Hidden Peril

by Irene Hannon

  “Ultrasound was fine. She’s an active one, I can tell you that. I have a feeling she’ll have no difficulty holding her own with two older brothers.” Becca laid some strips of bacon on a grooved microwaveable plate. “You never did give me a report on that wedding you attended last weekend.”

  The comment was casual.

  Her fake nonchalance wasn’t.

  His sister was totally transparent.

  “The food was amazing.” Discussing his feelings about the wedding . . . or the woman he’d met there . . . wasn’t on his agenda this morning.

  Becca spooned some batter onto the griddle. Based on the faint dents creasing her brow, she was trying to come up with a different angle of attack.

  He waited her out.

  “So . . . did you stay long?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would I?”

  “You know why.”

  “Becca . . .” He injected a faint warning note into his voice.

  Huffing, she finished with the batter and faced him. “Look, I care about you, okay? I hate that you have no love or laughter in your life.”

  “The twins supply plenty of both.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  Yeah, he did.

  Apparently she wasn’t going to let this go unless he gave her a tad more to chew on.

  “The truth is, I didn’t know anyone at the wedding except work colleagues—and they’re all married.”

  “You could have introduced yourself to a few people. Made an effort.” She aimed the spatula at him accusingly. “I bet you found a dark corner and hid out there.”

  Too close to the truth.

  “I met some new people.”

  “Yeah?” She lifted the edge of one pancake with the spatula, then gave him her full attention. “Who?”

  “A very likeable man. Neighbor of the bride. He watched her grow up.”

  “An older guy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “He introduced me to the woman who was sharing his table.”

  She folded her arms. “I’m talking about younger people.”

  He plucked another grape from the bowl and popped it into his mouth. “It was an adult event. No kids present.”

  “You’re being purposely obtuse.” She tipped her head and studied him. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You want to hear more about the food? The crab cakes were—”

  “How old was the woman the man introduced you to?”

  He stifled a groan.

  Leave it to Becca to cut through the clutter and ferret out the one nugget he didn’t want to discuss.

  The wrong person in this family had become a detective.

  “Why are you so . . .” He sniffed. “The pancakes are burning.”

  She whirled around, snatched up the spatula, and flipped the slightly charred flapjacks.

  “Have you talked to Dad lately?” That wasn’t his favorite topic, either—but it was safer than discussing the wedding . . . if she latched on to it.

  “Yesterday.” She pulled some eating utensils from a drawer and set them in front of him. “He asked about you.”

  “I’ll give him a call soon.”

  “How long has it been since you two talked?”

  “I don’t keep a log of our conversations.”

  “That means too long. Dad evaded the question too.”

  “I’m busy with the new job. And now that he’s remarried, it’s not like he’s sitting around waiting for my calls. I’m sure Lauren keeps him entertained.”

  She pulled the bacon out of the microwave and put it on a plate. “You’re still mad about him remarrying, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “It’s the truth. I was never mad. More like . . . surprised—and confused. He and Mom were married for thirty-six years. I thought they were in love. But eighteen months after she dies, he gets married again?”

  “He’s only sixty, Luke. God willing, he has decades left—and he didn’t want to spend them alone. Loving someone else doesn’t take anything away from the relationship he and Mom shared. Her place is secure in his heart. We all have an infinite capacity to love. To find room for someone new.”

  All of a sudden, he had a feeling she wasn’t talking about their dad anymore.

  He took a banana he didn’t want out of the fruit bowl and slowly peeled it while Becca dished up the rest of his breakfast. She’d been broaching the subject of his moratorium on dating with increasing frequency, and he was no more inclined to talk about it today than he’d been in the past.

  What was there to discuss?

  Eight years ago, he’d promised to love and honor Jenny all the days of his life—the same vow his father had taken on his wedding day. As far as he was concerned, that promise precluded another trip to the altar.

  Yet his dad had reentered the dating game at warp speed and taken that same vow with a new woman.

  He’d never understood that.

  But . . . was it possible Becca’s opinion had some merit?

  Could you keep your first vows and also find someone new?

  Could he love and honor Jenny all the days of his life even if he fell in love again?

  Maybe.

  Funny how he was more receptive to that notion now than he’d been in previous conversations with his sister.

  Or was it?

  Perhaps crossing paths with a woman who sold fair trade goods had laid the groundwork for it.

  “Want to tell me about her?” Becca climbed onto the stool next to him.

  He yanked himself back to the conversation. “What are you talking about?”

  “The woman at the wedding, whose age you seem reluctant to share.”

  Man, Becca could stick to a subject like gum to a shoe.

  “She didn’t tell me how old she is, and I didn’t think it was polite to ask.” But the answer had been in the standard background check he’d run on her after the murder. Kristin was thirty-four.

  “An educated guess would suffice. You’re a detective. You deal with descriptions every day.”

  She wasn’t letting him off the hook.

