Hidden Peril

by Irene Hannon

  She did her best to follow his instruction, focusing on the broad chest inches away that filled her field of vision.

  As soon as she was certain she wasn’t going to lose the bagel she’d choked down for breakfast, she nodded. “I’m fine.”

  He waited another few moments before releasing her arms. “Anything out of place or missing in the store?”

  “No.”

  “Take a quick look at the items in the display case. As far as we can see, it’s undisturbed—but you’re the only one who can confirm that.”

  One fast skim of the glass case was all she needed. She knew every item in her store and every item in inventory by heart.

  “Nothing is missing or moved.” Through the glass case she could see the floor where Susan had fallen. It was covered now with a tarp that was draped partway up the wall, hiding much of the gore.

  Standard operating practice by the CSU—or a thoughtful gesture on the part of the case detective?

  It shouldn’t matter.

  But it did.

  “Did you do that?” She motioned toward the tarp, averting her gaze.

  “It wasn’t a sight you needed to see again. As far as I’m concerned, we’re finished here.” He indicated the stockroom. “Shall we?”

  He might be willing to dismiss his kind deed, but she wasn’t.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” He extracted a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “Those are the mitigation companies I mentioned in the car.”

  “Thanks.” She tucked the paper in her purse and pulled out the small “reopening soon” sign she’d printed off last night at home, along with a roll of tape. “Give me a minute to put this in the window.”

  He waited while she raised the shades to secure the sign. After finishing that task, she paused at the table of candles from the monastery to straighten a few.

  “I noticed the high price point on those.” Luke joined her. “Do you sell many?”

  “Yes. People don’t mind opening their wallets when they know all proceeds will go to humanitarian aid.”

  “How did you connect with such a remote place?”

  “Brother Michael came and spoke at our church about three years ago.” She pointed out the smiling monk in the group photo taken at the monastery. “He was traveling around the country while he was back in the US visiting family, soliciting donations.”

  “He’s American?”

  “Yes. The monastery has drawn people from all over the world. The US, Europe, South America. It’s a small group, but they do wonderful work. Brother Michael was an amazing man.”

  “Was?”

  Of course he’d pick up on the past tense. She’d wager not much got past this man.

  “He died several weeks ago.” She told him the sad tale. “It’s kind of ironic. I was always afraid he would end up being a victim of violence—yet violence ended up striking closer to home.” She flicked a quick glance toward the register area again and suppressed a shiver.

  “Unfortunately, it’s part of the world we live in. Nowhere is 100 percent safe. Ready to go?”

  “More than.” She hurried toward the back room, keeping her face forward.

  He didn’t speak again until they exited into the sunlight and she locked the door.

  “We notified the victim’s sister, and she’s making arrangements to have the body transported to Chicago for burial after it’s released from the ME’s office.”

  “Did you get an address?” She dropped the key in her purse as they walked toward her car. “I’d like to send her a note.”

  “Yes. I can email it to you if you’d like.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re free to begin cleanup and open the shop as soon as you want to. We’re finished here—but I may be in touch as the investigation progresses should we need any additional information.” He pulled out a card and handed it to her. “If anything else comes up, or you want to speak to me for any reason, call my cell. I answer day or night.”

  “Not a nine-to-five job.” She stopped beside her car and fingered the card.

  “Nowhere near. But I knew what to expect when I signed on.”

  “You sound like Colin. He always says if you’re not willing to be available 24/7 for the cause of justice, you don’t belong in law enforcement.”

  “That’s true.” Luke propped a hip against the hood of her car. If he was in a hurry to leave or had other places to go, he gave no indication of it.

  But she shouldn’t detain him. He had work to do, and delaying him just because she found his presence comforting was selfish.

  “Well . . .” She unlocked her car. “I’ll get working on the mitigation.”

  He hesitated . . . then pushed off from the hood. “Once I have some definite news about the case, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Thanks.”

  He pulled the door open for her, and she took her place behind the wheel. A second later, he closed it.

  Luke remained where he was while she backed out of her parking spot, drove down the alley, and pulled onto the street.

  After she turned the corner, however, she lost sight of him.

  And that was for the best.

  Men who wore wedding rings were off-limits. Period.

  Besides, despite Rick’s take, the man had no interest in her even if he did happen to be available. After all, he hadn’t wanted to linger at the reception once Stan deserted them, had he? And Detective Luke Carter appeared to be integrity personified. He might be kind and empathetic with people who’d discovered a dead body, but that was business. There was nothing personal about it.

  End of story.

  Someday, if it was meant to be, she’d meet an available man who would win her heart.

  In the meantime, though, she needed to forget about the tall, handsome police investigator who’d awakened longings in her that were best kept under wraps until the right man came along.

