by Lisa Jackson
“Bon appetit,” she said as she pulled the pizza out and preheated the oven. The pepperoni looked as if it had been made in the sixth century, the cheese showing little crystals of ice, the crust possibly freezer burned. But it was all she had and she figured she could get creative, slice up a tomato and onions. When she rummaged in her pantry, she came up with a tiny can of black olives. “Gourmet,” she told the animals, then, as the oven warmed, dug in the cupboard and found a bottle of red table wine with no other information on it and a curled gold ribbon with a tiny card that said, Thanks for the hospitality! Love, Alicia.
Abby smiled, remembering Alicia’s last visit. They’d discovered a little wine shop on Decatur, where they’d found the bottles of white and red table wine placed next to shelves of imports from Germany and France, and they’d loved the plain white labels with big black letters: WHITE TABLE WINE and RED TABLE WINE. No color, no foil, no fancy script.
“Don’t you love this?” Alicia had said, holding a bottle by its neck, “It’s so unpretentious, so uncool. Not wine-fashionable at all!” She’d rotated the bottle under the dim lights of the tiny shop, ignored the owner’s pinched-mouth expression, and read, “‘Smith Winery, Napa, California.’ Smith Winery. Like, where’s that?” Her green eyes had twinkled. “Do you think there’s really a Smith Winery, or is it just an alias? You know, like when lovers supposedly sign into a no-tell-motel for a hot night of sex?” She’d lowered her voice. “Not that I have ever done that, mind you.” Then she’d tossed back her head and laughed in that naughty, fun Alicia way. “We have to have this . . . and the red, too!”
They’d uncorked the bottle of white, seated outside on the veranda, listening to the sounds of the evening, picking at barbecued fish. Luke had called and said he was going to spend the night in town. “Work” he’d mentioned, “getting ready for a new format. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love ya, babe.”
Yeah, right. When Abby had hung up, Alicia had said, “He’s such a loser, Abs. Divorce his ass and be done with it.” She’d poured them each a second glass as the wind had sighed through the trees while a night bird had trilled. “But let’s not let him ruin our night. That son of a bitch is so not worth it.”
Oh, how right she’d been, Abby thought now. This bottle of red had been pushed into the cupboard, where it had collected dust for over two years. She’d made Alicia promise they would drink it the next time she visited, but that hadn’t happened and now she was selling the place.
Time to uncork it. Who knew the shelf life of such a unique blend? She would open the bottle and call Alicia, tell her to pour herself a glass of wine, too, and they’d drink together while on the phone.
She opened a drawer to find the corkscrew. Her eye caught on Hershey standing frozen, not a muscle moving, eyes fixed on the darkened living room. Since she’d been working in the studio all day, the sun had set, and the house, aside from the kitchen, was dark.
“I’m not falling for this,” she told the dog, thinking Ansel was hiding under the couch. Except that at that moment the cat hopped onto her kitchen stool and he, too, peered into the darkened part of the house. “Enough!” she said, but felt something, a shift in the atmosphere, and she hesitated. What was it? Something earthy and damp . . . not so much a smell as a sensation.
“Figment of your imagination,” she whispered. Spying the hammer on the counter where she’d left it earlier in the day, she picked it up.
Yeah, like you’re going to club someone to death? Get real, her mind taunted. You, the woman who finds a moth in her house and captures it to release it outside.
“Yeah, but I’m hell on hornets,” she muttered, her fingers tightening over the hammer’s smooth wooden handle.
Was it her imagination or did she hear something? The soft scrape of . . . what? A leather sole on hardwood? A door softly closing? She flashed back to the hospital with its ghostly opening and closing of doors. A whisper of fear, cold as a reptile’s eyes, touched the back of her neck.
She held the hammer in a death grip.
Oh, God, don’t do this to yourself.
Swallowing hard, she walked into the living room, quickly snapping on a Tiffany lamp. A rainbow of colors washed over the room, illuminating the dark corners.
