by Mary McBride
The list went on and on. Sometimes Shelby felt like a fairy godmother. And yet when it came to her own love life, Shelby Simon was a flop. She should probably write herself about that, she thought only half in jest.
Dear Ms. Simon,
I’m thirty-four years old, and all my friends are either married or hooked up while I can’t find a guy
I want to be with for more than two or three dates much less a lifetime.
Signed,
Always a Bridesmaid
It was letters like these that were the most difficult for Shelby to answer. Usually she wrote something short and uplifting.
Dear Always,
Relax. And trust me. It will happen when you least expect it.
Ms. Simon Says So
Not that finding her perfect mate was uppermost in her thoughts all the time. When it came right down to it, she spent so much time tending to her professional life that she rarely gave her personal life a second thought. Maybe that was her problem. She was just too damned busy to fall in love.
Yeah. Right.
But she sure wasn’t busy anymore, was she? She reminded herself that she still needed to cancel her upcoming appointments. Hopefully she’d be able to log into the office computer when she got back to the lake.
That would be soon enough given Callahan’s tendency to speed even on this rural blacktop. She glanced at the needle on the speedometer. Sixty! Good grief. The lieutenant, she noticed now, kept scowling in the rearview mirror.
She turned to see a car moving up fast behind them.
Jeez. If they were doing sixty, the other car must’ve been doing seventy-five. The driver started honking now.
“Asshole,” Callahan muttered, his gaze flicking repeatedly to the mirror.
“Maybe he’s trying to pass,” Shelby suggested.
He ripped his gaze from the mirror just long enough to give her a withering glare.
Shelby looked back again. The driver was waving his arm out the window, then pulled it back inside to honk again.
“Pull over, Callahan,” she said. “I think he’s trying to signal us or something.”
“Oh, great. Is that what you’d do if you were alone right now?” he yelled over the sound of the Mustang’s roaring engine. “Pull over?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be going . . .” She leaned over to check the speedometer again and then screamed, “I wouldn’t be going eighty-two fucking miles an hour on a narrow two lane road, I can tell you that. I’d rather take my chances with a homicidal maniac than commit suicide by car.”
“Really,” he shouted.
“Really.”
Callahan hit the brakes, turning the wheel and muscling the car onto the weedy shoulder of the road, where it came to a dusty, diagonal stop. The car behind them squealed to a stop thirty or forty feet away.
Having just endured at least two Gs between her seat belt and the seat back, Shelby was trying to catch her breath when Callahan pulled his gun from beneath his vest and jumped out of the car.
Oh, jeez. A gun. Somebody was homicidal, and it wasn’t necessarily the guy in the other car. Okay. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe death by Mustang would’ve been preferable.
“What’s your problem, buddy?” the lieutenant shouted at the other driver.
He had also exited his car. He didn’t look like a homicidal maniac to Shelby. In fact, the elderly man looked slightly familiar. He had to be in his late seventies if not early eighties, and he was wearing a white cook’s jacket.
“Didn’t you hear me honking?” the man yelled, sounding slightly out of breath. “I’ve been trying to catch you for the last five miles.”
“Yeah?” Callahan challenged. “Why?”
When the man turned to reach back into the front seat of his car, Shelby could see every nerve in Mick Callahan’s body snap to attention. He widened his stance and was just raising his gun into position with both hands when the man turned back.
“Here,” he said. “Ms. Simon left her purse behind at the inn.”
That’s who he was! Old Mr. Keeler who owned the restaurant at Blue Lake. Shelby’s family had known him forever. She jumped out of her side of the car and walked toward him.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Keeler,” she said. “I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten it.”
“There you go, Ms. Simon.” He handed the black handbag to her. “I used to go hunting with your grand-dad, you know. A long time ago.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“And I want to tell you how much the wife and I enjoy your column in the paper.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Shelby could see that the lieutenant had holstered his weapon and was now walking toward them. Mr. Keeler saw him, too, and seemed none too pleased.
“Yeah, you give real good advice, Ms. Simon.” He turned back toward his car as he added, “You might want to advise your friend here not to drive so fast, and not to be so damned suspicious of strangers.”
Mick glanced toward the passenger seat. “You can stop laughing now,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” She could barely get the words out. “It’s just that . . .” Once again, giggles overwhelmed her.
“Yeah. Yeah. I guess you wouldn’t be laughing so hard right now, Ms. Simon, if that old man had produced an AK-47 from the front seat of his vehicle,” he grumbled when, in all honesty, Mick was having a tough time not laughing at himself. There was reacting, and then there was overreacting. He had just been a prime example of the latter. A prime jerk.
She sighed and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Thank you, Mick. Really. I mean it.”
Apparently she did because her goofy expression had turned quite sober.
He shrugged. “Well, we still don’t know who’s after you. It’s smart to be cautious.” He felt a grin cut across his lips. “At least you got your purse back.”
“The turn to the house is just ahead on the right,” she said, pointing.
