Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  When she was alone, Pippa walked to the two wide windows at the front of the room and stared out over three blocks of St. Lumis toward the Chesapeake. The water looked cold and gray in the dying daylight. She saw most of the boats were already docked and secured for the night. She remembered the police station was on Main Street, a pedestrian name for a street in St. Lumis, and good luck for the person who’d sent the red box and the puzzle pieces. If Main Street had been named Bass Lane or Speckled Trout Avenue, a computer search would have found it quick as spit, as her grandfather loved to say.

  She made a stop downstairs to get her oatmeal cookie, a ghost with gobs of white frosting. Her first bite tasted like pure warm sin. She could practically feel her blood sugar shoot up. Mrs. Trumbo gave her an orange pumpkin, carefully wrapped in a napkin, and Pippa slipped it into her jacket pocket. She walked out of Major Trumbo’s B&B, her beautiful crimson velvet cloak swirling around her black-booted feet. Leveler’s Inn stood three blocks west, set well back from Tautog Street, its deep front grounds beautifully planted and maintained. She remembered it had started out in what was then a poorer part of town, until it was bought by a corporation and made into a hotel that had lasted into the early new century. Then it was bought by Mr. Field Sleeman, St. Lumis’s only wealthy local, who’d revamped it into the new Leveler’s Inn, the town’s only destination for company retreats and conferences.

  It was full-on dark now, a three-quarters moon low on the horizon. She’d passed only a couple of kids trick-or-treating, since it was getting late. She saw some teenagers laughing, shoving one another, talking on their cell phones, a couple of them wearing mom’s sheets around their necks. Bedroom superheroes? She wondered what this teenage pod would do if no one answered the front door. Was toilet paper draped in trees still the big thing?

  She pulled on her mask as she walked into the inn, tugged her French braid out over the elastic, and strolled into the large ballroom. It was decorated to the hilt with skeletons dancing on the walls, and loop after loop of black and orange crepe paper was strung from the ceiling. The huge room was filling up fast, the noise level rising. A band played an enthusiastic rumba in the corner, and she saw three costumed couples performing quite well. There was a large rectangular table at the other end of the room with a huge punch bowl and plates of fresh veggies and dip, untouched, and a score of different kinds of pies, all nearly gone. There were several dozen circular tables, each with ten chairs, most of them filled with costumed locals. A small grinning pumpkin with a lit candle inside sat on each table. More people arrived behind her, sending the noise level even higher.

  Nearly everyone wore masks, and many were decked out in elaborate costumes, like Captain Hook or Bluebeard, she didn’t know which, several Musketeers laughing at their own jokes, and a Captain Kirk doing the rumba with Lieutenant Uhura in her twenty-third-century miniskirt.

  And there he was, Chief of Police Matthew Wilde, standing by the large food table chatting with two couples drinking orange Halloween punch from clear plastic cups. She watched Captain Picard dump the contents of a flask into the punch, probably vodka, and wondered how many other partiers had done the same thing and would continue to. She remembered her dad used to carry a flask to this shindig every year, her mom laughing and shaking her head at him. He never said a word about the small vodka bottle in her purse.

  She paused a moment and studied the police chief. In the photos she’d seen of him as a detective in Philadelphia only months before he’d quit the force, he’d looked dour and stiff-lipped, showing about as much life as a stick of wood. But tonight, he was smiling and looked relaxed, his once military-short hair now on the long side. He wasn’t wearing a mask or a costume, but sharp-looking civilian black wool slacks, a white shirt that was open at the neck, black boots, and a black leather jacket, what she thought of as the Savich School of Fashion. His eyes were a mix of green and blue, heavily lashed. He looked rangy, lean like a runner. She knew he was three years older than she was, divorced, no children, and she wondered what had happened to break up the marriage. In the photos she’d seen, he’d been clean-shaven. No longer. Now he sported dark beard scruff, a look she normally didn’t like, but on him, it fit. He looked a little tough, maybe a little mean, but overall, he projected calm and trustworthiness. I know what I’m doing and I’ll keep you safe. Was he what he advertised? In her first six months as an FBI special agent, she’d met two police chiefs she’d wanted to punch out for how they’d treated her, a woman FBI agent.

