Cold Memory

by Leslie A. Kelly

  He eyed her. “I don’t imagine Esme would say the same.”

  “Ha. Esme’s best childhood memories are undoubtedly like the day of her sixteenth birthday when her new daddy bought her a Porsche.” She had to be fair. “And because he’s a nice guy, and didn’t want to make me feel bad, he bought me a pickup truck, too.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  Yeah. It did. Esme had always been the convertible-girl and Gypsy had been far more comfortable in a four-wheeler.

  “What about you?” She smirked. “Let me guess…Maserati?”

  Shaking his head slowly, he replied, “For my sixteenth birthday, Uncle Shane finalized his adoption of me. It had taken two years after he got custody, but he was relentless and made it happen.” His smile was wistful. “Best birthday ever.”

  Well, talk about feeling like pond scum. She’d been totally snarky, and he’d revealed a touching, lovely memory. “Sorry, I just can’t seem to watch my mouth around you.”

  He cast her a glance out of the corner of his eye, his stare zoning in on her mouth. She couldn’t help licking her lips.

  “I like that mouth,”

  Thud. Her heart reminded her of its presence by almost leaping out of her chest. Mick was undoubtedly a charmer. She just hadn’t been prepared for him to turn that intense, sexy attention directly on her. Had he, perhaps, been struck by the same intense attraction she’d felt in his office?

  She shook off the thought, because, honestly, it didn’t matter. Mick wasn’t the kind of guy she needed to get involved with. You want a normal, average life, right?

  Right. And paranormal detective Mick Tanner was not normal or average in any way.

  “I’d have been disappointed if you’d grown up to be anything other than the smart-ass, wise-cracking girl I remembered.”

  Oh. He’d been talking of how she spoke, not about her mouth. Her lips. He had most definitely not been hinting about wanting to kiss her.

  Disappointment of her own crept in, and Gypsy hated it. Stupid. Don’t be bothered that he doesn’t want to kiss you…be angry that you let it bother you!

  Something suddenly occurred to her, and she let images of kissing the man—and more—leave her brain. “Wait, if Shane adopted you, why don’t you have his last name? Why’d you keep your grandfather’s?”

  Mick’s jaw tightened. “I definitely thought about it. Tanner was also my father’s name, though. And as much as I couldn’t stand my grandfather, I loved my Dad much, much more.”

  Nice. He had once again revealed something tender and sweet about himself. Something unexpected from the rich playboy she’d been trying to convince herself he had become.

  She was soon going to be unable to tell herself that lie. Because he was anything but. Rich yes. Sexy, most definitely. But she didn’t get the sense that he had a different woman every week, and he had flashes of warmth that spread out and touched her.

  And that’s the only way he’s going to touch you.

  Exactly. It was time to get back to business.

  “Well, if you’re finished reminiscing and stuffing your face,” she said, hoping her cheeks weren’t flushed, “maybe we could get to work?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  As promised, Mick was planning to examine the funnel cake truck to see if he could offer any more information about the murder. First, though, he’d wanted to walk the grounds, and to talk to her grandfather, which was why they’d met here this beautiful Saturday afternoon, rather than at the police impound lot. He would also, undoubtedly, want to stop in to say hello to his Uncle Shane—actually, his adoptive father—and Shane’s partner, Gil.

  “So which came first, you as the local chief of police, or your grandfather’s decision to retire here?” he asked as two-pointed the paper cotton-candy cone into a trash barrel.

  “I might have heard him mention it before I applied for the job.”

  “Same old Gyp. Still the mother of the family.”

  She took no offense on behalf of her own mother. DonaBella had many skills. Being maternal wasn’t one of them. Oh, she’d improved somewhat when she’d married her more-conservative husband, but she had never been the cookie-baking type.

  That was fine with Gypsy. She’d done the cookie-baking for Esme when they were growing up. It had been enough to have a mom who would go to school board meetings and speak passionately about everything from school lunch quality, to funding for the arts program.

  Her mom almost always got her way. The fact that the school board had been comprised mostly of men hadn’t hurt.

