Alone. She seemed to be alone. She hoped she was alone. That was small comfort considering whoever had broken into her home had felt emboldened enough to let her know they’d been in her space.
Heather returned to her kitchen and her poison pen pal’s latest communication. Her hands shook as she picked up the cheap white business envelope. As usual, there was no stamp or return address. She knew nothing about this stalker, but he seemed to know a great deal about her. Where she worked. Where she lived. The temperature in her kitchen dropped. Her body grew cold.
Heather rested her cell phone on the kitchen table. The muscles in her shoulders and back were stiff as she used the butcher’s knife to cut open the envelope. Her hands still shook as she extracted the familiar single, plain white sheet of copier paper. She unfolded it to read this third message. It had a new twist: Outsider, Opal Lorrie wasn’t supposed to die. That threat is just for you. I’d only wanted to scare her. But murder’s even easier the second time around.
Heather crumpled the note in her right fist. She was equal parts terrorized and enraged. How had he broken into her home? How dared he break into her home?
She bowed her head and placed her hands on her hips. Heather felt the impression of Diego’s business card. It was still in the pocket of her skirt suit from this morning. Heather pulled out the newspaper editor’s card again. She’d read it so often throughout the day that she could recite his cell phone number from memory. Backward. She found an unsettling comfort in knowing Diego had cared enough to give her his number. Perhaps a part of her even wanted to call him, but El Paso had been a long time ago.
Heather shoved Diego’s card back into her pocket and called the sheriff’s office instead. She needed professionals to perform a search before she’d feel safe in her own home again.
The call was answered after the first ring. “Briar Coast County Sheriff’s Office. How can I help you?”
“This is Mayor Heather Stanley. Could you send a couple of deputies to search my house, please? I’m afraid someone may have broken in. I found . . .” She looked at the crumbled envelope still in her fist. Despite Diego’s and Sister Lou’s advice, she wasn’t ready to tell the authorities about her stalker. “My front door was open when I got home.”
“We’ll send someone over right away, Mayor.” The voice on the other end of the line was brisk.
“Thank you. I’m at Twelve Sixteen Siena Way.” Heather disconnected the call.
She glanced at her fist again, temporarily at a loss. Forcing her muscles to move, Heather smoothed out the letter and returned it to its cheap and creepy envelope. She shoved the threatening message into her briefcase to join the one she’d received yesterday. Heather shrugged deeper into her coat. She’d wait for the sheriff’s deputies in her garage. She wasn’t about to wait inside. Heather pulled out her cell phone again. While she waited, she’d call the local locksmith. It was time for new locks.
Chapter 8
Less than an hour later, Heather was jogging through her neighborhood. It was after seven o’clock Tuesday evening. The streets were dark and deserted, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She ran along the side of the street. The asphalt was easier on her knees than the sidewalk, and there were very few cars parked along Siena Way.
It had taken about half an hour for the locksmith to change her locks and a little longer than that for the deputies to search her home. The two young women had been reassuringly thorough. They’d searched areas that she hadn’t considered, such as the attic in her house and the one above her garage. They’d tugged on every window to make sure they were locked. Checked every closet and under all the beds. Walked her home’s perimeter, and circled the bushes in her front and back yards.
Heather shook her head. Not checking those places herself still made her feel stupid, but not as stupid as she’d felt when she realized the spare key she’d kept hidden beneath the planter on her front porch was missing. That must have been how the villain had gotten into her house in the first place. She’d had the locksmith make three sets of her new keys. She’d keep the first set with her. The second set she’d hide in her office, and the third she’d give to Kerry for those rare occasions when she’d need her administrative assistant to take something to her house or retrieve something from it.
Footsteps sounded behind her. The sound sent a warning signal to Heather’s brain. The echoes traveled down the tendons of her limbs. She forced her muscles to relax. She couldn’t allow herself to jump at every noise, flinch at each shadow. Heather shifted closer to the curb. The new arrival now had room to pass on her left. The footsteps drew nearer. Were they faster?
