Yes, look at them, Eve thought. Most conservative trousers were usually cut so generously that there was enough material to fashion a spinnaker for a forty-foot yacht. But Detective Moran’s trousers, on the other hand—or on his particular legs, to be more precise—discreetly highlighted the well-developed muscles of his thighs.
But she was digressing. Eve crossed her arms. “Not your typical stolen property case, is it?” Eve was the owner of Sweet Nothings, the only lingerie shop in town. It was a recent addition to the high-end clothing stores, stock brokerages, independent bookstores and designer coffee shops.
Detective Moran slipped a hand in a vent pocket of his pants. “Frankly, we don’t get many robberies in these parts. Thefts of mountain bikes are more the norm. Sometimes purses left in unlocked cars. Occasionally, someone walks off with a Rolex watch from one of the jewelry stores.” He looked at her slender wrist.
“I’m more a Swatch-kind-of-girl,” she said. “Good price, good lines.”
His eyes traveled from her watch, slowly up to her face. “I can see what you mean by good lines.” Almost as a quick afterthought, he ran his hand through his hair.
Wet, Eve noted. At eleven o’clock in the morning, it was a little late for shower time. Still, it showed a high regard for cleanliness. Something greatly appreciated in a tidy little town like Grantham.
Not that Grantham ever considered itself little in the most essential way—prestige. Think the sophistication of Soho but with a real supermarket. Home to an elite university, this exclusive enclave in central New Jersey was known for its appealing colonial architecture, skyrocketing real estate prices, and high SAT scores among its above-average public and private school population—Lake Wobegon had nothing on Grantham. Needless to say, nothing was left to chance. Volvo station wagons defined the parking space dimensions, and even the azaleas and magnolias coordinated their spring blooms in socially acceptable colors
But now that it was the beginning of June, the heat had turned up a notch, and the start of the summer’s humidity produced a certain lassitude in the air. Big Daddy would have felt right at home.
“It’s highly unusual, to say the least, to have cases being reported of, of—what do you call these things again that you said were missing?” Detective Moran nodded toward the mannequin, then looked at Eve.
“Hmmm?” she said absentmindedly. Eve noticed that his wet hair was a dark, reddish-brown. She had always had this thing for men with dark red hair. And his was finger-combed, pushed straight back from a broad, intelligent forehead. Actually, maybe it was the intelligence rather than the hair color that really got her. That—and his eyes. They were an exotic, hunter green. Talk about a jolt straight to the heart.
“I’m sorry, what do you call those?” He pointed—this time keeping his extended index finger at a discreet distance.
Eve focused. “They’re called tap pants, or at least they were called tap pants until a few minutes ago.” She looked in the direction of his extended left hand. She couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
He followed the direction of her gaze with his own eyes—those Emerald Isle babies. “Yes, well.” He nervously wiggled his fingers, then lowered his arm to his side. “That’s when you noticed they were gone?”
“Actually, my assistant Melodie noticed they were gone and let me know. I was with a customer, a young woman. She was buying an item for her honeymoon. A thong, to be exact.” She folded her arms across the front of her black top.
The policeman frowned. “A thong?”
“Underpants. They’re the little small ones.”
He blinked. “Oh?”
“Yes, they don’t leave any visible panty-line.”
“Hey, I’m all for practicality, especially in a woman.”
“Really?” Eve asked.
“Really.” They studied each other in silence.
Eve slanted her head. “Would you like to know the color, practically speaking, of course?”
“Of course—practically speaking.”
“This particular thong was midnight-blue.”
“Midnight-blue?” He left his mouth slightly open.
“Almost black.”
“Almost?”
“Yes, it’s very popular with new brides.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and their husbands as well.” She raised her chin and did her best to look down at him, virtually impossible, since he had almost a foot on her five-foot-two frame. As it was, she had a prime view of stubble. The kind that would abrade the soft skin of a woman’s breast. “For all the practical reasons, of course,” she added.
The detective breathed deliberately. “Of course. I mean, I can imagine.”
Eve tilted her head. “Can you now?”
He paused before replying, concentrating his full attention on her face—and an interesting face it was. From her thick, shoulder-length black hair and her strong Roman nose, to her peaches-and-cream skin and raspberry-pink lips. When he finished his thorough examination above the neck, he said slowly, “You’d be surprised what I can imagine.”
Eve gulped. Enough was enough. This wasn’t a social call. Which didn’t explain at all why she was wondering if the lipstick she’d applied early in the morning was still on or not. Eek. Sometimes she amazed even herself.
She yanked her hair behind her ear. “Yes, well, I’m sure in your line of work, you’ve had the opportunity to witness all sorts of goings-on and as a result, can imagine all sorts of things.” She was all business now.
The detective looked at her closely and waited a beat before replying. “So why don’t you tell me more about the missing garment?”
“The garment we’re talking about is a pair of tap pants—you know, loose-fitting panties,” she explained. He frowned. “Detective Moran—”
“Carter,” he interrupted with a smile, a dimple appearing low on his cheek. “It’s a relatively small town. We like to think it’s possible for everybody to all know each other.”
She held up her hand in acknowledgement. “Carter. Anyway, we get occasional shoplifting, and granted one pair isn’t such a big deal. But this is now the third time we’ve had this particular item disappear from the window.”
He nodded. “They must be pretty hot.”
“Maybe you’d like to see for yourself?” Without waiting, she marched from the front of the shop with its collection of nightgowns and robes to a small room housing undergarments. Three small, brushed aluminum tables held artful arrangements of intimate ensembles. Along the outer wall, an almost industrial-looking rod with giant hooks displayed colorful bras and bustiers. Shelves and drawers with high-tech handles lined the inner walls. The remaining surfaces were painted a discreet shell pink, and the wood floors were stained a rosy blond. The total effect was understatedly feminine without being cutesy-wutesy. Eve didn’t go for frou-frou.
She went behind one of the display tables—the variety of garter belts, including one pair with fur straps, was really quite amazing—and bent over to slide open a drawer. “Here’s a pair just like the ones that were in the window.” Eve turned around.
The policeman’s eyes quickly shifted from her backside. He raised his hand to his mouth and coughed.
She straightened up, running one hand down the black material of her slacks, and held out the garment. “Keep it—for reference.”
Carter lowered his hand and reached for the tap pants—a naturalist getting his first glimpse of a rare species. “So these are