“Throwing money at a problem doesn’t always make it go away.”
Spoken like someone who’d always had enough of it. He huffed a laugh. “Goes a long way, though.”
Understanding sparked in her eyes. “I’m sorry if that came across as insensitive. Do you want to tell me how it’s been with your family?”
Joe pulled a slice of steaming bread from a basket and began slathering it with chive butter. “It’s not so bad waking up before the sun to help them in the kitchen or helping clean up at the end of the day. The cooking alone is worth it.” He took a bite of the sourdough and let it melt on his tongue.
“Free room and board?” Lauren asked. “Can’t beat that.”
“I insist on paying rent like everyone else. They enjoy having me around, and I like keeping an eye on them. When something breaks around the place, I don’t want Pop trying to fix it at his age. It’s a real song and dance routine most of the time, since Mama and I don’t want him knowing there was anything to be fixed in the first place.” He paused to take a drink. “I make it sound like I’m doing them a favor to stay, don’t I? But it’s no trial. It’s the least I can do.”
He scanned the environment again, alert to being watched. All his helping around the boardinghouse would amount to nothing if he were ever to lead danger back to their doorstep.
Unaccountably, tears lined Lauren’s lashes. “You are rich, Joe Caravello. So much richer in love and family than I’ve ever been. You have what I always craved. A place to belong, and the people to go with it.”
Joe scratched behind his ear and wished with all his might she wouldn’t cry. It unraveled him when she did that.
“Please, Lauren,” he whispered. “Please don’t cry.” That sounded more ardent than he intended. “People will blame me and throw me out before I have a chance to taste my salmon.”
Her eyes squeezed closed, and she laughed silently, shaking her head.
“See now, that sort of looks like you’re sobbing.” He shifted on the bench, totally out of his depth here. “Your condition seems to be getting worse.”
This time she let her laughter break free and reached across the table to clasp Joe’s hand. “My condition?” Her smile was convincing. “Yes, that’s right. It’s called the human condition, Joe. Not just facts but feelings, too. You didn’t used to be so squeamish with them.”
His thumb grazed her knuckles. “I’ve grown very fond ... of facts.”
“Yes, Detective. There, there. We’ll do our best to find you some more tonight.” With a wink and a squeeze of his fingers, she released him and sat back as the waiter returned with their dinner.
———
Inside Thomas Sanderson’s mansion, Joe visibly relaxed. Or at least, Lauren noted, he had stopped looking over his shoulder. Hypervigilance, she figured, was an occupational habit for any police officer.
“If you’ll follow me, please.” Mr. Sanderson’s butler led them to a reception room paneled in dark walnut wood and appointed with chairs upholstered in aged leather. “Mr. Sanderson will be with you shortly.”
Lauren warmed before the crackling fire. Marble pillars on either side of the grate were carved to look like Greek goddesses with arms stretched overhead to support the mantel. In a corner of the room was another marble statue, probably of Greek or Roman origin.
When Mr. Sanderson entered through the double doors with a manila folder, his prize-winning German shepherd came with him. “You don’t mind if Governor joins us, do you?” he asked.
“Not at all.” Lauren held out her hand for the dog to sniff.
Joe did the same, engaging Mr. Sanderson in small talk about the breed while Governor wagged his tail and looked up at his master with liquid brown eyes.
“But let us begin,” Mr. Sanderson said, and led them out into the hall and up one side of a double spiral staircase. Governor matched his pace to theirs as they entered a second-floor gallery wide enough to hold receptions.
Lauren relished a slow walk through the chandelier-lit space. “It’s like visiting old friends,” she murmured. Then she added for Joe’s benefit, “Mr. Sanderson was kind enough to loan some of these artifacts to us for previous exhibitions.”
“That was generous of you,” Joe said.
It was, though Lauren wondered if Joe realized how beneficial Sanderson’s generosity had been to the collector’s status among his set, not to mention his own sense of self-importance. Sanderson’s name had been printed in the exhibition catalog and on description cards placed with every display of the pieces he’d loaned. Most collectors found that an enviable ego boost indeed.
She stopped short in front of a set of canopic jars made of indurated limestone. All four had lids that were human-headed. “These are among your newer acquisitions?”
After commanding Governor to sit and stay, Mr. Sanderson joined her, his polished oxfords tapping the marble floor. “Yes, I couldn’t resist the complete set of all four. You see the cracks in this one, and a missing chunk out of that third one there, but given their age, I’d say they’ve weathered the millennia quite well. I’d consideredhaving that lid restored, but there’s a certain charm in showing the jars as they were found in Egypt.”
“There is.” Out of habit, she pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from her purse and put them on before picking up the lid and reading the text carved inside.
“You could restore it?” Joe asked. “How would you go about doing that?”
