“You guess right.”
“I don’t deal in no stolen merchandise. You know that.”
“Right.” Pete ventured a glance at the now darkened display cases and wondered what he might actually find there should he feel like aggravating old Bub. “Just so you know, the Army pistol is missing the firing pin.”
Bub grunted. “Ain’t worth too much then, huh?”
“Sentimental value to the owner.” Pete tapped the paper. “Especially the firefighter memorabilia.”
Bub pressed his lower lip into his upper one until his mouth looked like an inverted U. “Collectors go nuts for that stuff, that’s for sure. Some of it goes at auction for big bucks. And I do mean big. But I don’t deal in no stolen merchandise.”
“So you’ve said. If someone out there doesn’t know you’re a fine upstanding citizen, they might try to pawn their loot here though. I’d appreciate a call, should that happen.”
The shop owner grunted again. “Anything in it for me?”
“My undying gratitude. For starters.”
He snorted. “I guess it don’t hurt to have Vance Township’s Chief of Police owin’ me a favor.” Bub folded the paper and tucked it in the pocket of his faded flannel shirt. “I’ll call you.”
Pete’s next stop was the funeral home. Phillipsburg’s street lights illuminated the heavy snow showers as he parked in the lot along with four other vehicles. Either the weather had kept people away or, at ninety-two, Oriole had outlived most of her friends and family, leaving few to pay their last respects.
The wind slammed the car’s door against Pete’s leg as he stepped out. At least the temperature hadn’t plunged into the teens as forecasted.
Yet.
He tugged his hat down and his collar up and headed across the street to the front door.
As indicated by the nearly empty parking lot, a mere half-dozen mourners gathered inside. Only one, Mr. Troutman, stood near the casket. A sullen Marcus Baker, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a pair of dress trousers—new ones, if Pete was any judge—gazed out one of the windows.
“Chief Adams.” Janie approached with a tired smile. “How nice of you to come.”
He took the hand she extended to him. It was warm. Or his were freezing. “Didn’t you get the message I left on your voicemail?”
She looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh. The number I gave you was my home phone, and I haven’t been there all day.” She dug a tissue from her pocket and pressed it to her nose. “I’m sorry. I should’ve given you the one for my cell.”
“No problem. I wanted to talk to you about the case, but now isn’t the right time.”
She gestured to the small group chatting among themselves. “Now’s fine. It’s not like I have a lot of guests to entertain.”
Pete hesitated. Somehow discussing the home invasion at the victim’s viewing seemed crass.
Janie must have sensed his concerns. “Really. It’s okay.” She nodded toward a pair of easy chairs in the back of the room. “How about we sit over there.”
Trout had turned away from the casket, and Pete noticed the old man watching them as they settled into the seats. Marcus had also taken notice, although he attempted to cover his interest, taking furtive glances their way.
Pete pulled out his notebook and a pen. “Have you had a chance to make a list of what was missing from your grandmother’s house?”
Janie lowered her gaze to the tissue she clutched in her lap. “I’m ashamed to say, I haven’t. I started to, but then I came across a box of old photos and…well, two hours later I was still going through them.”
“I understand. I know it’s hard, but I really need that list in case they try to sell any of her things.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll go over there after the funeral tomorrow.”
Pete winced. He hated being the heartless son of a bitch, forcing the grieving granddaughter to revisit the crime scene. He wanted to say “Saturday or Sunday would be fine,” but each additional day weakened their chance of recovering Oriole’s stolen treasures. “Thank you. I’m sorry to add to your burden right now.”
Janie dabbed her nose with the tissue. “It’s okay.”
Pete caught Marcus staring at them. The boy quickly turned back to the window. Speaking of adding to her burden. “I’m afraid there’s something else I need to talk to you about.”
“Oh?”
“Did Marcus mention the incident at the high school yesterday?”
Her eyes widened and she shot a look at her son, who had his back to them. “What incident?” she asked, her voice hard.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Pete told her about the fight and Marcus’ unwillingness to talk about it. “My colleague from the county police spoke with the other boy, who maintained the fight was totally unprovoked.”
Janie never took her eyes from her son as she listened. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“I’d rather not.”
She brought her gaze back to Pete. Her lips parted in a silent, surprised “oh.”
“You’ve been through enough this week. I don’t want to haul your son off to jail on top of it all. But he’s headed down a bad path.”
“I know.” She worried the tissue in her hands. “I’ve tried talking to him, but he gets angry and storms out when I press too hard. The only person who seemed able to get through to him was—” Her voice broke.
Pete completed the sentence for her, “Your grandmother.”
“Yes.” Janie pressed the tissue to her mouth and wept. After a moment she sniffed back her tears and sat up straighter. “Tell me what I need to do, Chief. He needs a male role model in his life, but there isn’t one. Would it be best…for him…to let him spend a night or two in jail? You know. Tough love?”
Pete looked over at the boy, no longer sneaking glances at them. Instead the kid appeared to want to jump out the window into the cold darkness rather than face his mother. Or Pete.
