Be Mine, Miss Valentine

by Patricia Kay

  "She let you off the hook," he said aloud. "So take the opportunity presented and forget about this episode ... and her." And, he thought, if he couldn't completely banish her from his mind, at the very least, he could control his baser instincts when he was in her company. He was a grown man, not a kid with overactive hormones. "So act like one!" he said, settling back down in front of the typewriter.

  * * *

  At two o'clock the phone on Ronnie's desk rang.

  "Sheriff, it's Elmira Crutchins for you," said Maisie.

  Ronnie moaned silently. Elmira Crutchins was the town busybody. "Put her on," she said. "Hello, Elmira, how are you today?"

  "I'm fine. But I didn't call to gossip," Elmira said. "There's trouble over at the Jacobsens' house."

  Ronnie sat up straighter. Elmira now had her full attention. "What kind of trouble?"

  "I think Pete's at it again," said Elmira. "The noise coming from there sounds like somebody's throwing things, and I heard Laurie scream a minute ago. You'd better come."

  The anxiety in Elmira's voice communicated itself to Ronnie. This was a part of the job she hated, but Laurie Jacobsen was a good woman, and Ronnie had to try to help her. Even if she wouldn't help herself, Ronnie thought. "I'll be there in five minutes," she promised.

  Ronnie picked up her service revolver, checked it, then slipped it into her hip holster as she left her office on the run.

  As Ronnie pulled up in front of the sagging front porch of the Jacobsens' frame house, she saw Elmira Crutchins emerge from her house next door. A smacking sound, then a loud crash followed by a woman's scream and the crying of small children carried clearly through the open windows of the Jacobsens'. Motioning Elmira to stay back, Ronnie squared her shoulders and walked purposefully up onto the porch and banged on the screen door. For a few seconds the sounds of battle continued; then Ronnie's hard knocking must have filtered through, because suddenly silence reigned inside.

  Ronnie took advantage of the silence to shout, "Pete! Laurie! Open the door. This is the sheriff."

  More silence, broken only by a child's whimper.

  Ronnie tugged on the screen door, but it was latched on the inside. "Pete," she said more quietly, "if you don't open this door I'll cut the screen and come in anyway."

  The soft threat worked because a moment later the wiry frame of Pete Jacobsen appeared on the other side of the door. "Whadda you want?" he snarled. Then he spied Elmira standing on the sparse grass of his front yard. "I shoulda known. Old nosy-britches herself!" As he unlatched the screen door he muttered, "Stupid old cow. Whyn't she mind her own business?"

  "Never mind Elmira," Ronnie said firmly. She took in Pete's disheveled appearance—the lank blond hair, the stubble covering his face, the stained clothing, the strong smell of sweat and whiskey emanating from his body. "What's been going on here, Pete?" She pushed past him into the kitchen, where she found a shaken and trembling Laurie cowering in a corner with her two small children clinging to her legs. Her tearstained face sported several old black and blue marks as well as a bloody lip and swelling left eye.

  Ronnie knelt beside Laurie. "Laurie," she said softly, "you're hurt."

  "I'm all right," Laurie said. She brushed Ronnie's hands away. "Really," she said as she saw the disbelieving look on Ronnie's face. "I fell."

  Ronnie clenched her teeth. She looked up at Pete. He looked perfectly confident his wife wouldn't say anything against him. And why shouldn't he? She never had before, and this kind of thing had happened many times. Too many times, Ronnie amended. "I see," she said to Laurie. "You fell." She stared at Laurie. "How? What caused the fall?"

  Laurie's pale blue eyes darted nervously around the room. She stood up hesitantly, and Ronnie stood up, too. The two little boys still clung to their mother's legs. Both were too skinny and had frightened eyes. "I ... I tripped over that truck over there..." Her head nodded toward a rusty child's toy on the floor of the kitchen. "I ... I c ... cut my lip when I fell." She patted the head of her smallest boy.

  Ronnie sighed and shook her head. She stared hard at Pete, and after a few seconds, his eyes dropped, unable to meet her accusing gaze. "You heard her," he muttered, "she fell." Then, gathering courage, he lifted his chin and said, "What's the big deal anyways? Huh? Why'd you have to come runnin' out here? This ain't no matter for the law. This is a private matter. Ain't that right, honey?" He glared at his wife as if daring her to disagree with him.

