Still Waters

by Debra Webb

  Dear God. She was in serious trouble here.

  Chapter Three

  The mouthpiece hung around awhile longer, asking more questions and making Amber even more upset. Sean had heard of the guy. All the rich folks in Jefferson County used him. Teller didn’t need billboards or commercials with catchy jingles. The family name got him all the business he would ever need. It didn’t hurt that he had a reputation for being the best damn attorney in town.

  Sean turned his attention back to assessing Amber’s place. If the items found in the victim’s residence were Amber’s and she hadn’t put them there, someone had been in her home. The reality likely hadn’t sunk in for her just yet. It would hit her soon enough. It was time to start considering who would want to see Amber go down for murder. There had to be an old schoolmate or ex-bestie, maybe even a competitor at a rival television station with a grudge against her. Revenge, jealousy, there were all kinds of potential motives.

  No matter that he’d only been employed at B&C Investigations for a month, he’d learned a lot from the boss already. Jess had a motto: find the motive, find the killer. When looking for the source of trouble, there was no better advice. The boss didn’t exactly have a lot of confidence in Sean just yet. She’d been reluctant to assign him this case—which was exactly why he had to do the best job possible. Of course, he always wanted to do a good job, but he couldn’t allow even a single misstep this time. He had a feeling the first mistake and he would be out at B&C Investigations.

  For damned sure he would never again allow the kind of mistake he’d made on his last security assignment. His bad judgment had cost a life.

  His fingers stilled on the back door’s lock mechanism. How could he blame Jess Burnett for not fully trusting him? No matter that he had years of outstanding work history under his belt, his last assignment for his former employer had gone to hell. The only reason he’d gotten the job with B&C Investigations was because Buddy Corlew and Sean’s older brother, Chase, were friends. They’d played high school football together—against each other, actually. Chase had warned Sean that a year of moping around was enough. Sean had to get on with his life. During his time in Hollywood he’d built up considerable savings. Private security in the entertainment world paid extremely well. Finding a new job hadn’t been necessary the first year after he returned home, but his brother was right. Sean had to get on with at least part of his life. His personal life might never recover from his mistake with Lacy, but there was no excuse for allowing his professional life to stay in the toilet.

  “Is there something wrong with my door?”

  Amber’s question snapped him from his worrisome thoughts. He closed the door and shook his head. “I’ve checked front and back doors, and so far no sign of forced entry. The windows are next.”

  A frown dragged down the corners of her lips. She had nice lips. Full and pink. Her red hair and green eyes were a vivid contrast to her pale skin. The sprinkling of freckles across her nose she worked so hard to cover with makeup made him want to smile. She was a gorgeous lady, no doubt, but not the kind of overdone Hollywood beauty he’d disliked in California. Amber’s was natural and completely unpretentious. He’d been watching her and fantasizing for months.

  Fantasies and casual encounters were all he had anymore. He wasn’t sure he would ever trust himself in a real relationship again, and he would never permit work to become personal. Of course, his brother warned him that a guy still six months from thirty shouldn’t be throwing in the towel.

  Realization dawned in the lady’s pretty green eyes. “You think someone broke into my home and took my...the evidence the police found.” The frown reappeared. “But how did they get my prints on the teacup?”

  When he looked confused, she quickly explained about the evidence the BPD had discovered in the murder victim’s home.

  Sean inspected the second of three kitchen windows. “Trust me,” he said in answer to her question, “there are ways to get into any place—home or business—if a person wants in badly enough.”

  Amber followed him into the living room. She watched silently as he confirmed the windows were locked and that all the locking mechanisms were in working order.

  “You mean like overriding security codes?”

  “That’s one way, yes.” He shrugged. “Folks who make it their business to break and enter can unlock about any kind of lock with or without a key.”

  Rather than continue with her hovering too close and watching his every move, he decided to run a few questions by her. Why not start with the most obvious ones she’d already answered for his boss and more than likely for the police? “Do you have any enemies, Amber?”

  Her arms crossed protectively over her chest, and she dropped into the nearest chair. “Your boss and the police asked me that question along with a barrage of others. The answer is no. I’ve never had any sort of trouble with anyone. I’ve never had a stalker. Never received strange emails or Facebook messages. The fan mail from viewers is never threatening or overly negative. Someone might disagree with the way I reported an issue or event, but so far no one has taken it any further.”

  “Lucky you. Most celebrities get their fair share of threatening or nasty mail.” Sean meant the comment as a compliment, but judging by her sigh she didn’t feel so lucky. He hitched his head toward the hall that led to the bedrooms. “How about persistent fans or admirers? Any of those?”

  Amber pushed to her feet and trailed after him. “The usual. I typically receive flowers at the station a couple of times a week, depending on the stories I’ve covered. The high-profile stories generate the most reaction from viewers. Letters, food baskets, the occasional gift.” She rubbed at the back of her neck and then stretched it from side to side. “Nothing negative.”

  The single window in the hall bath was secure. Sean moved to the first of the three bedrooms. “Any that are unsigned or from repeat senders?”

