Vanessa, getting up from the fortepiano. “I need a break. Come with me. I’llput water on.”
“Or open a bottle?” Faster asked. “Some of that Pinot Grigio?”
“Sure,” said Vanessa as she coded the alarm and opened the door. “Thirty seconds to get out.”
“Coming,” said Faster, moving past her with a wink. “You take good care of that.” He waited while she locked the door; following her across the small, green yard to the rear door of her house, he pondered how to bring up the most recent request he had received about the Dziwny forte-piano.
“Well, I can’t afford to have anything happen to it, can I?” she asked as she went ahead of him toward the house.
There was a mud-room that was mostly used for garden storage just inside the back door, and a good-sized pantry, then the handsomely remodeled modern kitchen with its island range on the central diagonal of the room, and double ovens against the wall. At the end of the island was a bar, three stools in place for informal dining, and Vanessa motioned to one of these. “Sit. I’llget the wine as soon as the kettle’s on; I’llbe right back.” She grabbed the kettle and filled it at the sink, then set it on one of the six gas burners and lit it. For a long moment she stared at the yellow-tipped blue flames.
“Something wrong?” Faster inquired.
Vanessa shook her head. “No. No, I’m just tired.” She bustled out of the room and returned with a bottle, two stemmed glasses, and a corkscrew, all of which she thrust at Faster. “Here.”
He took them all and set about opening the bottle. “I had a call from Shotwell today.”
“Not more money,” Vanessa said at once. “Until I start getting receipts from concerts, I’m on a budget.”
“No, not more money.” He pulled out the cork and sniffed it, then poured wine into the two glasses. “Someone’s approached him about the forte-piano.”
“Oh, God,” she exclaimed, her heart sinking, “He’s had an offer to buy it.”
“No,” Faster assured her. “Nothing like that. A parapsychologist wants to run some tests on it.”
“A what?” She stopped in the act of taking down her favorite teapot.
“Parapsychologist. He’s supposed to have a pretty good reputation for psychometry.” He held one of the wine glasses out to her, feeling abashed.
“And Shotwell’s interested?” Vanessa was incredulous. She took the glass, but paid no attention to it.
“Apparently,” Faster said drily. “He’s accepted a hefty fee from the guy.”
“I’m surprised Shotwell didn’t try to find a psychic,” said Vanessa nastily.
“Now, now,” Faster warned her as he lifted his glass.
“Well, it smacks of the worst kind of sleaze, if you ask me.” She hurriedly turned off the flame under the shrieking kettle. “Sorry. I’m jumpy.”
“Rehearsal nerves,” said Faster at his most understanding.
“I guess,” Vanessa said without much conviction. In order to change this uncomfortable subject, she asked, “So who is this parapsychologist and what is he looking for in the Dziwny forte-piano? If it is a he?”
“Yes, a he. Doctor Christopher Warren.” He waited for her to say something, then went on. “He’s actually pretty well-known, and his work is taken seriously. He’s got a couple books out, and he’s on the lecture circuit.”
“Doing what? Psychometry?” She drank a little of the wine and then poured some of the hot water into the teapot to heat it. “I’m sorry. That was bitchy.”
“No problem. You’ve had a hard day. You’re allowed to blow off a little steam.” He watched her while she got down the canister of tea. “Do you think you could use a day off?”
“No,” she said. “Why?”
Faster shrugged. “I just thought it might be easier to let Warren do whatever it is he intends to do while you’re out, is all.”
“You might be right about that,” she said after a moment. “But I think I should stay around. I’m responsible for the