  The vibrating phone was not a good sign.

  Pulse leaping, Darrak pulled out his cell.

  Caller ID was blocked.

  Meaning Amir was still trying to contact him from his latest burner phone.

  He muttered a curse and began to sweat.

  If he continued to ignore the calls, Amir would get suspicious. Better to talk to him and play dumb. Act like everything was cool. Because it would be. Soon.

  Whatever it took.

  Hunkering down in his car, he kept one eye on the house across the street, pressed the talk button, and said hello.

  “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Amir’s barked-out question took the place of a greeting. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”

  “I haven’t been in a position to talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Too many people around whenever you called. And I didn’t have a signal last night.”

  Silence.

  Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead as the seconds ticked by.

  “There was trouble at the shop you visited.”

  Darrak exhaled. Amir must have believed the excuse he’d just given for not taking his calls.

  “What kind of trouble? Everything was fine when I was there yesterday.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Mid-morning.” He wished. If he’d gotten there when he intended instead of waiting until late afternoon, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

  “You had nothing to do with the murder?”

  “What murder?” A drop of sweat trickled down Darrak’s temple, and he swiped it away with his sleeve.

  Several beats ticked by before Amir responded. “Don’t lie to me, Darrak.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “I hope not. I despise liars.”

  “I have no reason to lie.”

  “Then you secured the merchandise?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have delivery instructions for you.”

  Darrak pulled out a pen and piece of paper. �
�Ready.”

  He wrote as Amir gave him the directions, hoping he could read his own shaky writing later. There could be no more missteps.

  “Is everything clear?” Hostility continued to score Amir’s words.

  “Yes.”

  “After I have confirmation of delivery, I will see that you are reimbursed for your expenses.”

  The line went dead.

  Darrak let out a slow breath and pressed the end button.

  He should never have taken this job.

  Yes, it was important to the cause. And yes, he’d been honored to be tapped by someone of Amir’s standing to assist.

  But he’d also been warned that the man didn’t tolerate mistakes.

  And this whole assignment had gone wrong from the beginning.

  He surveyed the house again, sweat soaking through his shirt. He still had a chance to fix this. Compared to what he’d had to do at the shop, this should be a piece of cake—as long as he timed it right. As long as he waited until the house was empty. As long as . . .

  A car began to back down the driveway, and he slumped lower behind the wheel, pulling his baseball cap down over his forehead and adjusting his dark glasses.

  This might be his window.

  As the car rolled past him, he studied the woman behind the wheel.

  Yes!

  She matched the photo he’d found online.

  If all went well, he should be finished with this in less than half an hour and could make Amir’s delivery with no delay.

  As soon as the car rounded the corner at the end of the street, he gave the neighborhood one more thorough inspection. No one was tending a garden or walking a dog.

  Excellent.

  He retrieved the hard hat from the back seat and slipped on the jacket that could pass for a utility serviceman’s uniform.

  Clipboard in hand, he slid out of the car and hurried toward the side of the house. He shouldn’t have to contend with a dog or an alarm system. His reconnaissance over the past thirty-six hours suggested the woman didn’t have either.

  So if all went as he expected, he’d get in, do what he had to do, and get out—leaving behind no evidence of the task he’d come to complete . . . or its connection to the murder at WorldCraft.

  5

  Done.

  From the stockroom door, Kristin gave the WorldCraft checkout counter one final slow scan.

  The mitigation firm had done a stellar job—and in less than twenty-four hours after she’d called them too. But as the technician had warned her, the walls needed to be repainted, and a section of the flooring would have to be replaced. She’d need a new display cabinet too.

  Some stains didn’t come out.

  Yet the carpenter who’d left ten minutes ago had assured her he could have all the necessary work done by end of day Friday—including relocating the display cabinet and register farther down the wall so she wouldn’t have to linger in the spot where Susan had died.

  Now that she’d moved the merchandise out of his way, she could go home and—

  Rap, rap, rap.

  She jerked toward the front door.

  Why would anyone knock with a closed sign in the window?

  Skirting a display table, she crossed back to the front of the shop and peeked around the shade.

  Brow smoothing, she unlocked the door and smiled at her neighbor. “Hi, Ryan.”

  “Hi. I just got back from a meeting and noticed your car in the alley. I tried knocking on the rear door, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been up front. I didn’t hear you.” She gestured toward the interior. “I’m going to have the carpenter reposition the display case while he’s here doing repairs, and I needed to clear the area of merchandise.”

  “I would have been happy to lend a hand.”

  “I appreciate that—but it didn’t take long, and nothing was very heavy.”

  “So how are you doing?” Concern softened his features.

  “Hanging in.”