  Pippa looked away from him, over the fast-filling ballroom. Probably at least one hundred and fifty people were here. What with the masks and costumes, she hadn’t recognized anyone, but that also meant no one would recognize her.

  Time to meet Wilde. She made her way to the food table and poured only half a plastic cup of the spiked Halloween punch to go with the oatmeal cookie she gingerly slipped out from her pocket beneath her red velvet cloak. She sipped her punch, chewed her cookie, and watched him. He was only six feet away. Soon he would see her and come say hello, realize he didn’t know her, and introduce himself.

  Sure enough, here he came. “I’d recognize that smell anywhere—it’s one of Mrs. Trumbo’s famous oatmeal cookies.”

  He had a deep voice, and a smooth cadence, an accent more mid-Atlantic than Southern.

  She broke off a piece from the pumpkin oatmeal cookie, handed it to him. “Here you go.”

  He smiled, popped it into his mouth, wiped his hand on his slacks, and stuck out his hand. She shook it. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Matthew Wilde, chief of police here in St. Lumis.”

  “I’m Pippa Cinelli.” She eyed him up and down. “You could have at least duded up like a Wild West lawman and worn a yellow duster, a nice big Colt .45 strapped to your leg. Maybe some black gloves.”

  “A yellow duster, hmm, like in the old spaghetti westerns with Clint Eastwood? That’s quite an image—maybe next year.”

  Pippa pushed back her mask and eyed him. “You’d mosey when you walked, too, make the duster flare out, show off your boots. Men would fear you, and women would want to jump you. Well, at least maybe the teenage girls.”

  13

  Wilde laughed and looked at Pippa more closely. “Now, there’s a visual. It’s off-season, and we haven’t met. Does that mean you’re here visiting relatives, or did you come for our famous drunken Halloween bash?”

  “Actually, I’m here to take a break from the big bad city. A Halloween party at Leveler’s is an overdue treat.” She pointed to the punch bowl. “I wonder how much vodka is swimming around in that orange punch?”

  “I’ve already seen at least half a dozen vodka dumps. The noise should increase exponentially as the evening goes on. So, what do you think of Mrs. Trumbo?”

  “She’s been nice, she makes marvelous oatmeal cookies, but I wouldn’t want to mess with her. She’s built like a tank. I’ll bet the late Major Trumbo didn’t mess with her, either.”

  “She’s a pussycat when you get her talking about her son, Ronald, a textile artist in Baltimore. But you’re right, I wouldn’t want to tangle with her, either.”

  “I made plans at the last minute and ended up in the only room available—the honeymoon suite. She was pleased to get a customer, but I could tell she was disappointed I was alone. She hoped to get a groom on the premises to liven things up.”

  “I’ve never seen the honeymoon suite. I’m picturing a big waterbed, a mirror in the ceiling, and bordello-red towels in the bathroom.”

  “Sorry, no water in the bed, no ceiling mirror. There are, however, red draperies, and the Jacuzzi in the bathroom could host a party.”

  “Is this your first visit to St. Lumis, Ms. Cinelli?”

  “Actually, I lived here years ago, before my folks moved to Boston. I remember there was another police chief. What was his name?”

  “Barnabas Cosby, a fine man with a firm grip. He and his wife took off for Montana. Not to hunt or raise buffalo, he told me. He’s a big s
kier. His wife isn’t so much, but luckily she likes to shoot snakes and make belts out of them.”

  She stared at him. “You made that up.”

  He put his palm over his chest. “No, I swear. Evidently there are lots of snakes in Montana, slithery ones and, of course, the all-too-common two-legged ones, I’m sure. Do you ski?”

  She nodded. “Colorado. Vail, Aspen, my two favorite places. Snow’s like fine powder. And you?”

  “Last time I skied was in Switzerland. Good skiing, good fun, until I got plowed into by a kid, another American, who nearly sent me flying off a thousand-foot cliff. An older woman, gray hair flying all over her head, saw it all. Quick as a flash, she was right there, planted her pole and rammed me sideways, saved me from a swan dive into eternity. I asked her to marry me, but alas, she was already married, although she thought I was a cutie. At least I think that’s what she said. A lot of this is supposition since her English was nearly as bad as my French.” He grinned really big as he spoke. “I think her name was Yvette.”

  Pippa decided she liked him. “Good story. I wonder if it’s true?”

