by Becki Willis
Lange stared at her for a moment in silence. The woman wanted him to protect her because the hairs were standing up on the back of her neck. He interrupted his nap for this?
Trying to control his growing irritation, and generously overlooking the fact that she answered simple questions in the most unusual way, he took a steadying breath before speaking again. “Miss Wilson, have you ever considered the fact that most men like to look at beautiful young women? What you’re describing is just a part of human nature.”
“Mr. Sterling, I’m hardly a model. Men don’t look at me like that.” She sounded completely sincere as she discredited her own beauty. “But even if they did - which they don’t - I’m not talking about normal oh-there’s-a-pretty-girl kind of watching. Someone is stalking me.”
“There’s a big difference in someone watching you and someone stalking you, Miss Wilson.”
“And I hate to use the word, because it sounds so sinister. But I don’t know how else to describe it. There’ve been a dozen little odd instances. For one, someone went into my office, scattered the mail across on my desk, changed the stereo to an oldies station.”
“A prank by a co-worker.”
She continued as if he had not spoken. “Someone gifted me a lifetime membership to the ASPCA and a magazine subscription for dog lovers, even though I don’t have a pet.”
“Hardly a crime.”
“Someone was watching me at the grocery store, even though I never saw them. When I went to check out, an employee brought over a bottle of wine. Someone had purchased it and left it for me.”
In spite of himself, interest flared in his eye. “Maybe a little odd,” he admitted. “An admirer, probably. Did you get a description?”
“The employee was an older woman, one of those retirees that works as a greeter. She described him as a ‘delightful young man in a yellow shirt’.”
“I don’t suppose you remember seeing anyone in a yellow shirt?”
Blonde tendrils danced across the tops of her shoulders as she shook her head. “A few days later, I was followed through the mall. I thought I might could duck inside a store and watch through the windows, see if I recognized anyone as they passed by.”
“And did you?”
“No. After a while, I must admit I got side-tracked.” Her sheepish grin caused his heart to tap out a crazy little pattern. “It was one of those great big beauty supply stores, and I’m afraid I got absorbed in shopping. Because of my light hair color, some products give it an odd greenish tint, so I have to use a very specific kind of shampoo and conditioner.” She twirled a lock of purest blond around her finger. No green now, just rays of sunshine. “When I went to check out, someone had left me a purchase. It was a bottle of shampoo, the exact brand that I use.”
“Could have been chance, someone with a background in beauty products. Did the clerk give you a description?”
“The teenager at the register described him as an ‘old dude in a yellow shirt’. I was a little rattled, so I stopped at one of the restaurants in the mall and treated myself to dinner. My tab was picked up anonymously.”
“Let me guess, a man in a yellow shirt?”
“I don’t know. It was shift change, and the cashier who took the money had already left.”
Lange processed the various bits of information. “Okay, so someone leaves you random gifts in public places and buys you dinner. Witnesses say the man is either young or old. It could be a difference in perspective, or it could be two different men, both who happen to own a yellow shirt.” He released a heavy sigh. “I need more than that, Miss Wilson. Do you know what kind of car he drives? Has he directly contacted you in any way? Have you had any harassing phone calls, any e-mails, anything of that nature?”
“You sound as if you don’t believe me,” she frowned, immediately put on the defensive with all his questions.
“I didn’t say that. I simply have to know the facts if I’m to help you. You can’t very well go to the police and ask them to arrest someone just because the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.”
“I’ve already been to the police, thank you very much. They practically laughed in my face,” Ashli Wilson said with an indignant sniff. Their casual handling of her complaints still smarted.
“Surely you told them more than you’ve told me, or I can understand why they would be laughing.”
“I hardly find a Peeping Tom a laughing matter, Mr. Sterling. The police felt it was a waste of the taxpayers’ money to help me. I came to you because I’m willing to pay for the help they denied me.”
“Hold on, here. What Peeping Tom? Why didn’t you mention that to begin with?”
“I told you, someone is watching me.” Now it was her turn to speak as if to a dim-witted child.
“But you’ve never actually seen this person?”
“Not exactly. But I know he’s there.”
“Do you have a former husband or boyfriend who’s harassing you?”
“No, I’ve never been married.”
“Any old boyfriends that may be jealous over a current relationship?”
“No, none.”
“No jealous ex-boyfriends or no current relationship?” he clarified.
“Neither.”
Lange rose and walked around to the other side of the desk. He refused to acknowledge the little flash of relief he felt when she admitted she was not currently in a relationship. He had more important things to worry about. For instance, if she was really as batty as she seemed, or if she truly had someone stalking her.
He realized she was waiting for him to speak again. “Tell me about the Peeping Tom incident,” he finally said.
“It’s happened several times. I’ll get the strangest sensation that someone is watching me. Once, I saw a flash of white when I glanced up from my desk at work; another time I heard a noise on the balcony and found an overturned pot plant. I reported it to the police, but they dismissed it as a stray cat.”
“Isn’t it possible it was a cat?”
