Charlotte glanced around the kitchen. She’d cleaned before she went on her first delivery. Aside from the frosting bags and the thawing cupcakes, she was done. With time to spare. That was the way she liked to do things. She hurried into the bathroom, ran a brush through her hair, and put a little makeup on. Alma had very particular taste, and she liked things a particular way. She believed people at work should dress professionally. Which, Charlotte guessed, did not include faded jeans.
She should change. Put on a skirt and a blouse or a dress. Something a little more polished.
She rushed into her room and scrounged through the closet, pulling out the first dress she found, a dark blue A-line that she’d bought at a vintage clothing store. She’d never had an occasion to wear it. It seemed fitting for a poetry reading, so she tugged it on, her mind circling around the problem she’d had with the cupcakes. She had to be more careful. This time she’d had extra. What if she didn’t next time?
Alma didn’t seem like the kind to forgive and forget, and she certainly wasn’t the kind to keep her mouth shut if she wasn’t happy.
She hurried into the hall, remembered that she was going to the storefront after her delivery, and skidded to a stop. She wanted to bring a camera, take a few pictures to show Zim. He’d flipped a few houses, and he’d said he could help her paint and put down new flooring in the building.
She wasn’t sure if he’d be more help or hindrance, but she’d promised to take photos for him. Even though she was pretty sure he’d been inside the building on more than one occasion.
She sighed and turned back toward the room. Something lay on the floor at the end of the hall, right near the attic door. She stepped closer, her heart nearly jumping out of her chest when she saw the old skeleton key. It had been in the attic lock when she’d left.
Hadn’t it?
Lately she didn’t seem to know if she was coming or going, but that didn’t mean she’d been wrong about hearing the door slam. Despite what the police had said, she wasn’t convinced that she’d been alone in her house that night. She wanted to believe it, but no amount of wanting something could make it true.
Could someone be in the house now, lurking in the attic bedroom? She cocked her head to the side. As if that would help the situation.
She didn’t hear anything. Not a creak or groan. Not a breath.
The house felt empty.
Just like always.
She could call the police, but she’d already called them out on a false alarm once. She didn’t want to do it again.
There was someone she could call, though. Someone who would probably be willing to check the house out while she was making her delivery. Max had said she should call if she needed anything.
Don’t do it.
Do not pick up the phone and call Max.
She didn’t need him. She could do it herself. Just walk up the stairs and take a look around, make sure the room was as empty as she thought it was going to be.
Who was she kidding?
She might be able to do it, but she wasn’t going to.
She was too much of a chicken.
Max wasn’t.
He’d be able to handle her attic dilemma, and he wouldn’t tell everyone he’d done it.
She slid the skeleton key into the lock and turned it, sealing whatever trouble there might be behind the thick wooden door. When she was done, she took the boxes of cupcakes to her car and did exactly the one thing she knew she shouldn’t do.
She called Max.
Chapter Twelve
Charlotte’s house looked just like it always did. Curtains opened wide in the living room so that Max could see straight into the house, front door closed tight, porch light on. If someone had been inside, it wasn’t obvious. No sign of any of the windows being jimmied. The front and back doors were both still intact, their locks functioning properly.
If anyone else had called to say she’d found a key on the floor and thought someone might be hiding in her attic, Max probably would have assumed an overly wild imagination was at work. He’d taken Charlotte seriously. He hadn’t even bothered going to the office after dropping Zuzu off at Ida’s. He’d thrown on his uniform and headed to Charlotte’s house.
He stood on the sidewalk in front of the house and looked up at the second-floor dormer window. Nothing moved. No one peered out from behind the gauzy curtain. Not that he’d thought anyone would. If he were hiding in some unsuspecting woman’s house, he wouldn’t be peering out at the world while he was doing it.
He wouldn’t have left a key in the middle of the floor, either.
“What are you doing, copper? Thinking about searching Charlotte’s house without a warrant?” someone called from across the street.
He didn’t even bother looking. He knew Gertrude McKenzie’s husky voice.
“Thinking about becoming a Peeping Tom,” he responded.
“Should have waited until the sun went down. People are going to talk.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for. Some good old-fashioned gossip.” He turned around, scanning the old Riley place until he spotted Gertrude in an open downstairs window. He crossed the street, smiling at the older woman. “A little cold to have the windows open, isn’t it?”
“Tessa is back.”
“And?”
“She’s running a class on refinishing old furniture. Every one of those damn old ladies who’s taking it is wearing a boatload of flowery perfume. Place smells like a funeral parlor.”
“So you thought you’d freeze them all out?”
“Nah. Tessa makes good money on the classes. I’ve got to give the girl credit. She’s got business sense. I’m just trying to air the place out before they all come in from the refinishing shed and stink it up again. So what are you doing over there?”
“Just looking around.”
“That much is obvious. How about giving me a little more? Some juicy little tidbit that I can pass along?”
