Tommy's Mom

by Linda O. Johnston

  So as not to provoke additional arguments, Holly kept everything in her private workroom, an extra bedroom upstairs beside Tommy’s room.

  Now, though, she would be able to display her work in her own home. Enjoy it herself…

  She sighed. She could simply have divorced Thomas, if she’d wanted him fully out of her life. But she hadn’t, for there really wasn’t anything simple about it.

  Gabe must have misinterpreted her sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m keeping you up late. I can ask most of my questions another time. But as far as the investigation goes, we believe what happened was an armed robbery.”

  Holly couldn’t help asking, “Really? With a uniformed police officer there?”

  Gabe shrugged. “It could have been an addict desperate for money for a fix. Or maybe the killer didn’t see Thomas until it was too late to back off. We were hoping to get more from Sheldon, but he apparently doesn’t remember much. I didn’t talk to him for long here so I haven’t confirmed it yet, but according to the police report he said that Thomas and he were having a heated little argument about the merits of the Dodgers over the Angels and weren’t watching the door. He doesn’t recall anything after that, but says he’d put some change into his register to prepare for the day. His cash drawer was empty when the crime scene investigation team checked it.”

  “I see.” Holly looked down at her lap. Poor Sheldon. It had only been four days, and his injuries were still really bothering him.

  “Holly, there are things we need to discuss about Tommy.”

  She looked up with a start. Gabe had risen from the chair and stood beside it now. He looked huge and intimidating.

  “What about Tommy?” she asked in a hesitant whisper.

  He sat again, this time beside her on the sofa. His presence so near was even more disturbing. She swallowed.

  “Al told me he stopped talking after the incident. Before, I gather he was like most four-year-olds I know who babble a blue streak.”

  “Your own kids?” she blurted, then wondered why she’d said it.

  He laughed. “No, I’m not married, never was and never had any kids. But I’m an uncle several times over—sort of. It’s a little complicated.”

  He obviously didn’t want her to ask how, so she didn’t. But she felt ridiculously relieved that he appeared to have no closer ties than unclehood.

  “Yes,” she replied to his question. “Tommy talked a lot until the…incident, as you call it. He hasn’t said a word since.”

  “He hasn’t told even you what he saw?”

  Hoarsely, she said, “No. But Al…I was assured that Tommy couldn’t have seen the murder, or someone as horrible as the murderer would have…hurt him, too.”

  Gabe nodded. “Could be. But it also might not be.”

  Holly stared at him. She had to look up, even though he was sitting beside her, to see into his unflinching eyes.

  He was right, of course. But she had wanted so much to believe what Al had said….

  “We need to get him to talk,” Gabe said, “just in case.”

  “I agree,” Holly replied shakily. “Whatever he did or didn’t see, he won’t be able to start healing from losing Thomas unless he can talk about it.”

  And if, incidentally, what Tommy said led to Thomas’s killer… No! Despite Holly’s inclinations to get involved, to help, that was police business. She, and most particularly her son, would stay out of it. Far out of it.

  “Also, just in case…” Gabe moved closer to her on the sofa and took her hand. His was warm, and it dwarfed hers. But because of the nature of their conversation, it was anything but comforting. “I’d suggest you keep a close watch on Tommy. Don’t leave him with anyone unless you have to, and if you do, make sure it’s someone you trust. Without knowing for certain the motive for Thomas’s murder and the battery on Sheldon, we can’t be sure—”

  “You don’t really think someone we know did this.” Holly made her words a statement, though she knew they were untrue. Her feet were on the floor now, and her back was stiff and straight. She looked toward the closed draperies, and not at the man beside her who, although gentle, did not allow her to pull her hand away. “No one we know is so hard up they’d kill for a few dollars from a cash register. They’d know they could come to us for a loan, and—”

  “That’s assuming the money wasn’t just taken to make us think robbery was the motive.”

  “Oh.”

  Gabe squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, Holly. For everything.”

