The Christmas Target

by Shirlee McCoy

  The house jutted up from the landscape, black against the grayish sky, a light on in the attic and one on in the living room. A car was parked close to the porch, the paint gleaming dully in the moonlight. She thought it was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  “I wonder whose—” The attic light went off, and the rest of the sentence caught in her throat.

  Chance thrust his phone into her hand. “Call the sheriff.” He put the vehicle into Park. “And stay put.”

  Then he was out of the SUV, sprinting toward the house.

  * * *

  Whoever had entered the house was going to exit it.

  Chance had no doubt about that.

  Front door or back?

  That was the question.

  He sprinted up the porch stairs, tried the knob and wasn’t surprised when the door swung open. He stepped inside, listening for the sound of footsteps. The house seemed empty, the silence echoing hollowly as he moved deeper into the foyer.

  He glanced in the living room, the bright light there revealing a room that had been torn apart. Books pulled from shelves. Couch cushions tossed on the floor. A lamp had been overturned, the bulb shattered.

  He flicked off the light, backing out of the room and leaving it for the police to process.

  Right now, he had more important things to deal with.

  There were servant stairs that led from the upper levels into the kitchen. If Chance were the one trying to avoid detection, he’d take those and go out the back door. He moved through the hallway, tensing as someone walked into the house behind him.

  Stella. He could hear her pant cuffs brushing against the floor, hear the whisper of her breath as she stepped closer.

  She didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer a plan, just kept pace with him as he walked into the kitchen. Like the foyer and hallway, it was empty, a small light above the stove illuminating the darkness. He flicked it off and walked to the servant stairs. The stairwell was pitch-black, the silence eerie.

  Someone was there.

  He could feel it like he felt the flash of adrenaline that shot through his blood.

  He pulled out his Glock, motioning for Stella to move back. Somewhere above, a floorboard creaked. Then another. The perp was retreating, probably heading back toward the front steps.

  Chance followed, the sound of creaking boards and running feet carrying through the house.

  He reached the front stairs, saw a shadowy figure barreling down them. He didn’t announce his presence, didn’t give the guy a chance to see him. He lunged, forearm to throat, gun pressed to the underside of the jaw, slamming the guy up against the wall.

  “Don’t move,” he growled, knowing the barrel of the gun was digging into flesh and his forearm was cutting off air. “Understand?” he asked, and the guy didn’t nod. He whimpered.

  “Do you have him?” Stella called.

  “Yeah. Get the lights,” he responded.

  Seconds later, the foyer lit up, and he was looking into the face of a man who had to be in his seventies. Salt-and-pepper hair, tan skin, blue eyes.

  Larry Bentley.

  Stella’s great-uncle.

  Chance had met the guy at Henry’s funeral.

  He eased his hold and backed off.

  “You have any weapons on you, Larry?” he asked, and the older man shook his head, his hand trembling as he smoothed his hair.

  “Of course not! I’m not a hoodlum.” Larry’s gaze darted to Chance’s gun and then settled on his face again. “What’s the meaning of this? Why are you in my sister’s house?” he demanded.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Uncle Larry?” Stella walked into the foyer, her skin nearly translucent with fatigue. “What are you doing here?”

  “Picking up a few things for Beatrice. I planned to head to the hospital when I was done.”

  “At two in the morning?” she asked.

  “She’s my sister. She’s ill. Does it really matter what time it is?”

  “What I’d like to know,” Chance said, “is why you were in the attic.”

  “I told you,” Larry huffed. “I was looking for some things to bring to Beatrice.”

  “Is that why you tore the living room apart?”

  “What?” Stella brushed past and stalked into the living room. She muttered something under her breath, and then returned, her eyes flashing with anger.

  “What were you thinking?” she demanded, and Larry frowned.

  “I didn’t make that mess. It was already like that when I got here. I thought maybe the police had gone through the room looking for evidence.”

  “How did you even know that the police were here?” she asked. “I didn’t tell you that in the message I left.”

  “Cooper left a message, too. He said they were conducting a full investigation.”

  “And to do that they needed to tear apart Nana’s house? Come on, Uncle Larry,” she said. “You’re smarter than that.”

  “No need to get riled up, Stella. Like you said, it’s the wee hours of the morning, and my brain isn’t functioning well. I traveled all day to get here, and I drove straight from the airport to the house.”

  “You could have let me know you were on the way,” Stella responded. She didn’t look mollified by his explanation.

  Chance wasn’t, either.

  “I would have, but I left my cell phone in Florida. I was in such a hurry after I heard the news, I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Either that, or he hadn’t wanted anyone to be able to track his movements. “What time did you arrive at the house?” Chance asked.

  “Twenty minutes ago.” He glanced at his watch. “Maybe a little longer.”

  “It took you a long time to gather things for your sister.”

  “I was looking for something specific. A wedding photo of our parents. It was in a beautiful Victorian frame. My great-grandmother’s wedding brooch was worked into the frame. Do you remember it, Stella?”