Thirteen years old. Locked up. “No,” Pete said. “I don’t think jail’s the best thing for him.”
“What then?”
He pondered the problem. “Let me work on it.”
THIRTEEN
The smell hit Zoe the moment she stepped into the funeral home. The odors of autopsy always sent her bolting for the restroom, but the aroma of funeral flowers sucker-punched her every bit as hard. Memories hurled her back to being eight years old. A closed casket. Her mother sobbing.
For a moment, Zoe considered fleeing out into the cold night air and the blizzard. The weather had been like this a year ago when Ted died too. Same funeral home.
Same floral stench.
On the verge of hyperventilating, she clutched the door latch, the metal cold even through her gloves.
“Can I help you?”
She turned to find the funeral-home director, a gentleman in a dark suit, wearing a perpetual sympathetic smile on his face. “Ah…”
“Are you here for Mrs. Andrews?” he asked.
Oriole. Yes. Janie. Focus. Zoe swallowed. “Yes, I am.”
He directed her into a room to her left. “May I take your coat?”
“No. Thank you. I’ll only be a minute.” She’d seen Pete’s car in the parking lot, so she probably would be longer than a minute. But she needed her coat. She pulled it tighter around her to hide her shivering. Not from the cold. From her nerves.
She made it as far as the doorway and eyed the remembrance book on a stand at the entrance. Only a few names had been scrawled.
Exhaling, she stepped into the room and stole a glance at the casket. No one was near it. Janie’s son gazed out a window, his back to the room. A small group of older folks perched together in one of the rows of folding chairs, talking quietly.
Pete and Janie sat in a rear corner leaning toward each other, speaking in low tones.
/> Mr. Troutman stood in the middle of the room, gripping the back of a chair. He looked uncertain. Lost. Zoe had come to pay her respects, to give Janie a hug, and to see Pete. But they were occupied, and Zoe didn’t want to interrupt, so she headed toward the one soul in the room who seemed to need a friend.
Mr. Troutman was watching Pete and Janie and didn’t notice Zoe’s approach. He flinched when she touched his arm.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.
Flustered, the old man smiled and covered her hand with his. “That’s quite all right. I’m a bit out of sorts lately.”
“I understand.”
He studied her. “You’re the Chambers girl, right? Zoe?”
“That’s me.”
He gestured toward the coffin. “Have you seen Oriole yet?”
The icy memories of her father’s closed casket and Ted Bassi’s open one clamped down on her again. “No.” She knew what was coming next. Mr. Troutman would offer to escort her over there and stand with her. She’d be forced to gaze at Oriole’s preserved face as he shared stories or maybe comment on how good she looked.
Instead, he gave Zoe a nudge toward the coffin. “You should do that. I’d go with you, but I’ve been on my feet all day, and my legs are tired. I think I’d better sit.”
“I’ll sit with you.” Zoe realized she’d sounded too eager and winced.
“No, no. You go. I’ll be fine.”
The trepidation returned. Pete was still deep in conversation with Janie. He hadn’t noticed Zoe’s presence yet. With no reasonable excuse to avoid the inevitable, she forced a smile. “Okay.”
Steeling herself, she approached the coffin. Oriole did indeed look better than the last time Zoe had seen her, which wasn’t saying much. Zoe swallowed hard. She never understood this ghoulish business of standing around a corpse. The essence of the person was long gone. Sylvia once told her it was “for the family.” But Zoe had been “the family,” and the whole ordeal felt more like torture than closure.
“Hey.”
Zoe spun to find Pete behind her. “I didn’t think you knew I was here.”
He leaned toward her and whispered into her ear, “I spotted you the moment you entered the room.”
A surge of warmth chased the chill.
“Why aren’t you guarding the Krolls?”
“Alexander stopped in for a visit, so I went by to check on Sylvia.”
“How is she?”
“She wants to go back to her house. Says my cats are causing her allergies to flare up.”
Pete grinned. “She said the same thing to me too. But how about her heart?”
“She wouldn’t let me take her blood pressure. And as cranky as she was, I don’t think she’s in pain. She behaves better when she’s not feeling well.”
“You’ve noticed that too, huh?”
Zoe glanced toward Oriole. “Pete, do you mind if we…”
“Do you think she’s eavesdropping on us?”
Zoe shot a look at him.
He chuckled and then grew serious. “Do you want to leave?”
Yes. “Not yet. I still want to pay my respects to Janie. But I need to speak with you first.”
Pete guided her to a pair of empty chairs next to the entrance, as if he understood she might need to make a quick escape.
Mr. Troutman, she noticed, wasn’t where she’d left him. Nor was he resting his tired legs. Instead he had moved closer to the casket. Janie stood next to Marcus at the window.
Pete took Zoe’s hand. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
She met his crystal blue eyes, yearned to lean against him and press her face against his neck. “I miss you.” Not what she’d intended to say, but it was the truth. “I’ve gotten used to seeing you all the time.”
He smiled. “That’s what I like to hear. You know I consider my house to be your home too.”