  He really sounded sorry, though he had done nothing to cause any of her pain. She appreciated that. She appreciated how kind this man seemed to be, and how he had been so disclosing about the investigation, despite not knowing much yet.

  So gentle in warning her to protect her son.

  “We’ll catch the murderer,” he continued. “But in the meantime…”

  His voice trailed off, and she looked at him.

  He was watching her. She felt unnerved. She wanted to rise and recapture her hand and tell him it was time to leave.

  But she didn’t.

  “In the meantime?” she asked, her voice low and hoarse. She watched his face. It was a strong and masculine face. Angular in all the right places, and very handsome.

  Very intense. Too intense. Too sexy. But still she didn’t look away.

  “In the meantime,” he said softly, his gaze unwavering, “I want you to tell me anything you need. Anything.”

  He blinked then, obviously hearing what he had said and realizing how suggestively it could be interpreted.

  He released her hand and cleared his throat. He stood and looked over her shoulder, not directly at her. “What I mean,” he said, “is what I told you before. I’ve directed everyone on the force to make sure you’re treated like a member of the family. You just tell one of us whatever you need. Like I said earlier, chores, repairs, we’ll do them. I promise.”

  “Thank you,” she said, not even attempting to repress the giggle in her voice now that the intensity of the moment had ended. That had undoubtedly been all he had meant all along. She had just read him wrong, hadn’t she?

  She considered saying something light and teasing, to ease them over the moment. But before she could, she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.

  Tommy stood silently at the door to the living room, watching them. Tears were running down his face.

  Chapter Three

  “Hey, sport.” Gabe’s heart went out to the quietly crying child. “Did you have a bad dream?”

  He nodded solemnly, one small hand clenched into a fist at his side and the other rubbing his eyes. He wore a baggy yellow pajama top and matching shorts that revealed his thin legs. His feet were bare.

  “Oh, Tommy.” Holly headed across the room toward her son. She lifted him into her arms, nuzzling him.

  For an instant, Gabe envied the little boy.

  He joined them by the door and looked down at Tommy, who’d laid his head on his mother’s shoulder. There was a vague clean scent around him, like baby powder or soap.

  It blended well with the fragrance hinting sweetly of luscious fruit that wafted gently about his mother.

  Tommy’s dark hair was about the same shade as Holly’s. Gabe had thought so, but he hadn’t seen their hair so close together before. Tommy’s was mussed from sleep.

  Holly’s was skillfully mussed, thanks to the artful look of her sexy hairstyle.

  “Would you like to tell me about your dream?” Gabe asked, putting two fingers on Tommy’s damp cheek. “Sometimes it feels better if you talk about it.”

  But Tommy didn’t move, except to close his eyes. Tears still streamed down his face. Holly rocked him gently.

  “Okay, I’ve a better idea,” Gabe said. “How about if I read you a story?”

  The small head rose, and Tommy smiled through his tears.

  “That’s not necessary,” Holly said. “It’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired.”

  “I’ll s
leep better myself after a story,” Gabe said firmly. He wasn’t about to explain to Holly in front of Tommy, but he had begun his campaign to get the child to talk.

  “Well…all right.”

  Gabe got the message. She wanted him to leave. There could be a million reasons why, not the least of which was that he made her uncomfortable. He understood that. He’d felt uncomfortable, too, in those last minutes before Tommy appeared in the living room. Still did. Right down in his crotch. This woman was damn sexy without even trying.

  She was also hands-off.

  He intended to help her, whether she wanted help or not. He’d spend a little male quality time with her son, for starters. That was something she couldn’t do herself.

  And if he got Tommy to reveal exactly what he’d seen the morning his daddy died, well, all the better.

  HOLLY SAT on a small blue chair near the desk in Tommy’s room, watching her son’s enthralled expression as Chief Gabe McLaren read him a bedtime story.

  Gabe had let Tommy choose the storybook. It was one of Tommy’s favorites, full of brightly colored pictures of wild animals, real and imaginary.