  “A few.”

  Both windows in bedroom one were secure. “Define ‘a few.’”

  Following him to the next bedroom, she shrugged and said, “Four or five fans who consistently send little gifts. The occasional unsigned letter, maybe once or twice a month.”

  “Have you ever met any of the four or five gift senders?” He progressed from the first window to the second before moving on to the final bedroom—her private space.

  “The station has a big community day twice a year.” She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his errant attention momentarily to her breasts. “You know, to thank the viewers. We do photos and giveaways. Have games and hot dogs. There’s always a clown and a couple of cartoon characters for the kids. Sometimes the people who write to me or send me gifts or flowers come by and say hi. No drama or discomfort. Just a friendly hello and a request for an autograph.”

  The instant he entered her bedroom he felt completely out of place. The room smelled like her. Whatever perfume she wore was restrained but unmistakable. Light and citrusy. The delicate fragrance was barely there but so uniquely her, as if the subtle sweetness came from all that soft, satiny skin. He gave his head a mental shake. Evidently the skintight tee she wore had his imagination running a little wild.

  The bed was big, too large for a woman to lie in alone. The bedding was pure white, lush and natural—like Amber. It didn’t take much to summon the image of that long, curly red hair flowing over those white linens. His body tightened with need at the thought of climbing onto that bed and kissing his way up her naked body.

  Do the job, man. “Do you keep the unsigned letters?” He walked to the nearest window and confirmed it was locked. “Some of those may be from the same person.”

  She massaged her temples as if a headache had begun there. Who wouldn’t have a headache? She was a person of interest in a murder case. That was enough to give anyone a headache.

  “I never looked t
o see if there were similarities in the handwriting. I don’t keep them all. Only the ones that touch me in some way. In fact, Gina and I did a special about how feedback from viewers added a richness to our work.” She smiled; his pulse reacted. “We each shared things about ourselves that viewers could hopefully relate to. It was one of the most watched local programs last year.”

  Her bedroom windows were secure. He stepped into the en suite bath. The only window was one of the half-moon types above the shower and it didn’t open. Like the rest of her home, the bathroom was organized and well-appointed. The house was a traditional one-story brick in an upscale, older neighborhood. According to the background report Jess had given him, Amber had lived here since graduating college. She’d inherited the house from her grandmother.

  He returned to the bedroom, where she waited in the middle of the room looking very much like a lost little girl. “You keep the fan mail here or at work?”

  “Here.” She opened the double doors leading to what he presumed would be the closet.

  He hesitated in the doorway. The closet was almost as large as the bedroom with a sliding library-style ladder that provided access to the upper shelves that banded all the way around the space above the hanging clothes.

  “The house used to have four bedrooms,” she explained as she adjusted the ladder. “I used the fourth bedroom to expand the bathroom and for this closet.”

  “Looks like you made a smart move.” He surveyed the rods and rods of clothes and the rows of shoes and whistled. “This could be a supermodel’s closet.”

  “Ha-ha. Viewers notice if you wear the same outfit.” She climbed up the ladder and reached for a box covered in a floral pattern resting on the first shelf.

  “Let me take that.” He stepped over to the ladder and reached up to take the box.

  “I suppose you’d know a supermodel’s closet when you saw one. My sister told me you were a bodyguard to the stars.”

  He accepted the box and waited for her to climb down the few rungs. “I may have seen one or two.”

  She pushed the ladder back into its storage position. “Don’t be modest, Mr. Douglas. Barbara says you had quite the reputation in Hollywood as a top security specialist as well as a ladies’ man.”

  Apparently she hadn’t heard the whole story. “Where do you want these?” He was damned ready to get out of her bedroom. Being surrounded by her scent and her private things in what now felt like a small space was too much.

  “Kitchen table.”

  Rather than be a gentleman and wait for her to go first, he got the hell out of her closet and her bedroom. A few deep breaths and he still hadn’t cleared her scent from his lungs. He shook off the uneasiness and placed the box on the round table that stood in the breakfast alcove of the kitchen.

  The red and pink rose-patterned box wasn’t a typical file storage size. Handholds were formed on each end. Judging by the weight, it was made of heavy-gauge cardboard. He’d noted several of varying sizes on the uppermost shelf of her closet. Some he recognized as photograph boxes. All were neatly arranged by size and color. His mother had similar tastes and organizing habits. From what he’d seen so far, his mother would like Amber.

  He booted the concept out of his head. Maybe he needed more coffee. He was sure as hell having a hard time keeping his head on straight.

  Amber joined him at the table. She pressed a hand to her flat belly and made a face.

  “Look.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “I know you TV personalities don’t like to eat for fear of gaining half an ounce, but you’re going through some serious trauma right now. You need to eat.”

  Her green eyes were wide with surprise or indignation because he’d touched her or that he’d dared to give her an order or both. He released her and dropped his hands back to his sides.

  “No need for strong-arm tactics, Mr. Douglas. I was just thinking that I needed to eat.” She turned gracefully and marched to the refrigerator.

