by Debra Webb
“I’ll take that as a no. And I’d be working if my next job wasn’t taped off.”
She gave in and rubbed at the tension in her neck. Hadn’t there been a time when Belclare folks had just done their own thing without professional design teams and small armies of temporary workers? She missed those days. Of course, with the way the Christmas Village had grown it was impossible to set up without help. While everyone liked how December brought a wealth of tourists into town, the police department maintained a higher alert for petty crimes.
Since she’d taken over, the worst they’d dealt with had been a string of burglaries and one car theft. The burglaries had been teenagers looking for trouble and all of the stolen items had been recovered and returned. The car theft had been a pair of temporary workers operating under the influence of alcohol and stupidity.
Yeah, those were the days.
This year, she had legitimate concerns about how to protect Belclare effectively. There wasn’t enough time or manpower to run background checks on every new person in town. Her meetings with business owners hadn’t gone well, most of them siding with the mayor that the additional threats were her problem to solve since she’d brought it on them.
At some point in Belclare’s past, the police chief would have been hailed as a hero for that bust for more than a few hours. But despite the public resentment and doubt, she understood the financial importance of the upcoming days and she was doing her best to make sure it all came together without any further tragedy.
The ugly vandalism didn’t bode well.
“Until Mr. Filmore decides how to proceed with the cleanup, this area is off-limits.”
“I’ll let my boss know.” He pulled a cell phone out of the pocket of his dark red vest.
She frowned. “Don’t you own a real coat?”
“Sure.” He gave her a strange look. “It gets in the way when I’m working.”
“I see.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t die of frostbite on you.”
Based on the way her body reacted to him, frostbite wasn’t a concern for her, either, if he was nearby. She’d nearly forgotten about her freezing feet during this unexpected conversation. She glared back at the sign. “No one is going to die of anything around here.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, his attention on his phone.
“Could you move your truck, please? I have things to do and you’re blocking me in.”
“Sure.” With the phone to his ear, he settled into the driver’s seat. His voice was a low rumble as he explained the problem to his boss.
Then the engine masked his conversation as he rolled out of the way, giving her a small wave.
In her own car, she cranked up the heat and hit shuffle on her iPod, letting the blast of AC/DC fill the car on her way through town. She needed the loud, demanding beat to blot out her thoughts. There was no point in doubting her course of action. She wouldn’t take back the words even if she could. As her thoughts cycled, she spotted Riley’s truck about a block behind her.
He wasn’t following her. That would be paranoid, fearful thinking and she wouldn’t give in to it. She wouldn’t sink to the level that gave some rumored local terrorists the advantage. He was headed for one of the warehouses down by the docks and this was the most direct route through town. But he turned when she did, heading north away from Main Street, directly opposite the route to the docks.
She practiced it in her mind, running through her defensive options as he continued to tail her. Preparation wasn’t paranoia, she assured herself.
Abby nearly cracked when he was practically on her bumper as she turned onto her street. She debated driving right by her house, but decided her address was no secret and it was time to make a stand. With that thought echoing in her brain, she pulled into her driveway.
But Riley didn’t pull in behind her; he pulled into the driveway right beside hers. In fact, the way the two homes were situated, they were now parked side by side.
What the hell? All concept of her attraction to the man vanished instantly. He was like a bad penny turning up everywhere today. The house next door had been vacant for several weeks, since Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had gone to Florida to visit their grandchildren. He had no business being on her street or in their driveway.
She yanked her purse from the passenger seat and got out of the car. “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. O’Brien?”
Chapter Five
“Hey, Chief.” Riley tipped his head in greeting, his expression easy. “Call me Riley,” he reminded her. He shrugged. “The boss told me to try again first thing tomorrow. No sense unloading tonight just to load it up again in the morning.”
She rounded the hood of her car, one hand in her purse on the grip of her gun. “That doesn’t explain why you’re following me.”
“Following you?” He glanced at the two vehicles as if just noticing they were parked next to each other. “No such luck. I just came on home.”
“Home?”
“Well, at least home for now. I signed the rental agreement during my lunch break.”
“The Hamiltons didn’t say anything about renting out their house.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met them.”
“Never met?” she echoed. “But that’s their house.” Exasperated, she stepped forward. “I need some sort of proof of your claim, Mr. O’Brien.”
He raised his hands like he was surrendering. “Take it easy. Let me get the paperwork.”
This was intolerable. He couldn’t be her neighbor. She couldn’t cope with having a stranger living so close. Not right now when she saw a potential threat in the faces of people she’d known for years. Okay, so maybe it was more than the easygoing attitude and absolute raw sex appeal. While neither of those traits had ever ranked high on her list of trustworthy features, Riley affected her differently. At precisely the time when she needed to trust herself, life dumped this hunk of handsomeness and doubt right next door.