  Gabe kept a muscular arm around the small boy in the pale yellow pajamas. Tommy’s head rested against Gabe’s broad chest. She saw it move up and down with the vibration when Gabe laughed at something in the story. Which was often.

  It was a wonderfully moving sight—man and boy together in sweet companionship.

  The problem was that the man was a virtual stranger.

  Thomas had seldom read a bedtime story to Tommy. That was a mother’s role, he’d said. So was feeding the boy, bathing him and taking care of him when he was ill. Throwing a ball to him—well, that had been a father’s job, except that Thomas had gotten bored with it easily, particularly when Tommy hadn’t always been able to catch what he tossed.

  Holly had been pleased and surprised that father and son had at least gotten into the habit of spending quality time together on the mornings she slept in. Or at least she assumed their time together went well. Thomas always shrugged at her questions, and Tommy had just beamed.

  “Uh-oh,” Gabe was saying as Holly’s attention returned to the tableau on the bed. “You know what? I’ve forgotten what this animal says, and I’m too tired to read it. Do you know?” He looked at Tommy, who nodded.

  “Good. That’ll help. The animal is a bird, isn’t it?”

  Again, Tommy nodded.

  “It’s a funny-looking one. I’ve never seen a big blue owl before, have you?”

  This time, Tommy shook his head.

  “Right here, it says the owl made a noise like owls do. But the letters are too fuzzy for my tired eyes. Can you read them?”

  Tommy shook his head again.

  “Well, do you suppose you could tell me what an owl says? If not, I’m afraid we won’t be able to finish the book. What do you think this owl said?”

  Tommy looked distressed. Worried for him, Holly was about to join them and finish reading the darned book, when Tommy said, almost too softly for her to hear it, “Hooo.”

  “That’s it!” Gabe gave Tommy a big hug. “That’s exactly what it says. I’m awake now. Let’s finish this book.” Over Tommy’s head, he caught Holly’s eye and gave her a big, conspiratorial wink.

  It was all Holly could do to prevent herself from hurrying across the room to hug them both.

  “I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH,” Holly said at the front door awhile later. Tommy was tucked once more into bed, sound asleep.

  Gabe had gotten him to talk!

  And, very patiently, he hadn’t pressed Tommy to say any more, not that night. But at least that one, tiny “Hooo” had been a start.

  “You’re very welcome, Holly.” He was grinning, a very masculine, proud smile. He obviously recognized the significance of his accomplishment.

  “So you’re a police chief and a child psychologist. What else do you do?” Holly couldn’t help teasing despite her exhaustion…and the fact that she was aware that, once he left, she was going to be very much alone in this house, a widow by herself with a sleeping child.

  “Try me,” he said, his grin growing even broader. Damn, but he was sexy.

  And damn her, too, for even noticing. Widow, she reminded herself, grinding the word into her mind, as if her overactive emotions were a food processor. You’re a widow. As in no men, no sex, just loneliness.

  For now, that was fine with her. Maybe forever.

  And yet, as Gabe shook her hand and held on long enough to warn her to lock her door behind him, there was a lingering heat in her fingers. The sensation bothered her. A lot.

  So did the way he looked at her—a disconcerting combo, in the depths of his eyes, of sympathy, amusement, distance…and lust.

  Quickly, she shut the door behind him, trying not to slam it. She leaned on it, closing her eyes.

  Gabe McLaren wasn’t just a man trying to be kind. He was aware of her as a woman.

  She was aware of him as a man.

  But that was simply because she was in mourning. Sure, she was lonely—a widow—but she wasn’t stupid.

  Gabe McLaren was a cop. He might remain a part of her life until Thomas’s murderer was caught. After that, she’d merely need to convince him that neither Tommy nor she needed his help or any other cop’s to survive.

  As she dutifully locked the door, though, she realized something: attempting to convince Gabe McLaren of anything he didn’t want to believe might be as futile as trying to get the wild waves of the Pacific to settle down for an afternoon nap.

