by Cassie Miles
“You need the cops,” Adam said. “Or you should hire a private eye. Not us.”
CCC was a non-profit network of private citizens with special skills. Their occupations were varied: medical examiners, journalists, entomologists, photographers and psychologists. These people volunteered their talents to help solve unusual aspects of crimes—past and present. All investigations were conducted hand in glove with law enforcement agencies.
As the administrator of CCC business, Molly understood that focus and she knew that Pierce’s problem didn’t fall into their typical purview. But he was her friend. And she wanted to help him.
“Maybe,” she said, “I could look into this for you. On my own time.”
“Thanks, Molly.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “You’re a doll.”
“I’ll come by your office on Monday morning.”
He glanced at his wristwatch. “You two better take a seat. The bride is ready to get started.”
As Adam escorted her to the chairs facing the rose bower, his posture was even more rigid than usual. Under his breath, he said, “I don’t want you involved with Pierce’s problem. CCC does not investigate petty theft.”
“Maybe we should. We haven’t been all that busy lately. Our last big case was the murder investigation with our charming bride and groom—Kate and Liam.”
“A good example,” Adam said. “Kate and Liam also chose to ignore my advice. They ran off on their own and nearly got killed. Just look what happened to them.”
As the harpist played the opening notes to “The Wedding March,” the guests rose and turned toward the house. Kate Carradine stood framed in the French doors. This was her second wedding, and she wore a long sheath in champagne gold satin. Her bouquet was red roses—vibrant colors that were eclipsed by the radiance of Kate’s smile.
“Look what happened,” Molly said, repeating Adam’s words. “Seems like a happy ending to me.”
“There’s no way CCC can start taking on this sort of case. I forbid it.”
She turned and glared at him. She couldn’t believe he’d used the F word with her. Forbid? “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
Any doubts she might have had about investigating the magpie for Pierce vanished. Though Adam Briggs was her boss, that didn’t give him the right to forbid her from helping out a friend.
“Here’s the deal,” she said. “I’m going to help Pierce on my own time. I never take sick time, and Lord knows I’ve earned about a thousand days off. I’ll work undercover to preserve the precious reputation of CCC.”
“How?” Adam asked. “Pierce knows you. His friends know you. They’re aware of where you work.”
“All I need is a cover story,” Molly said.
As Kate passed gracefully between the rows of chairs, she winked at Molly. For an instant, they shared the joy of true love fulfilled—an impossible dream that sometimes comes true.
Sunshine spilled gently into the yard. A gentle warmth touched Molly’s face and penetrated deep inside her, heating the blood flow around her heart. True love. It was a wonderful thing.
Silently, she dismissed her thoughts about what a pain in the butt Adam could be. Life was too short to dwell on the negative. Might as well enjoy the moment.
Taking her seat, she knew exactly how she’d handle the investigation into petty theft for Pierce, the wedding planner. To Adam, she said, “I’ll pretend that I’m spending time with Pierce to plan my own wedding.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Adam. I’ll be an undercover bride.”
Chapter Two
On Monday morning, Adam pulled his 1995 white Land Cruiser into his assigned parking space behind the CCC offices. The time was 08:13.
He noticed that Molly’s lavender Volkswagen bug was parked askew with the right rear tire overlapping the white line defining her space. Apparently, she’d been in a hurry or careless. Adam didn’t care which. At least she was here.
He didn’t know what to expect from Molly this morning. They hadn’t spoken after the wedding on Saturday, which meant she’d had the rest of the weekend to stew. It was his hope that she’d reconsidered her harebrained scheme to investigate petty theft for her wedding planner friend. An undercover bride? What the hell was that all about?
Though Adam respected her intelligence, Molly didn’t have sufficient training for field investigations. He’d tried to instruct her in hand-to-hand combat and the use of firearms, but she never took those lessons seriously. If she ran into danger, she’d be outmatched.
Nor did she have the patience required for interrogation. Molly was blunt and straightforward. There wasn’t a subtle bone in her body. Which, in and of itself, wasn’t a bad trait because it meant she was clear-thinking, able to see what was needed and to carry through. She was proficient at her administrative work. Here. Where she belonged. In the CCC office. At her desk.
He strode on the sidewalk circling the yellow Victorian house that had been converted into office space. In the flower borders at the edge of the verandah, only a few mums and hardy geraniums held their color in October. The lawn had faded to a dull winter green, but the grounds were tidy, swept clean of fallen leaves.
The location of this office in Golden—west of Denver—pleased him. Though Golden was home to the massive Coors brewery and Colorado School of Mines, there was a friendly, small-town feel to this area. The waitress at the Mesa Café knew he liked his burgers rare and his coffee hot. The dry cleaner used the right amount of starch on his shirts. Yet, the CCC office was less than half an hour’s drive from metropolitan Denver, where there were all the conveniences of a big city. And all the crime.
Inside the foyer, he went through the first door on the right, entering the CCC offices. Molly sat waiting behind her oak desk, which was, as usual, well-organized and cleared of extraneous papers. Her bright red fingernails tapped an impatient rhythm on the desktop. She reached up to flip her long blond hair off her forehead. The expression in her blue eyes looked like trouble.