No bogeyman here.
Hershey growled.
“You’re freaking me out, so just stop it!” Abby said, irritated. For her own peace of mind she carefully, hammer firmly in hand, walked through the hallway, feeling her pulse increase and anxiety seep through her blood as she flipped on one light after another, opened closet doors, peered under her bed and the guest bed.
In the bath, holding her breath, she raised the damn hammer and, with images of the shower scene from Psycho flashing through her brain, scraped the shower curtain back in one quick motion. She cringed, but there was no one inside the tiled walls, not even a frightened, exposed spider scuttling into the drain.
“See . . . nothing,” she said, her heart still pounding wildly, her stomach in knots.
There was only one other room on the first floor. She opened the final door to the laundry room and stopped short.
The window was open.
Her heart clutched.
She nearly dropped the hammer.
The window had been closed, hadn’t it?
Her mind raced as she tried to remember.
She sometimes opened it when she did laundry to air out the room as the dryer, with its faulty vent, tended to heat and steam up the room. But she hadn’t done a load today, didn’t remember opening the window.
Think, Abby. Don’t go nutso over this. You had to have opened it.
Fear brought nervous sweat to the surface of her skin, her fingers slick on the hammer’s handle.
Don’t lose it. You could have forgotten to shut it last night when you did the load of towels.
But she knew better.
Every night she double-checked the doors and windows, and though this one sometimes stuck, she always made sure it was closed.
But not necessarily locked, her mind taunted. Even after hearing about Luke’s murder, she didn’t always check the window latches, just made certain the windows were closed.
So why is this one open?
Try as she might, she didn’t know. Stepping into the tiny alcove, she slammed the window shut, then tried to latch it. But she couldn’t get the lock to hold. The window was too swollen from years of humidity. Great, she thought, knowing she’d have to jury-rig something to keep it closed—a board from the garage, maybe.
As she was deciding what to do, a chilling thought slithered through her brain.
Would she be locking the bad guys out, or would she just inadvertently lock some unwanted intruder inside? She still hadn’t checked the upstairs. “Oh, crap,” she muttered, turning around and walking directly to the end of the hallway, where a steep staircase led to her den.
She set her jaw.
She hadn’t been upstairs in her office all day. Surely no one was hidden away in the converted attic. And yet she had to find out. She knew she’d never sleep a wink tonight if she didn’t check every damned nook and cranny in the house. “Come on, Hershey, you started this,” she said to the dog. Opening the door, she turned on the sconce that lit the stairwell. Then, still clutching the damned hammer, she mounted the steep, narrow stairs, hearing them creak against her weight, feeling the skin on her nape prickle with new dread.
This was crazy. So the window was open, so what? So the damned dog was going bananas? Wasn’t that Hershey’s nature? This Lab wasn’t known for her intelligence, and she would hate to think what Hershey’s canine IQ might be.
With each step, the temperature of the hallway increased, the heat of the day having risen to the rafters and ceiling of the attic. There were no windows in the room, only a skylight mounted in the sloped ceiling that she could crank open. Heart pounding, she reached the top of the stairs and snapped on the bright overhead light
The room, of course, was empty.
No bogeyman hiding up here either, just as there had been no monster under her bed.
“Liar,” she accused the dog as she searched through the closets. “False alarm.” Hershey lowered her head, her tail barely moving, as if she were ashamed. “Well, you should be,” Abby admonished. Dark liquid eyes rolled up at her in supplication. Abby felt a rush of regret. “Oh, Hersh, I’m sorry. You’re just doing your job, huh?” She sat on the top step, ruffled the fur at the back of the dog’s neck, and leaned close enough that Hershey gave her a quick lick on the cheek. “Doggy kisses,” Abby whispered, petting the Lab all over. “They’re the best.” She was rewarded with another touch of Hershey’s wet nose. “I love you, too. Just tone the guard dog thing down a notch or two, okay? Only let me know if there’s real trouble here.”