  "Pete's right, sheriff. This don't concern you." Laurie patted the shoulders of her boys and met Ronnie's eyes levelly.

  "Laurie, we've known each other a long time. Don't lie to me." Ronnie knew it was hopeless, but she had to try to persuade Laurie to do something to help herself. She turned to Pete Jacobsen, who stared defiantly at her. "Go outside for a minute, Pete." She inclined her head toward the back door. "I want to speak to Laurie alone."

  "I don't hafta go anywhere," he said belligerently, but he inched his way toward the door as Ronnie continued to stare at him. Finally he dropped his eyes, and still muttering, let himself out onto the back porch.

  Ronnie turned back to Laurie. "Pete doesn't have any right to knock you around, Laurie. No man has a right to hit his wife. I don't care what happened, or why it happened. You don't have to put up with this kind of life." Seeing the obstinate, closed look on Laurie's face, Ronnie said desperately, "If you don't care about yourself, think of your children, for God's sake! They are obviously scared to death." Then, more quietly, she added, "Why don't you come with me? I'll find a place for you and the boys to stay for awhile. It'll give you a chance to think."

  "My place is here with Pete," Laurie said stubbornly.

  Ronnie sighed again. She shrugged her shoulders. "One of these days that husband of yours is going to do more than hit you. One of these days he may kill you in one of his drunken rages." She walked to the open back door. "Come back in, Pete." When he was once more in the kitchen, she asked in a scathing tone, "What happened this time? Did you get fired again?" Pete Jacobsen had lost one good job after another because of his uncontrollable temper and penchant for whiskey.

  His upper lip curled. "I didn't get fired. I quit! I hated that job anyways."

  The "hated" job was one Pete had been overjoyed to get only two months earlier.

  "So how do you intend to take care of your family? Pay for food?" Ronnie asked.

  "Don't you worry. I'll take care of 'em. I always take care of 'em, don't I, honey?" His bloodshot eyes demanded that his wife bolster his claim.

  "Yeah, Pete, that's right. You always take care of us," Laurie agreed. She walked to her husband's side and put her arms around him. He enfolded her in his arms and gave Ronnie a triumphant look. One little boy sucked his thumb noisily, the other sniffled and shuffled his feet.

  "So go back where you came from, sheriff," Pete said. "You ain't needed here."

  "Remember, Laurie," Ronnie couldn't resist adding, "if you ever need me ... all you have to do is call. The offer of a place to stay is open. I'll help you."

  There was no answer, but Ronnie hadn't expected one. She looked at the couple for a long moment, then turned and let herself out. Elmira Crutchins stood outside, her plump arms folded across her ample chest, an exasperated look on her shiny face. "That Pete Jacobsen is bad news. One of these days he's going to really hurt Laurie or one of them kids," she said.

  "I know. Thanks for calling me, Elmira. You'll keep an ear open, won't you?"

  Elmira nodded. "I'll call you if I hear them at it again."

  "Thanks," Ronnie said and climbed into her car to go back to the office. The episode with the Jacobsens had upset her more than she wanted to admit. Why was Laurie Jacobsen so stubborn, so blind, when it came to her husband? Was she so afraid of life on her own? Ronnie closed her eyes for a moment, suddenly overwhelmingly grateful to her father, who had instilled a sense of confidence and pride in her that she knew no one would ever be able to diminish.

  * * *

  After lunch Alex decid
ed to pay Miss Agatha Applewhite a visit. Maybe he could get to the bottom of why she'd accused him of stealing her brooch. He decided to walk. Her shop wasn't far, maybe two miles, and he could use the exercise. Dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a bright red T-shirt, and his faithful Nike shoes, he set out at a brisk pace. God, he loved this part of the country. It was beautiful. Everywhere he looked wildflowers sprouted, and the smells were clean, country smells—not filled with automobile exhaust and too many bodies crowded into too small a space. He took deep lungfuls of air and hummed under his breath as he strode along.

  Before long he reached his objective. He smiled as he saw the white sign hanging in front of the shop. The intricate scroll said "Miss Agatha's Antique Shoppe" and looked just like the lady herself—fussy and feminine.

  Alex bounded up onto the front porch and rapped on the screen door. Without waiting for an answer, he let himself in, then blinked at the sudden dimness of the entry hall. "Anybody home?" he called.

