Cassidy and the Princess

by Patricia Potter

  Twenty minutes later, he drove into his garage. He knocked at the door leading to the kitchen, then went inside. Manny was there.

  “Where’s Miss Merrick?”

  “With my Joey.”

  “She’s here?”

  “With three of us here, I thought it was safe. And Marise needed a diversion. I think she’s getting cabin fever. My daughter brought over some videotapes she’d made of Marise and her partner skating. She wanted to ask her some questions about some of the elements.”

  “What kind of elements?”

  “You know—jumps, spins, that kind of thing.”

  “That kind of thing?” Cassidy asked with a quizzical smile.

  “Ah, come on. I have a daughter who skates. If you would stop working all the time and come to one of her competitions, you would see how good she is.”

  The plaintive reply brought Cassidy up short. He remembered being asked to attend something not long ago, but he was testifying the next day and wanted to go over his notes. “Next time,” he promised.

  Manny changed the subject. “Find anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I was afraid of that. What did Haynes say about a press conference?”

  “He gave the go-ahead, subject to approval from upstairs.”

  Manny raised an eyebrow, obviously surprised.

  “Monday morning. If she still wants to do it.”

  “She will,” Manny said. “I don’t think she’s the type of person who changes her mind.”

  Cassidy went to the new coffeepot that someone had brought. His kitchen, in fact, looked as if people had brought a lot of things. There was a plate of cookies, a bowl of fruit, several loaves of bread. The refrigerator had probably been filled, too. He thought about pouring himself a cup of coffee, then decided against it. He needed sleep.

  He went into the small den. The television was on, and Marise and Manny’s seven-year-old daughter were huddled together on the sofa watching television. Cassidy was behind them, and it was obvious they didn’t know he was there.

  His eyes went to the television and remained glued there. On the screen, Marise looked fantastic in a blue skating costume with a skirt that seemed to be pure gauze. It floated as she skated. With her blond hair in a twist, she did indeed look like a princess. A radiant princess. He also noted—with a knot in his stomach—the unspoken communion between the skaters, the trust she must have in Paul Richards during some of the elements. In one, her partner balanced her above him with one hand; an overhead lift, the announcer said. In another she was bent backwards, one foot on the ice, her head just a fraction of an inch from the ice and his skates. One miscalculation…

  He’d wondered at her nerve and determination. Now he understood it. What she did called for raw courage on a day-to-day basis.

  “That’s a double twist,” Marise told Joey as the routine continued.

  “He’s handsome,” Joey said about her partner.

  Cassidy frowned behind them. Women, even young ones, sometimes had dismal taste.

  “Yes, he is,” Marise agreed.

  The comment didn’t help Cassidy’s mood.

  “Is he nice?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  Cassidy wished she hadn’t said the second word. Why was his impression so different? He’d thought Richards arrogant.

  “How long have you been skating together?” Joey’s curiosity was limitless, and at the moment Cassidy was appreciative. She was asking questions he couldn’t.

  “Six years now.”

  “That’s almost as long as I’ve been alive.”

  “You’re six?”

  “Seven,” Joey said indignantly, before going back to her interrogation. She shouldn’t be a figure skater; she should be a police detective. She’d extracted more personal information from Marise than he had. He decided to lurk a bit longer.

  “Why don’t you skate as a single?” Joey asked.

  “Because I had an ankle injury. My mother thought pairs would be easier on it. That turned out to be wrong because more and more throws are expected of pairs. They demand as much strength as the triple axel did in singles. But by then, Paul and I were a team and we were better together than I was on my own.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  Cassidy found himself holding his breath.

  “No,” she said. “Though we like each other immensely.”

  “I think I would be in love with him—”

  “You’re too young to be in love with anyone, young lady.” Manny had entered the room without anyone noticing.

  Joey spun around on the sofa. “Dad! Uncle Hoppy!” she said with a squeal of delight. She bounced off the sofa and ran over to him, opening her arms for him to pick her up and swing her around.

  He could have done without the “Uncle Hoppy,” but she always made him feel good with that instant delight of hers whenever he appeared.

  “Hi, pumpkin.”

  “I’m not a pumpkin.”

  “Okay, what are you?”

  “A princess, just like Marise.”

  “Miss Merrick, you mean.”

  Her lip stuck out. “She told me to call her Marise.”

  “Then, Marise it is,” he said. “Who am I to interfere with female bonding?”

  “What’s that?” Joey said.

  “It’s making friends.”

  Joey beamed. “She promised to watch me skate.”

  “She’d see how good you are.”

  “No, I’m not,” Joey said. “Not like her.”

  “Being like her requires years and years of practice.” He put her down. “Can I watch, too?”

  She took his hand. “Cool,” she said.

  Cassidy exchanged glances with Joey’s father, who sighed heavily and spread his arms in resignation. Everything was “cool” these days.

  Joey led him to the sofa and pulled him down so that she sat between him and Marise.

  He nodded at Marise and felt like a fool. He glanced down at Joey, whose eyes were on the television and the couple that was just finishing their program. They skated together to the bench where they awaited their scores. A bouquet of flowers—roses—was handed to Marise, and her smile made his heart jerk. She should smile like that all the time.