Don’t criticize the dog. The laundry room window was open and you didn’t leave it that way. Someone else pushed open the bottom pane. Either that or you really are cracking up.
Like her.
“No!” she almost yelled and the dog jumped. “Oh, Hersh, sorry.” She wasn’t even going to let that particular thought run wild. “Come on, maybe I can rustle up a doggy biscuit.”
The dog, ever resilient, let out a short “woof ” and streaked down the stairs. As Abby reached the main floor, she heard a soft ding, smelled the remnants of old meals burning, and realized the oven had finally reached temperature. The dog, barking, was at the front door.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Now what, Hersh? You’re not fooling me again, okay?” Abby called after the Lab. “No damned way.” She took the steps more carefully, but as she reached the archway to the living room, a wash of headlights splashed across the walls.
Instantly she was wary again, the dog’s behavior and the open window having scared her half to death.
Get a grip, Abby.
The Lab was already at the door as she heard the car’s engine and the crunch of tires. Peering out the window, she spied a black Mustang wheel up to the garage. A second later the thrum of the engine stopped and the driver’s door opened.
Abby caught her breath as she recognized the driver.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, spying Detective Montoya behind the wheel. This was definitely not good news.
CHAPTER 15
Montoya, dressed in faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather jacket, stretched out of his vehicle. He slammed the door and pressed a button on his key ring. The sleek car chirped and blinked its lights but Abby focused on the man.
His jeans were tight, his face set, his black hair falling over his forehead as he jogged toward the front steps. Stupidly, her heart fluttered. “God help me.”
Oh, Abby, don’t be an idiot. Do not go there.
She swung the door open before he pressed the button for the bell. Hershey bounded out, wiggling and wagging her tail, begging for attention. Yeah, some watchdog the Lab turned out to be.
“Expecting someone?” Montoya asked, and though there was a tension to his face, a bit of a grin flashed in his beard. The man possessed white, white teeth and a crooked smile, the kind, she supposed, that could melt a woman’s heart. He took the time to bend on one knee and pet the dog, who responded by demanding more and more attention, wiggling and grunting in pure pleasure.
“Just you, Detective,” she said, aware of the sense of relief she felt at the sight of him. Her nerves definitely needed soothing. And maybe she was just one of those stupid women who were hung up on tough-looking guys, men with an edge, who, if you observed a little more closely, had a twinkle in their eyes and a soft spot in their hearts.
Oh, for the love of God! What kind of ludicrous thought was that? Montoya is a detective. Period. He’s working on Luke’s homicide. End of story.
Yet as he offered up that smile again, sexy and boyish at the same time, his dark eyes seductive and naughty, she experienced a warm rush in her bloodstream. So there was a fun guy beneath the tough detective facade. Knowing Montoya had a sense of humor was even more dangerous. The last thing she needed in her life right now was a man, and of all the men walking this planet, Detective Reuben Montoya would be the worst choice for her.
A cop?
No way.
A homicide detective?
Even worse!
Get real, Abby.
And who are you to even think about choosing a man? The last one you were serious about just got murdered, remember?
“You were expecting me?” he asked. “Is that why you came to the door armed with a hammer.”
“What? Oh. No . . . I was just taking out some nails.” Not a lie. That’s what she’d done earlier this morning. Quickly, she set the hammer onto a table near the doorway. As Hershey ambled into the house again, Montoya climbed to his feet. Light caught in his ebony black hair and along the slope of his chiseled cheekbones; she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She focused on those thin lips partially hidden by the thick blackness of his goatee and something caught in the back of her throat. In her mind’s eye she saw him not only kissing her, but touching her, his mouth and hands skimming her body.
Whoa! Abby, stop it!
She couldn’t. As they stood in the warm glow of the porch light: he, on the porch; she, on the other side of the threshold, there was a sense of intimacy in the air. Her silly overactive imagination ran wild with fantasies of making love to him.
