Holly knew the eyes of all the hundreds of funeral attendees were on Tommy and her. She couldn’t exactly take Tommy out into the garden for a lesson in entomology right now. But she couldn’t abandon him, either.
Gabe apparently understood her ambivalence. “Tell you what, sport,” he said to Tommy. “I think your mom needs to stay in here for now. Grown-up rules and all. But for the moment they don’t apply to me, so just you and I will go outside, okay?”
Tommy looked at her, appeal in his gaze. He obviously wanted to go with this man. Speaking of ambivalence—was Holly ready to let her frightened son out of her sight? Especially now?
But he couldn’t be in any safer hands than those of the chief of police, could he? And this man, this stranger, had somehow known exactly what to say to calm her son.
“That’s a good idea,” she said, her words stronger than her conviction.
“Great. Come on, Tommy. I guess this isn’t a good place for a race, so we can’t see who can get out there fastest. Maybe once we’re outside we can play a game. Okay?”
Tommy grinned and nodded yet again.
Gabe McLaren had to be married and have a houseful of kids, Holly thought as she watched Tommy tuck one small hand into Gabe’s huge one. How else could he know how to deal with a terrified child that way?
And why did the thought of his active marital status send a pang of disappointment through her?
The very large man and the very small child walked hand-in-hand out of the crowded chapel. As they reached the door, she saw Tommy turn back and glance not toward her, but toward the crowd. His sweet face screwed up again as if he was going to cry once more.
Gabe apparently noticed, for in a moment he swept Tommy into his arms as if he were as light as meringue, and they disappeared through the door.
NINE O’CLOCK in the evening was too late to come to the Poston house. Gabe knew it, even as he pulled his blue Mustang up to the house with the number he’d been searching for. He could see by the streetlight that it was an attractive pale blue stucco home with white trim. As with the rest of the eclectic residential neighborhood a couple of miles inland from the beach, the Poston house resembled none of its neighbors. Gabe had to drive around the block, looking for a parking space.
A few media vans still lurked here on California Street, but their occupants appeared to be packing up. Gabe had designated an information specialist from his department to deal with reporters. She was to act cooperative while saying as little as possible about the Poston case.
He had meant to arrive earlier, but time had gotten away from him after Thomas Poston’s funeral. There were several administrative matters he’d had to take care of that day, and the memorial service had messed up his schedule.
More importantly, he’d delved further into the investigation of Poston’s murder. Even though the detective in charge was the best, Gabe wasn’t happy about the progress so far.
Especially not when it might relate to the undercover matter that brought him here in the first place.
And so, he’d decided to insinuate himself right, smack into the middle of this one. In fact, he was going to work on it here and now. Tonight. Assuming he found a parking space.
Not that he was about to try to twist Tommy Poston’s arm. Poor little tiger. He was the closest thing to an eyewitness they had. Gabe didn’t completely subscribe to the theory popular around the N.B.P.D. that, if he had witnessed the killing, Tommy would have been dead right alongside his daddy. Maybe it was so. Maybe it wasn’t. In any event, Gabe wouldn’t risk the boy’s life on it. He’d warn Holly Poston not to let Tommy out of her sight unless he was with someone completely trustworthy.
He finally found a parking spot and pulled in. Deciding to leave his holster and 9mm Smith & Wesson in the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and swapped them for a smaller pistol. Carrying a weapon was standard procedure, no matter which police force he’d worked on. Here, because of his undercover investigation, it was imperative. He stuffed the pistol in his pants pocket and put his suit jacket back on, his cell phone in an inside pocket.
His thoughts still swirled as he walked the two blocks along the dimly lighted residential streets to the Postons’ house.
Gabe suspected Tommy had seen something, even if it wasn’t the actual murder. That could be why the kid wasn’t talking.
Poor Tommy obviously missed his daddy already. He’d latched onto Gabe in the garden as if he were starved for a man’s attention, hanging onto his hand, listening to everything he said, pointing out all the flowers and butterflies and birds.