  “Fine. Thirtysomething.”

  “Married?”

  “We didn’t discuss it.”

  “Was she wearing a ring?”

  “No.” To pretend he hadn’t scoped out her hand would be stupid. Becca knew guys noticed details like that. He’d been the one to clue her in to the ring-check routine years ago.

  “Pretty?”

  “Yeah.” He stuffed a huge bite of pancake into his mouth.

  “You should call her.”

  He ignored that while he chewed the cooked dough until it became mush.

  Becca waited in silence.

  He forced himself to swallow the soggy wad, took a swig of coffee, and stabbed another bite.

  “Hey.” She seized his hand as he tried to lift the fork. “Not so fast, bro. We’re having a discussion here.”

  “I’m trying to eat before my food gets cold.”

  “You need to ramp up your social life. It’s been three years. You know Jenny wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life moping around.”

  “I’m not moping.”

  “You could have fooled me. What’s wrong with going out on a few casual dates?”

  He pulled his arm free and stuck the pancake in his mouth.

  “You”—she leaned into his face—“are impossible.”

  “’Toons are over, Mommy!” Mike raced into the kitchen, Mark on his heels. “You wanna go outside and play, Unc Luke?”

  “Next on my schedule. Give me another minute to eat this wonderful breakfast your mom cooked for me.” He crunched into a strip of bacon.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere.” Becca slid off the stool and circled back around the island. “Do me one favor. Call Dad.”

  “I’ll touch base with hi
m next week.”

  “And find a nice woman to date.”

  “That’s two favors.”

  “The second one is more for you than me. Track down that woman who caught your eye at the wedding.”

  How in creation had Becca picked up on his interest in Kristin?

  “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions? I’ve hardly said a word about her.”

  “I noticed—and that’s significant.”

  “How so?”

  “If you hadn’t cared about her one way or the other, you wouldn’t mind talking about her.”

  He regarded his sister over the rim of his mug. “That must be some kind of convoluted female logic.”

  “Are you planning to deny my deduction, Mr. I-Never-Tell-A-Lie Detective?”

  “Come on, Unc Luke.” Mark pulled on his arm.

  “My subjects await.” He swiped a napkin across his lips and stood.

  “I knew it. You did like this woman.” Becca gave him a smug look.

  “If you must know—yes. She was charming. She was also very chummy with the best man. I think they’re involved.”

  “Oh.” Becca’s face fell . . . but brightened a moment later. “Well, at least you noticed her. That means there’s hope for you . . . even if she isn’t the one.”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he let the twins lead him out to the backyard, where he indulged in little-boy fun for the next hour.

  But all the while, he was having big-boy thoughts about Kristin Dane—and pondering two questions.

  How involved was she with Colin’s best man . . . and her friendly business neighbor two doors down?

  And should he step out of his self-imposed isolation and put his investigative skills to work to find out?

  Darrak was a living, breathing cluster bomb.

  But not for much longer.

  Amir exhaled. Part luck, part strategy, part divine intervention—whatever the reason the tip had fallen into his lap, he was grateful.

  And he’d done his homework.

  He replayed the news story about Elaine Peterson’s death. Did the same with the Susan Collier coverage. As far as he could tell, there was no proof Darrak had played a role in either of the murders. If the police had any suspicions, they were keeping them close to their vest. And if they had any grounds to arrest the man, he’d be in jail. At this stage, it didn’t appear they had any suspects.

  However . . . if anyone dug into his background, circumstantial evidence would point toward him as the culprit.

  And if the police somehow managed to identify Darrak as a suspect and brought him in for questioning, the man might crack. He didn’t know a lot—but he knew enough to cause problems.

  Amir rose from his computer and stormed across the room.

  That wasn’t a risk he could take.

  Loose cannons had to be neutralized.

  Why the man had killed the two women, Amir could only speculate. But logic suggested the Peterson woman might have bought the merchandise before Darrak arrived to retrieve it. He could have killed the clerk to get the purchase information and tracked down Peterson.

  Bad choices all around.

  And bad choices had to be punished.

  After retrieving the burner phone that was about to become history, he tapped in a number.

  As soon as the man who answered verified Amir’s identity, the discussion moved to business. Within ten minutes, the plans were complete.

  Amir pressed the end button, then punched in Darrak’s number.

  Unlike his futile attempts to contact the man last Tuesday and Wednesday, this one succeeded after two rings.

  “Yes?”

  The man’s wary greeting was further proof he was up to his neck in the two murders. Why else would he be nervous about this call?

  As he had on Thursday morning, Amir got straight to business. “The package you dropped off has been retrieved and delivered. Your part in this operation is finished. Let me give you instructions on where to collect your reimbursement.” He recited the notes he’d jotted during his first call. “Any questions?”

  “No. I was honored to be of service to the cause.” The man sounded relieved their association was winding down.

  No more relieved than he was.