  “Of course. I saw it every day when I was growing up.”

  “It was on the fireplace mantel right before Henry passed,” Larry said. “I haven’t seen it since. I thought maybe Beatrice put it in her room or stored it in the attic.”

  “Why would she do that?” Stella walked into the living room, and Chance followed, watching as she studied the fireplace mantel. There were a few items there. A blue vase. A photo of Stella when she was ten, her bright red hair hanging nearly to her waist. Another one of Beatrice, Henry and Stella, all of them standing in front of the house, smiling at the camera. Stella was even younger in this one, the scars on her shoulder and upper arm revealed by a yellow tank top.

  “Why does she do anything lately?” Larry responded.

  “We could talk about that forever,” Stella said, her gaze on the bookshelf and the books that had been pulled from it. “I’d rather talk about what happened here. If you didn’t make this mess—”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Someone else did, then. Not the police. Cooper would never allow his deputies to leave a mess like this.”

  “Did you check any of the other rooms?” Chance asked, because if someone had been searching the house, it seemed unlikely he would have only torn apart the living room.

  “I came in here and I went to the attic. That was it.”

  And yet, he’d been there twenty minutes.

  Seemed like a long time to spend in two rooms.

  Chance met Stella’s eyes, saw his doubt reflected in her gaze.

  Outside, emergency lights flashed as the sheriff’s squad car raced up the driveway.

  “Here comes the cavalry,” Chance said. “Let’s see what they have to say.”

  “I need to get those t
hings for my grandmother,” she responded, turning and heading up the stairs.

  He wanted to follow, but Larry was hovering on the living room threshold, and Chance had the strange feeling that he was waiting for an opportunity to leave the scene.

  Wasn’t going to happen.

  The guy had some explaining to do, and Chance was going to make sure he did it.

  He offered a smile that he knew was anything but friendly, tucked his Glock into its holster and opened the front door. He waited there as the sheriff got out of his vehicle and headed across the snowy yard.

  EIGHT

  Four days after she’d been knocked unconscious, Stella was finally beginning to feel more like herself. A mild headache, an ugly bruise and itchy stitches were a small price to pay for surviving what could have been deadly.

  She couldn’t complain.

  Especially with Beatrice improving so much.

  After two nights, her condition had been upgraded, and she’d been moved out of the intensive care unit. The private room she’d switched to had plenty of room for a cot, and the nursing staff had been happy to provide one for Stella. That had made it easy to keep an eye on Beatrice and rest.

  She’d have rested better if Trinity hadn’t insisted on bringing a tiny Christmas tree into the room. The potted plant stood about a foot high, its spindly branches barely covered by needles. Trinity had tried to make up for that by wrapping it in gold tinsel and decorating it with miniature ornaments.

  For the past two nights, Stella had lain on the cot, staring at that tree, willing herself not to have nightmares. She’d thought of a dozen different ways she could get rid of the thing. Sneak it out in the middle of the night, toss it into the Dumpster behind the hospital, give it to the lady across the hall who never seemed to have any visitors.

  Beatrice, of course, loved the tree.

  As a matter of fact, she hadn’t stopped talking about it.

  “It’s such a lovely little tree, don’t you think, dear?” she asked for the umpteenth time, and, for the umpteenth time, Stella smiled and agreed.

  “It is.”

  “We could hang stockings, too. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “I can—” Trinity began, and Stella shook her head. Sharply.

  “We’ll do that when you go home. We can get the stockings out of the attic and hang them from the fireplace mantel. Like we used to.”

  “Let’s go, then.” Beatrice sat up, the frilly nightgown she’d insisted on changing into hanging from her bony shoulders. She was still attached to an IV, and Stella put a hand on her arm, holding her in place.

  “We will. Once the doctor releases you.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Tomorrow. If you’re still feeling good.”

  “Will that be a Sunday? I feel like I missed church this week. Did I?”

  “Tomorrow is Tuesday. Yesterday was Sunday. Your friends came to visit you after church, remember?” Beatrice had had a steady stream of visitors since she’d left the ICU.

  Chance had kept a list of every one of them.

  He’d also made a list of people who’d visited Beatrice in the weeks after the funeral, because the framed photo hadn’t been found. Someone had removed it. Larry had insisted it wasn’t him, and Stella wanted to believe him.

  Except for the fact that he really was in financial trouble, and the brooch that had been built into the frame was twenty-four-carat gold with a two-carat diamond surrounded by sapphires. Early twentieth-century Tiffany.

  Stella had always thought the piece was paste.

  She’d been wrong.

  If she’d known it was worth nearly ten thousand dollars, she’d have asked her grandparents to lock it in the safe long ago.

  Larry and Patty had traveled to Florida. They could have brought the piece with them, sold it to some antiques dealer somewhere and pocketed the money.

  They absolutely needed the cash.