Which was just plain ridiculous.
“Are you here alone?” she asked, though she was pretty certain of the answer. She stood on her tiptoes and peered over his shoulder, as if looking for a second cop.
“Flyin’ solo tonight.”
“What, no suave and debonair partner?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest. As if to protect her heart.
Montoya’s grin was pure animal. “You’re talking about Brinkman?”
“Such a gentleman,” she said sarcastically. “He must win points with the women he works with.”
“Not a lot.”
“Big surprise, so where is my buddy tonight?” she asked, knowing she was flirting and unable to stop.
Montoya lifted a leather-clad shoulder. “Probably out irritating the populace and giving the department a bad name,” he said. She looked surprised at his candor, and he added, “Okay, so he’s a good cop. I trust his instincts. He’s got my back, but hey, I do know the guy. Let’s just say Brinkman and I, we don’t bowl together.”
She laughed, the tension of the night draining from her.
“I don’t think I should be telling you this. It could get me into trouble.”
“And that would worry you?” She didn’t believe it, sensed that Reuben Montoya might thrive on stepping over the line for an occasional walk on the wild side.
“Not a lot. No.”
“I figured as much.” She stepped out of the doorway, silently inviting him inside. “So, Detective—”
“You can call me Reuben,” he said.
“Does anyone?”
He chuckled. “Only my mother.”
“And the rest?”
“Aside from my aunt, who insists on calling me Pedro because of my confirmation name, and my brothers and sisters who refer to me as Reu, everyone refers to me as Montoya.”
“That’ll work,” she said. Less personal. “So, Montoya, you are here for a reason, whether official or not.” She pushed the door closed. “You want to tell me about it?”
He nodded, following her inside. Looking at the cozy living room with its Tiffany lamps, antiques, and overstuffed furniture, Abby decided she could think more clearly under brighter lights, maybe the dining room or the kitchen . . .
“Is something burning?” he asked.
“Oh, damn! No . . . not really!” She beelined into the kitchen and scared Ansel, who’d been hiding under the couch. The cat slunk into the dining room, looking furtively over his shoulder and letting out tiny little hisses. He hopped onto the seat of one of the chairs where, beneath the table, he c
ould watch what was happening.
“Friendly,” Montoya observed wryly.
“Ansel struggles with the concept of ‘chill out.’” Again, Montoya’s teeth flashed white against his black goatee and his brown eyes twinkled. “He’s been a grouch ever since you brought Hershey here. Ansel’s hoping the dog will somehow disappear. Or drop dead. That would work, too.”
In the kitchen, Abby pointed at the freezer-burned pizza still sitting in its plastic wrapper on the counter. Her dinner. Which she’d planned to eat alone or with Hershey. Then there was the bottle of wine. Breathing invitingly on the counter. She hesitated before deciding to quit second-guessing herself. “I was making dinner, such as it is, before you showed up. It’s . . . well, it’s pretty damned pathetic, but . . . would you like to join me?” She felt a flush climb up the back of her neck and felt as silly as she had all those years ago when she’d impulsively asked Trey Hilliard to the Sadie Hawkins dance.
Montoya picked up the bottle of red table wine, smiled as he read the label. “I’m off duty,” he remarked, looking up at her with those incredibly sexy brown eyes. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”
“Really?” She couldn’t help chuckling as she fished out a couple of wineglasses. “Geez, Montoya, you might want to rethink your life.”
“Don’t worry, I have.” He poured the wine as she unwrapped the pizza. She opened a packet of pregrated Italian cheeses, the can of chopped olives, then quickly sliced the tomato and onion. “So,” she said, sprinkling the cheese over the dry pepperoni, “about the reason you’re here.” She added the chopped onion and olives onto the top of the fresh cheese, then slid her beefed-up concoction into the oven. “Why do I have the feeling that you’ve come with more bad news?”
