The luncheon was being held in a 1920s mansion that had been purchased and restored by a group of south Florida women executives. They’d turned it into an exclusive retreat, with elegant rooms available for public functions, especially those of particular interest to women. Mollie made her way back to the spacious, airy screened porch, where she immediately recognized Griffen’s touch in the mango-colored tablecloths and napkins in an array of vibrant colors. Each of the tables had its own small, perfect orchid in the center. Griffen herself was whirling around getting lunch pulled together, but caught Mollie’s eye long enough to give her a cautionary look. Which could only mean Jeremiah had arrived.
Mollie turned, and there he was, casually dressed, a contrast to most of the women drifting in, a mix of professionals and volunteers. Mollie herself had opted for a navy suit, not particularly creative, but it made her feel more brass-tacks and in control.
Jeremiah was studying her with a seriousness that, given the tone of their earlier conversation, she didn’t expect. “Is something wrong? Don’t tell me the thief’s already struck—”
He shook his head. His slate blue shirt brought out all the colors in his eyes, but emphasized the grays. “Your call to Leonardo got me thinking. It hadn’t even occurred to me before—” He inhaled, glancing around them for eavesdroppers. “Mollie, it’s possible I’m the one who’s brought all this down on you. You weren’t even aware of a jewel thief until after you saw me at the Greenaway.”
“But I was already the common denominator—”
“There are two ways of looking at that. One, it’s a coincidence that the thief is capitalizing on after the fact. Two, he deliberately chose events you attended. Either way, he could be using you to get to me.” His intensity charged the air between them. “It’s no more farfetched than considering Leonardo’s enemies.”
“Then the thief would have to know about our past relationship,” Mollie said, trying to get her brain around the complexities of what he was suggesting.
“That’s not an absolute necessity. Again, he could be improvising as he goes along. He’s luring me onto the story—”
“Through Croc?”
“Yes. Then you get involved, and he ups the ante.”
Mollie frowned. “This would mean you have an enemy.”
“Darlin’,” he said dryly, “I have dozens of enemies. I report on crime and corruption in a major American city.”
She nodded, trying not to acknowledge the unsteadiness in her knees. She was aware of women circulating on the porch, glasses clinking, warm laughter, flamingos walking on the sprawling, manicured lawn. It was a perfect day. Warm, sunny, just enough of a breeze.
Jeremiah smiled gently, but his eyes were still intense. “This is still just speculation. I’m just thinking we might be wise to steer clear of each other for the time being. The last thing I’d want is to put you in danger.”
“I hate this,” she said, her throat tight.
Diantha Atwood and Bobbi Tiernay brought George Marcotte over, introducing him. He was in his mid-thirties, a beefy tree-trunk of a man with shaggy, tawny hair and a friendly manner. He wore an expertly tailored suit, although Mollie expected he would have preferred shorts and a T-shirt.
“We were just discussing the jewel thief,” Bobbi Tiernay said. “Mr. Marcotte has agreed to address simple, common-sense ways we can protect ourselves without overreacting.”
Marcotte turned to Mollie. “For the most part, this thief has been non-violent. You were smart not to put up a fight or go after him, Ms. Lavender.”
She shrugged. “It’s not like I had time to think.”
“Which can make recovering from such an incident more difficult. Your mind fills with what might have been, how your fate can turn on the head of a pin.” He was articulate, speaking as a man who’d been in her shoes. “But you trusted your instincts. That’s good. Mr. Tabak,” he said, shifting to Jeremiah. “Have you learned anything you can share with us?”
“Nope. It was only a coincidence I was there on Friday when Mollie was attacked.”
“But you’re investigating this story for the Tribune,” Diantha Atwood said.
“Actually, I’m not.”
“No?” She smiled, coolly polite. “Come now, you don’t expect us to believe that.”
Jeremiah regarded her neutrally, but Mollie knew his rude switch had been flipped. He seemed to check himself at the last minute and said only, “That’s not my concern.”
Diantha Atwood’s cheeks colored. She wasn’t one to back down to a reporter. “Then why are you here today?”
“Same reason I was there on Friday. I was invited.”
“By whom, may I ask?”
He winked, the southern charmer replacing the cold, intense reporter. “Sorry, Mrs. Atwood, I never divulge my sources.”
It was a line and they all knew it, but Diantha Atwood laughed. Several other women joined them, and she and her daughter and Marcotte spun off into the crowd. There was a sprinkling of men, mostly decades older than Jeremiah or the speaker, both of whom would have stuck out in any crowd. Mollie leaned toward him. “Were you invited?”