  HOLLY COULDN’T sleep that night. Big surprise. She hadn’t slept much at all since Thomas’s death.

  Why? she wondered, lying in the dark with her eyes wide open. It wasn’t as if they had been so close that she missed him here, in her bed. Or even out of it.

  Still…he had been her husband. He’d been a major part of her life, notwithstanding how distant they had become recently.

  She groaned and sat up, flicking on the lamp on her bedside table. Glancing around, she recalled how she had so defiantly made this bedroom her own, decorating it with flowery Laura Ashley sheets and curtains.

  One of the quilts she’d sewn was folded carefully at her feet. And a couple of her own favorite stitched creations hung on the walls.

  What would Gabe McLaren think of her “silly little crafts,” as Thomas had dubbed them?

  And why did she even wonder about it? Why hadn’t she shown him any when he’d expressed an interest in seeing her artwork?

  Forget it. She had much weightier matters to think about. Like her husband. Thomas was gone forever now. He’d been buried today.

  No, yesterday. This was a new day, no matter how early it was.

  And no matter what Thomas and she had or hadn’t been to one another at the end, Holly mourned him.

  Maybe it would help to keep busy. But she didn’t feel particularly creative right now. Perhaps what she could do was to start going through Thomas’s things.

  Not his clothes. Not now, in the middle of the night when she felt so sad. But paperwork. That would keep her mind occupied without devastating her.

  She rose, put a light cotton robe over her short nylon gown, and went down the stairs to the small room that had been Thomas’s office. She flicked on the light and sighed, “Oh, Thomas.” He hadn’t liked her to come in here, so she hadn’t, for months. Thomas hadn’t liked to pick up after himself, either, and this room, furnished with desk, chair, small tables for computer and TV, and junk, reflected it. Now, she would have to sort through all the piles, figure out what to save and what to toss.

  “Not tonight,” she told herself. She nevertheless picked her way through the debris on the floor and sat down on the desk chair. The room smelled musty. She’d air it out tomorrow.

  For now, feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task, she decided just to tackle the smallest piles on the desk. One contained mostly magazines. That was easy. Those about police she would donate to the stati
on, if anyone wanted them. The risqué ones she would toss out. The few dealing with investments…well, those were probably disposable, too.

  She wondered suddenly if Gabe McLaren read investment magazines, girly magazines or just ones sent to cops. She laughed at herself and went to work on another pile.

  This one was more problematic. It contained files, mostly unlabeled. The ones that were labeled were primarily credit card bills—what credit card was this? It referenced a company different from the one that issued their shared card. It had been sent to Thomas at the address of the N.B.P.D. station.

  She glanced at the charges: firing range practice, gasoline, a local department store. Nothing unusual. But why were these charges on a separate credit card? She hadn’t seen anything recorded in their checkbook indicating payments on this card.

  She put that file down and tried another. It contained a list of all the shops along Pacific Way, the traffic-free street perpendicular to the beach where Sheldon, Evangeline and a multitude of other local trendy tourist establishments had their stores. Nothing too exciting about that.

  There were a few other files, some with familiar financial information, others with photographs, mostly of Tommy.

  Not her, of course. Or of all of them together.

  Still, this folder caused tears to flow down Holly’s cheeks. No matter what else Thomas had been, no matter how estranged she and he had felt from one another, her husband had loved their child in his own way. And Tommy had certainly adored his daddy.

  Who had killed Thomas? Was the money stolen from Sheldon’s worth a human life? Or had there been another reason…?

  Shuddering, Holly arranged the stacks on the desk into neater piles, then headed back to her bedroom.

  “YOU WANTED to see me, Chief?” Al Sharp’s posture seemed relaxed, with one hip leaning against Gabe’s desk and his arms loosely crossed, but Gabe saw a wariness glinting from eyes too insolent and set a little too close together. He was clad in his police patrol uniform, complete with Sam Browne about his waist containing his .35 Beretta and ammunition, but his hat was nowhere to be seen.