Heather attempted a casual glance over her left shoulder. She didn’t want to appear spooked.
Suddenly the runner slammed into her. He swept her up into his arms and kept running. Heather screamed long and loudly. It was an ear-piercing shriek of shock and terror. Her assailant dropped her onto the street. Heather’s head bounced once against the asphalt.
Everything went black.
* * *
“Thank you, but really, I’m fine.” If Heather repeated those words often enough, perhaps her head would stop throbbing hard enough to make her teeth rattle. At the very least, perhaps the nurse would go away.
She’d been horrified when she’d regained consciousness and realized she was prone in the middle of the street surrounded by emergency vehicles, medical professionals, and well-meaning neighbors. The medical technicians had poked and prodded her, and peppered her with questions while they carried her into the ambulance. All the while, her neighbors had shouted words of encouragement, caring, and support. It had been like an official town event. Heather had been embarrassed to find herself crying silently on the gurney, overcome by her neighbors’ concern and kindness. This was one of the reasons she loved Briar Coast. Heather had given the EMTs a stern look. Hopefully, they’d understood her silent message: What happened in the ambulance stayed in the ambulance.
Now she lay in a hospital bed Tuesday night at the mercy of an overzealous, older nurse. The health care professional’s poking and prodding were making Heather crazy.
“Do you feel dizzy?” Her nemesis barked the question as her chubby hands checked Heather’s pulse.
Heather winced at the loud noise. “No, I don’t.” She mentally added a few swearwords to her reply.
“Nauseous?” The nurse adjusted the thin white sheet and pale blue blanket that covered Heather.
“No. My ears aren’t ringing, either, and you can hear that my speech isn’t slurred.”
The nurse lowered Heather’s wrist and straightened to her full height. Tuffs of gray-and-blond chin-length tresses had escaped the other woman’s hair clip. She squared her broad shoulders and pinned Heather with a glare from her frosty blue eyes. “When did you get your medical degree, Doctor Stanley?”
Heather wouldn’t lie, not even to herself: the gruff nurse intimidated her. She hid her unease behind a scowl. Heather glanced above the nurse’s impressive bosom at the name badge pinned to her cotton-candy pink uniform blouse. “You didn’t vote for me, did you, Nurse Jones?”
Nurse Jones stared down her broad nose at Heather. “As a matter of fact, I did. That doesn’t mean I’m going to fawn all over you as though you were a member of One Direction.”
Heather gaped at the older woman’s reference to the popular British boy band. Had that been a joke? How did the nurse know about One Direction? Did she have grandchildren?
The image of the tough, intimidating health care professional dancing to pop music made her smile. “Thank you for your support.”
“You’re welcome.” The response was grudging, which made Heather appreciate it even more.
Nurse Jones turned to leave just as Diego and Shari hurried into the room. Both journalists wore identical expressions of concern. They stopped just inside the room.
Diego was dressed as casually as Heather had ever seen him in dark khaki pants with a lightweight cranberry knit sweater a
nd black canvas shoes. His salt-and-pepper hair was rumpled as though he’d run his long, blunt fingers through it over and over and over again.
In contrast, Shari looked as though she’d arrived fresh from the newspaper’s offices. The investigative reporter wore a tidy grape skirt suit with matching three-inch stilettos. The hem of her skirt fell to mid-calf. Her riot of raven curls seemed to vibrate around her shoulders.
Heather understood why Diego had shown up at her hospital room. She’d called him after the hospital had admitted her for observation. She’d regretted the momentary weakness as soon as she’d disconnected their call. But what was Shari doing here? Had Diego called her? If so, why? She was young enough to be his daughter. In fact, she was young enough to be their daughter.
That was a disconcerting thought.
“The mayor needs rest.” Nurse Jones’s brusque demand broke Heather’s train of thought.
Diego’s gaze moved from Heather to the scowling medical protector. “We won’t stay long.”