Which reminded her of what she needed to tell him, souring the moment. “My mother’s in town.”
The change in gears took him aback. “Your mother?” His gaze shifted and then he closed his eyes and growled. “Dammit.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Jackson.” His face contorted as if he was in pain. “I should have known.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I had a message yesterday morning from a Mrs. Jackson. I couldn’t place the name, and before I had a chance to think about it, we got busy with the case. I completely forgot to call her back.”
Kimberly’s words rang in Zoe’s head. That man you’ve been seeing doesn’t return my calls either. “That’s what she meant.”
“What?”
“Never mind. You’ll never guess why she’s here.” Zoe told him about Kimberly’s grand plan to make amends.
He listened in silence and remained quiet after Zoe had finished. She could tell he was rolling the news around inside that cop brain of his. After what seemed like an eternity, he asked, “Are you going to accept it?”
The question startled her. She’d never considered not accepting it. Somehow, though, that didn’t seem like the right thing to say. “I guess so. Shouldn’t I?”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. Those icy eyes shifted into poker mode, but not before she caught a glimpse of something else. Despair. He didn’t want her to move out of his house. “It’s your decision,” he said flatly. “But when was the last time you were over at that farm?”
She didn’t have to think about it. “You know the answer to that.” He’d been there too, investigating the previous owner’s death.
“And when was the last time you were inside the house?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in it.”
“Uh-huh.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Just don’t sign any papers until you check it out and talk to an attorney.”
Voices drifted in from the atrium drawing Zoe’s attention. The reporter who’d been snooping around Sylvia’s place last night appeared in the doorway. While the woman still carried the large leather bag, tonight she wore makeup. Zoe was right. She was a knock-out. Plus she wore a dark skirt, showing a flash of leg below the hem of her coat.
Lauren Sanders spotted Pete and Zoe immediately. Zoe could almost see the light bulb switch on in the woman’s eyes as she made the connection between them.
“Chief Adams. Ms. Chambers.” Lauren sauntered over to them. “I wasn’t expecting to see the two of you here.”
Pete stood. “I could say the same about you. I hope you aren’t planning to question Ms. Baker tonight.”
“Of course not.” Lauren raised an eyebrow, and a teasing grin played across her lips. “Are you?”
Zoe climbed to her feet, looking back and forth between Pete and the reporter. He’d struck his best protector-of-the-universe stance. Even in his civvies, the man had a commanding presence that stirred Zoe’s heart. But the appreciative smile on Lauren’s face stirred something else entirely.
Zoe cleared her throat. “I’m gonna go speak to Janie.”
Pete broke free of the gaze he’d locked with the reporter, but he maintained his professional law-enforcement mode. “All right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Zoe hesitantly moved away from them. Glancing back, she spotted Lauren Sanders’ fingers brush Pete’s arm.
No doubt about it. The woman was definitely flirting with him.
Friday morning didn’t start well. While Pete’s insomnia wasn’t an issue for once, he awakened before his alarm as one of Zoe’s cats walked across his face. Twice. Sylvia had complained about her allergies so much last night, he agreed to keep the felines in the bedroom with him. They apparently disapproved. Or they weren’t happy with Zoe’s absence.
He couldn’t blame them on that count.
Sylvia sat at his kitchen table with a cup of cof
fee and a dour look on her face. “I’m going home,” she announced, her voice nasal.
Pete had known Sylvia long enough to realize she’d made up her mind. Still, he had to try. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone at your place after what happened.”
“They’ve already robbed me blind. There’s no reason for them to come back.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
She huffed. “I’ll call you every hour and check in. But I can’t breathe with those damn cats around.”
They settled on her checking in every half hour. However, she couldn’t leave until Pete shoveled a path through several inches of fresh snow to his Vance Township Police SUV.
By the time he drove her the block and a half to her house, did more shoveling, and got her settled at home, he was on the verge of being late for his shift.
Topping off the morning, he pulled into the station to find Baronick’s unmarked sedan in the snow-covered parking lot.
The detective leaned a shoulder against the front office’s doorjamb and chatted with Kevin and Nancy while cradling a mug of coffee. “You look like hell.”
The mug, Pete noticed, was one of his. “You could at least have brought Starbucks.”
“It would have been cold by the time I got here.”
“We have a microwave.” Pete looked at his secretary, who appeared mildly amused by the exchange. “Messages?”
She handed him a short stack of pink slips. “Nothing earth shattering. The snow’s kept everyone inside and behaving themselves.”
He pointed at Kevin and crooked his finger before heading down the hall to his office, scanning the messages as he went. A complaint about a township road not being treated quickly enough. Another complaint about the township road truck being too noisy while plowing in the early morning hours. A man over on Ridge Road wanted Pete to have a talk with his neighbors about their barking dogs. Pete knew the neighbors and the dogs. The hounds were generally well behaved but did go bonkers when a deer wandered across the backyard.
The final slip, dated a half hour previous, stated simply, “Call Lauren Sanders. You have her number.”
UNEASY PREY Page 12
