He wiped rain off his face, frowning. “Sorry. It’s been a strange day.”

“Tell me about it,” she agreed fervently.

He crossed his arms over his chest. Big arms. A lot of chest.

She hadn’t touched his body yet. And he was being so careful with her. Like she was made of glass. Which was exactly how she felt. Fragile, brittle. On the edge of disaster, poised to fall. No need to go take a running leap for it. “Things are strange right now, and it’s a bad—”

“Strange times call for bold gestures. Brave risks.”

She snorted. “I’m actually not that brave.”

“Bullshit. You have stainless steel for a spine. Like your mother.”

The mention of Lucia made her grope for her box of tissues.

He waited for a moment. “I’m not a cop or an investigator, Nancy. I’m just a carpenter. I can’t promise to help you solve this. But I can make damn sure that nobody messes with you. That, I can commit to.”

Her eyes dropped, heat infusing her face.

“Let me help,” he urged. “At least think about it.”

Oh, yeah. Think about it she would. Every waking second. “Thanks,” she murmured. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

He crouched until his face was level with hers. “And stay with your sisters. Do not stay in your apartment alone.”

“Liam, you cannot imagine how tiny our living spaces are—”

“Please, Nancy. Please. For me.”

The low intensity of his voice moved her. He really cared. He wasn’t just throwing his weight around. “Okay,” she heard herself say.

“Swear it,” he said. “On your mother’s grave.”

She flinched. “Oh, for God’s sake—”

“For Lucia’s sake. She would want you to be safe.”

She sighed. “I swear, on my mother’s grave, that I will stay with my sisters tonight,” she said, through gritted teeth.

“Indefinitely. Until we know exactly what the fuck is going on.”

“You aren’t shy about bringing out the big guns, are you?”

“Not in the least,” he said flatly. “Not when it’s this important.”

“Fine,” she snapped. She shut the car door. Manipulator.

He knocked on her window. She rolled it down. “Now what?”

“Is an Irish pub in Queens neutral ground?” he asked.

Nancy blinked. “Huh?”

“You said a date had to be on neutral ground,” he said. “I’ll be at Malloy’s, on Queen’s Boulevard, tomorrow night. Ever been to a seisiun?” He waited for her nod, and went on. “Malloy’s is a good one. The Guinness is good, the players are good, the food’s good. Irish stew, burgers. The seisiun’s from ten until two. I’d like to see you there.”

“Huh. This is backward,” she told him. “First you invite me to live with you. Then you ask me out.”

He shrugged. “I try to be original.” He sank down onto one knee, his face level with hers at the open window. “You’re over the limit.”

She gave him a jerky nod. A grin flashed over his face, and he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. The burst of delight made her body clench and thrum.

“I’ve never felt anything like that,” she whispered.

“Me neither.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “You’re cold. Turn the car on, and get the heat going,” he said. “You’re going to wait for the investigating officer?”

“Yeah, might as well,” she said. “Since the evidence techs don’t want me in the house till they’re done.”

“Okay. Tomorrow night, then.” He smiled at her as he backed slowly away. Then he climbed into his truck and drove away.

She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, still tasting him.

Chapter

5

“Once more, from the top.” Vivi stretched out on Nell’s battered sofa, propping up her slender legs. Her gilded toenails gleamed in the flickering candlelight. She peered at her photocopy of Liam’s transcription of Lucia’s letter with a frown of intense concentration. “So something bad happened to her marriage, and to her father. But what? When did she come to America, anyway?”

Nancy pondered that as she petted the wildly purring cat curled in her lap. “Nineteen sixty-five or before, I think. She taught art history at Beardsley for thirty-five years before she retired. And that was over eight years ago.”

“What was the name of the town she came from?” Vivi asked.

“Castiglione Sant’Angelo,” Nell replied. “In Tuscany.” She turned the Fabergé picture frame that held the old photograph of Lucia’s father. “Maybe that’s why she changed her name, from de Luca to D’Onofrio. Because of what happened to her father,” she mused. “I asked her once why she changed it, but she didn’t want to talk about it. You know, I asked her to go to Italy with me once, to do an art and architecture tour, back when I was an undergrad. And she snapped my head off. I was so taken aback, I never mentioned it again. To anyone.”

“Huh. So let’s run it down again,” Vivi said. “The things we did not know about and still don’t.” She totted them off on her fingers. “Her father. Her marriage. The mysterious object. The system of checks and balances designed to protect our sisterly love. Whatever the necklaces are the key to. Then, to make things even more interesting, we have the mysteries of the purloined letter, the murdered jeweller, and the pissed-off burglar. That’s a lot of mysteries. Makes a girl hungry.” She rolled up onto her side and reached for a slice of the pizza on the coffee table.

“I wish we had access to Lucia’s papers,” Nell fretted. “I’d like to go through her old letters and photographs.”

“The meathead trashed Lucia’s office files,” Vivi reminded her.

“He might have missed something,” Nell said stubbornly.

Nancy held out her hand. “Can I see that photo for a second?”

Nell handed it to her promptly. “Sure.”

Nancy studied the somber, hawklike face of the late Conte de Luca. His intense, deep-set eyes were so much like Lucia’s, they made her chest ache. “I wonder when he died,” she murmured. “He looks like he was in his fifties. Maybe there’s a date on the back.” She fumbled with the back of the delicate silver and gilt frame until she loosened the little hook that held it closed and pried the back of the frame loose, shaking the contents into her hand.

She sucked in a startled breath. They all stared, frozen, at what lay in her hand. Not one photograph, but two. And something else, besides. A small, carefully folded square of yellowed paper.

Nancy gently pushed Moxie out of her lap and scooted over toward the lamp. Nell and Vivi scrambled to look over her shoulder. Moxie stalked away, tail high, deeply offended.

“Oh, wow,” Vivi breathed softly, as they stared down at the picture. “That’s Lucia. Just look at her. What a bombshell.”

The young, beautiful Lucia had dark curls clustered over her shoulders and wore a smart little hat. Her lips were painted into a bold fifties Cupid’s bow. She gazed up into the face of a tall, handsome young man, who clasped her waist and gazed down as if he were hungry to kiss her. Nancy turned it over. On the back, in faded, brownish ink, was written, Venezia, Carnevale, 1957.

“Who is this guy?” Nell murmured. “Maybe he’s the missing husband. What’s on the paper?”

Nancy unfolded the delicate, yellowing paper. It was lightweight airmail paper, covered with fine, faded script. She held it to the light. “It’s in Italian,” she said, passing it to Nell.

Nell fumbled for her glasses and pushed them up her nose. “It’s dated April of 1964,” she said, and began to translate.

Beloved Lucia,

I do not know why I continue to write while you continue to be silent, but I cannot seem to stop myself, undignified though I must seem, begging on my knees for your return to our life together.