Hidden Peril

by Irene Hannon

  “Luke Carter.” He returned the gent’s firm shake.

  “Friend of the bride or groom?” Stan speared a meatball with a toothpick.

  “Groom. But I’m more coworker than friend. I’ve only been in town since January, so I’m still learning the ropes and getting acquainted.”

  “Ah. Another detective. You boys do good work.”

  “Thanks. We try. What about you?”

  “I retired long ago. From accounting. It was a pleasant, steady job—but crunching numbers isn’t as exciting as tracking down criminals.”

  Luke stifled a smile. “I meant, do you know the bride or the groom?”

  “Oh. Well, of course you did.” He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Both—now. But I knew Trish first. I live across the street from the house where she grew up. I had a little hand in getting the two of them together, you know.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yep.” He squinted toward the front of the room, where the newlyweds were posing for a photo by the cake. “I’ll have to get a piece of that to take home to my wife. She was real disappointed to miss the wedding, but she had one of her arthritis flare-ups this morning.”

  “I’ll be happy to get a couple of pieces for you after they cut it.” Luke finished a stuffed mushroom and moved on to a crab cake. As soon as he was done, he’d exchange a few words with the bride and groom, fetch Stan’s cake, and slip out the exit that was mere steps away from their table.

  He ate faster.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you. Navigating through a crowd is tricky with that nuisance.” He waved a hand toward the cane he’d propped against the wall. “It’s tough getting old—but better than the alternative, as they say.” The man winked at him. “So are you here by yourself?”

  “Yes.” He downed his last toasted ravioli in one bite and took a swig of his drink. “I’ll go get that cake for you now.”

  “I’ll save your place.”

  Keeping the bride and groom in his sights, Luke circled the perimeter of the crowd and crossed to the couple.

  “Luke! I’m glad you made it.” Colin shook his hand. “Let me introduce you to my bride.” He drew the woman beside him closer and went through the formalities.

  It wasn’t as hard as Luke had expected to utter a few pleasantries. Probably because they didn’t look like a traditional bride and groom. Colin was in a suit, and the bride wore a fancy knee-length pale blue dress. Other than the sprig of flowers tucked into her hair and Colin’s boutonniere, they could be any couple at any cocktail party.

  Except . . . the love between the bride and groom was almost palpable. As it should be on a wedding day.

  As it had been on his.

  Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he wrapped up the conversation, snagged two pieces of cake and some paper napkins, and retreated to his table. At least talking with Stan wouldn’t dredge up any painful memories.

  Only the older man wasn’t alone anymore.

  Luke’s step faltered as he approached the tucked-away spot.

  A woman had joined their twosome.

  Her back was to him, but he could see she was much younger than his new friend.

  He gave her a quick head-to-toe. Blonde hair cut in a longish shag. A black dress with skinny straps and a low-cut draped back, the fabric molding her curves. A pair of killer legs showed off to perfection by high heels, each of which sported a small bow on the back.

  So much for the safe haven he’d staked out.

  Maybe he could ask one of his colleagues to deliver the cake and . . .

  Stan leaned around the woman and waved him over.

  Blast.

  He was stuck.

  But it didn’t have to be for long.

  He’d hand over the cake, make small talk for a minute or two, and offer some excuse to escape.

  Armed with that plan, he returned to the table and set the cake and napkins in front of Stan.

  “Thank you, young man. I saw the best woman wandering around and invited her to share our cozy corner.”

  Best woman?

  He turned his attention to their new tablemate.

  The front view of the thirtysomething woman was equally arresting. Intelligent blue-gray eyes. Strong chin. A tad-too-thin nose. Prominent cheekbones.

  She wasn’t beautiful in a classical sense. Her features didn’t have perfect proportions. But her face was . . . intriguing. Distinctive. Filled with character.

  It was the kind of face that would age well. Long after the Hollywood-type beauties among her peers faded, this woman would continue to draw second looks from men.

  All at once, he realized she was holding out her hand.

  Uh-oh.

  He must have missed Stan’s introduction.

  Grasping her fingers, he offered the first excuse that came to mind. “Sorry. The background noise is getting louder. Your name was . . . ?”

  “Kristin Dane.”

  “Luke Carter.” He squeezed her hand and released it. “Did I hear Stan say best woman?”

  “Yes.” She picked up a prosciutto-wrapped spear of asparagus. “I shared the honors of standing up for Colin with another friend. The three of us have been tight for more than twenty years.” She tilted her head. “Weren’t you at the wedding?”

  “No. I, uh, was working a case today.” Only in the morning, though. He could have attended the ceremony if he’d wanted to be there.

  “Luke’s a detective too, like Colin.” Stan folded a napkin around the first piece of cake.

  “Oh?” Curiosity sparked in her eyes. “I don’t recall Colin mentioning your name.”

  “I’m new in town.”

  “That might explain it.”

  Stan finished wrapping the second piece of cake, stacked it on top of the first, and reached for his cane. “Well, I’ll leave you to keep Kristin company while she eats. I want to go home and share this cake with my own bride of sixty-one years. A pleasure to meet you, young man.”

  Luke smothered a groan.