She met his gaze without hesitation and answered in that soft, breathless voice uniquely hers.... and Doris Day’s. “Yes, of course it’s possible. But cats don’t wear white shirts. I know someone is there, Mr. Sterling. Especially after last night.”
“What happened last night?” He was almost afraid to ask. She had come in complaining of being watched, then revealed someone stalking her. Almost as an afterthought she mentioned the Peeping Tom. What next, he wondered?
“I received this note,” she said, reaching into her purse and withdrawing a sheet of paper. “I had gone out to dinner with a friend, and when I got home, this was taped to my door.”
Lange inspected the note thoughtfully, studying the careful lines of each letter. It almost appeared as if a child had written the note..... Or an adult trying to disguise their writing as a child’s.... Or a demented mind not capable of anything but childish scribble. It was the last thought that sent a chill of foreboding racing down his spine as he read the words, ‘I’m watching you.’
“Who all has handled this note?” he asked.
“Myself, of course. And my next door neighbor. And maybe a friend of mine, I’m not sure.”
He rolled his eyes skyward and sighed. “Did it ever occur to you that you were destroying whatever hope we had of lifting a set of fingerprints off here?”
“No.”
He released another weary breath and pulled the note closer, trying to gain some clue from it. “Did you call the police?”
“No, I called you.”
“Who was the friend you were with? Did he or she pick you up or drop you off? Is it possible they could have seen whoever left this, or did a neighbor, perhaps?”
“No, I’ve already asked everyone. I drove myself to and from dinner, where I met a friend named Mitch Greenway. I asked my neighbors, but no one knew anything about a note.”
“This Mitch Greenway... you’re not involved with him?”
“Just friends. W
e work together, actually.”
Again feeling that same rush of relief, he asked another question, “Ms. Wilson...”
“Miss,” she interrupted. When she flashed him a smile, he remembered why he had been smitten in the first place; her smile was like the sunshine, warming him all the way to his toes.
“Miss Wilson, can you think of anyone this person might be?”
“No one.”
“Is there anyone who has been making unwanted passes at you, anyone who seems to be obsessed with you?”
To his surprise, she actually laughed. “Obsessed? With a little squirt like me?” There was genuine humor in her eyes as she leaned back in her chair to afford him a better view, palms held upward for full effect. ‘Squirt’ was exactly what her two younger - and much taller - brothers called her. “I hardly think so, Mr. Sterling.”
Lange swept his gaze over her. She was small, he had to admit, barely five foot four at best. Her bright yellow dress was a loose, flowing creation, but somehow managed to hug her body in all the right places. She wore sensible flat soled shoes and carried a purse big enough to double as a briefcase, making a fashion statement of duty, not beauty. A full head of white-blonde hair fell from a center part and billowed into soft curls just past her shoulders. There was nothing glamorous in her light dusting of makeup, but the effect was fresh and unique. To Lange, she looked like sunshine itself.
In a moment of pure honesty, the hardened ex-cop spoke to her softly. “You, Miss Ashli Wilson, are a beautiful woman. Yes, I can see where a man might be obsessed with you. So I will ask you again, in there anyone you can think of that might be obsessed with you, or that might wish you harm?”
“Harm?” The thought seemed to startle her more than his words embarrassed her. “Do you think I am in danger, Mr. Sterling?”
“The question is, do you think you are in danger?”
“I-I don’t know.” She shuddered at the very thought. She raised big blue eyes up to his. “But the truth is, I am starting to get scared, Mr. Sterling. The police won’t help me, not until this person actually makes a move against me, and I’m afraid by then it might be too late. That’s why I came to you. Will you help me? Will you protect me?”
When she looked up at him with such wide, innocent eyes, when she pleaded with him in that whisper-soft voice, there was really nothing else he could do. Even though the case’s validity was questionable at best, and even though he was already stretched thin on time and resources, there was no way he could possibly refuse a plea such as hers. Even though an inner voice warned him to think it over, Lange Sterling heard his own voice answering as he stood and extended his hand.
“Yes, Miss Wilson. I will take your case. I will protect you.”
CHAPTER TWO
Less than eight hours later, Lange was regretting his hasty decision. What was he thinking, taking on another case? He barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone devote the time and surveillance a case such as this required. And yet, here he was, rearranging his entire schedule to take on a questionable case, and he was breaking one of his cardinal rules to do it: he was going in completely unprepared.
Lange was a stickler about prepping for a case. Normally, he would go in with a case file already established. It was his policy to know as much as possible about each case he worked on. To that end, he always did a complete background check immediately after taking on a new client. There would be notes, photos, sometimes even preliminary legwork, all tucked inside a file he would carry to this initial meeting. He prided himself on being well informed and well prepared; surprises could be disastrous in his business.
But today there had been no time for prep work. After Ashli Wilson left his office, he spent the remainder of the morning handling paperwork and phone calls; the afternoon he spent with clients and realigning priorities. He wrapped up one investigation, delayed another, and lost the business of a third client not willing to share his attention. Without a decent meal or any additional sleep, he was now running on fumes. And as if going in unprepared wasn’t enough, he was also going in late.