“Thanks.” He already had his directional signal on, but she probably hadn’t noticed in her attempt to be helpful. That reminded him of something she’d said earlier when they were being pursued. “What did you mean earlier when you said you’d pull over rather than try to escape?”
“Well, it’s probably better than winding up dead in a ditch.”
He frowned. “So back there, when you didn’t have any idea who was chasing you, you would’ve pulled over? Just to see who it was and what he wanted?”
“Probably.” She didn’t sound too certain until she added, “Yes. If I’d been alone, that’s what I would have done.”
Mick swore, and then muttered, “That’s a really good way to get yourself killed.”
“So would crashing a car into a tree at eighty miles an hour,” she snapped. “Listen. Give me a little break here. I know a thing or two about self-protection, Lieutenant Callahan.”
“Right.”
“Well, I do,” she insisted. “In fact, that’s something I write about frequently in my column. Advising women on protecting themselves, especially against rape.”
This was a subject that had always made him crazy, and it had made him even crazier since Julie’s death at the hands of a purse snatcher. In Mick’s opinion, a little female self-confidence went a long way in getting women in more trouble than they were physically able to handle. One or two karate lessons just wasn’t good enough. Not nearly.
“What do you do?” he asked, unable to repress the vitriol in his tone. “Tell them to enroll in a martial arts class at some strip mall and then send them out like vigilantes on the streets?”
“No, I don’t. I advise them to use their brains before they use their bodies in order to avoid those kinds of situations in the first place.”
“And then what? A key across his cheek? A knee to the groin? A little shot of pepper spray?”
She was staring at him now. He could almost feel the heat in her eyes boring through his skull. He’d obviousl
y managed to push one of her hot buttons, but he didn’t care. His own hot buttons were sizzling right now.
“What’s wrong with you, Callahan? Don’t you think women have the ability to protect themselves? Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. I know. You’re one of the ones who think we should just quietly comply in order to stay alive, just lie back and enjoy it, right?”
“Maybe,” he said. God. Why had he even broached this subject in the first place?
“You’re such a jerk,” she muttered.
He was clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw began to ache. At the same time he realized he was pressing way too hard on the accelerator, going far too fast for the road that snaked through the woods behind the Simon property. He eased his foot off the gas.
“Let’s just not talk about this right now,” he said. “Fine with me.” Under her breath she muttered again, “Jerk.”
He turned into the driveway at the rear of the carriage house just in time to see somebody take a sledge hammer to a window on the side of the building. Mick was reaching for his gun almost before he shifted into park.
He had one foot out on the driveway already when Shelby pulled at his sleeve, screaming.
“Don’t shoot him, for God’s sake. That’s my father.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Much to Shelby’s chagrin, it turned out that she had inadvertently locked the door to the carriage house earlier when she’d searched for her father only to find his “Gone fishing” note.
“Why didn’t you just go in the house and get the spare key?” Shelby asked him as she extracted herself with some reluctance from his warm, all-encompassing hug.
This gave her a better chance to really look at him. Retirement appeared to suit the high-powered attorney known around the Chicago area as Harry Harry Quite Contrary. He looked healthy and tan and trim. His brown eyes—the same color as hers—sparkled like a glass of fine aged bourbon sitting in the sunshine. His sandy hair was threaded with a bit more silver now, and it was longer as well as somewhat thinner than the last time she’d seen him, but that was probably to be expected since he was in his late fifties.
“Why didn’t you get the spare key, Dad?” she asked again.
“Because your mother would probably have had me arrested for breaking and entering,” he said.
That’s when her sister’s words came flooding back. They’re separated. Or at least they were. Shelby wanted to tear her hair out. Her eyes felt as if they were pinwheeling, and it was all she could do not to scream.
“Breaking and entering your own house? That’s just nuts. It’s insane. I don’t understand this at all, Daddy.” She sounded six years old. Petulant. Confused. Helpless. And, yes, hurt. She even felt a little nauseous.
But her father wasn’t paying attention to her at the moment. Rather, Harry Harry Quite Contrary’s gaze was currently directed at Mick Callahan, who, for the second time in less than half an hour, had just packed away his pistol.
“I’m Harry Simon, otherwise known as Shelby’s father,” he said, smiling affably and extending his hand toward Callahan.
“Mick Callahan. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Harry,” her father corrected. “I didn’t mind people calling me sir before I retired, but now it just makes me feel old as hell. So, you’re my daughter’s ...um... friend?”
“That’s right.”
Before her father started grilling the man about his intentions, Shelby intervened. “Emphasis on friend, Dad. Okay?”
“A friend with a nine-millimeter Glock, if I’m not mistaken,” Harry Simon said, lifting a curious eyebrow.
“Well . . .” Callahan began.
Then Shelby stepped in again, saying, “He’s a city boy, Dad. Through and through. The wilds of rural Michigan make him really nervous.” She managed a little nervous laugh of her own as she aimed a beseeching look at the lieutenant. “Right, Callahan?”
Help me out here, will you?