  A tall, thin woman emerged from the doorway at the far end of the hall. She smoothed back her frizzy hair and said, "Yes? May I help you?" She wiped her hands on her apron as she advanced toward him.

  "I was looking for Miss Agatha," Alex explained. "Is she here?"

  "She's out back. I'll get her," the woman said.

  While the woman went on her errand, Alex looked around appreciatively. He liked old houses, and this was a perfect example of a well-preserved specimen. He ran his hand over the smooth molding of the hall.

  "Mr. Summerfield! What a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to see you again so soon," said Miss Agatha as she entered the hall.

  Alex grinned. The old lady, even if she was crazy, was as appealing in her own way as the sheriff was in hers. "Well, Miss Agatha," he said, "I had to come over as soon as possible to clear up this misunderstanding."

  "What misunderstanding?" she asked. Her black eyes, shining with some emotion Alex couldn't identify, captured his. "Shall we go up to my sitting room?" she asked. "I'll ask Hannah to bring us a pot of tea and we can talk."

  Bemused by her behavior, Alex nodded his agreement.

  Ten minutes later they were comfortably seated in bright chintz-covered chairs around a low round table. The tall, thin woman, who had turned out to be Hannah Richardson, brought them a laden tray containing a steaming pot of tea, cups and saucers, spoons, wedges of lemon, sugar cubes, cream, and a large slice of apple pie, which Miss Agatha handed to Alex. After only token resistance, he succumbed to the savory aroma and took a bite. The pungent tang of tart apples was pure heaven.

  "Now," Miss Agatha said after taking a sip of her tea, "what were we talking about?"

  Alex stifled a smile. The old lady was playing with him, he decided, but to what end he had no idea. Well, he'd go along with her. She was amusing, and he could feel the strong force of her personality as she concentrated those sharply intelligent eyes on him.

  "Miss Agatha," he said, "Sheriff Valentine told me you'd accused me of stealing a brooch from you. I wanted to discuss it with you. I didn't take your brooch."

  "I know that."

  Now Alex did smile. "Well, if you know that, why did you tell the sheriff I took it?"

  "At the time I thought you did. Now I know you didn't," Miss Agatha said as if her statement explained everything.

  "Oh," Alex said. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

  "You see, Mr. Summerfield," Miss Agatha continued, a small smile lurking at the corners of her mouth, "I found the brooch this afternoon. It was sitting on top of my dressing table in my bedroom. I have no idea how it got there, but obviously, if it was there, you didn't take it, now did you?"

  "No, I guess not." Alex ate the last bite of his pie and leaned back in his chair. On the surface her explanation seemed reasonable enough, but Alex couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than met the eye. His hunch that Miss Agatha had some ulterior motive, or was playing some kind of game, wouldn't go away. Well, he'd just have to wait and see what happened. That decided, he relaxed and set out to enjoy his visit with the charming old lady.

  * * *

  Thank goodness the day was almost over, Ronnie thought. When the telephone rang a few minutes before five, she cringed and crossed her fingers.

  "It's Miss Agatha," said Maisie.

  Ronnie grimaced. She'd forgotten to call the older woman after talking to Alex. She picked up the receiver.

  "Veronica," said Miss Agatha's precise voice, "I'm very glad to have caught you before you left for the day."

  "Oh, Miss Agatha," Ronnie apologized. "I'm sorry I didn't call you back. I did go to see Alexander Summerfield, and I should have called you to tell you what he said."

  "That isn't why I'm calling, Veronica. No, I've found the brooch."

  "You found the brooch! Why didn't you call me and tell me?" Ronnie asked.

  "Veronica, it is not necessary to shout," the older woman admonished gently.

  "I'm sorry." Why did she always manage to make Ronnie feel guilty about something?

  "Yes, well," Miss Agatha said. "The brooch was simply misplaced. I found it in my bedroom."

  Ronnie couldn't believe it. All that fuss over something that Miss Agatha had forgotten she'd removed from the case herself.

  Miss Agatha continued, "Mr. Summerfield visited me this afternoon to inquire into the matter of the brooch, and I assured him that the mystery had been cleared up."