  Marise’s gaze met Cassidy’s over Joey’s head.

  Her eyes were haunted, and despite her light replies to Joey’s answers a few seconds earlier, she looked tired. She probably hadn’t slept last night, either.

  He tried to control his anger. Anger interfered with efficiency. But Marise Merrick was a true innocent, a person who cared more about others than herself. She’d readily agreed to stay here to help prevent the deaths of other women. She’d instantly charmed all the detectives and now was taking time to be nice to a seven-year-old despite obvious exhaustion. She didn’t complain about the food, his less-than-luxurious home or the restrictions on her movements.

  She shouldn’t know terror. Cassidy damned the killer who had brought it into her life. He took it as a personal insult.

  He’d never done that before. He’d sympathized with victims, but he had never allowed any of them to affect his emotions. How long had he steeled himself against caring?

  He turned back to the television. Paul and Marise were hugging each other. The coach, David South, then hugged both of them. As they walked away, Marise’s mother joined them.

  The perfect little unit.

  He stood. “I’m going to get some sleep,” he said.

  “Awwwww, Uncle Hoppy. Can’t you stay with us longer?”

  “I wish I could, pumpkin, but I’m tired. And besides that, you two have important things to discuss.”

  “Okay,” she said, turning back to Marise.

  He felt a little aggrieved at being dismissed so easily. But wasn’t that what he wanted?

  He turned to Manny. “I’ll take the sofa in my office. Wake me at two, or if there’s any news.”

  “Will do. Did you have anything to eat?”
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  “A doughnut,” he said. “Or two.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He started down the hall.

  “Hoppy?”

  He turned around.

  “You need a shave.”

  Marise looked in the fridge.

  Manny had taken his daughter home. She was a delight, and Marise had found herself giving the child her cell phone number. She’d told Joey to keep her informed as to how her skating was progressing. Joey had been ecstatic.

  But it had also been a tonic for Marise. A gift of normality.

  MacKay was sleeping. He’d told his friend to wake him at two. Manny thought he needed more sleep. So did she. But he would be up soon, and she wanted to have some food ready. Something healthy. She’d heard him mention having a doughnut for breakfast.

  She also wanted a few words with him alone. When he’d returned, he hadn’t said anything about what she had proposed. Nor whether anything had been discovered about the flowers. But then, she’d been with Joey.

  She was anxious. Anxious and apprehensive and antsy. She needed to keep busy. She was tired of being useless, of having others wait on her.

  There was fruit, but she knew he would want more than that. Eggs came closest to healthy. She took out the carton.

  The other two detectives were watching television. That was just as well. She didn’t trust them—or MacKay—to fix something nutritious. All she’d seen people eat in this house were doughnuts, carryout or junk food.

  Not that she was a very good cook. In fact, Mrs. MacKay’s culinary efforts would probably look good compared to hers. But she would try.

  She sliced the fruit. Then she went searching in the fridge again and came up with sliced ham and a huge lump of cheese. Men liked cheese. She took out a hunk and cut that into big pieces. Then she broke the eggs, put in the ham and cheese, and put a frying pan on the stove to get hot.

  And she waited.

  Sam woke Cassidy at three. She heard him go into the bathroom and run the water.

  How long did it take to make an omelette? Just a few minutes. She’d watched it done dozens of times at hotel buffets.

  She put the mixture in the hot pan and something immediately went wrong. It started burning. Part of it. The other part was congealing in an orange mess.

  Smoke started rising. The smell became distinctly unpleasant.

  Footsteps came hurriedly into the kitchen. Sam saw the smoking frying pan. His eyes opened wide, then he grabbed a towel, wrapped it around the handle of the pan and threw it into the sink with a clamor.

  MacKay came running into the kitchen with a gun in his hand.

  She stepped back. “It’s just…an omelette.”

  He slowly put down his pistol. His face was half shaved, half covered with soap. His hair was wet, and a stray clump fell onto his forehead. He was wearing a towel.

  Nothing but a towel.

  He looked sexy. Very, very sexy. His body wasn’t heavily muscled like Paul’s, but his build was attractively rangy. Very attractively.

  She realized she was staring at him.

  Cassidy was staring at the mess in the sink. He grinned. “You take after my mother.” Then, as he seemed to realize his state of undress, his face went red on the unsoaped side.

  It was immensely endearing, especially in light of her own chagrin.

  He turned on his heel and disappeared through the door.

  Sam was laughing. In fact, he was doubled over laughing.

  She didn’t know whether it was due to her or to MacKay, but it was infectious. She started giggling, too.

  When Sam stopped, his face was flushed. “I’ve never seen MacKay…disconcerted before,” he said, amusement still tinging his words.

  She hadn’t seen him rattled, either. But then, she hadn’t known him that long. Still, he didn’t seem like a man easily disconcerted.

  She grinned back. “I think it must have been my eggs.”

  Sam started laughing again. “I don’t think so.”