Nurse Jones glared at them for several silent seconds. Finally, she gave an abrupt nod, then marched toward Heather’s visitors. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. If you aren’t gone by then, I’ll remove you.”
The whole Nurse Jones experience stunned Heather. She stammered a few swearwords as the nurse left her room. “I can see her doing that.”
“So can I.” Diego’s full lips curved into a sexy half grin.
“Me, three.” Shari joined Diego beside Heather’s bed.
Diego watched her closely. “What happened? When you called, all you said was ‘I’m in the hospital. Can you come?’ Then you hung up.”
Heather turned to Shari. “I’m not giving you an interview, if that’s why you’re here. You’re not turning this into a—”
“Circus?” Diego cut her off.
“I was going to say . . .” Heather rolled her eyes. She received twin expressions of dismay in response to her choice of modifiers for “circus.” They were a couple of babies.
Shari arched a winged eyebrow. “At least your charm hasn’t been affected by whatever’s landed you here.”
Diego raised both of his hands in what was probably meant to be a reassuring gesture. It failed. “Shari’s not here for a story. I asked her to come because I thought you might be more comfortable with another woman present.”
And the reporter was the only woman he could think to invite? Note to self: Diego wasn’t dating. Heather didn’t know why that revelation pleased her.
But it did.
She looked up at him from her propped position on the bed. “I told the EMTs that I tripped and fell off the sidewalk onto the street while I was jogging.”
“That’s not what happened.” Shari made it a statement rather than a question.
“No, it’s not.” Heather met the investigative reporter’s eyes and forced herself to make the admission she hadn’t wanted to face. “I was attacked.”
“By. Whom?” The concern in Diego’s voice was reassuring. Maybe Heather had been right to call him.
“I don’t know.” Heather shook her head. That was a mistake. It reawakened the percussion instruments that were rehearsing Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” on the right side of her head. “I think it has something to do with the threatening notes I’ve been getting.”
“Someone’s been sending you threats?” Diego stepped closer to her bed. His voice increased in volume, urging Heather’s personal percussion section to perform an encore. “Who? For how long?”
“Careful, Diego. Remember the mayor’s concussion.”
Heather’s gaze dropped to the hand Shari had rested on Diego’s tricep. There’d been a time when she would have felt comfortable making such a gesture toward the newsman. But that was many years and several bridges ago. “I don’t know who’s been sending the letters.”
“How many have you gotten? When did this start?” Shari’s voice was gentle as though she was compensating for Diego’s agitation.
“I’ve received three letters since last Wednesday.” That had been shortly after eight a.m., February seventh. She wasn’t likely to forget that date.
“Three?” Diego’s interruption was incredulous.
“What do they say?” Shari asked.
Heather ignored Diego’s interjection and answered Shari’s question. “The first two were the same. They read, ‘Outsider, if you know what’s good for you, don’t run for reelection. Leave Briar Coast.’” Heather recited the message from memory. They were short—and hard to forget. She ignored Shari’s quick intake of breath and Diego’s expletive. “The last one was different. ‘Outsider, Opal Lorrie wasn’t supposed to die. That threat is just for you. I’d only wanted to scare her. But murder’s even easier the second time around.’ I received that one this evening. It was waiting for me on my kitchen table.”
“Someone broke into your house?” Diego’s agitation was on the rise again. “And then you were attacked while you were jogging in your neighborhood?”
“Yes.” Heather shivered as she relived her fear. “I was less than a block from my home when someone came from behind me, literally lifted me into his arms, then dropped me on the street.”
“And you didn’t report that to the deputies?” Diego dragged his right hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair. “For pity’s sake, Heather, why not?”
Heather felt an uncontrollable surge of irritation. “Because I won’t be intimidated. I’m not going to let this coward think he can scare me or that I’m taking him seriously because I’m not.” She capped her mini-tirade with a stream of ear-burning expletives. It was cathartic.
Diego broke in again, matching her vexation. “You should.”
Shari rested her hand on Diego’s arm again. “Did you report the break-in?”