  “Mickey boy!” called Shep, a caller at a basketball toss game. Gypsy thought of him as Shep-the-Shyster rather than Vinnie “Shep” Shepherd.

  “Hey old man.”

  “Come toss one in!”

  Mick smiled and shook his head. “You couldn’t afford me. You know I’m too good.”

  Shep, grinning broadly, nodded. “If you change your mind, you know I got a giant panda wit’ your name on it!”

  Walking on, she murmured, “One can never have too many giant pandas.”

  “If you ever need one, just say the word.”

  She blew out a breath. “As if I’d ever need you to win one for me.”

  “I think Shep likes me better than he likes you.”

  “That’s probably true,” she said. The man had barely nodded at her, despite his effusive greeting of Mick. “I check his baskets every few weeks to make sure he hasn’t drawn them in.”

  That trick would make it impossible for anybody to win. He might be running a clean game now, but she remembered the wily old guy from his days on the road. All her grandfather needed was for teenage townies to start complaining to their parents that the games at the carnival were rigged.

  “Mick Tanner! Is that you?” It was Willie—the guy who ran the Wild Mouse.

  Another shoulder-clap—she saw the way Mick stiffened, and got the sense he didn’t really like to be touched. That was probably due to his strange ability.

  Willie kept Mick around for another quick catch-up chat. Another half-minute for Gypsy’s impatience to grow. He just couldn’t give anybody the brush, while Gypsy offered nothing but curt nods and tried to keep walking.

  Mick had no sooner walked away from that old friend when he was hailed by a couple in a ring toss stand. Then by a talker at the shooting gallery. By a weight-and-age guesser.

  Every one of those workers was incredibly busy. She’d never seen the carnival so packed; who’d have imagined murder would be so good for business? But the carnies all took time to offer welcomes to the boy—now man—who’d spent so many years with them. Just as they had Gypsy upon her return to the fold. While it was nice, they were short on time and running late.

  Eyeing the crowd for her grandfather, she immediately went on alert when she heard a man’s voice raised in anger.

  “And I say my kid was here first!”

  Her muscles tensed. Her heart sped up its rhythmic beat.

  “Fuck you, man. You and your whiny brat.”

  “Hey, fellas, now there’s no call for that.”

  She came to a dead stop, turning her head side-to-side, looking for trouble. She’d been so focused on the murder, she hadn’t thought about the tension that would rise in a crowd this size. The whole town had been on edge since last week, and tempers would naturally flare in this kind of boiling pot.

  Her stare landed on two bull-necked men standing nose-to-nose in the line for the tall slide. The types who would stay until midnight to try to ring the bell on the High Striker. AKA: Dick measurers. She recognized one of them as Joe Hillock, a troublemaker who’d been behind a few incidents at a local roughneck bar.

  She swung toward them and strode through the crowd. Probably seeing the expression on her face, not to mention the uniform, people melted out of her way, stopping to watch whatever was about to happen. Alan Fluke, who wasn’t on duty but had apparently stopped by the carnival anyway, as a lot of her team did when off-duty, was
trying to defuse the situation. Since he wasn’t in uniform, the two belligerent men weren’t even paying attention.

  “Is there a problem here?” she called as she drew near.

  Fluke nodded, looking relieved. “A misunderstanding between a couple of boys.”

  The little ones, or the big ones?

  “Tell me what happened,” she barked, taking over as Fluke stepped back.

  Neither of them took their eyes off the other, and one snarled, “Stay out of it unless you wanna get hurt.”

  They apparently hadn’t even noticed who she was…not to mention the holster at her hip.

  “Why don’t you teach your kid how to be decent?” the other one said.

  “Why don’t you both teach your kids that? And maybe learn it yourselves,” Gypsy interjected, putting a strong hand on each man’s shoulder and squeezing hard. Her fingers dug into muscle, but she didn’t relent. She felt like she’d gone back in time twenty years and was stepping between two kids about to fistfight. These guys were just the same, but with lots of testosterone added-in. Still, she’d always been the peacekeeper. Always would be. So she physically pushed them apart and stepped right between them.

