“I’ll answer if I choose.”
“Vinnie has been your best friend forever, but you two were never romantically involved?”
“Vinnie and me? Good God, no!”
He wasn’t sure she’d wanted to be quite so honest with him; his question had obviously taken her by surprise.
“Sorry.” He laughed. “It just seems like the guy has more than his fair share of admirers.”
“Oh, he does. No, it’s just that…we were kids together. Like I said, he’s as close to me as a brother, really. He was a geeky kid, small and thin. He’s tall now, and he’s found a way to make those dark eyes and the long hair pay, plus he’s a respected guitarist. He’s come into his own. I’m really happy for him. But as to ever having any kind of romantic feelings for him…” She trailed off, her smile broad. “He’s a friend. A really good friend.”
“But he had a tough time as a kid?” Aidan asked. Childhood rejection was something profilers always looked for. He was tempted to ask her if she’d ever seen Vinnie torturing small animals.
“Who doesn’t have a tough time as a kid?” she asked, then eyed him knowingly. “Except, of course, the guys on the football team.”
“I wouldn’t know. I never played,” Aidan told her.
“You didn’t play sports?” she asked skeptically.
“Tennis and golf,” he told her. “Someone once told my mother that you should buy your kids a tennis racket, golf clubs and a guitar. My mother took it to heart. Oh, I also have a decent bowling average.”
She smiled. “Sorry. I was stereotyping you, I guess. The bruisers usually go out there and…inflict bruises.”
“And it sounds as if you’ve gone through life acting like Vinnie’s older sister, bolstering him up, looking out for him. A cheerleader, right?”
She laughed. “No. School newspaper—I wrote about the cheerleaders.”
“Snide little digs?”
“Not at all. I have nothing against cheerleaders or football players.”
“Vinnie must be grateful to you for looking out for him, though,” he said.
“Friends don’t have to be grateful to friends,” she told him, frowning. “He’s always been around when I’ve needed him, and I’m there when he needs me.”
Her tone indicated that she knew Vinnie was under some kind of attack—and she wasn’t going to have any of it.
“I guess it’s nice that Mason and Vinnie seem to be such good friends.”
“Of course it’s nice.” She looked at him, confused, but instinctively wary. “Vinnie’s not an actual employee, but he still works at the shop when I need him and he’s free. When I’m not around, it’s often the two of them. Of course I’m glad they hit it off.”
Aidan kept his features impassive. Inwardly, he couldn’t help but think of the occasional serial killers who worked in pairs. It wasn’t that he was suddenly convinced Mason and Vinnie were some kind of bloodthirsty symbiotic duo, but he couldn’t ignore the possibility. Frankly, he had no real evidence that anyone was a killer, but had to start somewhere. And Jenny Trent’s last credit card charges had been at Kendall’s shop and the bar where Vinnie played and Mason hung out.
“What are you getting at?” she asked him.
He hesitated, then drew Jenny Trent’s picture from the breast pocket of his jacket and laid it down in front of Kendall.
Her reaction was far worse than he had expected. She turned white. Pure white. Her eyes rose to his, stricken.
“Why are you asking me about her?” she demanded.
“She disappeared in New Orleans. She was supposed to be heading—”
“On a trip to South America, I know. What happened to her?” Kendall asked. She was staring at him with dread.
“No one knows what happened to her,” he said. He leaned closer. “You tell me. I know she was in your shop. Obviously something happened there.”
“Nothing happened in my shop,” she protested.
“Then why are you whiter than Christmas snow?”
“She came in for a reading,” Kendall said.
“And did she say a stranger had been following her? Was she nervous about anything?” he pressed.
“I remember her because she was full of life and very nice. That’s all,” Kendall said.
“You’re lying, Kendall,” he accused evenly, quietly.
“Is this why you asked me out to dinner?” she asked. “To accuse me?”
“No. I didn’t know what I know about this woman until today.”
“That’s right. You wanted to know about the house, about Amelia. Well, I’ve told you what I know. And anyway, what does the past matter? The house is yours now.”
She was nervous and defensive. He couldn’t understand what about the photo of Jenny Trent could have thrown her so badly.
“What happened at your shop?” he asked again.