He hadn’t spoken at all. That was another thing Gabe needed to talk to Holly about. He’d learned, from the perfunctory report filed by Al Sharp after visiting the boy, that this silence was probably a result of the trauma of losing his father. It wasn’t normal for Tommy Poston. But was Tommy talking to his mother? If so, maybe Gabe could coax him, over time, to describe what he’d seen. Or maybe he’d already told Holly.
Now, Gabe heard the hubbub of voices as he strode up the short, yucca-lined walkway to the Postons’ front door. It might not be too late after all. He’d assumed that neighbors and friends would continue to rally around widow and son after the funeral service, bringing food and whatever cheer they could. He just figured most would be gone long before now.
Maybe that had, in fact, factored into his non-decision to come late. If there were too many people around, he wouldn’t be able to speak much with Holly about Tommy.
Gabe also wanted to know what he and his officers could do to help her, to make sure her chores got done, repairs made, expenses met—everything her fallen husband had done. Except the most important things, of course—companionship, love, sex…
He scoffed at himself even as he rang the bell. Sure, Holly was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, despite the sorrow that shadowed her face. But to think of sex right now in relation to this poor lady—this lovely, provocative, sensuous lady—who’d just lost the man most important in her life… “Pervert,” he whispered aloud to himself.
“Excuse me?” The front door had opened. Holly stood there looking at him. She had changed clothes and now wore brown slacks and a short-sleeved yellow sweater that hugged her slender curves.
He felt his face redden. “Er—Mrs. Poston. Holly. I hope it isn’t too late, but I’ve come to pay my respects.”
There was a wry look of amusement on her face. Damn! She must have heard what he’d said. He only prayed she hadn’t figured out why. “No, it’s not too late. I’ve still got a lot of visitors. Come in.” She stood back to let him walk inside.
Very carefully, he skirted past her. He didn’t want to brush her accidentally. He didn’t want to touch her at all. She might get the wrong idea. He might get the wrong idea.
Of all the women in the world, this one was the farthest off-limits to him, assuming he even wanted a woman. Which he didn’t.
Holly Poston was a new widow. And on top of that, she was the widow of a cop.
Even if she were ready to entertain the idea of a man’s company again so soon, which was highly unlikely, that man wouldn’t be Gabe. He’d been a rebound lover once. That was one time too many.
He stopped inside the door. The entryway to the two-story home was compact, and it was filled with people. Most women had purses slung over their shoulders.
“You’re just in time to say good-night, Chief,” said Al Sharp. “We were just leaving.”
Good. With this crowd gone, just maybe Gabe would be able to get Holly Poston to himself. For conversation. Only for conversation.
“I SHOULD STAY the night,” Edie Bryerly insisted. She was at the rear of the group of cops and others filing out from Holly’s entryway. “Don’t you want some company?”
“No, but thanks for asking. I need to be alone.” Holly was exhausted. She doubted she’d sleep, but she was ready to curl up with a cup of herbal tea in front of an old movie on television and just rest.
She’
d done that many nights when Thomas had come home late. She was used to it.
“Okay, then. You call me if there’s anything you need.” Edie’s eyes, surrounded by a wide swath of liner and mascara, regarded her sympathetically.
“I will. Thanks.”
Holly wondered how Edie could look so stunningly alert and pixielike this late at night, after working her butt off. She had bustled everywhere, helping Holly keep coffee brewing and guests’ plates full of the casseroles and desserts people had brought to the get-together at the Poston home that had begun a couple of hours after the memorial.
“We’ll get together soon, okay?” Edie persisted. “Tomorrow if you’d like. After work.”
“We’ll see,” Holly said. “In any event, I’ll be in touch.”
Edie stooped to press their cheeks together, and then she followed the horde outside.