  He crossed his heart.

  Pippa waved at the punch bowl. “The vodka-laced punch tastes too good. I’ve got to be careful, or I’ll be out there on the dance floor trying to do the rumba, clothing optional.”

  A dark eyebrow went up, then a flash of a smile. “That image just neon-lit my brain. If I weren’t the chief of police, I’d offer you another cup and ask you to dance with me.”

  Pippa took another tiny sip and made herself set down her cup. “Best not slug down any more of that very fine liquid sin. I remember St. Lumis was pretty peaceful, no real crime, just minor stuff. People locked their doors only in the summer when the tourists invaded, if at all. Maybe that was because of Chief Cosby’s firm grip? I’m wondering why you came here.”

  Too much too fast. Well, she couldn’t take it back, so she waited, acted nonchalant, and looked out over the crowded room, listening to the laughter. The band was playing a waltz now, and a good three dozen couples were whirling around the dance floor. Or trying.

  “A change of pace,” he said at last, his voice almost smooth and easy, but not quite. “It’s a nice town.” He shrugged, looked beyond her shoulder, and nodded hello. “Excuse me, Ms. Cinelli, one of St. Lumis’s prominent citizens is beckoning.” He paused. “Maybe he has an oatmeal cookie to share.” He gave her a smile and walked away. Prominent citizen? She turned to see a man wearing a plain black mask and a black suit. As Wilde got closer, the man lifted the mask, and she stared at Mr. Field Sleeman, owner of Leveler’s Inn. He’d been St. Lumis’s most prominent citizen when she’d lived here, too. She wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Sleeman was one of the richest men in Maryland by now. He owned the local bank, Leveler’s Inn, a half dozen tourist shops, and a dozen other businesses, and that was only in St. Lumis. She watched the two men shake hands, heard Mr. Sleeman laugh. She remembered Sleeman’s house—or mansion, as her parents called it—a huge, sprawling affair clearly announcing he was king of this mountain. Suddenly, a drunk zombie grabbed her arm. Before she could punch him, he grinned and asked her to waltz with him. Why not? He sported hanging rags and a mask right out of The Walking Dead. Turned out he was an insurance salesman and a good dancer. He didn’t recognize her, didn’t recognize her name, but after their dance, he introduced her to a dozen more people. She smiled and chatted, hoping to find out something interesting, but everyone had visited the punch too many times. Pippa wasn’t all that sociable, but she gave it her all. She met as many people as she could. Some remembered her and her family. In her experience, people here loved to talk, particularly to a former local, still considered one of them, but not tonight. Everyone was having too much fun and too much spiked punch. But tomorrow they would remember her. Maybe.

  She kept half an eye on Wilde. He’d spoken with Sleeman for only a couple of minutes, then after scanning the room, as if checking to see no one had stabbed anyone, he slipped away. Where was he going? Maybe to trick-or-treat? She saw Sleeman standing silently, staring after him. She’d met Mr. Sleeman several times when she was a teenager, before she went off to NYU to get her law degree to give her the best chance of being accepted by the FBI. She watched another man walk over to Sleeman and pull off his mask. The younger man looked like Sleeman. She remembered he had sons and one daughter. They spoke, then the younger man walked back to a woman, held out his hand to her, and off they went to the dance floor.

  She didn’t see the chief again.

  She was exhausted when she walked back to Major Trumbo’s B&B after eleven. She found Mrs. Trumbo standing behind the high mahogany reception desk with its orange and black streamers still looped across the wall behind her. She heard conversation coming from the sitting room to her right. Only two oatmeal cookies remained on a plate on the counter.

  “Where’s your bag?”

  Pippa blinked. “My bag?”

  “Your trick-or-treat bag, dear. I was too busy to get out this year. Last year, I dressed up as Little Red Riding Hood and collected candy for the children’s hospital in Annapolis. People were so surprised. I really cleaned up. I didn’t know there were that many Snickers bars in St. Lumis.”

  Pippa couldn’t imagine Mrs. Trumbo as Little Red Riding Hood. It boggled the mind. She smiled. “I’d rather have another one of your cookies,” she said, and snagged one. She said good night to Mrs. Trumbo and climbed the two flights of stairs to her honeymoon suite, wondering if Major Trumbo had been as outgoing and friendly as his spouse. Out of habit, she locked the door and slipped on the chain. She double-checked the bathroom. Not a single red towel, only white.