Turning onto the street given as Ashli Wilson’s address, Lange scanned the neighborhood to get a feel of the demographics. Typical for an old city such as Richmond, there was a mix of old and new in the neighborhood. On the right side of the street, a huge antebellum mansion, complete with six white columns, sprawled across half the block; its counterpart stood on the left, a newly constructed complex of upscale condominiums. The neighborhood was nice, but just shy of affluent. The other residences were neatly kept but more modest – a handful of Craftsmen style homes, a couple of ranches, a new construction of stone and cedar, and another with a more modern feel.
As he swung into the condo complex, he belatedly punched her name into the search engine on his phone, thinking any information was better than none. When it only brought up some television personality, he tossed the phone onto the seat in frustration. He compared the house number on the paper to the house numbers on the units, but the sequencing wasn’t making any sense. Circling the building, he cursed himself again for going in unprepared.
“I’m on the wrong side of the street,” he muttered aloud, realizing his mistake. She lived in the antebellum mansion. Which meant she either came from money, or wasn’t as ditzy as she seemed. “If I’d done my research, I’d know these things.” He continued to berate himself as he pulled his truck into the circular driveway gracing the front of the mansion.
Lange grabbed his phone and tucked a small notebook into his shirt pocket. As he walked up the steps of the mansion, he looked around in appreciation. The lawn was neatly trimmed, the flowerbeds were blooming with color, and the porch boasted a fresh coat of slate blue paint. A set of yellow wicker furniture beckoned from one end of the long veranda, while a half dozen rocking chairs, painted yellow with blue cushions, welcomed from the other. The house itself was three stories tall, painted white with slate blue shutters and doors, and, despite its advanced age, was obviously well cared for.
The double doors were a work of art, with thick stained glass panels that depicted a beautiful bouquet of daisies. Above the doors was a plaque proclaiming this “The Daisy House, circa 1853, Register of Historical Places.” A modern intercom system and electronic keypad were tastefully hidden behind an intricate metal panel beside the doors.
Finding her number on the panel, he pressed the intercom button. After a slight delay, he heard her breathless reply float out onto the porch. “Yes?”
“It’s Lange Sterling. I’m here for our appointment.”
“Is it that late already?” She sounded truly surprised. “I just got home.”
As he rolled his eyes in exasperation, he hoped there was no video cam. Trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, he asked, “May I come in, Miss Wilson?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. I’ll buzz you in. I’m at the top of the stairs and to the right. Apartment 5.” A pleasant melody sounded, granting him access behind the heavy doors.
Stepping into the foyer was like stepping into another era; houses just weren’t made like this anymore. A wide hallway divided the home in half, and ran from the front stained glass doors all the way to a set of identical ones in the back. There was marble beneath his feet, but the floor down the corridor was a gleaming hand-hewn wood, darkened with age. The walls were papered in dark blue damask, with enough white trim molding, all elaborately carved, to keep the color from feeling heavy. The few pieces of furniture in the foyer were all antiques, from the massive hall-tree beside the door to the small settee and side chair tucked into a corner. But the real beauty of the room was the stairway, a curved creation that swept from the right of the foyer, up and over the hallway, to float into the second floor of the grand old home with style and grace.
Lange ran an appreciative hand over the bannister, admiring the fine workmanship of a century past. The wood was warm beneath his touch, worn smooth from years of handling and polishing and perhaps, he imagined, a dozen childre
n sliding down its curved path. If he ever took the plunge into home ownership, this was exactly the kind of house he would want.
He ascended the magnificent stairway, his steps practically silent on the heavy wool runner of muted gold, cream and blue. The second floor opened into another wide corridor, this one flanked by paned windows in the front, double French doors at the back, and two apartments on either side. Lange turned right, toward the doorway marked with a scrolled wrought iron “5".
Just as he rapped on the door, he heard a shriek from inside the apartment. He immediately reached for his pistol. “Miss Wilson! Are you all right? Open up, this is Lange Sterling!”
The door swung open and the woman inside threw herself at him. The force of her hurled body into his unsuspecting arms was enough to make him stagger backwards. He quickly regained his footing, his arms instinctively closing around her for security.
“What is it? What happened? Is there someone in your apartment?”
“N-No,” she managed to say. For someone so petite, she clung to him with amazing strength.
Easily lifting her feet off the ground, Lange stepped forward into the apartment, kicking the door shut after he carried her through the threshold. She was obviously terrified. Continuing to hold her, he stroked her hair in awkward assurance, murmuring words of comfort as he glanced around the room for signs of distress. Seeing none, he held her until the trembling in her body began to subside, until he became painfully aware of how soft and warm and feminine she felt in his arms.
Slowly, before he did something stupid, he eased her away. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No, just- just frightened.”
“Why? What happened? Did you hear from him?”
“I-I’m not sure.” Untangling herself from his arms, she moved forward into the living room on unsteady legs. “Sorry. I know I over-reacted,” she murmured. Her tone was still dazed as she elaborated, “I got a letter. An envelope. When I opened it, something cold and wet fell out.”