“If there was anything juicy, you’d be the first to know.” Unless he didn’t want it spread around. In which case, Gertrude would probably be one of the last to know. She was a great lady—funny, outspoken to the point of rudeness, but absolutely devoted to her family and the people she cared about. What she was not was quiet. Ever.
“Liar.”
“True.”
She let out a bark of laughter. “Good to know. Since you don’t want to tell me what you’re doing, how about you just tell me if I should be worried about Charlie. She’s not in trouble or anything, is she?”
“Charlotte? When has she ever been in trouble?” he asked, curious despite himself.
“Not legal trouble,” Gertrude said with a deep exasperated sigh. “Man trouble.”
Man trouble?
He hadn’t known there was a man, and he didn’t think he liked the idea that there was one.
Scratch that.
He knew he didn’t like the idea.
“What man?” he asked, the question a little gruffer than he’d intended.
“You’re the cop. It’s your job to figure it out,” Gertrude huffed, her face nearly pressed against the window screen, her orange hair slipping out from between the mesh.
“It would help,” he said with exaggerated patience, because Gertrude loved to talk, but getting helpful information out of her could be like plucking a flower out of the brambles. “If you told me exactly what I’m supposed to figure out.”
“Can’t say that I know. Charlotte is pretty tightlipped about her past. If you haven’t noticed.”
“I have.”
“Well, there you go,” Gertrude said with just a hint of sarcasm. “You’re on your way to becoming deputy of the year.”
“No such thing. If there were, I’d have already won it,” he responded lightly. He’d spent enough time around Gertrude to know that she loved to push people’s buttons. Sometimes he pushed back, because she also loved a good verbal sparring.
Today he wanted to get back to the subje
ct.
Charlotte and man trouble.
“That’s what I like about you, Max.” Gertrude chuckled. “You know how to take it and you know how to dish it out.”
“I’m glad to know you appreciate one of my finer qualities. So is there a man in Charlotte’s life?” he asked bluntly. No sense beating around the bush with Gertrude. She hated that almost as much as Max did.
“Don’t know if there is one, but I can tell you there was one, and I don’t think he was very good to her.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She’s a widow, right? Young, right? How many young widows do you know that never ever talk about their husbands?”
“I don’t know a whole lot of young widows.” But he had noticed how reluctant Charlotte was to talk about Brett. The husband who’d been a Marine and truck driver.
“Then use your imagination,” she snapped, her eyes blazing from behind the mesh screen, her finger poking right at his face. “A woman gets married, and she’s pinning all her hopes and dreams on this one guy. Over the years, she’s bound to get a little jaded and realize that her Prince Charming is just another guy. But if the prince dies before he has a chance to annoy the hell out of his princess, she’s going to spend the next decade waxing poetic about what a paragon he was.”
“Interesting theory.”
“Theory? I’ve been alive for four decades longer than you. I know a thing or two about women that you only wish you knew.”
He wasn’t going to argue that point.
“No doubt about that, Ms. Gertrude. But what does all this have to do with Charlotte?”
“She doesn’t talk about her husband. Not at all. Not a word. Ever. Even when she’s asked, she just kind of meanders around the subject and gives vague answers that could mean anything.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Give the man a prize and call him a genius,” she muttered.
“Ms. Gertrude, I’d love to stay and chat all day, but I don’t think my boss would appreciate that, so how about you just tell me exactly what you think about Charlotte’s husband.”
“I think he was a bastard, that’s what I think.”
“Way to be blunt.”
“You asked.”
True. “I did, and I’ve been thinking the same.”
“Of course, you were. You’re smart. You’ve got your head screwed on straight. You’re also handsome as sin, and if I were a couple of decades younger, I’d be—”
“How about you save that for another day?” He cut her off, because he really didn’t want to hear what Gertrude would be doing if she were a couple of decades younger.
“My point is this, Max . . .” She pressed her forehead to the screen, her eyes blazing green fire. “Charlotte is a pretty young woman. She’s hardworking and sweet and just about the kindest lady I’ve ever met. She should be out there looking for someone, but she’s got her head in cookbooks and romance novels and spends most of her days and nights in the kitchen.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Did I say there was? I’m just pointing out that there are plenty of guys in this town who’d be thrilled to spend time with her. More than a couple of them would stick a ring on her finger tomorrow if she were willing. But she’s not even looking.” She shook her head sadly. “Her bastard of a husband ruined it for her. She doesn’t have to say one word about it for me to know it. It’s a damn shame.”
If it were true, Max had to agree.
Charlotte was too young to put herself on a shelf.
“You’re right about that, Ms. Gertrude. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to what I was doing.”
“Which was? You still haven’t told me squat!”
“I know.” He grinned. “See you around, Ms. Gertrude.”
He walked away, her curses ringing in his ears.
That was Gertrude. A heart like an angel and a mouth like a drunken sailor.
Charlotte had left her front door unlocked, and he walked into the quiet house. The hardwood floor glowed in the light shining through the front windows, the furniture polished to a high sheen. A narrow vase stood on the fireplace mantel, a single white feather jutting out of it. Before Charlotte moved in, the place had been empty, the last family that had rented it gone for a few months. They’d moved to a farm outside of town, because the little cottage had been too small for seven kids and the baby that had been on the way.