This time, Heather remembered not to nod. “Yes, and the deputies did a thorough search. They didn’t find anything, and nothing had been taken. Whoever broke in just wanted to intimidate me.” She sent another glare in Diego’s direction. “They failed.”
Diego heaved a sigh as though forcing himself to relax. “You should report these threats to the deputies. Give them the letters and tell them you think they’re connected to tonight’s attack.”
Heather’s curse was short and sharp. “And in case that wasn’t clear enough for you: no.” She angled her chin as she scowled up at Diego. “My opponents will jump all over this like sharks, rushing at chum in the water. They’ll use these threats to paint me as weak and vulnerable.”
Diego spread his arms, incredulous. “Who cares?”
“I do,” Heather asserted. “How am I supposed to be effective in office if people second-guess my every decision, wondering whether I’m making a ‘safe’ decision because someone wants to kill me?” Her voice hiccupped, breaking her final expletive into syllables. Embarrassed, Heather dropped her head into her hands.
“Heather—”
It was her turn to interrupt him. “Leave me alone. I’ll figure this out on my own.”
“No, you won’t.” Shari’s voice was firm. “We’ll help you.”
“And we’ll start by finding you somewhere else to stay.” Diego crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You’re not safe in your house. Someone’s already broken in. You can stay with me.”
Heather arched an eyebrow. She selected another swearword from her inexhaustible mental supply. “I’ll check into a hotel.”
Diego frowned. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Heather snorted. “Well, I’m not staying with you.”
“I know the perfect place for you to stay.” Shari grinned. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “But you’ll have to give up cursing for Lent.”
* * *
“It was a wonderful homily, wasn’t it, Lou?” Sister Barbara’s hazel green eyes twinkled behind her silver-rimmed glasses. Her Hermionean pin sat just below the right shoulder of her mauve pantsuit.
Sister Barbara was a hugger. The congregation’s prioress wrapped Sis
ter Lou in a brief embrace of affection as Sister Lou joined her in the tiled lobby outside of the motherhouse chapel after morning Mass on Ash Wednesday.
Most of the sisters, including all of the congregation’s leadership team, had attended the seven fifteen Mass. They preferred to get their ashes early. Application of the ashes was a solemn Ash Wednesday ritual that welcomed the Lenten season. The ashes were applied to each person’s forehead in the shape of the cross. As Father Ryan O’Flynn had applied the ashes to each participant’s forehead, he’d quoted Genesis chapter three, verse nineteen, “Remember that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.”
Most people—including some Catholics—seemed disconcerted when they saw the ashes on her forehead. But the ashes gave Sister Lou a sense of contentment. They symbolized her repentance for her sins and readiness to grow in faith in preparation to celebrate Easter.
“I always enjoy Father Ryan’s homilies. He manages the right balance of humor and solemnity.” Sister Lou’s gaze located the celebrant in the sea of sisters.
As usual, the middle-aged priest’s thinning salt-and-pepper hair was in need of a trim. He crossed the lobby in the company of several sisters, presumably on their way to breakfast in the dining area. Their joyful laughter danced back to her.
Sister Lou returned her attention to the prioress. Behind Sister Barbara, towering leafy potted plants framed the floor-to-ceiling picture window.
Beyond the window, the courtyard was stark with winter’s stamp. Mounds of melting snow dotted the mid-February landscape. Small evergreen shrubs lined the perimeter and circled barren trees. In the center, a ring of Burberry bushes surrounded a white plaster statue of St. Hermione of Ephesus. Her face was lifted to the sky and her expression was so intent Sister Lou could imagine the saint in conversation with God.
Sister Barbara wrapped her arm around Sister Lou’s waist and started them down the hallway away from the chapel. “I can tell you have something on your mind, Lou. I’m listening.”
“Shari Henson called me late last night.”
They turned the corner at the end of the hallway. Sister Barbara let her arm drop from Sister Lou’s waist. “The young newspaper reporter. Is she all right?”
Alibis & Angels Page 7