  Ronnie felt a surge of pleasure at Alex's thoughtfulness in going to visit Miss Agatha. Then she pushed it down. She reminded herself he was practiced in the art of seducing women, even old women. He just used different tactics with each. "I'm glad you found the brooch, Miss Agatha," she said. "And I'm glad you and Mr. Summerfield had a chance to talk. I always knew he didn't take your brooch."

  "He may not have taken my brooch, Veronica, but he's definitely a scoundrel ... and a thief."

  Ronnie's eyes widened at the accusation, and for a minute she couldn't answer. Then she said, "Wha ... what do you mean by that?"

  "Just exactly what I said, my dear. A scoundrel and a thief."

  "Does this mean you think he stole something else?" Ronnie said, unable to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

  "Don't take that tone with me, Veronica. I'm not a child making up stories, you know." Miss Agatha's voice contained a chilling edge. "After all these years, you surely know me well enough to know I do not exaggerate or tell fibs."

  That was true, Ronnie thought. Miss Agatha had never given her any reason to believe she didn't have her full faculties or that she imagined things. Ronnie sighed. Why couldn't this day have ended without this added problem? "What exactly did he take?" she asked.

  "One of my Hummels."

  "One of your Hummels," Ronnie repeated inanely.

  "Yes, Veronica, that is what I said. Why must you repeat things?"

  Ronnie wished she could dig a hole and crawl into it. "Why do you say he took one of your Hummels, Miss Agatha?"

  "Because while he was here we had tea together upstairs in my sitting room. I was called away to the telephone for a few moments, and when I returned he told me he had to leave. Later, when I went back upstairs I discovered the Hummel was gone. It was one of my favorites. The little newspaper boy."

  Ten minutes later, as Ronnie drove toward home, she rehashed the conversation with Miss Agatha in her mind. Nothing Ronnie had said would dissuade the older woman in her adamant insistence that Alex Summerfield had pocketed her beloved Hummel figurine. In desperation, Ronnie had once again agreed to talk to Alex Summerfield. She didn't know what she'd say, or how, but she had promised.

  "Veronica," Alex said as he opened his door thirty minutes later. "I'm glad to see you."

  "Hello, Alex," Ronnie said. As she saw the appreciative glance he gave her, she was glad she'd taken the time to freshen up and change her clothes. She smoothed down the royal blue cotton jumpsuit, then hurriedly withdrew her hands as she saw his gray eyes follow her movements.

&nb
sp; "I hope this means you won't hold this morning against me," he said.

  "I told you not to worry about this morning," Ronnie said. "That's not the reason I'm here."

  "Well, come on in," he invited and led the way into the living room.

  Ronnie took the same chair she'd taken that morning.

  "Would you like a glass of wine or some iced tea?" Alex smiled down at her, his gray eyes clear and bright.

  Ronnie thought he looked extremely attractive in an open-necked green and white striped cotton shirt and a pair of baggy white cotton pants and soft-looking leather moccasins. The casual outfit seemed to suit his rugged good looks. "Wine sounds nice," she answered.

  While he went off to the kitchen, she stretched her legs out in front of her and studied the room. Already she could see small personal touches of Alex's. There were books stacked on the walnut coffee table and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses sitting on top of some loosely piled papers on the sofa table.

  "Here you are," Alex said as he entered the room and handed Ronnie a crystal wine glass filled with bubbly white wine. Alex took the chair opposite her and took a swallow from his bottle of beer. He crossed one leg over the other, not the way women do, but propping his ankle on his other knee in a very masculine pose. He studied her for a while, not saying anything, and soon Ronnie squirmed uncomfortably under his close scrutiny. "You look wonderful in that shade of blue," he said softly.

  "Thank you." Still his eyes studied her.

  "It makes your eyes look darker and it flatters your skin." When she didn't answer, he smiled lazily. "You are quite lovely, you know. In fact, I can't think why I thought you were so young. I must have been blind."

  Ronnie stiffened. "Why don't you cut the bull, Alex? That line might work with all the other women you meet, but it won't work with me. I'm not upset over what you said yesterday or what you did this morning. I have more important things to worry about than what some bored playboy said or did."

  At first he looked nonplussed by her unexpected attack, but then his eyes filled with admiration. Good, she thought. Alex Summerfield was entirely too confident of himself, too sure she would be an easy target. Well, no matter how attracted to him she was, she'd never give him the satisfaction of knowing it.