  And he’d be even happier in thirty-six hours, when far more than their association came to an end.

  7

  Luke adjusted his tie, flexed his shoulders to straighten his jacket, and tried to tame the anticipatory smile tugging at his lips as he opened the door to WorldCraft.

  Seeing Kristin Dane on a Monday morning was an excellent way to launch the workweek.

  She looked up when he entered, and her eyebrows rose. Not unexpected. In her place, he’d be taken aback by an in-person response to a voicemail instead of a return call . . . but he hadn’t been able to pass up an excuse to see her.

  And do a little digging that was more personal than professional.

  He ambled over to the monastery display while she finished with a customer. The missing candles at Elaine Peterson’s house were a puzzle . . . but as Cole had pointed out, it was a stretch to think they might be relevant to the case. And since other items from the house had also been taken, robbery was sticking as the motive.

  For now, anyway.

  As soon as the customer left the shop, Kristin came over to him. “Hi. I didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “You said you had some information that might be helpful.”

  “Yes . . . but I’m not certain it was worth a special trip.”

  Yeah, it was.

  But not in the way she meant.

  “I was in the general vicinity. It was no problem to swing by. What’s up?”

  “Well . . . given how slow it’s been this morning, I decided to review my inventory records. I found an aberration that’s kind of freaky.”

  “Related to the two deaths?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll let you decide.” She motioned toward a table with a coffeemaker and disposable cups. “As long as you’re here, would you like a cup? I brew a pot every morning for the customers, but I end up drinking most of it. There’s plenty left today, though. Ryan from the insurance office down the street brought me some higher-end joe this morning.”

  A visit from her too-friendly neighbor wasn’t great news . . . but he kept his expression impassive. “Thanks. I could use some caffeine.”

  “I’ll get it for . . .”

  He touched her arm. “I can manage. I’ve been making my own coffee for years.”

  Her gaze flicked down to his wedding ring for a nanosecond. “Your wife isn’t a coffee drinker?”

  “She used to be.” He walked over to the table and picked up the pot. “I lost her three years ago.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened . . . then softened. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He poured his coffee, surprised at the steadiness in his fingers. Usually they shook when he talked about Jenny’s death. “She was the picture of health, and very athletic. An avid runner. But she had an undiagnosed congenital heart defect. During a half marathon, she collapsed. The official name of the condition is hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, but in layman’s terms, it was a fatal cardiac arrhythmia.”

  That was more detail than Kristin needed—or probably wanted—to know.

  He turned away to add a splash of cream he didn’t want.

  I thought you were going to do some digging into her love life, not spill your guts about your own, Carter.

  Yeah, yeah.

  That had been the plan.

  But after her story about Ryan Doud’s coffee run, he’d followed the urge to veer off track and clarify his own marital status.

  A recalibration of his game plan was in order.

  Taking a sip from the cup, he swiveled back to her. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you. Mondays can be depressing enough.” He tried for a light touch.

  “Mondays have never bothered me. I always think of a new week as a fresh start.
And I’m glad you told me.” She took a step closer—as if she wanted to reach out to him. Stopped. Backed up again and clasped her hands in front of her. “I-I can’t imagine dealing with that kind of loss.”

  “They say it will get easier.” He took another sip of his brew and moved the discussion to the official reason for this visit. “So explain this aberration you found.”

  For an instant, her face went blank . . . but she quickly shifted gears. “Right.” She retreated to the register, putting the counter between them. “In general, I review sales and inventory at the end of each month, but as I said, it was quiet here this morning. To keep myself busy, I decided to scroll through the records.” She tapped the register. “I discovered that during the first week of this month, six of the candles from the new shipment were sold.”

  “And that raised a red flag?” He joined her at the counter.

  “Yes. Because of the . . . of what happened here . . . the shop wasn’t open much after Saturday, when the candles arrived. On average, I sell a couple a week, except for a sales spike at Christmas.”

  “So six candles in two days is unusual.”

  “Yes—and it was only a day and a half. I was here until noon on Saturday, and we hadn’t put the candles out yet. In fact, all six sold on Monday.”

  Definitely odd.

  “Have you sold any since you reopened?”

  “No. And there’s more. After I realized how many had been purchased right after being put on display, I got curious. I knew there was always a small surge in sales after I restocked, but I attributed it to my marketing efforts and their front-and-center location. I never paid much attention to overall patterns, though. Just monthly sales.”

  “And now you’ve found a trend.”

  “Yes. I went back to the first shipment of candles three years ago and scrutinized each subsequent delivery. In the beginning, I sold two or three candles the first few days I restocked the display. Two years ago, that changed to between five and seven. That number’s remained constant.”

  “So someone came in after each shipment and bought four or five candles at once?”

  “No. I would have remembered that. No one ever buys more than two or three.”

  “Curious.” Luke set his coffee on the counter and walked over to the monastery display. Picked up a candle. Inspected it from every angle.