“Good morning,” Adam said, ignoring her glare.
He marched directly to the coffee machine where Molly had already brewed his special blend of arabica and Sumatra beans. The dark liquid poured neatly into Adam’s white mug with the Marine Corps emblem on the side. Semper Fi. At his desk, Adam knew The Denver Post would be waiting. He hoped to escape into his inner office without a conversation.
But Molly left her desk and blocked his way. Coolly, she said, “There are a couple of letters for you to sign. I left them on your desk. And I’ll check in tonight to make sure everything is going all right.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I promised Pierce I’d help him out, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
Life was so much easier in the military. “What if I gave you a direct order to stay right here?”
“I’d tell you to write it in triplicate, fold it twice and shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
“You know, there’s a thin line between sass and insubordination.”
“So court-martial me.” She grabbed the leopard-patterned purse that matched the furry collar on her jean jacket. “You have my cell phone number if you run into any emergencies.”
Damn it! He didn’t want her to go. “As a matter of fact, I have a special project for today. I need your help.”
She paused at the door. “You need me?”
“Yes, I do.”
Suspiciously, she said, “Tell me about this special project.”
“My sister and her husband are going out of town for a few days, and I said I’d watch my two-year-old niece.”
“Amelia.” Molly smiled fondly. “She’s such a little cutie-pie. It’s hard to believe she came from the same gene pool as you.”
“Nonetheless,” he said. “You can see why I require your presence here today.”
“As a baby-sitter?”
“I prefer to think of it as caretaking, wherein we provide suitable activit
ies for—”
“This is a perfect illustration of our basic problem, Adam. You don’t take me seriously. I’m smart. I’m efficient. And I’m capable of a lot more than babysitting Amelia.” Her blue eyes narrowed to laser-edged slits. “Or baby-sitting you, for that matter.”
“Me?”
“That’s right,” she said. “You and your special blend of coffee. Your regular barber appointments every three weeks. Your oil changes on exactly the recommended mileage.”
“Simple maintenance,” he said.
“Nothing about you is simple. You require more caretaking than any two-year-old.”
She pivoted in her high-heeled boots and slammed the door on her way out.
Just like a woman. She had to have the last word.
In this case, however, she was mistaken. He didn’t take her for granted. Her work was high caliber, and he appreciated her efforts. Why the hell couldn’t she see that?
Because he didn’t tell her.
Adam scowled at the empty swivel chair where she should have been sitting. Her tidy desktop mocked him. The potted plants on the windowsill and the fern atop the file cabinets nodded in mute agreement with Molly. Apparently, he didn’t tell her often enough that he appreciated her.
But why should he? He paid her salary and her health insurance. He cosigned when she bought her house. Damn it. What did she want from him?
As he turned toward his desk, the coffee slopped over the edge of his mug and spilled onto his shirt cuff. This was going to be a long, frustrating day.
MOLLY HAD NEVER been to Pierce’s Cherry Creek North office before, and she was impressed by the tonal art work and attractive, modern furniture that made a basic beige color scheme seem original. “This isn’t what I expected,” she said. “It doesn’t look very wedding-ish.”
“Did you think I’d have pink plaster cupids hanging from the ceiling?”
“Maybe cupids wearing Bronco jerseys,” she said.
Though her husky friend was dressed respectably in a long-sleeved shirt and khaki trousers, he looked like he was still wearing his football shoulder pads.
“Follow me,” he said.
He led her behind a partition to a well-lit space with a long conference table. Arrayed on a wall of shelves were sample books for invitations, caterers, cakes, color schemes and magazines filled with the latest trends. The opposite wall was covered with photographs of wedding decorations, table settings and bridal parties. Everywhere Molly looked was wedding, wedding, wedding. It was like a matrimonial explosion.
“This is more like it,” she said. “By the way, I’m not doing this investigation under the auspices of CCC. I’m working undercover.”
“How so?”
“While I’m collecting evidence, I’ll pretend to be planning my own wedding.”
“To Adam?” he asked.
Utterly aghast, she gaped at him. “Why on earth would you think that?”
“Well, Molly. It’s kind of obvious that you two are—”
“Stop right there.” Adam Briggs was the last man she’d ever consider as a potential groom. He was cranky, obstinate and constantly underestimated her. Just the thought of him made her so angry that she could spit. “If I’m going to have a fantasy fiancé, he’s going to be a real fantasy.”
“Tell me.”
“His name is Rafael DuBois. Of course, he’s a total babe. And he’s a multimillionaire from Australia, which is why he won’t be around while I’m planning our wedding.”
Pierce held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. “What about your engagement ring?”
She frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. Is it important?”
“Oh, yeah. If you want to be taken seriously, you’ve got to flash the diamond.”
“We’ll make an excuse.” She didn’t really expect this investigation to take more than a couple of days, certainly not long enough that she’d need to worry about a real diamond engagement ring.
Pacing around the conference table, she pointed to a door at the rear. “What’s back there?”
“Files and my own private office where I can put my feet up on the desk and scratch my belly.”