He looked really stubborn for a moment—like Francis the fucking Mule!—all granite-jawed and tight-lipped and steely-eyed, as if he had no intention whatsoever of playing along with her little charade, but then he shrugged his shoulders and said almost sheepishly, “I thought I read someplace that there were still bears around here.”
“Only one,” Shelby’s father said with a sigh and a sidelong glance at the big house up the hill.
Then he looked rather helplessly at the carriage-house window he’d shattered a moment ago and murmured, “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Shelby, baby, why don’t you go up to the house and get me that spare key. It’s in the kitchen drawer to the left of the sink.”
“Fine.”
Without another word, Shelby turned and stalked toward the house, grateful for the opportunity to leave the two of them. She was angry at her father and she didn’t even know what lay behind this supposed separation, but it had to be half his fault. As for the lieutenant...She didn’t know what she was thinking, but she knew she’d think a lot more clearly if she put a little distance between them. He’d made her furious with his take on women’s self-defense, but then he’d come through for her by not disclosing his profession or reason for being here.
Dammit. How could a single human being be so irritating and so attractive all at once?
Mick didn’t have the vaguest idea what a carriage house was, but its interior reminded him of the typical loft space in several gentrified neighborhoods of Chicago. There was a kitchen area, set off by a long granite counter lined with tall wooden stools. The living area contained an enormous curved couch and the biggest big-screen TV that Mick had ever seen. Damned shame the World Series had ended with an early four-game rout, he thought, and the Chicago Bears weren’t scheduled to play this Sunday.
Once she’d returned with the key and let them inside, Shelby had immediately excused herself, saying something about the need to make phone calls and cancel upcoming appointments, but he got the impression that it was only partly the truth. She seemed on edge in her father’s presence, and Mick wondered if that unease had something to do with the fact that her parents appeared to be living apart and that it was news—and not good—to their daughter.
“Have a seat,” Harry Simon said, gesturing to the couch. “I’m about to open a beer. Can I get you one?”
“No, thanks.”
Mick sat, staring at the blank TV screen, grateful for a brief reprieve while Shelby’s father rummaged in the refrigerator. If he was supposed to lie about his occupation and his reason for being here in Michigan, what the hell was he going to say? And would he be contradicting something Shelby might already have told her mother about him? She’d introduced him as a friend. Well, hell. At least she hadn’t introduced him as “a student of military history,” he thought bleakly.
Beer bottle in hand, Harry Simon came around the counter and settled on the far curve of the big couch. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, looked at Mick, and said, “So, what kind of trouble is my daughter in?”
Mick hadn’t been ready for a fastball like that, so his face probably registered his surprise. “Excuse me?”
“I get CNN, even up here in the boonies, Mick.” He angled the neck of his Michelob toward the gigantic TV screen. “I know about the letter bombs at the Helm-Harris offices. Does this have anything to do with Shelby?”
“Well . . .” He sighed softly and closed his eyes for a second. Okay. Shit. Shelby would be royally pissed, but this was the right thing to do. He’d known that all along. “She didn’t want to worry you or Mrs. Simon.”
“That’s what I thought. And judging from the Glock and the way you handled it, young man, I imagine you’ve been assigned to protect her.”
Mick nodded. “Yes, sir.” He probably should have added, as long as he was ’fessing up, that his assignment was simply to get her out of Chicago safely, not to stick to her like glue up here in Michigan. But he decided against it, maybe because he didn’t want her father to get any of the wrong ideas about his
intentions. Whatever the hell those were. Assuming he even had any.
Harry Simon was nodding, too. “So you’re . . . what?... Detective Callahan? Lieutenant? Officer?”
“Lieutenant. I’ve been working vice out of the Eleventh.”
“The same Callahan who helped put Morris Pachinski away a couple years ago?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’s reassuring. My daughter seems to be in competent hands.” He took a quick sip of his beer. “I gather, from what I’ve seen on the news, that the investigation hasn’t turned up much of anything yet.”
“Not yet. But it’s only been a little over twenty-four hours. My captain is keeping me posted with any developments, though.”
“Good. And you’ll keep me posted, I presume,” the attorney said.
“Absolutely.”
“No need to say anything about this to Shelby or her mother, Mick.” He gestured around the room. “I’m in the doghouse already, as you can see. No sense your being here, too.”
Sitting cross-legged on the big brass bed in her room with her laptop and her cell phone, Shelby placed her first and most important call to Dave the Doorman at the Canfield Towers to find out if he knew how Joe the Mailman was doing. Poor Joe. It just didn’t seem fair for him to get hurt when it was Shelby who was the actual target. If he was in the hospital, she was going to send him a huge arrangement of flowers and balloons. That was all she could think of to do at the moment. Perhaps, when this nightmare was all over, she’d devote a column to him and the unwitting sacrifice he’d made for her.
“They released him last night,” Dave told her. “He got some pretty bad burns on his arms, but he’s doing okay.”
“Oh, thank God. That’s really good news. Was anybody else injured?”
“Bumps and bruises. We lost a front window in the lobby, but I’ve got people fixing that right now.”