  “I guess that’s about the best you can hope for in a situation like this.” He shook his head. “I never expected anything like this to happen in Kirkwood.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Do the police have any leads?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. It wasn’t Susan’s ex, though. His alibi is solid.”

  “It’s unsettling to think whoever did this is still on the loose.”

  “I know.”

  “Well . . . if I can do anything at all to help in the next few days or after you open again, let me know.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He twisted his wrist to display the face of his watch. “Could I interest you in a cup of coffee? I have half an hour before my next meeting.”

  She shifted her weight. Sociable as Ryan was, she did not want to encourage any personal interest . . . not that he had any. He might pop into the shop on a regular basis, but if he hadn’t asked her out on a real date in the almost three years they’d been neighbors, she was probably safe.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I have a long list of chores to take care of today.”

  “Understood. When are you reopening?”

  “Saturday, I hope.”

  “I’ll see you then. Take care.”

  As he strolled back to his office, she locked the door and retraced her steps through the shop to the back exit.

  Stepping into the sunlight, she took a deep breath to clear the antiseptic-laced air from her lungs. Hopefully the new-paint smell would help disguise the odor permeating the shop. She could always prop the front door open on Saturday too, and burn some aromatic candles.

  In time, WorldCraft would smell normal again.

  But would it ever feel normal again?

  Hard to say.

  Sighing, she got into the Sentra, started the engine, and drove down the alley. She did need to run some errands, but there was no hurry. She had an open day and a half to take care of the mundane business of grocery shopping, getting an oil change, running to the post office . . . all the chores she typically crammed into her schedule during her limited leisure hours.

  Maybe slowing her usual pace would help her chill.

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, she flipped on the radio with the other. A bit of mellow music couldn’t hurt, either.

  She surfed until she found some soft jazz, and in the five minutes it took to drive to her favorite sandwich shop, the music had worked its magic.

  The popular place was packed at the noon hour, and she surveyed the small in-store dining area while she waited. Every table was taken.

  Oh, well. She’d eaten in her car before, and the weather was warm today—

  An image of a woman flashed on the TV screen high on the wall in the dining alcove, and she froze.

  Was that . . . Elaine Peterson?

  A moment later the woman’s name scrolled across the bottom of the screen, confirming her identity.

  Why was one of her regular customers on the noon news?

  The volume was low, but based on the footage of police cars blocking a suburban street and small clusters of people on nearby lawns, something bad had happened.

  Relinquishing her place in line, Kristin hurried over to the screen so she could hear the announcer.

  “. . . discovered after a friend called the police when the victim didn’t keep a breakfast engagement. Authorities aren’t speculating about a motive, but the death has been classified a homicide. We’ll keep you apprised of new developments as they occur. In other news . . .”

  Kristin tuned out the announcer and stared at the screen.

  She’d just thought about Elaine on Tuesday night, after she printed out the list of customers who’d made purchases in the shop on Monday.

  Because Elaine had been among them.

  What a bizarre coincidence.

  Or . . . was it?

  Could the deaths be related?

  No.

  Impossible.

  Susan and El
aine weren’t well acquainted. Her part-time clerk hadn’t often been in the shop during Elaine’s visits.

  Yet the back-to-back murders felt like more than a fluke.

  Her stomach tightened, and she squeezed the strap of her purse.

  What would Luke Carter make of this strange development?

  Should she alert him to the connection?

  Kristin hesitated for only a second. Then, with one final glance at the growing line in front of the order counter, she pulled out her phone and left the store.

  There might not be any correlation between the two deaths—but better to let an expert weigh in on that.

  And pray that no one else associated with her place of business met an untimely end.

  Kristin Dane was calling him.

  As Luke read the name on the screen of his cell, his mouth flexed up.

  “You need to take that—or can it wait?”

  At the impatient question from Cole Taylor, he flattened his lips. “Case related.”

  His colleague narrowed his eyes. “Then why were you smiling?”

  The man was living up to his ace-detective reputation.

  “Not important. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Fine.”

  He turned his back on the other man—and the crime scene they were examining—and gave his full attention to the woman on the other end of the line.

  “Ms. Dane. How can I help you?”

  “I have some information that might or might not be relevant to Susan’s murder. I thought I’d let you make that call.”

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  By the time she finished, every instinct in his body was on red alert.

  Yes, it was possible the two murders were unrelated.

  But true coincidences were rare—especially if they occurred this close together.

  “Are you able to determine what Elaine Peterson bought at the store on Monday?”

  “Yes. She used a credit card, and those sales receipts list the items purchased. As soon as I get home, I can call hers up on my computer. Is that important?”

  “I don’t know—but at this stage, I’m not discounting anything.” A police radio crackled to life behind him.

  “You sound busy.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m at the Peterson crime scene now.”

  “Are you working that case too?”