into Jake’s waiting arms.
Jake scooped him up in one smooth sweep,