Gingerbread Man

by Maggie Shayne

  He didn't look sarcastic or teasing. He just looked... tired. She felt her lips narrow. "Just what is it you're doing here, Detective? I know it's not anything official, so—"

  He held up a stop-sign hand. "Wait a minute. How do you know that?"

  She shrugged. "We don't have any real crime in Dilmun. Much less anything important enough to bring you all the way down here from Syracuse. Nothing bad ever happens here. And besides, I know everything that goes on in this office. The chief hasn't had any official communications from... um... S.P.D." She smirked when she said it. "So what are you doing here?"

  "You're sharp, Red. You oughtta be a cop."

  "You're changing the subject."

  He held up both hands. "You going to arrest me?"

  She rolled her eyes and turned to head back into her office. He stopped her at the doorway by speaking. "Actually, you're right. I'm not here on business. At least, not officially. The truth is, I'm on vacation."

  She battled a shiver. "And what is your unofficial business?"

  "I can't tell you that."

  "And if I should call S.P.D. and ask them?"

  "You'd probably get me fired."

  He wasn't kidding. His manner was completely matter-of-fact. Something weighed on the man. Something big.

  The bell jangled as the front door opened, and Chief Mallory walked in, making the room seem immediately smaller. He stopped where he was, his brows drawing together, his gaze moving from Holly standing nose to chest with the big, full-of-himself detective, to the coffee cart, with puddles of water, a dusting of grounds, and a pot that was only half filled. His frown grew deeper.

  "Holly?" he asked, one hand inching toward the gun at his side.

  "Whoa, wait a minute, now ..." O'Mally backed away from her, holding both his hands up to about shoulder height and looking from Chief Mallory to her and back again. "I'm a cop, okay? For a town with no crime in it, the residents are sure as hell nervous."

  "It's okay, Chief," Holly said. "This is Detective O'Mally, down from Syracuse. He's been waiting to see you, and irritating me." She shook her head in disgust. "Sorry about the coffee."

  "Honey, I can wait five minutes for my coffee." The chief relaxed, and walked forward, extending a hand. "Sorry about the reaction, Detective. I'm not used to seeing Holly flustered."

  "I was not flustered," Holly called as she headed into her office. "Just distracted!" She returned with a roll of paper towels, and proceeded to clean up the coffee cart.

  The two men shook hands and the chief said, "We can talk in my office. Holly, will you bring us back some coffee when it's ready?"

  She nodded, smiling easily at the chief, then gritted her teeth and held the smile in place with effort as she asked, "How do you like it, O'Mally?'

  He pierced her eyes with his. He just said, "Black." And for some reason the word sent a chill right up her spine.

  There was something dark living inside that man. It had peeked out at her just now. Holly recognized it at once, because she had seen it many times before.

  In the mirror.

  THREE

  DILMUN WAS ONE strange little town, nestled at the southern tip of the Finger Lake named Cayuga. Part of it was quaint to the point of "tacky tourist trap" status, and seemed designed to fool you into thinking you were on the New England coast. Cross a street and you found yourself in a typical small town that could have been Mayberry. Walk the other way and you might think you'd been dropped into the middle of a scene from The Last of the Mohicans, with the wild-looking forests and that dark-water lake. Vince had rented a cabin along its shore for a remarkably reasonable price. He'd found lodgings easily, with no more than a couple of phone calls. He figured this late in the fall, with the water too cold for swimming, and with the leaves past their peak and rapidly vacating their gnarly branches, he wasn't facing much competition for the space.

  The redhead was almost as contradictory as the town. Cute as hell, though certainly no raging beauty. She was small, slight, with a pageboy cut and bright green eyes. She had secrets, that redhead. She'd been shaken when he'd said where he was from. A blind man could have seen it. Maybe she knew something about his case.