Even though it was a summer evening, this residential area was only two miles from the Pacific Ocean, and the air was cool. Holly shut the door behind the group as soon as she was able.
Was she alone at last? She had put an exhausted Tommy to bed hours ago. Maybe it was finally her turn to relax.
But as she approached the door to her living room, she heard low voices. As she entered, she saw Sheldon engaged in a conversation with Gabe McLaren. They stood in the corner near the front picture window, with its draperies drawn tightly shut for privacy. Their heads were together, and they each held a glass—Sheldon’s in the hand of the arm that wasn’t in a sling. Both were still dressed in the suits they had worn to Thomas’s memorial service. They were so engrossed in what they were saying that neither looked up as she approached.
“Can I get you anything else to eat or drink, gentlemen?” Holly asked brightly. Playing perfect hostess at this hour might give them the hint that they were about to overstay their welcome.
“No thanks, Holly.” Sheldon was the first to glance at her. Awkwardly, he moved his glass around so he could look at his watch. “It’s late. I’m heading home now.”
“All right,” Holly said, noting that Gabe didn’t echo the sentiment. Instead, he watched her with narrowed eyes. They were green, weren’t they? She couldn’t tell in the room’s dim light, but she had noticed before.
She walked Sheldon to the front door, hoping that Gabe would follow. To her relief, he did.
To her dismay, he didn’t follow Sheldon out.
Inhaling the fresh, ocean-chilled air, she watched Sheldon limp down the front walk. Poor man wasn’t recuperating from his injuries very quickly. His age might be a factor. Sixty-one wasn’t that old, but he certainly had begun to look and act older this week. Plus, he had a heart condition that he kept under control with medication. She would have to help him every way she could. He had been very kind to her, selling her stitchery creations in his shop, promoting them to tourists….
“Can you spare me a few minutes, Holly?” Gabe asked. He still stood behind her at the door.
She turned, wanting to tell him “no” but assuming he had something to discuss with her. Something about Thomas’s death. Why else would he want to talk to her?
Of course she had heard his strange comment as she’d opened the door to let him in: “Pervert.” She’d gathered he was chastising himself for some reason. It had struck her as funny, at a time when her sense of humor had gone on an extended vacation. She’d appreciated it.
“All right,” she responded. She didn’t look at him but regarded the chipped pink nail polish on her right index finger critically. She didn’t suggest further refreshments to Gabe. She hoped he wouldn’t stay long…didn’t she? “Would you like to come back into the living room?” she asked him.
She didn’t wait for his reply but headed there. At least she could be comfortable, in this room she had decorated to feel homey, with its thick russet-colored plush carpeting. She took a seat on the fluffy beige sofa, pushing some of the gold and green throw pillows aside. She slid her shoes off and slipped her feet onto the low coffee table. Knowing she was going to have company, she’d removed the small stack of magazines that she kept on it, piling them in the closet. Usually, she rested her feet right on top of the periodicals. Thomas hadn’t liked that habit. He’d told her so often.
At first, she’d made an effort to comply. Over time, it hadn’t mattered.
Gabe removed his suit jacket and folded it carefully over the back of the reclining leather chair beside the sofa.
Then he sat on that chair. It had been Thomas’s chair. Exclusively.
But Thomas wouldn’t mind now.
Did she? This man was making himself right at home.
Thomas had worked out a lot. He’d been five-eleven and muscular. But the substantial chair that had once belonged only to him now seemed a lot smaller with Gabe occupying it.
She caught the glint of amusement in Gabe’s eyes as he glanced at her bare toes, with their bright red polish, then back up at her face.
So what if she didn’t take as much care with her fingernails as she did with her toes? She couldn’t reach her toenails as easily to pick off the polish when she was upset or nervous.
But she felt discomfited by Gabe’s stare. She curled around so her feet were tucked up under her. “So, Chief McLaren, I gather you have something on your mind,” she said. Besides my toes, she wanted to add but didn’t.