“Eight kids,” he mumbled as he walked through the house. “That’s a hell of a lot.”
One was a lot.
Zuzu had spent the entire morning asking questions.
Where are we going?
What are we going to do there?
Why is it cold? Why is the sky blue? Why is the cat named Pete? Can I call him Sparkle?
No. She could not call the cat Sparkle.
She couldn’t call him Glitter either.
That had been her second choice.
He eyed the attic door. The key was in the lock, and he couldn’t see any easy way for it to be dislodged. He used a gloved hand to pull it out and push it back in again. It was a little tricky, but fit smoothly once he got it into the lock. If it had been put in properly, it would be almost impossible for it to fall out.
The old cut-glass handle would be the perfect conduit for fingerprints. Even though Charlotte wasn’t sure anyone had been in the house, he’d dust it. Make sure that he did things right. Just in case.
That would have to wait until he had the patrol car and his fingerprint kit. He couldn’t touch the knob until he dusted it, so he headed out, leaving the front door unlocked and driving over to the station. He didn’t bother going into the office. Just got in the patrol car and drove back to Charlotte’s place.
Her old station wagon was parked in the driveway, so he pulled up to the curb, got out, and grabbed the fingerprint kit from the back of the car.
Charlotte met him halfway to the house, her hair loose around her shoulders, her simple blue dress falling to just above her knee. She hadn’t buttoned her coat, and he caught a glimpse of narrow waist and full breasts beneath the body-hugging bodice of her dress. God, she looked good.
“Looks like I beat you here,” she said.
“Actually, I was here a few minutes ago. I had to run to the office to get my patrol car.”
She frowned, shoving her hand into the pockets of her coat. She needed to button up in this kind of weather, wear gloves and maybe a hat, but he doubted she’d appreciate him telling her that. “Did you find anything?”
“I haven’t been up in the attic yet. I wanted to dust for prints on the knob first.”
“I really appreciate you doing this, Max. I probably should have just phoned the sheriff’s office—”
“No need for thanks, Charlotte. I owe you big-time for taking care of Zuzu the other day. Besides”—he touched her back, urging her into the house ahead of him—“I never mind spending time with you.”
“You’re flirting again.”
“Telling the truth again,” he corrected her, smiling when she scowled.
“Well, cut it out.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not into flirting anymore.”
“That means that you were into flirting at one time or another,” he pointed out.
“Isn’t everyone? When we’re kids and we have a whole lifetime of dreams ahead of us, it’s easy to get caught up in games. The problem with games is that someone always ends up being the loser.” Her voice was light, but the look in her eyes was anything but.
It angered him more than he wanted to admit.
No woman should ever be left scarred by a relationship, and no guy should ever leave shadows in a woman’s eyes.
“I wouldn’t know,” he responded, making sure to match her tone. Light. Easy. No emotion in his voice. “I don’t play games any more than I make hints. If I want a woman, I let her know. I don’t flirt with her.”
She glanced over her should
er as she led the way down the hall, her eyes still filled with shadows. “So you just flirt as a matter of course?”
“I tell the truth, because everyone needs a pick-me-up every once in a while,” he corrected. “A kind word doesn’t cost a whole lot. And for the record, I compliment men, too. Unless they’re assholes. In which case, I tell them so to their faces.”
“Oh,” Charlotte murmured, surprised and a little pleased by his honesty. “Good to know.”
Good to know?
What kind of idiotic thing was that to say?
Charlotte would have taken the words back if she could have, but they’d already been said and Max already had a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“What I mean,” she added, knowing that she was heading into even lamer territory by attempting to explain, “is that I’m glad you aren’t the kind of guy who plays games, because I hate when people do that. I always have. I’m more an up-front kind of person. Just tell it like it is. Say what you mean. Be who . . .” Shut up already!
“Be who you want to be?” He finished the thought. It sounded just as lame when he said it as it would have coming out of her mouth.
“Something like that.”
“Too bad that’s not nearly as easy as we think it should be.” He opened the fingerprint kit and looked like he was ready to get down to official business. That was as good an excuse as any to put some distance between them.
“Want some coffee?”
“If I drink any more, I might end up with caffeine poisoning,” he responded, looking up from the contents of the kit. He had beautiful eyes. Such a dark deep blue that they almost looked black in certain lights.
“I can make decaf.”
“No, thanks.”
“Orange juice?”
“I’m fine.”
“How about a couple of cookies?”
“Charlotte”—he laughed—“you don’t have to feed and water me every time I cross the threshold.”
He had the best kind of laugh. The kind that could fill a room, a house, a heart if someone let it.
“Sorry. I know you’re not livestock. It’s just a habit.”
“No need to apologize. I just don’t want you to feel obligated.” He took powder and a brush from the kit. “Want to help me with this?”
The Cottage on the Corner Page 17