  Or maybe he was just so damned eager to find some answers out here that he was seeing things that weren't there. He'd gone back to his apartment in Syracuse only long enough to pack what he needed and make a few hasty arrangements. He'd placed a quick call to the chief, and another to Jerry saying he had decided to take that time off—that he was going to the country for some R and R. He couldn't very well say where he had really gone, much less why. Hell, he was out here on a whim. A hunch. A children's book at a crime scene, which could have been left there by anyone. School kids hanging out where they shouldn't. Vagrants. The former residents of the condemned house. A freaking pack rat could have dragged it in, for all he knew.

  He was reaching. He had no plan, no outline, no standard operating procedure. All he had was his gut. And his gut was still so knotted up over what he'd seen inside that dilapidated house that he wasn't even sure he could trust it anymore. He was staggering under the weight of his own broken promise and the knowledge that he'd missed the book the first time he'd been inside that old house. It did little good to rationalize that it had been out of sight. He knew the weight of his conscience wouldn't ease. Not until he found the monster who had killed those kids, and made him pay.

  And he wondered if the weight would ease, even then.

  The Dilmun police chief leaned back in a chair that must have had to strain to hold him. He was a big man. Not fat. Just big. "So what brings you to Dilmun, Detective O'Mally?"

  "Research on a case. Technically I'm off duty, but you know how that goes. You wear a badge, you're always on."

  "You got that right." The chief nodded toward a chair, and Vince sat down knowing he had a foot in the door. Reminding the man of the vocation they held in common ought to go a long way.

  "Actually, the chances of there being any connection between the suspect I'm looking for and this town are slim to none."

  "Probably," Mallory said, smiling. Believing.

  "Still, I thought as long as I was here, enjoying some down time, I may as well check it out."

  "Makes perfect sense to me."

  Mallory seemed totally relaxed and not the least bit suspicious. He leaned back even farther, crossing his arms behind his head, and thumping his boots onto the desktop. "So who is it you're looking for?"

  "Don't know. What I do know, is that he was in possession of a book from the Dilmun Public Library. A long overdue book, by the looks of things."

  Chief Mallory raised a brow. "Is that what he's wanted for, son? Delinquent library fines?"

  "Nah, but it's almost as trivial." He would keep it light. At the first mention of child murders, he figured he'd be screwed. The entire town would clam up in panic, and every rat in it would scurry to his hole. The sheriff would probably run Vince out on a rail. So he wouldn't mention it. He had his cover story ready. He'd had time to think about it on the drive down here. "This guy stole a car, went joyriding, and wrecked it. If the heap hadn't belonged to a judge's son, I wouldn't even be bothering with this." He lied as smoothly as a politician, he thought. And yet something flickered in the chief's eyes. Was that a hint of suspicion behind the friendly smile? Had there been the slightest narrowing of those worry-free eyes? No. Not now, at least. If there had been such a flash, it was gone fast. "I tried to talk to Ms. Baker, over at the library, last night but she wasn't too inclined to help me out. And it's not as if I have a warrant or anything, so I didn't push. Like I said, I just figured as long as I was in town ..." He left the words hanging in the air.

  The chief's feet came down with a thump and he sat up in his chair. "Local folks around Dilmun are a little bit wary of strangers. Oh, they don't mind the tourists much—but they don't mix with 'em, either."

  "I see."

  'Tell you what. You give me the title of that overdue library book, and I'll get
the information for you—that is, if the library even has a record of the book being missing." He reached for a pen, held it poised and sent Vince a questioning look.

  "It was a children's book. The Gingerbread Man. "

  The chief blinked. "You're joking."

  "Nope." Vince shrugged. "I told you it was a long-shot."

  He looked at Vince for a long moment, then his face split in a huge grin. His hands slapped the desk. Gusts of laughter burst from him, and Vince wasn't sure, but he thought the man's eyes began to water. "That must be one badass car thief," he gasped, between bouts of hilarity, "with readin' material like that!"

  Vince smiled, too, shaking his head as if he found it all just as funny. "Well, we found the book in the vehicle, and it didn't belong to the owner. So we figured ..." Vince lifted his hands expressively.

  The chief got his laughter under control, wiped at his eyes, drew a steadying breath.

  "I don't plan to worry too much one way or the other," Vince told him. "I'm gonna laze around the cabin and look out at the lake, and anything more strenuous than that will have to wait till my vacation time is used up."

