Chapter Thirty-Nine
Thirty-Nine
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Sophy said. “You’re worried. So am I.”
Bruce whined and gave her a do something look. He was pacing back and forth in front of the door. Until a moment ago he had been content to sprawl on top of the bed beside her. Until a moment ago she had been studying Tobias Harper’s journal.
Now they were both on their feet, restless. The sense that Luke was in danger was growing stronger. Frisson after frisson of nervous energy was lifting the hair on the back of her neck.
“Aunt Bea says that it’s a bad idea to ignore your intuition,” she said.
Bruce whined again.
“All right, I agree. We can’t just hang around here and wait until Luke returns. Let’s go see if we can find him.”
Bruce raked the door with his claws.
“Management is not going to like that,” Sophy warned.
She pulled on her trench coat and started to pick up Bruce’s leash. “Never mind. You can move a lot faster without me,” she said. She opened the door. “Go on. I’ll try to keep up with you.”
Bruce bounded forward, heading for the stairs, but he stopped when he realized she was several steps behind him.
“It’s all right,” she said, picking up her pace. “I’ll be okay. Go find Luke.”
Bruce uttered a short, sharp bark. He made no move to descend the stairs. She realized he was still in guard mode. He was trying to do his job even though he was convinced that Luke needed him.
A door down the hall opened.
“Keep that dog quiet,” a woman shouted.
Sophy ignored her and dashed to the stairs. Bruce went back into action, vaulting down the steps. She seized the railing and followed him. They made it to the lobby and headed for the front door.
“That dog is supposed to be on a leash, ma’am,” the young man at the front desk said.
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Sophy said. “Sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll put him on a leash just as soon as we’re outside.”
A voice spoke from the depths of a wingback chair. “Tell your dog that if he wants to lift a leg on any of the sculptures out there in the garden, it’s fine by me. Might add a little artistic interest to some of them.”
Sophy recognized the voice of the art critic who had introduced himself on the gallery tour. She searched her memory for his name. Marlon Whitley. That was it.
He was ensconced deep in the big chair, one leg crossed over the other. There was a notebook on his lap. A glass of brandy sat on the side table.
“Good evening,” she said.
He picked up the glass and raised it in a casual salute. “Perhaps you’ll join me for a drink when you return with your dog?”
“Thanks. I’m afraid I have plans.”
“Right. Newlyweds.” He winked. “I almost forgot.”
“Please excuse me.”
She raced through the glass doors, Bruce leading the way. She brushed aside the little rush of fake cheerfulness she got when she went past the fountain, and then followed Bruce into the glowing night.