  When he finally stopped chuckling, he scraped out the pan, took some eggs from the fridge, and some cheese.

  “I wanted to make an omelette.”

  “To make a good one, you need bacon and onion,” he said. “I don’t think our friend has any. We’ll make do with the eggs and cheese and spices. A touch of olive oil first,” he instructed, searching the cabinets and finding a bottle. He poured just a small bit into the pan. “It needs to get really hot first,” he explained. “And the cheese needs to be grated or shaved.”

  She looked at him with admiration.

  “My mother believed a man should know how to cook,” he said.

  He searched the cabinets for spices, finding garlic and salt and pepper and little else. He added it to the mixture and beat it until it was smooth, while she shaved the cheese. Then he put his mixture in the hot pan.

  He also popped two pieces of bread in the oven to toast.

  “Cass’s wife must have taken all the kitchen stuff,” he said.

  She’d wondered about that. The house looked so…masculine now. All except the sunroom. “Have they been divorced long?”

  Sam gave her a nod but didn’t elaborate.

  Just then, MacKay walked in. He had a bandage where his face had been scraped earlier, but his hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed in jeans and a blue V-neck sweater with its sleeves pushed up. She noticed he was also wearing the gun holster on his belt. He smelled wonderfully of spice.

  Sam seemed to notice it, too. He sniffed, then grinned.

  “Shut up,” MacKay said good-naturedly. “But I do smell something good.”

  “Marise is making an omelette.”

  “Sam is making the omelette,” she corrected. “But I’m observing. I’ll do it better next time.”

  “Where’s Dan?” he asked.

  “Sleeping. He’s taking night watch. Manny left to get some sleep, too, then he said he’s going to headquarters to check on progress. He’ll call you.”

  MacKay found a cracked plate. Sam deftly put the omelette on it, and MacKay took it and sat down. Marise took the toast from the oven and buttered it.

  “Orange juice?”

  “And coffee if we have it.”

  “I’ve been keeping a pot going,” Sam said, and poured him a cup.

  Marise enjoyed watching him take a first bite.

  After several bites, MacKay turned to Marise. “The captain okayed your plan. If you’re sure you want to do this.”

  Her heart dropped for a moment. She wasn’t sure. But she had no choice. She couldn’t see another way.

  “I’m sure,” she said.

  Sam shook his head in dismay.

  MacKay’s gaze was steady. He reached out and put his large hand over hers. She felt its warmth surge through her.

  “He’ll never stop trying to kill you if you go ahead with this.”

  “I know. But I can’t take the chance he won’t stalk me, anyway. This way I have you…and the others…to protect me.” She said the words, and she meant them. But despite the warmth of his touch, she still felt a chill run up her back.

  She wondered whether she’d just made the second worst decision of her life.

  Chapter 10

  She’d barely flinched.

  Her hands betrayed her, though. Her smile was fixed. It looked real. But now he was familiar enough with her to know the difference.

  The realization that she was hiding her fear from him was particularly painful.

  What else was she concealing? He knew with certainty now that she was an expert at disguising her feelings. Only those hands gave her away. She wasn’t as indifferent to the danger as she wanted everyone to think.

  He remembered something he’d heard once. It doesn’t take courage to be brave if you have no fear. It’s being terrified and still accomplishing a brave act that ennobles.

  Was she terrified when she skated in front of audiences and television cameras, each time knowing that one mistake could destroy years of work? Of hopes?
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  God knows, he would be.

  His gaze went to her eyes. They were midnight blue. Dark. Rich. Fathomless. He suspected any number of emotions and secrets lay behind them.

  She tilted her head slightly, her chin jutting out. He’d seen her do that before when she was determined.

  She broke the silence. “Did you find out anything from the florist?”

  “Not yet. The order was sent in with two hundred dollars in cash. The letter looked computer printed and was messengered from a location in mid-town.”

  “Then the messenger service had contact with him?”

  “No, the killer left it taped to the door of a vacant building.”

  Her face fell.

  “He’s going to make a mistake, Marise.”

  “He’s smart.”

  “He’s getting reckless. He will make mistakes. We have officers surveying the neighborhood, trying to find someone who might have seen something—a man in their area who shouldn’t have been there.”

  The killer would make a mistake. They all did. But he wanted it over for her sake. As well as for the sake of the other Atlanta women and their families. Still, he wished he could offer more assurance. He couldn’t.

  “The public information officer will contact the media tomorrow,” he said. “You have time to change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” she replied.

  “How will your mother and Paul react?”

  “It’s not their decision.”

  “They’ll learn about it.”

  “I’ll call them afterward.”

  Sam disappeared into the other room, probably to take up his watch at the window.

  “They’re very nice,” she said. “They are trying so hard to be unobtrusive.”

  He grimaced. “When they’re not playing poker.”

  “That was my fault. I was bored, and I’ve always watched detectives play poker in the movies. I thought I would expand my knowledge.”

  “I think you expanded theirs, instead,” he said.

  “I’m afraid they let me win.” Her brow furrowed, giving her a worried look.

  He chuckled. “Not those three.”