  Grinning broadly, the chief nodded. "I hear that. So you rented one of Marty Cantrell's cabins, did you?"

  "Sure did. It's gorgeous out there."

  "Fishing's not bad, either."

  "No?"

  The door opened and the redhead walked in with the pot of coffee. She reached up to the shelf behind the door to take down two real coffee mugs—no foam cups for the chief of police around here—and, setting them on the desk, began to pour. "Must be something pretty funny going on in here," she said as she filled the mugs. Her gaze slid over Vince's face, seemed to catch on his eyes before she managed to jerk it free.

  "Detective O'Mally is looking for someone with an overdue library book," the chief said, laughter still in his voice.

  She lifted her brows. "Really?" She sent him a glance that was almost teasing. He found he liked it on her far better than the irritated expression that was all he'd managed to induce in her earlier. "They must think very highly of you at S.P.D. to send you out here on such a delicate case."

  He gave her a smirk. She only smirked back.

  "You haven't heard the best part yet," the chief went on. "This must be one hardened criminal he's after. The missing book—it's The Gingerbread Man."

  Vince saw something change in her face. Like the light in her eyes just blinked out, or some kind of shade came crashing down to block it out. Her cheeks paled.

  " 'Run, run, run, as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man,' " Chief Mallory chanted.

  The redhead dropped the coffee pot. It shattered, and hot black liquid splashed onto the legs of her jeans. She stood there, staring down at the mess as if she didn't quite know what it was.

  Vince and the chief were on their feet instantly, the chief coming around the desk to grip the woman's shoulders. "Damn, Holly, you could've scalded yourself!" He pushed her backward a couple of steps, out of the mess. "You okay? Hmm?"

  Pounding feet brought two other men to the open door. The officers must have arrived since Vince had been in the chief's office. One was tall and blond, the other stockier, dark. Both wore uniforms and shields.

  "What happened?"

  "You all right, Holly?"

  She looked up at them and nodded, but she still seemed rather dazed. "I... don't know. I guess my hand slipped."

  The frowns those two men sent to one another and then to the chief said they flat out didn't believe that.

  The redhead gave a shrug that pretended to be casual, and pushed past them to head to the restroom beyond the door. When she came back, she was using a mop's handle to push a rolling pail along, and she looked as if nothing unusual had happened.

  "Okay, clear out, boys. Let me get this mess cleaned up."

  The two officers backed out of the way, and Holly mopped up the spilled coffee and pushed all the broken pieces of the pot into a pile. "Too bad about my timing," she said. "I didn't even get a cup yet."

  "I'm sorry," Vince said, watching her more closely than before. Because now he'd stopped doubting his twisted-up gut. She had just confirmed his hunch. She knew something.

  "Don't be silly. You were nowhere near me." She pulled a whisk broom and a dustpan from the basket attached behind the mop pail, and briskly swept up the traces of the accident, dumping them neatly into the chief's wastebasket.

  "I got the feeling it was something I said," Vince said, watching her face.

  She brushed off her hands, "You weren't the one speaking."

  It was not, he realized, any kind of an answer.

  "Maybe it's just that I haven't had my coffee," she added with another carefully casual shrug, and she backed out of the room, pulling the mop, pail, broom, and dustpan with her into the hall, and then reached back to close the door.

  Vince stared at the door for a long time after she closed it. "She's a jumpy little thing, isn't she?" he asked.

  "No, as a matter of fact, Holly is the steadiest, calmest person who's ever worked for me," Chief Mallory admitted, and there was real concern in his tone.

  Vince turned slowly toward the chief. "Was it me, do you think?"

  The chief's worry lines didn't ease much with his smile. "Nah. She must just be having an off day. It happens to all of us once in a while... I suppose."

  He frowned at the door in a way that told Vince it didn't—at least not to Holly Newman. It told him something else, too. Holly was a fragile sort of woman. Or at least that was how the men in this office perceived her. Weak and fragile.