“Gabe,” he corrected. “Yes, I do. A few things. First, I know some of my officers have been in touch with you, but I wanted to let you know personally how the investigation into Thomas’s death is progressing.”
A chill passed through Holly that had nothing to do with this house’s proximity to the Pacific, and everything to do with her fear about what Gabe would say…and what he might not say.
“Have you caught his killer?” she asked softly. She doubted it. Al would have told her right away, if he’d known.
Gabe shook his head. There was a grim tightness about his lips that had told her his answer already. In fact, he looked angry. “No,” he said. “Not yet. But we will. You can bet on it.” He spoke with so much intensity that Holly believed him. He’d get the killer. And soon.
She was uncertain how much she really wanted to hear, but she asked anyway, “Do you know exactly what happened that morning? How Thomas was killed and Sheldon hurt?”
“We’ve pieced it together, though we’re not sure how accurate we are so far. But before I tell you, I have to ask a few questions. I know you’ve already talked to Al Sharp. Since he was your husband’s partner, the guys doing the footwork on the investigation thought that would be easier on you.”
She nodded.
“But I’m handling the investigation now. Personally. I want you to know that. And I have some questions that Al wasn’t able to answer. Okay?”
He leaned forward. He had unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and loosened his dark blue tie. The combination of formal clothing and the casual way he wore it seemed boyishly charming.
And yet there was nothing immature about this man who seemed to take charge, no matter where he was. Even in her living room.
His large hands were clasped between his knees as he watched her with compassion. She had a feeling that, if she told him she just couldn’t talk about it, he would understand.
But there was an intensity in his stare as well. A fervor that told her that if she didn’t cooperate, if she couldn’t cooperate, he’d simply bulldoze around or through her to get the information that she could most easily impart.
She liked that, somehow. Even if it made her uneasy, she felt that Gabe McLaren’s zeal and dedication ensured the fact that someday soon, somehow, this cop would fulfill his duty. They would know exactly who killed Thomas, and why.
And then maybe her son would talk again, once the bad guy was in jail.
“All right,” she said. “What would you like to know?” She’d tell him what she could, as long as it wasn’t personal. There were a lot of things about Thomas, and about Thomas and her, that were not relevant to
the investigation but would hurt her, and Tommy, if people learned about them.
“First of all, what was Thomas doing at Sheldon Sperling’s at that hour of the morning? And with little Tommy, too. Thomas was already in uniform, but he wasn’t on duty yet.”
Holly nodded. She could talk about this. “It was part of our daily routine. I tend to work late and sleep in. Thomas woke early even if he went to bed late. To let me rest, he’d get ready for work and take out Tommy, who’s an early bird, too. Sheldon has been a close friend for a long time. He even sells my work. He’s an early riser, like Thomas, and they’d often meet at the shop, then either just walk along the beach or the pier, or stop in for breakfast at one of the restaurants on Pacific Way near Sheldon’s.”
“I see. Then it wasn’t unusual for Thomas to be there that early, in uniform, with Tommy?”
“No.”
“What’s your work, and how does Sheldon sell it?”
Holly blinked and looked at Gabe. He smiled, so winsomely that she couldn’t help a tentative grin back.
“I know that doesn’t have anything to do with the investigation,” he said. “I’m just curious.”
“I’m an artist of sorts,” she told him. “I create quilts and wall hangings and other pieces out of fabrics—mostly impractical, but intended to be attractive. Fortunately, some people seem to think so. They sell well, mostly to tourists. Sheldon carries most of them in his shop for me, and he gets a percentage of everything he sells.”
“I’d like to see your work,” Gabe said. He glanced around the living room, but no pieces hung there.
It had been a sore point between Thomas and her—one of many. Thomas had considered what she did frivolous and resented the large amounts of money she made when any of her pieces sold—even though he didn’t mind her spending it on things he liked but couldn’t afford.
Like his reclining chair.
Tommy's Mom Page 3
