by Irene Hannon
“As a last resort, we lubricated the trees with a ton of vegetable shortening. It worked, but his clothes were a total loss and he had to stand under a hot shower for thirty minutes to get all the grease off. Pardon the pun, but he was not a happy camper.”
By the time he finished, Kristin had eaten most of her sandwich and all of her chips. He’d even managed to elicit a few chuckles.
“You missed your calling, you know. You should have been a stand-up comic.”
“I’d rather make people I care about laugh. So . . .” He closed his empty box and grew more serious. “Now that you have some food in your stomach, do you want to talk about what happened today?”
“There isn’t much to talk about.” She repeated the story she’d told twice already. “I don’t know what’s been happening since the police whisked me out of the shop.”
He covered her fingers with his. “I’m sorry.”
That was all he said—but those two words held a world of compassion.
“Me too. Especially for Susan.” Her voice hitched, and she took another drink of soda.
“Did the police speculate on a motive?”
“They’re going to check out her ex, but I don’t think that will amount to anything. He’s in Denver.”
“What else could it be?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
He gathered up their empty containers, creases denting his brow. “Are you comfortable staying here by yourself tonight?”
She shot him a startled look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. It just seems odd that your shop was targeted. The jewelry store down the street would have yielded a much bigger payoff.”
“Assuming robbery was the motive.”
“That’s what I mean.”
She digested that for a moment. “Are you suggesting this was somehow personal to me?”
“I’m speculating, not suggesting.”
“But Susan is . . . she’s the one who died.”
“She wasn’t supposed to be there Monday afternoon, though—right?”
Kristin crumpled her napkin into a hard ball, her dinner congealing in her stomach. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“No. Trying to come up with some theories about what’s going on.”
“I don’t have any enemies.”
“I know. Your detective has his work cut out for him.” He swirled the ice in his cup. “Did he say anything to you about being careful?”
“No.”
The tautness in his features relaxed a hair. “That makes me feel better.”
“Why?”
“Because he likes you—and if there was any reason to be concerned about your safety, I think he would have suggested you be cautious.”
She choked on her sip of soda. “Wait a minute. Back up. What do you mean, he likes me?”
“You heard me. He likes you.”
“That’s crazy. He’s married.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s wearing a ring.”
“Ah-ha. You checked. And you always claim women are above that.”
“It’s a distinctive ring. Hard to miss.” True—but not the reason she’d noticed. A confession she had no intention of sharing with Rick, despite his best-bud status.
“Married or not, he likes you.”
“How in the world did you arrive at that preposterous conclusion?”
“It’s all in the eyes.” He tapped the side of one of his baby blues. “They warm up when he looks at you.”
“I think your lemonade was spiked.”
“Nope. I noticed it at the wedding, and again tonight.”
“Oh, come on.” She didn’t attempt to hide her skepticism. “You’ve spent all of . . . what? Two minutes in the man’s company? You’re reading far more into whatever you’re seeing than is there.”
“Think so?” He stood and deposited the trash from their dinner in her waste can.
“Yeah.”
“Then why did he seem relieved to hear I wasn’t spending the night with you?”
Maybe she hadn’t imagined the detective’s reaction, if Rick had picked up on it too.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Nope. I’d bet you on it, but I don’t want to take your money.”
She stood too. “I’m done with this discussion.”
“You’re blushing, you know.”
“I am not.” Yes, she was. Her cheeks were hot.
“If you say so.” He grinned and strolled toward the door.
She followed.
When he turned back to her, though, his demeanor was again serious. “Call if you want to talk. Or if you decide you’d rather not be here alone tonight.”
“I’ll be fine, Rick. But I appreciate the thought—and the dinner.”
“Anytime. Call me tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
After another hug, he followed the same curving path to his car that Detective Carter had taken.
She waited until he pulled away with a wave out his window, then shut and locked the door.
Truth be told, she wouldn’t have minded some company tonight. But Rick led a busy life, and he had a long drive home.
Besides, much as she loved him, she’d prefer a different kind of company this evening.
Like a tall, handsome detective—who was not named Colin.
Too bad her detective buddy wasn’t around, though, so she could ask a few questions about his new colleague.
Not that it mattered, of course.
A man who wore a wedding ring was either married or sending a “not available” signal.
In other words, he was off-limits.
Which was one more downer on this mother-of-all-downers day.
4
Luke pulled into a parking spot in front of Kristin’s condo, straightened his tie, and checked the clock on the dash.
Eight o’clock on the dot.
Unless he’d misread her, Kristin was waiting for him. She struck him as the reliable type—among her other appealing attributes . . . some of which had kept him awake last night until the wee hours as images of her flashed across the dark ceiling in his bedroom.
