"The wardrobe is only the gate." When she turned back to face him and caught sight of his expression, she added impatiently, "It's traditional."

"Okay." First he'd ever heard that Mardi Gras in a wardrobe was traditional, but at least the music had stopped. If his life was after picking up a soundtrack, he'd prefer something that didn't sound like a marching band after a meal of bad clams.

"I could really use that coffee," Claire prodded, taking his arm and propelling him toward the door.

"Right." Coffee, he understood, although, since he'd thought he understood wardrobes, coffee would probably also be subject to change without notice. "We, uh, we need to work out your meals."

"What's there to work out? You do your job, I'll do mine. You cook, I'll eat."

"Cook what?" Dean insisted. "And when?"

Suddenly aware she still had fingers wrapped around the warm, resilient curve of a bicep, Claire s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand back. "I'll eat anything, I'm not fussy, but I can't cope with brussels sprouts, raw zucchini, dried soup mixes, and anything orange. Except oranges."

"Anything orange except oranges," he repeated. "So carrots..."

"Are out. For as long as I'm here, lunch at noon, supper at five-thirty, so I can watch the news at six. I'll have cold cereal or toast for breakfast and that I can make myself."

"You're after saving the world on a bowl of cold cereal?"

"I'd really rather you didn't start sounding like my mother," she told him sharply, stepping out into the office just as the outside door opened.

"Yoo hoo!" Clinging to the latch, Mrs. Abrams peered around the edge of the door. "Oh, there you are, dear!" She straightened and rushed forward. "You remember me..." It was a statement of fact. "... Mrs. Abrams, one bee and an ess. You should keep this door locked, you know, dear. The neighborhood isn't what it was when I was a girl. These days with all the immigrants you never know who might wander in off the street. Not that I have anything against immigrants, they make such interesting food, don't you think?" Penciled eyebrows lifted dramatically toward a stiff fringe of bangs when she spotted Dean standing on the threshold behind Claire. "How nice that you two young people are getting along."

"What did you want, Mrs. Abrams?" Claire didn't see much point in asking her if she ever knocked.

"Well, Kirstin..."

"Claire."

"I beg your pardon, dear?"

"My name is Claire, not Kirstin."

"Then why did you tell me it was Kirstin, dear?" Before Claire could protest that she hadn't told her any such thing, Mrs. Abrams waved a dismissive hand and went on. "Never mind, dear, I'm sure anyone might get confused, first day at a new job and all. I stopped by because Baby heard something in the drive last night, it might have been burglars, you know, we could have all been murdered in our beds, and I had to come over and see that you were all right."

"We're fine. I..."

"I see you have a computer." She shook her head disapprovingly, various bits of her face swaying to a different drummer. "You have to be careful about computers. The rays that come off them make you sterile. Has that nasty little Mr. Smythe returned yet?"

Finding it extremely disconcerting to speak to someone whose eyes never settled in one place for more than a second or two.

Claire came out from behind the counter. "No, Mrs. Abrams, he's gone for..."

"I remember how this place used to look, so quaint and charming. It needs a woman's touch. I hope you realize that you can call on my services at any time, Karen dear. I could have been a decorator, everyone says I have the knack. I offered to give the place the benefit of my own unique skills once before, but do you know what that Augustus Smythe said to me. He said I could redecorate the furnace room."

Claire managed to stop herself from announcing that the offer was still open, although whether she was sparing Mrs. Abrams or h.e.l.l, she wasn't entirely certain.

"Have you done anything with the dining room, dear?"

Short of a full tackle, Claire couldn't see how she could stop Mrs. Abrams from heading down the hall.

"I haven't seen the dining room for years. I hardly ever set foot in here with that horrible man in..."

Although dimmed by distance and masonry, Baby's bark was far too distinctive to either miss or mistake.

"Oh, dear, I must get back. Baby does so love to greet the mailman, but the silly fool persists in misunderstanding his playful little ways. Mummy's coming. Baby!"

Claire rubbed her temples, throwing an irritated glance at Dean as he finally stepped off the threshold and closed the door to the sitting room. "You were a lot of help."

"Mrs. Abrams," Dean told her with weary certainty, "doesn't listen to men."

"I doubt Mrs. Abrams listens to anyone."

The barking grew distinctly triumphant.

"I'm not criticizing," Claire said stiffly, ducking back under the counter and going to the front window, "but why wasn't the front door locked?"

Dean followed her. "I unlock it every morning when I get up. For guests."

They winced in unison as Mrs. Abrams could be heard shrilling, telling Baby to let it go, where it did not refer to the mailbag.

"Were you actually expecting guests?"

"Not really," he admitted.

The mailman made a run for it.

"I can't say as I'm surprised." As she left the office, a wave of her hand indicated the cracked layers of paint on the woodwork and the well-scrubbed but dingy condition of the floor. "This place doesn't exactly make a great first impression."

"So what should we do?"

"Do?" Claire turned to face him and was amazed to find him looking at her as though she had the answers. Behind him, Austin looked amused. "We aren't going to do anything. I'm going to work at sealing this site. You..." About to say "You can do whatever it is you usually do on a Tuesday," she found she couldn't disappoint the antic.i.p.ation in his eyes. "Since it's not raining, you can get started on repainting that G on the sign."

With the site journal soaking in a clarifying solution, Claire spent the morning going through the rest of the paperwork in the office. By noon, the recycling box was full, her hands were dirty, and she had two paper cuts as well as a splitting headache from all the dust.

She'd found no new information on either Sara, the hole, or the balance of power maintained between them. Someone, probably Smythe, had scrawled, the h.e.l.l with this, then in the margin of an old black-and-white men's magazine and that was as close as she'd come to an explanation.

"What a waste of time."

"Some of those old magazines are probably collectible."

Claire's lip curled. "They're not exactly mint."

"Good point." Gaze locked on her fingers, Austin backed away. "You're not planning on touching me with those filthy things, are you?"

"No." She dropped her hands back to her sides. "You know what the worst of it is? I have to go through Smythe's suite, too. There's no telling what he's crammed in there over the last fifty-odd years."

"No point in picking the lock if there's a chance of finding the key," the cat agreed.