  He was going to have to make more small talk after all.

  “Don’t worry . . . I eat fast.” Amusement glinted in Kristin’s irises as Stan headed toward the exit.

  Whoops.

  She’d picked up on his dismay.

  “No need to hurry.” He did his best to contain the rush of warmth to his cheeks. “I’m not staying long, but I don’t have to leave yet. Shouldn’t you be at a head table somewhere, though?”

  “If there was a head table, yes. But Colin and Trish opted to keep everything simple and low-key since it was a second wedding.”

  “Colin’s been married before?”

  “No. Trish has. Her first husband was killed in a car accident a few years ago.”

  Ah.

  That could explain why the bride had forgone the traditional white gown.

  “I didn’t know that. Like I said, I’m new in town.”

  “Hey, Kristin!”

  A guy with a sprig of flowers in the lapel of his dark suit wove through the crowd toward them.

  “That’s the best man, Rick Jordan.” She leaned closer as she shared that tidbit, and a whiff of some pleasing floral fragrance tickled his nose. “Hey, Rick.” She lifted her hand in greeting and made the introductions.

  “Sorry to drag you away”—the best man gave him a visual frisk as he responded to Kristin—“but Colin wants a Treehouse Gang picture.”

  Treehouse Gang?

  Luke sent her a quizzical look, which she ignored.

  “Sure.” Kristin popped the last meatball in her mouth, then tipped her head back and washed it down with a long swallow of soda—giving him a perfect view of her slender, graceful throat. “It was nice meeting you.” She smiled at him and picked up her tiny purse.

  “Likewise.”

  With that, Rick grabbed her hand and led her away.

  As they disappeared into the crowd, Luke released a long, slow breath and fought back a sudden wave of melancholy.
/>   Colin and Trish had just taken vows as husband and wife.

  Stan was hurrying home to spend the rest of the evening with his companion of more than six decades.

  Kristin might not have been wearing a ring, but she and Rick seemed like a couple. They’d probably boogie the night away once the small dance floor was cleared of the cake.

  He was alone.

  And joining his coworkers at one of their tables wasn’t going to ease his loneliness.

  It was time to leave.

  Turning his back on the happy crowd, he fled toward the exit. Pushed through the door. Pulled it closed behind him, separating himself from the festive atmosphere inside.

  Chest tight, he surveyed the deserted parking lot.

  No one but him and Stan had cut out early.

  But you had to be in a party mood to enjoy a party, and he was nowhere close to that.

  Shoulders drooping, he shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered toward his car.

  Maybe his sister was right, and life would get easier eventually.

  Maybe the new job and new town were just what he needed.

  Maybe one of these nights coming home to an empty apartment wouldn’t feel so . . . empty. And depressing.

  But if things hadn’t improved after three long, lonely years, he was beginning to lose hope they ever would.

  2

  How strange.

  Kristin pulled into her usual parking spot in the alley behind WorldCraft and inspected the older model Focus next to her.

  It was the same make and color as Susan’s car.

  But her clerk never worked on Tuesdays. She should be at her other job, as a receptionist at the health club, today.

  Maybe the car wasn’t hers, though.

  Maybe it was a coincidence.

  Fighting back a niggle of disquiet, Kristin locked her Sentra and circled around the back of the other vehicle, peering through the windows. Nothing inside offered a clue about the owner. It was clutter free.

  Like Susan always kept her car.

  Kristin drew in a calming lungful of the crisp spring air and continued toward the shop. If it was Susan’s car, there must be a simple explanation. It was possible she’d left something personal inside when she closed last night and had swung by this morning to retrieve it.

  At the back door, Kristin tested the knob before inserting the key.

  It turned without protest.

  So Susan was inside.

  She pushed through the door, into the stockroom. “Susan?”

  No response.

  Her pulse picked up.

  “Susan? Are you here?”

  Of course she was. If the shop was unlocked, the car in the alley had to be hers.

  Though why her clerk had left the back door open was a mystery. That was against the house rules.

  Gripping the strap of her shoulder purse, Kristin moved through the back room toward the front of the shop.

  At the door to the showroom, she hesitated . . . then twisted the knob.

  The display area was shadowy, the window shades she always closed at night blocking the morning sun.

  She switched on the light.

  The place was empty.

  But . . . this didn’t make sense.

  She crossed to the front door and tested the knob.

  Locked.

  Where on earth was Susan?

  Absently, she straightened one of the candles on the monastery display, skimming the room again.

  Was it possible the other woman was in the restroom in back and hadn’t heard her greeting?

  She retraced her steps across the shop, halting as a dark-brown, dime-sized spot on the floor registered.

  As she bent to examine it, another one caught her eye, closer to the display counter that held the register.

  That one was smeared.

  They kind of looked like . . . dried blood.

  Her breath hitched.

  Had there been an accident?

  Was Susan hurt?

  Swallowing past her fear, she edged to the counter and eased behind it.

  Oh, God!

  No!

  She clapped a hand over her mouth and scuttled back, stomach heaving, gaze riveted on the crumpled form behind the counter.

  And the pool of congealed blood beneath it.