Especially after her alibi checked out and he’d crossed her off his list of potential suspects.
Clenching his jaw, he shifted in the seat and resisted the urge to loosen his tie.
How could a virtual stranger have such a potent effect on him after three years of immunity to the opposite sex?
Perhaps meeting her at a wedding, with all the emotions that sort of event stirred up, was the reason she’d stuck in his mind.
But that didn’t explain why he’d gone out of his way last night to deliver a case update in person instead of calling her.
No, that decision had been prompted by a whole different motive . . . and dancing around the truth wasn’t going to change it.
He’d wanted to see Kristin Dane for one reason and one reason only.
He was attracted to her.
And that felt wrong, wrong, wrong.
Jenny might be gone, but no one could ever take her place in his heart.
He wouldn’t let them.
In any case, whatever the explanation for why she’d caught his fancy, Kristin was a temporary occupant in his life. After this case was over, he’d have no reason to see her again.
A notion that did not give him the comfort he’d hoped for.
In his peripheral vision he caught a movement, and he twisted his head toward her front door.
Kristin had emerged from her condo and was locking her door.
Yep. She’d been watching for him.
Quashing the unsettling thoughts that were undermining the tight grip he usually kept on his emotions, he got out of his car.
She was already halfway down the walk before he finished circling the hood.
“I saw your car. When you didn’t ring the bell, I figured you might be waiting for me to come out or were on the phone. I decided to save
you a trip.” Her long legs ate up the distance between them.
“I appreciate that.” He leaned past her to open the passenger door, again inhaling the pleasing floral fragrance that was distinctively hers.
“Is there any news?”
“If you mean do we have a suspect, no. I’ll fill you in on the rest during the drive.”
She tucked herself into the seat in one smooth, lithe motion, and he shut the door.
As he took his place behind the wheel, he gave her a discreet perusal. Her skinny-leg jeans, soft wool sweater, and leather flats were more laid-back than the striking best-woman number and bow-bedecked heels she’d worn Saturday—or the skirt and soft top she’d had on yesterday—but the casual attire didn’t cause the slightest dip in her appeal meter.
Unfortunately.
“I accessed the shop records on my laptop last night.” She dug through her large shoulder bag and retrieved a single sheet of paper. “I pulled up the credit card transactions from Monday, if you still need them.”
“I do. Thanks.” He searched her face as she handed him the list.
She hadn’t slept well.
It didn’t take a detective to deduce that the faint purple shadows under her lower lashes, the tiny lines at the outer corners of her eyes, and the slight pallor she’d tried to disguise with makeup were all signs of a restless night.
Kind of like the one he’d had.
For very different reasons.
“Do you mind if we hit a Starbucks drive-through? I could use some caffeine.” He pocketed the list and put the car in gear. It wouldn’t kill him to have another cup of coffee this morning if she needed some caffeine.
“I’ve already had more than my daily limit. But I wouldn’t object to some hot chocolate. A comfort beverage would hit the spot.”
Before I have to revisit the murder scene.
She didn’t need to say it for him to hear the rest of her unspoken message.
“One hot chocolate coming up. What time did you begin ingesting caffeine this morning?” He kept the question conversational as he pulled out of the parking spot.
“Early.”
So not only had she had a restless night, she’d also been up at dawn.
“Finding a murder victim is traumatic—especially if you know the person. It’s not easy to sleep after an experience like that.”
“No.” She played with the clasp on her purse. “You know, much as I love my shop, I keep wondering how I can go back there and do business as usual. I keep seeing all that blood . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“It can be removed. I brought along the names of a few cleanup and mitigation services the Crime Scene Unit has on file.”
“Can they mitigate memories too?”
At her soft, rhetorical question, he squeezed the wheel.
If there were firms that could work that miracle, he’d have hired one long ago.
“No. But time will—or so I’m told.” His voice roughened, and he felt her glance over at him. Better redirect the conversation. “Let me bring you up to speed on what we’ve learned. The ME has estimated time of death in the 5:00–7:00 p.m. range Monday night.”
“Around closing.” Her brow pleated. “I wonder if that means someone was waiting around for her to lock up for the night.”
“It could. And it wasn’t her ex. The Denver police tracked him down. He was on a plane returning from a business trip at the time of death.”
“Did my neighbors see anything?”
“No—and none of the ones in close proximity have security cameras.”
“So there are no leads and no motive.”
“Yet. But we’re working on finding both.”
“Was there any money in the register?”
“Yes—and the victim’s purse and wallet didn’t appear to be touched.”
“So robbery wasn’t the reason behind this.”
“That would be a reasonable conclusion.” He swung into a Starbucks, and she fell silent while he placed the order and drove to the window to retrieve their drinks.
When she reached for her purse, he shook his head. “I’ll get this.”