  One sputtered. One roared. Both then noticed her uniform. Silence.

  Gypsy looked down at two kids, maybe ten and eleven, staring at each other with the same belligerence exhibited by their fathers. Jesus. Some traits should never be handed down by certain parents. These kids were way too young to bear such rage toward each other. If she hadn’t come over, she had a feeling all four males would have ended up rolling on the ground, fists swinging.

  “Okay guys,” she said to the youngsters, “which one of you cut in line?”

  They both looked up at her, and two mouths dropped open, revealing candy-apple stained teeth on one and a mouthful of fillings in the other. The taller boy didn’t hold her gaze for long, and the younger one behind him in the line jerked up his chin in indignation. There wasn’t much doubt about who was in the wrong.

  “He cut in front of me,” the shorter one said. “I’ve been waiting, and he just pushed right in.”

  “Nuh-uh! He just wasn’t paying attention. I was here the whole time.” The Hillock boy still wasn’t looking up, and his foot was digging into the dusty ground.

  “You know cutting is grounds for removal from the carnival,” she said.

  “Yeah, then, kick them out,” said the father of the smaller boy.

  “Shut up, asshole,” said Hillock Senior.

  Gypsy immediately swung toward him and jabbed an index finger in his face. “Watch your mouth. Have you not noticed the kids here? You might not mind teaching your son that kind of language, but I don’t think other parents appreciate it.”

  The man swallowed, his throat working, and glanced side to side. He was on the receiving end of a lot of icy stares from visibly-disgusted onlookers. His red face and jutting jaw hinted that he didn’t much care. But he did, at least, shut up.

  She looked back at the boys. “Aside from being thrown out today, you could be banned from the carnival for good. And if this goes any farther, I might have to haul both of your dads in for disturbing the peace.”

  The fathers remained silent. The sons blanched.

  “To jail?” one of the children asked.

  She nodded. “If someone were to punch someone else, that would also be called assault.”

  “Stop scaring my boy. He didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

  “Be quiet,” she snapped, not looking around again. “Now, boys, do you want to tell me what really happened?”

  The smaller one piped up, “He cut in front of me. That’s what really happened.”

  After a pause, the older one slowly nodded. “Yeah, I did. Didn’t wanna wait.”

  The father in question put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “What’re you sayin’, boy?”

  Gypsy saw the way his fingers tightened, and she glared at him. “He’s telling the truth. You should be proud of him.”

  The fingers loosened. Again the quick stare around, as if he knew he was being judged by every person in the crowd. “Yeah. Okay. I am.”

  “It’s good to admit the truth,” Gypsy said to the kid. “But you know you did something wrong. Maybe you should say you’re sorry…and then, maybe, if you really mean it, you won’t be kicked out of the carnival.”

  The older boy scuffed his sneakered foot again, and then mumbled, “Sorry. I shouldn’ta cut.”

  The boy in back didn’t respond at first, not until Gypsy levelled a pointed look at him. Finally, he nodded. “It’s okay.”

  Satisfied that all tempers had cooled, and watching as the offending line-breaker stepped out of line to let everyone else proceed, she gave one more warning to the somewhat-calm fathers. She doubted it would do too much good, but hopefully their next argument would take place somewhere other than here.

  Waving her hands and telling the crowd to disperse, and offering a murmured thank-you to Fluke, and to Anderson, who’d just come trotting up, obviously having heard of the commotion—too late. They walked away together in easy conversation, the kind she never had with any of the men on her squad. Sighing, she turned back toward the center of the midway.

  Mick stood nearby, his whole body tense, his hands fisted at his sides. She had no doubt he’d been ready to jump into the fray at the first sign of anything happening to her.

  The realization almost made her smile. She was so used to being the protector, she couldn’t even remember the last time anyone had wanted to protect her. The fact that the two dads were both brawny didn’t even bother her—she could have handled it, especially with her officers backing her up. But if things had gotten out of hand, and authority hadn’t been enough to defuse the situation, she knew Mick could have done some damage on his own. He wasn’t a brawler type, and didn’t have the bulk of the bigger and angrier of the dads, but he was powerful, roped with muscle, without an ounce of the flab that had begun to settle around Hallick’s middle.

