Today he was wearing a faded denim shirt and jeans, with a hint of stubble on his face. I couldn’t decide which was sexier—the suave, elegant Serrano, or this slightly dissipated version.
As usual, my heart rate kicked up a notch in his presence. I was a happily married woman, and I might be fifty-eight, but hey, I wasn’t dead yet.
I stole a quick look in the mirror. I’d recently colored my hair, so the gray streaks were temporarily gone from the dark brown. I was even wearing a little makeup. Thank God.
“They keep baking me stuff. I must have put on at least ten pounds since I got here.” He rubbed his flat stomach, and nodded toward the window. “And I found that piranha waiting for me in front of my condo when I got home last night. She won’t leave me alone.”
Serrano rented a place in Quarry Ridge, near Claire and Patsy Elliott.
“Why don’t you just arrest her for harassment?”
The detective rolled his eyes. “Daisy, do you have any idea how the guys at the station would have a field day with that one? I’d never hear the end of it. The only way Serrano can control his women is put them in handcuffs?”
I smiled. “I see what you mean.”
“Besides, that was my first mistake. I’d heard about some women sucking down wine at the park, so I stopped down there to check it out. Make sure no one was drinking and driving.”
I busied myself with carefully straightening up the already neat pile of shopping bags at the end of the counter.
“Turns out most of them live nearby, so they walk, and the ones who don’t have a designated driver. One woman even has a limo that picks up a whole bunch of ’em. And the fricking dogs.” He blew out a long, shuddering breath. “When I asked to be transferred to Bucks County, PA, I thought it would be a nice, quiet existence.” He shook his head. “Thank God for you. And Martha and Eleanor, too, of course. The only sane females in this town.”
“Ha! That’s pretty sad, considering how crazy we all are.” I chuckled as I went over to the Welsh dresser and picked up two corners of a Wilendur yellow tablecloth with a lily-of-the-valley design. Customers were notorious for inspecting linens and not refolding them properly. Or at least not to my standards. Without being asked, Serrano took the opposite ends and we worked together to fold it into a perfect rectangle.
I’d never asked what he was doing out here in the back of beyond, but I wondered for the hundredth time—what deep, dark secret was he hiding?
“So. Thought you’d like to know Joe was right,” he said as he followed me over to the vintage-clothing rack, where I picked up a velvet jacket that had fallen to the floor. “Our guys checked Harriet’s dollhouse over and the wiring was tampered with.”
He straightened the dresses on the hangers, one by one. A Bob Mackie mint green strapless gown of pleated silk, a light blue taffeta number with matching bolero jacket, and a black chiffon evening dress. “Apparently the main power cord should only be connected to the primary winding. If it’s connected to the secondary, the way it was, it can produce an extremely hazardous voltage when it’s plugged in.”
He pulled the green dress out from the rest and draped it across one arm, as if picturing a dancing partner’s body inside. “This is a very well-made garment.”
“Well, it is a Bob Mackie, after all.”
Watching his tanned fingers slide slowly down the silky material, I could almost feel that hand against my own waist and I shivered involuntarily.
“Harriet Kunes had some lighting added to the house in preparation for the show,” he continued. “According to the electrician, Larry Clark, he showed her how it operated in front of some other customers at his shop. It worked fine then, and didn’t fry anyone. Clark was really shaken up about the whole thing when we questioned him.”