  Larry had admitted that he and Patty had put their vacation property on the market while they were down there. That had been the real reason for the spur-of-the-moment visit. He’d had to sign the paperwork, get things rolling. He’d told Cooper that he’d made some bad investments and lost a lot of money, but he’d never take anything from his sister.

  Stella really wanted to believe him.

  But who else had access to the piece and knew its value? Stella was certain the frame and photo had been missing since the day she’d returned to town. It hadn’t been taken by whoever had torn the living room apart. Which left few options. Or, maybe, many. People liked Beatrice, and she often had visitors.

  “I think I might remember them coming,” Beatrice murmured, plucking at the lace on her nightgown. “And Karen. She came by this morning.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And brought me chocolates. Where did they go?”

  “You ate them.”

  “My goodness. I must have been hungry.”

  “Or you really like chocolate,” Trinity said cheerfully.

  “I do like chocolate.” Beatrice sighed. “I also like home, and I’d really like to go there. I’m sure you can pull some strings, Stella. You’re a nurse. Just tell the doctor you’ll take care of me. Or have your grandfather do it. I’m sure Henry is anxious for me to come home.”

  “Nana,” Stella began, but she couldn’t get the rest of the words past the lump in her throat.

  How many times would she have to tell her grandmother the truth? That the man she’d loved for sixty years was gone? That he wasn’t waiting at the house for her return? That he would never tell a silly joke or compliment her cooking ever again? How many times would she have to see the tears fill Beatrice’s eyes? How many times would she have to break her heart?

  “Beatrice,” Trinity said, pulling a chair over beside the bed and taking a seat. “How about I read you more of Little Women?”

  “My favorite story,” Beatrice replied, but she looked as sad as Stella felt.

  Sad because she wasn’t going home, or sad because she suddenly remembered the truth?

  “While you two do that, I’m going to run some errands,” Stella said. She couldn’t sit in the room for another minute, listening to her grandmother’s favorite book, staring at the gaudy little Christmas tree.

  “I’d love some chocolate, if you have time to stop at the shop,” Beatrice said. “It’s been months since I’ve had any.”

  Stella just kissed her cheek and promised chocolate, and then she walked out of the room.

  Simon was sitting beside the door, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up as she walked out, but he didn’t ask where she was going. He wasn’t the kind of guy to get involved in other people’s business. Chance had told him to guard Beatrice; that’s what he was going to do.

  Which meant that Stella didn’t have anyone following her around the hospital. Not that she needed anyone to do that. She wasn’t foolish enough to think she was safe. There’d been no progress made in identifying the guy who’d attacked her.

  Not Noah.

  She was sure of that.

  Now that her mind was clear again, she realized Noah was taller, broader and stronger than her attacker. If he’d wanted to kill her, he would have succeeded. It wasn’t Larry, either. His alibi had panned out, and he’d passed a lie detector test.

  Whoever it was, he hadn’t tried again.

  Chance thought there was too much man power on the ground, and that the guy would bide his time, strike again when he thought he had a shot at succeeding.

  Chance...

  She’d been trying not to think about him because she didn’t want to focus on how nice it was to have him around. She didn’t want to remember the kisses, the promises, the sweet words.

  She didn’t want
to think about what he’d meant when he’d said he didn’t plan to walk away.

  Because she was falling harder than she’d ever fallen before. Harder than she’d ever thought she could. For a man who spent his life going into dangerous situations and getting people out of them.

  Christmas carols were playing over the hospital intercom, and that only added to Stella’s bad mood.

  “Can’t we just skip Christmas this year?” she muttered, yanking open the stairwell door.

  “I don’t think my niece and nephew would approve,” Chance said, behind her. “But you could put together a petition and see if you can get anyone to sign it.”

  Startled, she turned around to face him, her heart beating double-time, her stomach doing a funny little dance. He looked like he always did. Handsome. Together. Confident. But he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, he’d traded his dress shirt and tie for jeans, flannel and a heavy coat, and he looked like he spent most of his time outside rather than in a boardroom.

  “Where’d you come from?” she asked, her pulse still racing. She wanted to chalk up her fast heartbeat to his sudden appearance. But she couldn’t. It was from looking into his eyes and seeing the man who’d been with her through the good and bad and everything in between.

  For years.

  For longer than Daniel had been with her, and that was odd to think about. That she and Chance had known each other for nearly double the amount of time she’d been married.

  “I was getting coffee and saw you leaving the room as I got off the elevator.” He held up a carryout cup. “I guess Simon didn’t mention that I’d be right back. But then, I’m assuming you didn’t ask.”

  “I needed some air,” she responded. “I wasn’t going far.”

  “You shouldn’t be going anywhere on your own.”

  “Now I won’t have to.”

  He smiled, and her pulse jumped again, her thoughts flying back to that moment in his SUV, those tender kisses.

  “So why the sudden need for air?” he asked, taking her arm as they walked into the stairwell.

  “Little Women, Christmas, Beatrice mentioning Henry again,” she answered honestly. “Take your pick.”