  Oh yeah, he could hold his own if the need had arisen.

  Not that it would have. Because if her authority hadn’t been enough to calm them down, the nightstick at her hip sure would have. She’d only had to use it once or twice, but it made a hell of a persuader.

  Mick gave her a solemn nod of approval as she approached. “Well done, Chief Bell.”

  “No biggie.”

  “That one dad was a biggie,” he said, his stare resting on the man, his eyes narrowed. “Do you always step right between guys whose biceps are bigger than your head?”

  She shrugged. “Part of the job.”

  “I’m not sure I like this job of yours.”

  “I’m not sure I asked for your opinion.”

  “You always did keep everybody in line.”

  “Except you,” she admitted, remembering a few incidents from their childhood.

  “Only after I touched that trapeze and realized you’d been practicing on it after hours.”

  The carnival hadn’t had a trapeze act in ages, not since the Flying Fletcher Family way back in the sixties. Grandpa had always talked fondly of those performers. To this day, he insisted on displaying the act’s antique poster, and kept the ropes hanging in the performance tent, to lend atmosphere. Those swings had been too tempting for a young Gypsy, always a daredevil, to resist.

  “It’s a good thing you can keep a secret. Grandpa and mama would’ve killed me if you’d told on me.”

  “Believe me, I almost did, even after I blackmailed you. I was scared shitless for you, swinging on that thing without a spotter or a net.”

  She remembered and could only shake her head. “I know. What was I thinking? At least you came to your senses and decided to help me put up a safety net, rather than tattling.”

  “And I served as lookout.”

  “But only because I agreed to stop bossing you around.”

  “Seemed a fair trade at the time.” He shook his head, a half-smile appearing. “God, you had s
ome balls.”

  “And you’re surprised I stepped between two jerks about to fight over whose kid was first in line for a damn slide?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  They’d reached the kiddie ride area, and the noise level went up. Instead of dings and shouts, they were greeted by high-pitched squeals and the shrill cry of terrified toddlers who wanted nothing to do with the mini choo-choo or any other ride. Why parents chose to put their young children on the backs of ponies so they could get a picture of a sobbing, terrified face was beyond her.

  “Hey there, Mick, I heard you was here,” called Jersey, the carny who’d helped her out last week when she’d found the body. The old-timer, who ran the Ducky-Draw, didn’t bring up the murder, mindful of his two-foot tall audience.

  “News travels fast,” Mick said, shaking the other man’s hand over the head of a curly-haired boy who was splashing water from the round tank all over his baby sister. The mother was talking with another stroller-pusher, ignoring the kids, while Jersey tried desperately to keep the ducks from flying away with every small geyser.

  “I guess I know what brings you back.” Jersey kept his voice low. “I’m always here if you need to ask any questions. Don’t know if I can be of help, but I was there pretty quick, right after Gypsy.”

  Mick nodded, but before he could respond, a friendly shout intruded.

  “There’s my Gypsy Rose!” Franklin Bell called from a dozen paces away, his gravelly, cigar-smoke deepened voice cutting through all other noise. “And her grade-school boyfriend!”

  Her jaw dropped. “That is not true.”

  She didn’t hear Mick laugh, but noticed the shoulders moving and suspected he was highly amused.

  “You mean you didn’t have a crush on me?”

  “Of course not. You were an infant—Esme’s age.”

  “Now I’m the one who’s crushed. Oh, and fyi, I’m a year older than Esme.”

  Which meant he was two years younger than Gypsy. She’d never felt the big 3-0 more keenly…and considering she’d hit it over a year ago, and was now thirty-one, that was really saying something.

  She was in her thirties, he was in his twenties. It didn’t seem to matter that hers were called early and his late. She felt like a damned cradle robber for having the kinds of thoughts she’d been having about her childhood frenemy. It had obviously been too long since she’d had a man if she couldn’t stop thinking about this one—his body, his face, and God those eyes.