  She showered, put on black flannel pajamas covered with red cats, and sat cross-legged on the bed, her tablet on her lap. She read more about Wilde. Three years with the Philadelphia Police Department, married three years, three medals for bravery, divorced. On the fast track until his team member and best friend was murdered and he failed to find the killer. After Wilde had resigned, he dropped out of sight for a few months until he’d become the chief here in St. Lumis.

  Pippa read until her eyelids were at half-mast. She turned off her tablet and the lamp beside the big circular bed and lay back, wondering why Wilde’s best friend had been murdered and why he hadn’t found whoever was responsible.

  When she slept, she dreamed she was in a jail cell, seated on a bench fastened to a wall, with a beautiful woman with thick dark hair like a mantle around her shoulders seated next to her. There were plates stacked high with Mrs. Trumbo’s oatmeal cookies in front of them. The woman told Pippa she knew it was wrong to eat them, but she had anyway, until she could only lie there, blissfully full. Suddenly Chief Wilde appeared on the other side of the jail cell bars, his eyes on the woman, and he was shaking his head, telling her she shouldn’t have eaten the cookies and look where it got her. She told him he was pathetic because he didn’t know what the cookies meant. The woman laughed at him and was fluffing her hair when Pippa awoke with a start, her heart pounding, sweat dampening her sleep shirt. What in heaven’s name did that weird dream mean? Who was the woman? And why was she dreaming about Chief Wilde? What did Mrs. Trumbo’s oatmeal cookies have to do with anything? Then she remembered. She’d seen that woman when she was looking into Wilde. It was his ex-wife, Serena Wilde.

  She huffed. What could she expect except weird dreams after swilling that vodka-laced punch?

  14

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  GEORGETOWN

  SAVICH HOUSE

  SUNDAY MORNING

  DAY AFTER HALLOWEEN

  Savich and Sherlock left Sean with his grandmother and Senator Monroe, a longtime fixture in her life, to attend church, eat his grandmother’s fried chicken and potato salad for lunch, and play Frisbee in the small park across from his grandmother’s house. As they left, they heard Sean explaining in great detail how Marty, his future wife and next-door neighbor, had dressed as Wonder Woman and lassoed all the adults a
nd made them tell the truth, which made them laugh and got them more candy.

  “At least he didn’t make himself sick,” Sherlock said as she slid into the Porsche.

  “Through no fault of his own,” Savich said as he closed her door and walked around to ease into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and smiled when his beauty roared to life. “I’ll bet he and Marty stuffed themselves before coming back into the house. And then they chowed down on popcorn while they watched that Scooby-Doo movie.”

  She laughed, leaned her head back against the sinfully soft Porsche leather. “I think if I see that movie one more time I’ll be able to say all the characters’ lines. We’ve seen it with him, what, half a dozen times already?”

  “Nah, no more than four.”

  Sherlock sighed. “I’d have enjoyed playing Frisbee with Sean in the park with your mom and the senator. The senator’s gotten pretty good, says Sean keeps him on his toes. He’s gotten lots of practice what with his seven grandchildren. Well, if he and your mom get married, he’ll have a step-grandchild, too.”

  The thought of a stepfather didn’t give Savich a jolt like it once would have. “I doubt marriage is in the cards. Mom told me last month she likes things the way they are between them. Like me, she misses Dad. On the other hand, the senator is quite a debater, and he’s smitten, a big point in his favor. And he’s proven he can stick. They’ve been seeing each other nearly three years now.” Savich slowed and carefully steered around a dozen bicycles, mostly tourists weaving in and out, having too much fun to be careful. Thankfully, traffic was lighter on Sundays.

  Sherlock said, “I wonder what Congressman Manvers thinks about Agent Griffin Hammersmith protecting his wife. An alpha male in the same house as another alpha, only this one is twenty-five years younger and so good-looking he stops traffic.”

  “Griffin won’t be there all day. About now, he’s leaving for his command performance at Jessie Tenley’s surprise birthday party for her eighteen-year-old daughter, Paige. He looked hunted when I told him about his assignment. Of course, I also told him his sacrifice meant we got Agent Cinelli on loan. He sighed and accepted his fate.”