It's All About Eve. Tracy Kelleher
think of all this as purely information gathering.”
“You don’t say?”
He gave her an exasperated smile. “You know, sometimes an observation is merely an observation. Well, maybe not all the time, but some of the time, at least. At least, I think some of the time it is. Like now, for instance.” He rubbed his forehead, that very nice, intelligent forehead. “Actually, the truth is I’m not sure of anything at the moment.”
Aw, thought Eve. She wanted to take his hand, tell him not to worry. Offer him a cappuccino. No, maybe her shoulder. Maybe more than her shoulder. Maybe say something like, “I don’t usually do things like this, but would you like to spend a weekend at a little B&B in Bucks County, the kind of place with floral wallpaper, tasseled throw pillows and bowls of potpourri?”
Did people really say things like that?
Carter held up a hand. He looked like he was about to speak.
Maybe they did.
“You know, one thing I am sure of, I’m here on official duty. Right?” He looked like he was asking for confirmation.
Eve swallowed hard. “Right. Absolutely.” Where were her thoughts wandering at a time like this? Tasseled pillows, my God. She hated tassels. “Actually, for the record, those tap pants happen to fit the mannequin in the window.”
Carter slowly walked back to the front of the shop and stared at the display window. “Was the mannequin disturbed in any way?” There were three mannequins on view: one had on a slinky negligee, a second wore flannel pajamas with ducks swimming in what looked like bathtubs, and the third—in the middle—featured a strapless, red lace bustier and a decidedly naked bottom. Carter Moran didn’t appear to be staring at the ducks.
Eve paused midstride. The way a man walked could definitely be attractive in a way that had never occurred to her before. “What was that?”
He turned around and looked at her. “Was the mannequin moved or knocked over?”
Eve lifted her head upright and squared her shoulders. “No, the mannequin was completely in order. Just as if nobody had touched it.”
“Well, don’t touch it now,” he said. “I’ll have somebody come by to dust it and the immediate area for prints. Not that I can promise anything.” Carter looked around. A few customers had drifted into the shop, including a couple of Grantham University coeds who were looking at black silk boxer shorts. He frowned and leaned a little closer to Eve. She could smell a light citrusy scent, along the lines of grapefruit, pink grapefruit.
“Are they for women or men?” He nodded toward the boxers.
Eve glanced over, thinking of vitamin C in ways she never dreamed of. “Both. Maybe you’d like to see a pair?”
“No thanks. I’m strictly a white cotton Jockeys guy.”
“Hmm-mmm.”
He looked a little taken aback. “Is that a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad?”
“Just a hmm-mmm,” she said. “As someone in the business, I try not to be judgmental when it comes to a person’s choice in underwear.”
“That’s nice to know.” He smiled and thought. “Of course, it leads to the assumption that you’re judgmental about other things.” He paused. “Are you?”
Eve considered the question. “Champagne—I definitely like it very dry. And fireworks—I like them really loud. Then there’s perfume—I like it clean, fresh.” Citrusy, she thought. “I don’t like it when it’s too strong, kind of drippy—you know, gardenias mixed with Spanish moss.”
“Hmm-mmm.” His voice was playful.
She smiled. “Is that a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad?”
Carter smiled wider. “Just a hmm-mmm.”
Eve pursed her lips. “I’m glad we’ve cleared up that.”
His eyes danced. “Me, too.”
They stood there smiling at each other until Carter cleared his throat again. “Yes, well.” He looked over toward the counter. Eve’s assistant was ringing up a purchase for a woman in a gray, pinstripe pants suit. Her face was turned away from them. “You said this isn’t the first time that a pair of, uh, tap pants have disappeared?”
“That’s right. We’ve been open—about three months now—but all the thefts, three in total, occurred in the past two weeks.”
“And again, no sign of anything being moved or anything else missing in the other two instances?”
“No. Nothing. Just the tap pants.”
“And always during store hours?”
Eve nodded. “As far as I know. Usually lunchtime, when we’re busiest.”
“Figures.”
“Yeah, I guess it does.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier though, does it?”
“No.” Gee, she was a sucker for sympathy.
“Carter. Fancy meeting you here.” A tall blond woman—the one who had been at the cash register—grabbed his upper arm and gave it a squeeze.
“Hey, what a surprise.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, catching the corner of her mouth. “We still on for tonight?”
Eve felt the back of her throat constrict.
“You bet.” The woman winked. Her deep-blue eyes matched the sapphire studs in her earlobes. “And speaking of tonight, I came in for a sports bra, and I somehow managed to walk out with this. Take a look. I couldn’t resist wearing it.” She leaned over and pulled out the neckline of her jacket.
Carter craned his neck. “Sorry, I can’t quite see.”
The woman pulled at his arm. “Well, don’t be shy. Come on over to the dressing room, and I’ll show you.”
“You think that’s wise?”
“God, Carter, you’d think I was going to show you something you’d never seen before.” She dragged him toward the dressing rooms. This was clearly a woman who didn’t take no for an answer.
“If you insist.” He looked back at Eve. “I’ll just be a sec.”
“Hmm-mmm,” Eve responded. He didn’t seem to put up much of a struggle, she noticed.
“Is that a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad?” he called out.
“Oh, you know me. I’m nonjudgmental when it comes to underwear.” But not when it came to hot local cops.
2
EVE TURNED TO HER ASSISTANT Melodie. “Maybe we should rope off the back section and give them a little more privacy? Though, on second thought, I’m not sure we’re zoned for that type of activity.”
Melodie, a twenty-something with a Jennifer Anniston-style haircut, shrugged her shoulders. In the quest to emulate the casual coiffure of her favorite Friends actress, she religiously forked over outrageous sums to her stylist in Hamilton Square. “Jeez, Eve, don’t get in a snit. She bought a black camisole, not nude pasties. And frankly, it covers more skin than my tank top.”
Eve eyed Melodie’s skimpy, canary-yellow stretch shirt. She had been meaning to mention that wearing a top that seemingly defied the use of underwear was not the best look in a lingerie establishment. Still, in her riotous teenage years, Eve had been known to wear bib overalls over nothing but some well-placed Vaseline Intensive Care Body Lotion. Of course that was before responsibility had been thrust upon her. She didn’t even own bib overalls anymore.
Eve shrugged and looked toward the