  Gasping for air, she fumbled for the phone on the counter and tried to wrap her mind around the scene in front of her.

  It wouldn’t compute.

  But she did know two things.

  Susan was worse than hurt.

  And it wasn’t an accident.

  Murder hadn’t been on his agenda for this Tuesday morning.

  Sipping an Americano with two extra shots of espresso, Luke pulled in behind one of the patrol cars blocking off the street in the charming, picture-perfect Kirkwood business district.

  But today there was nothing Norman Rockwellish about the garish yellow police tape marking the crime scene . . . the shocked faces of customers and shopkeepers who were clustered in small groups on the sidewalk across the street, watching the drama unfold . . . or the camera crews from several area TV stations jockeying for position as reporters thrust microphones in front of anyone who would talk to them.

  No wonder the Kirkwood PD had called in County to take the lead on this.

  Coffee in hand, Luke slid out of his Taurus and hustled toward the cordoned-off area.

  “Where’s the responding officer?” He displayed his badge to the uniformed patrolman guarding the perimeter, signed the crime scene log, and ducked under the tape.

  “Over by the door.” The man motioned toward a woman who was talking into her radio.

  “Thanks.”

  As Luke approached her, she ended her conversation and turned to him. “Detective Carter?”

  “Yes.” He read her name tag. “What do we have, Officer D’Amico?”

  “Homicide for sure.” She pulled out a notebook and gave him a quick briefing.

  “Is the shop owner around?”

  “Yes. We asked her to stick close until you arrived. The guy who runs the insurance office two doors down offered her a place to wait away from the crowds. She’s kind of shaken up.”

  “Murder isn’t pretty. I assume you alerted the ME’s office?”

  “They’re on the way.”

  “Thanks.” He started toward the crime scene to do a quick walk-through. Stopped. “What’s the name of the owner?”

  The woman consulted her notes again. “Kristin Dane.”

  A shock wave ripped through him.

  The woman he’d shared a table with at Colin’s wedding owned the murder scene?

  “Is she blonde . . . thirtyish . . . slender?”

  “Yes.” The woman’s eyebrows rose. “You know her?”

  “We met on Saturday at a wedding. Small world. Thanks for the info.”

  He continued toward the building, trying to digest the officer’s bombshell—and to psyche himself up for another encounter with the woman whose face had flashed across his mind more times in the three days since they’d met than he cared to admit.

  At the door, he skimmed the “Member Fair Trade Association” sticker on the window.

  Hmm.

  Kristin Dane owned a shop devoted to selling products made by workers in developing countries who were fairly compensated and trying to build sustainable businesses.

  Admirable.

  After slipping inside, he did a quick circuit. The place wasn’t large, but the variety of merchandise was. Woven scarves, jewelry, pottery, baskets, purses, clothing, napkin rings, vases, wall hangings, rugs, soap, wind chimes, wooden boxes, greeting cards . . . and more . . . filled the shelves.

  Each of the displays was colorful and eye-catching, featuring an information card with photos that personalized the handmade goods. The items were from all over the world—Africa, Asia, Central America, South America. Meticulous care had been taken to present the products in the most flattering and heart-tugging ligh
t.

  He stopped at a prominent display of candles from Syria near the front door as he completed his tour. According to the sign, all profits from the pricey item went to a monastery in that war-torn country that provided humanitarian aid to anyone in need.

  Impressive.

  As was the woman who ran this shop.

  A lot of people talked about helping those in need. Kristin Dane was doing it.

  He gave the space one more slow, practiced perusal, then poked his head into an orderly storeroom in the rear.

  Near as he could tell, nothing was disturbed back here or in the aisles in front where the merchandise was displayed.

  All of the action during the assault must have taken place behind the counter.

  He crossed to it and positioned himself for a clear view of the body.

  The woman appeared to be lying where she’d fallen, blood pooled under her upper body. Given the amount of it, plus the spatter pattern, the assailant had cut her carotid artery. Meaning she’d bled out in minutes.

  But why would someone kill a clerk in a store like this? There couldn’t be that much cash in the till.

  Could the perpetrator have had a personal motive?

  Kristin might be able to offer some—

  “Keep away from the body.”

  Luke jerked toward the door as Hank, one of the County’s Crime Scene Unit techs, pushed through.

  “I didn’t touch anything.”

  “You’re breathing, aren’t you?”

  Sheesh.

  Each time they ran into each other, the man lived up to his cantankerous reputation. Yet everyone at County respected his every-i-dotted, every-t-crossed professionalism. The unkempt gray hair and razor-sharp tongue might be off-putting, but as Colin had warned him early on, smart detectives humored Hank.

  “I was just taking a quick look around. But I’m leaving now. I’ll ask one of the officers to alert me after you’re finished.”

  “Hmph.” He brushed past, surveyed the body, and set his case down. As he pulled on a pair of latex gloves, he arched an eyebrow over his shoulder.

  Luke hightailed it to the door.

  In his haste to escape, he almost mowed down Lacey Stevens from the medical examiner’s office.

  “Whoa!” She latched on to his arm to steady herself. “What’s your hurry?”