  Strong-arm tactics? Well, at least she was smart enough to listen to good advice.

  She pulled open the freezer drawer and selected a frozen dinner—the organic, calorie-conscious kind. While she removed the outer packaging, she flashed him a fake smile and said, “Take your pick. I highly recommend the pecan chicken and rice.”

  While she nuked her meal, he rummaged through the selection. He chose the pizza. The photo on the box looked normal enough, though he doubted one would ever be enough. The way his stomach was protesting, he could eat his weight in steak and potatoes about now.

  “Water or coffee?” She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge for herself.

  “Water would be great.”

  Ten minutes later they were seated at the table with their little prepackaged meals—little being the operative word. The first bite of the pizza did two things. Burned the hell out of his mouth and confirmed that although it looked nothing like the one on the box, it tasted exactly like the box.

  “Gina says you grew up in Birmingham.” She twirled her fork in the noodles of her meal. She’d picked out the little chicken and broccoli chunks.

  He imagined the noodles tasted somewhat similar to his pizza. “I did. When I graduated high school I went for a criminal justice degree. After that I headed out to Cali with my best friend. We both went to work for the LAPD. My friend’s parents had divorced when he was a kid. His father promised him a job with the department if he wanted to move out to California after school.”

  “So you both became cops?”

  He tore off another chunk of the tasteless pizza and nodded. “Two years later the top personal security team in the LA area offered me a position with a salary I couldn’t refuse.”

  “You must have done something to grab their attention?” She smiled, and his pulse executed another of those crazy dips.

  “I might have saved a couple of lives in a nightclub shoot-out while off duty and without a firearm.” He shoved the last of the pizza into his mouth to prevent having to say more. The doped-up ex-husband who’d come after his wife in a crowded club with a cocked and loaded nine millimeter had every intention of killing anyone in the room with her. There hadn’t been time to think, only to act. Sean had thrown himself at the guy. Two shots had hissed by his head, close enough to have him wishing he’d gone to church a little more often. Clips from the club’s security cameras had played on all the local networks and even a couple of national ones for days. The notoriety had bothered him. He’d done the right thing. Maybe that might have made him a hero to some.

  “Had you always envisioned yourself as a bodyguard to the stars?” Amber set her fork aside and sipped her water.

  “Never crossed my mind until they knocked on my door.”

  “What was it like? Are the big stars as difficult to work with as the gossip rags suggest?”

  He really didn’t want to talk about his past. Things always ventured into the territory he still couldn’t revisit. The only reason he hadn’t changed the subject already was because she looked relaxed for the first time since they’d met.

  “Stars are like anyone else. You’ve got the nice ones, and you’ve got the jerks. They put on their pants the same way you and I do.”

  “According to Gina, you’re the best.”

  He pushed back from the table and stood. “Your friend might have exaggerated just a little.” He carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it before depositing it into the dishwasher. Amber did the same with her bowl and fork.

  “We need a notepad or something to list the names of the people who’ve written to you repeatedly.” He moved back to the table. The sooner they focused on the reason he was here, the quicker she would forget about all the questions she appeared to have for him. Not that he had expected anything less from the lady. Amber might not be a big-screen celebrity, but she was damned sur
e a big star in Birmingham. “Anyone who seems overly interested in your career or you as a person is what we’re looking for.”

  She opened a drawer and came up with a notepad and pen.

  “We should talk about your neighbors,” he went on. “Friends. Ex-boyfriends. Former girlfriends. Anyone who knows your routine. Anyone who knows you well enough to have a handle on your likes and dislikes. Paradise Peach tea, for instance. Who would know about your taste in tea?”

  When she’d settled back at the table, she placed the pen next to the pad and looked him straight in the eye. “My sister and my parents. My colleagues at work. None of them would do this any more than I would. Most of my neighbors are the same ones who lived here when my grandmother was still alive. They’re older, and I’ve known them forever. I have no former girlfriends. I only have current ones.”

  “No fallings-out. No estrangements of any kind?”

  “There are people with whom I’ve lost touch, but nothing like you’re suggesting.”

  “What about ex-boyfriends? Even the one-night stands—especially the one-night stands.”

  “I don’t do one-night stands, Mr. Douglas. This is not Hollywood.”

  “But it is the twenty-first century. Even people in Alabama do one-night stands, Ms. Roberts.”

  “Not this person.” Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. “And before you jump to that conclusion, I’m not a prude, either.”

  “Ex-boyfriends?”

  “We talked about this already.”

  He exhaled a big breath and reached for patience. “I need more details.”

  “There have been three.”

  Did she just say three? “Three?” he echoed.

  She gave him a sharp look that answered the question. “One in high school. We started dating when we were freshmen. We broke up when we went our separate ways to college. He’s married with three children and lives in Wyoming. My second boyfriend was in college. He decided he wanted to travel the world before settling down. To my knowledge he’s still doing so. Last year I broke up with the man to whom I’d been engaged for two years.”