  "I'll... uh... I'll check in with her mother, all the same. Just to make sure nothing's going on."

  It was an odd thing to hear a police chief say. A personal thing. It crossed Vince's mind that there were more differences between Dilmun and Syracuse than the 60 miles on routes 81 and 13.

  A lot more.

  ***

  CHIEF MALLORY WAITED until he’d watched the stranger go. Then he picked up the phone and dialed Maddie Baker over at the library. She answered crisply, but her tone softened when he said, "Maddie, hon? I need a favor."

  He could almost see her smiling at him, perfect false teeth looking a size too big for her mouth. Maddie could seem as mean as tar to outsiders. Only the locals knew what a sweetheart she was. "What can I do for you, Chief?"

  "There was a fella over there askin' about an overdue library book last night, as I understand it."

  "Why, yes. Yes, there was. I told him any records we might have dating back that far would be in the basement, but he just wouldn't give up. I didn't like him. He was pushy, that fellow."

  "Back how far, Maddie?" Chief Mallory asked.

  "Oh, near to twenty years. Said the date due stamped on the book was nineteen eighty-three, for heaven's sake."

  Mallory nodded. "I'll tell you what, Maddie. How about you let me come on over and take a look through those files in the basement, hmm? See if I can figure out what this pushy young fellow is looking for."

  "Well, if you think it's important, Chief."

  "I do. And Maddie?"

  "Yes?"

  "Let's just keep this between you and me for right now. All right?"

  ***

  THE WIND OFF the lake had kicked up during the morning, and it didn't seem too eager to let up. When Holly walked the fifty-three steps from the police station to the Paradise Cafe, she had to tug her denim jacket's collar up, and bow her head. Leaves flew like flocks of brittle birds, and the air was heavy with unshed rain. Holly walked into the cafe at one minute past twelve, closed the door against the wind, and reached up absently to finger comb her hair. A leaf drifted loose and floated to the floor, landing squarely in the middle of one of the neat square tiles. For a moment her gaze remained on the floor, its perfect checkerboard pattern, straight, predictable lines, square corners.

  Glancing up, she saw her mother sitting at their usual booth, and waved to her as she started across th
e red-and-white tiled floor. She felt out of sorts and distracted. Even after Vince O'Mally had left the station this morning, her routine had never really fallen into place again. She'd answered the phones, filled out forms, paid bills, done some filing—all the usual things, but she'd done them with the feeling that something was off. She was running behind. Her pattern, broken. And she kept wishing she could undo the day and start it over again, the way she could have done with a row of knitting. Just take the end of the yarn and pull it all out, all the way back to the spot where the pattern had become altered—then start over again from there.

  If she could do that, though, she'd pull that thread all the way back to October 10, 1983. Start that day over.

  She forced herself not to think about that. Things were off today. And there was a niggling in the back of her mind, but she was ignoring that, as well. She was very good at ignoring things. It only took concentration. She'd had lots of practice.

  "Honey?"

  She looked up, realizing she had walked all the way across the diner to the table where her mother waited, and shaking herself, she managed a smile as she slid into the booth. "Hi, Mom. How did your morning go?"

  "Holly... honey, are you all right?"

  Startled, she searched her mother's face. "Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?"

  "Well..." She reached across the table, covered Holly's hands with her own. "You were counting just now."

  Holly rolled her eyes. "Oh, I was not."

  "You were. You were counting as you crossed the room. Your steps, I think. Very quietly. Sweetheart, did something happen this morning?"

  Holly tensed and gazed around the diner, wondering if anyone else had noticed her odd behavior. Counting. Dammit, she had stopped counting years ago.

  Oh, hell. He was here, sitting on a red vinyl-topped stool at the counter, and watching her. He lifted a hand in greeting. She pursed her lips, nodded hello, and looked away.

  "Should I make an appointment with Dr. Graycloud?" her mother asked.

  Holly bit her lip, swallowed her anxiety, and turned back to her mother with a forced smile. "I was thinking about floor tiles for the dining room," she said. "Like these—different colors, of course—but the texture and the quality of these are just what I had in mind."