“I can pay for my own.”
“It was my idea.” He handed the woman in the window his gold card and passed Kristin the hot chocolate.
Once clear of the drive-through, he looked over at his passenger. She was staring out the front window, expression pensive, furrows denting her brow.
She was dreading the next half hour—and he couldn’t blame her.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned toward him. “Sorry. I’m not much company this morning.”
“I didn’t expect you to be.”
She played with the lid on her drink. “It’s just . . . I’m confused about everything that’s happened. Why was my shop targeted? Why kill someone for no apparent reason? Who could have done this? For what purpose?” She sighed. “The questions keep coming.”
“Most cases start off with more questions than answers. It’s like putting together a puzzle.”
“But you have to have pieces to work with to do that.”
“They’re there. It’s our job to find them. The walk-through might give us a few. You know the shop better than anyone. If anything is missing or out of place, you’ll spot it. Tell me about WorldCraft.” Maybe talking about the work that appeared to be her passion would help her relax a little.
“I opened it five years ago. The idea for it came to me while I was in the Peace Corps.”
“You were in the Peace Corps?” His basic background check hadn’t revealed that nugget.
“Yes. I double-majored in business and public policy in college, but since I wasn’t certain what to do with those degrees after I graduated, I joined the Peace Corps and went to Ethiopia for two years.”
“Ethiopia.” And he’d thought relocating from Virginia to St. Louis was a major move. “That must have been a culture shock.”
“Yes . . . but it was also one of my best decisions. My stint there made me realize how important it is to foster community economic development that’s fair to workers. By the time I came home, I knew what I wanted to do with my life.” She sipped her drink.
“WorldCraft.”
“That was my ultimate goal—but I needed some hands-on retail experience first, so I worked a few years for an import company. After I saved enough money and learned how to run a business, I opened my own shop.” She swiped at a speck of whipped cream clinging to the sip spout of her drink. “It may not make a huge difference in the big scheme of things, but it’s my little contribution to the world.”
“It’s bigger than most people make.”
Way bigger.
The character he’d noticed in Kristin’s face the night they’d met was clearly more than skin deep.
He swung into the alley behind her shop, and the tension in the car shot up.
So much for trying to take the edge off the walk-through.
But he’d do everything he could to lessen the trauma as much as possible for her.
The police tape had been removed from the premises, and the media was nowhere in sight.
That helped.
“Sit tight. I’ll get your door.” He set the brake and slid out of the car.
She waited as he’d asked—and even after he opened the door, she remained in her seat.
“We’ll do this as fast as we can.”
“Okay.” She inhaled, grasped the edge of the doorframe, and pulled herself out of the car.
He took her arm as they walked toward the rear entrance of the shop. “What I need you to do is eyeball the shop—the merchandise, your desk, the stockroom—for anything that’s out of place or missing. We’ll start in the back.” He halted at the door. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Ready?
Kristin squeezed the shop key until her fingers began to grow numb.
Was he joking?
How could anyone ever be ready to revisit a murder scene?
; But as she’d learned long ago, there was no sense delaying the inevitable.
“Okay. Let’s do this.” She leaned forward to insert the key—and promptly dropped it.
Not surprising, given the tremors in her fingers.
“Let me.” Detective Carter scooped up the key and slid it into the lock.
Instead of stepping back to let her precede him, he entered, felt around for a switch, and turned on the lights. After a quick sweep of the room, he angled back to her and held out the key.
She slid it into her purse and joined him, taking a visual inventory of the stockroom.
Back here at least, everything seemed normal.
On the surface, anyway.
“Go ahead and poke around. Take your time.” His tone was conversational, his posture relaxed, as if he was attempting to put her at ease.
Nice try—but not going to happen on this visit.
She did a methodical circuit of the room, inspecting all the shelves, then riffled through the drawers in her desk.
Closing the last one, she faced him. “As far as I can see, everything back here is exactly the way I left it on Saturday.”
“Let’s move up front.”
He took the lead again, opening the door between the two sections of the store and flipping on the light. “Give me a minute.”
Without waiting for a response, he slipped through the door, shutting it behind him.
As far as she was concerned, he could take an hour.
All too soon, though, he was back. “Do a circuit through the aisles. I’ll wait for you by the cash register.”
The very spot she didn’t want to visit.
She forced herself to walk through the door, ignoring the right side of the shop, and did as he asked, examining the displays, stretching out the process as long as she could.
But at last, she could delay no longer.
Steeling herself, she walked toward him.
Luke had positioned himself to block her view of the register area as much as possible—but once she drew close . . . once the blood spatters on the wall behind him came into sight . . . her stomach heaved.
He took a step forward and grasped her arms. “Keep breathing.”