“So you start your couples in the classy reception area up front, then you bring them in here to do the actual planning. And behind door number three is where the real work takes place.”
“You got it.” He nodded. “What do you need to get started?”
Though she’d never done a field investigation of her own, Molly knew how to gather information and deduce patterns. “I want your files on each wedding where there’s been a theft.”
“Okay,” he said. “Why?”
“Your magpie thief knows where the weddings will take place, and he knows the schedule. Therefore, we’ll start with the assumption that this is an inside job.”
“Are you saying that the magpie is somebody I know?”
“Well, yeah. That’s the definition of an inside job.” When did Pierce Williams get to be so naive? “After I go through your files, I’ll know who worked on all the weddings where there were thefts. That’s a start.”
A grin lifted his heavy features. “You sound like you know what you’re doing with this investigating stuff.”
“You bet I do.” She confidently tossed her hair.
“You remind me of Erin Brockovich.”
“Yeah?” She adjusted the silver concha belt on her denim miniskirt. “You think I have the smarts of Erin Brockovich? Or the cleavage?”
“Both,” he said.
She followed Pierce into his back office where a plain Formica-topped desk and computer station stood in front of several file cabinets.
“All the paperwork is in the files,” he said. “But your search might be quicker on the computer.”
She planted herself in the chair behind the desk and fired up the flat-screen monitor. “Nice equipment.”
“I got a deal,” he said.
“I’ve been telling Adam for months that we need to update our computer system. If I left things up to him, we’d be using homing pigeons for mail and doing accounts on an abacus.”
Pierce leaned over the desk and punched a few computer keys, bringing up a document. “For somebody who doesn’t have an interest in Adam, you talk about him a lot.”
“We work together.” She shrugged, not wanting to consider the state of her relationship with Adam too deeply. Right now, there wasn’t much to consider in the way of any relationship with any man. Her dance card was a total blank; she hadn’t been on a date in weeks. “Let’s talk about you. How’s your love life?”
“Still divorced and playing the field. In my job, I meet a lot of horny bridesmaids.”
“That’s sleazy, Pierce.”
“It’s not my fault if the ladies keep throwing themselves in my path.”
Molly had to wonder if one of those ladies might be the thief. A woman scorned might try a couple of petty thefts to get his attention. “Do any of these ladies hold a grudge?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“What about employees? Do you have anybody who works for you?”
“Right now, I’m using part-time receptionists from a temp service. My full-time assistant is off having a baby and won’t be back for a couple more weeks.”
“So, she’s not a suspect,” Molly said. The idea of a pregnant cat burglar was too bizarre.
He pointed at the computer monitor. “Here’s a list of what was taken. The notation on the side tells which wedding.”
Pierce had been accurate when he said that none of the stolen items were valuable. Nothing on this list was worth more than a hundred bucks. There were several kitchen appliances: a toaster, a Cuisinart, a coffeemaker.
Molly brushed him away. “Leave me alone with these files. I’ll see what I come up with.”
After a couple of hours combing through his files, she had a new respect for her friend’s organizational skills. Planning a high-end wedding seemed nearly as complicated as invadi
ng a small country. There were caterers, wedding cake bakers, society page reporters, wine merchants, videographers, musicians, florists and couturiers to coordinate.
In the five weddings where there had been a burglary, three names came up consistently: a caterer, a photographer and the woman who provided the gowns for the bridal party. Those were her suspects, and she needed to meet them face-to-face.
Molly entered the inner office where Pierce was on the phone. With calendars for sporting events tacked on the walls and a minibasketball hoop over the wastebasket, the decor was more suitable for a locker room than a wedding planner’s office.
When he was off the phone, Molly announced the three names of her primary suspects. She started with, “Ronald Atchison, the photographer. I know Ronald, so I’ll call him and set up a meeting.”
Pierce nodded. “Who else?”
“Denny Devlin, the caterer. Wasn’t there a scandal about him?”
“It’s a sad story. Last year, one of his employees was discovered to have hepatitis. Everybody who attended Devlin’s catered events had to get vaccinations. That incident damn near put him out of business.”
“But you continue to use him.”
“Because he’s the best.” Pierce pitched a crumpled-up wad of paper through the basketball hoop and into the wastebasket. “I’ve even loaned him money to keep going. Are you sure we need to suspect him?”
“Yes,” Molly said. “Make an appointment for me to meet him.”
“And who’s suspect number three?”
“Gloria,” she said.
Gloria Vanderly, the couturier for bridal gowns and bridesmaids’ dresses, had a stellar reputation. She dealt with the top designers in New York, Paris and Milan. She was also Pierce’s ex-wife.
“No way,” Pierce said.
“She’s been at all the weddings,” Molly said.
“Think about it, Molly. You’ve met Gloria, and she’s designer chic from her eyebrows to her toenail polish, which I happen to know costs twenty-five bucks a bottle. Gloria doesn’t even know how to use a toaster, much less how to steal one.”
“Maybe that’s what she wants you to think.” Molly posed a different theory. “Maybe Gloria is stealing this little stuff to cause you embarrassment. Or for revenge.”
