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Violet began to back away. “I guess most people wouldn’t call Ford much of a hero.” She paused briefly as though she wished to say more, then bolted out the door with the book she’d chosen still clutched tightly in her hand.
“Well, I suppose that’s a start.” Catherine sighed, but she was sorry she lacked sufficient expertise to inspire Violet to want more than the obviously ignorant Ford Dolan could provide.
As soon as she reentered the office, she had an urgent question for Pam. “I meant to ask earlier, but what happened to the girls who’d witnessed Felix Mendoza’s murder? Was Luke able to convince them to talk to the police?”
Pam was paying bills and licked an envelope before she replied. “Of course, he’s very good at planting a subtle suggestion and making the kids believe it’s their own. A couple of detectives came out and took their statements. Then Luke explained the National Runaway Switchboard’s Home Free partnership with Greyhound Bus Lines. The girls were from Arizona and were back home by the next morning.”
“That’s so good to hear,” Catherine said, sincerely relieved. “Are there more flyers to post?”
Pam grabbed for the banker’s box. “Here you go. Watch out for paper cuts. We had a real sweet lady bleed all over a stack of flyers yesterday. I can’t take the sight of blood two days in a row.”
“I’ll be extremely careful,” Catherine promised, and she again opened the drawer of the spare desk to remove the scissors. “I had no idea this would be such hazardous duty.”
“That’s a good point,” Pam replied. “I’ll have to ask Luke to add a warning to his orientations. As it is, we’ve had volunteers trip and fall down the steps, slice themselves up in the kitchen, and get burned ironing clothes, but Luke always takes the worst of it. That’s his third black eye in as many months, but this one’s by far the most colorful. I keep telling him to use a two-by-four to break up fights, but he just wades right on in without a thought for himself. It’s either brave or just plain stupid.”
“You’re awfully cheeky for a secretary,” Catherine offered with an amused smile. “But I bet Luke really depends on you.”
“He needs someone he can trust,” Pam replied rather wistfully.
“We all do,” Catherine agreed quietly, and as she opened flyers, she made a quick reminder on the back of an envelope to bring rubber gloves on Saturday. The mother of a high school friend had painted in an old trench coat and shower cap. Both were splattered with paint to the extent the woman resembled a walking Jackson Pollock painting, but Catherine thought she would stick with merely being practical rather than dare the bizarre.
When Catherine arrived at Lost Angel on Saturday, Luke had already shoved his office furniture to the center of the room and covered it with a tarp. Drop cloths were spread over the floor, and the plant which had inspired the project sat safely out of the way on Pam’s desk.
Luke was dressed in a pair of worn jeans. While ripped at the knee, the faded blue denim still clung to his muscular thighs and cupped his backside provocatively. His white T-shirt stretched to fit his broad shoulders and grazed his flat belly.
Catherine’s glance lingered over his well-muscled arms, and she thought him so incredibly distracting she doubted she would actually get any paint on the walls. Each time she saw him, she wondered if the subtle changes in his appearance were deliberate on his part, or merely her imagination. Whatever the cause, she wished she knew him well enough to slide a tender caress across his back or along his deeply tanned arm.
She’d dressed in a pair of green shorts she wore to work in the garden and a T-shirt silk-screened with flowers. She’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail and thought with scuffed tennis shoes and an old apron, she was ready for work. She’d failed to consider how sexy the amazingly fit Luke Starns would be, however, and now wished she’d worn something prettier.
She walked back out to store her purse in Pam’s desk drawer and made a silent vow to begin thinking with her head rather than a far more neglected part of her anatomy. “What would you like me to do?” she called from the outer office.
He responded with a suggestive chuckle. “Let’s concentrate on painting, shall we?”
She stepped back through the door. “That was what I meant. I brought a couple of pairs of rubber gloves. Would you like one?”
“Thanks.” He took the gloves and handed her a roll of masking tape. “Why don’t you put the tape on the window. I want to patch the nail holes before I start painting.”
He grabbed hold of the gallon resting on the covered desk and used a screwdriver to pop the lid. “What do you think of the color?”
Catherine was almost afraid to look, but the paint proved to be a handsom
e terra-cotta. The large window and overhead light fixture provided the room with ample light, and the vivid hue almost glowed.
“I like it a lot,” she replied. “It’s warm and yet suitably masculine.”
“Well, thank you, ma’am. I tried to match my eye, but by the time I got around to purchasing paint, it had taken on a greenish tinge that I found too nauseating to surround myself with every day.”
“Yes, I can well imagine. Terra-cotta is a much better choice.”
She slipped on her apron, moved to the window, pulled off a long piece of tape and placed it against the edge of the glass. She knew she would be wise to keep her back to Luke, but he kept moving about the small office prepping the walls. She wondered if he was deliberately brushing against her, or if with the furniture heaped in the center, the office was simply too crowded for them to avoid an occasional bump.
“I want to talk about tutoring,” Luke remarked as he did a final sweep for missed holes. “I mentioned it to Ron Flanders, but these kids need to learn basic math, not the trig and calculus he’s been teaching.”
To provide a sensible response, Catherine had to reel in her wildly straying thoughts. She stalled as she put the last piece of tape on the glass. “So he’s not interested?”
“He said he’d help with whatever we need, but his lip curled while he said it. He got me to thinking that you might have the same problem. I doubt many of your students at La Cañada High were unable to read well.”
“No, none.” Discouraged again, she turned slowly to face him. “I see what you mean. Ron and I would set our sights too high, frustrate the kids, get discouraged ourselves, and no one would be better off.”