Frustrated, she hastily flipped through the folder he handed her. The letterhead was familiar, as was the Realtor’s name. The lease agreement and signatures all seemed to be in order.
“She should have told me,” Abby muttered.
“I told you I liked your town.”
“That hardly validates renting a house.”
“Are you always this anxious when someone moves in?”
The question seized her attention, forced her to think like a cop rather than a frightened victim trapped in the crosshairs of a rifle she couldn’t see. “No. No,” she repeated as the day suddenly caught up with her. She handed him the folder. “My apologies. It’s been a little dicey around here lately. I’m surprised the realty company didn’t warn you off. I thought everyone believed I was a magnet for trouble.”
“They did mention it actually.”
She laughed. The sound was laced with a bit of weary hysteria, but it felt pretty good anyway. “So you’re looking for trouble?”
* * *
RILEY TOSSED THE paperwork back into the cab and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He almost felt bad that he couldn’t tell the woman the truth, but breaking cover wasn’t the answer. “I’m not looking for trouble, just work.” He glanced to the house. “And anywhere that isn’t a hotel room, really.”
“That lease is for a year,” she said.
He watched her shifting, rubbing her legs together a bit. She was cold but too stubborn to take care of herself until she knew if he was friend or foe. Based on the threats aimed her way, he figured that showed remarkable determination and a hefty dose of intelligence.
“The Realtor approached me while I was decorating their building. When I learned the owners wanted some work done and ideas for a remodel, I knew this was the right place for me.” Again he was grateful for the deep background and work history Director Casey had created for him. The proximity to the chief simplified his surveillance plans.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said with
obvious reluctance. She stuck out her gloved hand.
He accepted the gesture. Her hand felt small in his, but there was strength in the grip. He wanted to ask what kind of weapon she preferred. The woman oozed tough under the contrasting layers of wariness and the feminine heels and power suit. She was a puzzle he wanted to solve, but he suspected he wouldn’t get anywhere by pushing her.
“You’d better get inside and warm up,” he said, releasing her hand and closing his truck door. “If you need anything, just come on over.”
“Right. Same goes.”
“Thanks.” When she walked away, he turned for his own front door.
“A word of warning, Riley.”
“Yeah?”
“Mrs. Wilks will probably be down with a plate of cookies.”
“That doesn’t sound so awful.”
“Exactly. Her cookies are addictive, you’ll see.” Her smile changed everything about her face. It chased away the worry and brightened those blue eyes. It gave him a glimpse of what she was like without the cloud of stress over her head. “It’s why we all put up with her benign nosiness.”
“Got it.”
With a nod, she pushed open her front door and disappeared.
He walked around the truck and up the path, entering the front door of his house wondering what the hell to do now. When they’d left the vandalized sign, he’d hoped she’d go to the police station so he could take a quick walk through her house.
Light flirting hadn’t worked at the station and just now she’d barely accepted him being neighborly. He had to find a way to keep an eye on her without driving her out of his sight while he searched for an imminent threat. From what he’d heard around town, everyone was at least irritated with her if not outright angry. It made it tough to sort out who was hiding the terrorist tendencies.
He walked straight back to the kitchen and put his vest on the peg by the back door. The simple act had him recalling the chief’s concern about his coat. One more piece of the developing picture that was her. Could he use that innate concern to his advantage?
He glanced out the side window, across their mirrored driveways, to her house. Resigned, he pulled a beer from the refrigerator, leaned back against the counter and contemplated the Hamiltons’ outdated kitchen.
His tape measure was on his tool belt in the truck, but he paced off the flooring and started mulling over the cost and benefits of tile versus vinyl. Reclaimed hardwood might be an option, too. The space wasn’t too big. But the weather could make tracking down those materials a challenge. Per his agreement, any changes beyond basic repair would need to be approved.
Oh, well, he wasn’t in a rush. There was plenty of remodeling to keep him busy and maintain his cover even after he was done with the holiday setup. He rolled some of the ache from his shoulders. The physical work would give his brain time to sort out the people who were ready to act on their anger toward the chief.
He’d only been in town a couple of days and it wasn’t a stretch that criminals thought they could slip under the radar in this sleepy little waterside town. Chief Jensen had things under control, but the police force was small, as was the community. The docks did brisk business and the smaller port meant quicker turnaround, which meant shipments didn’t linger long enough to get caught.
Riley walked into the den where he’d tucked his laptop into the small writing desk. The Hamiltons’ decorating style wasn’t exactly his taste, but the privacy and security beat a motel.
He turned on the television and found a music channel for background noise, then sat down to review everything he could find about Belclare, working backward from the most recent news. By now, he’d been over all of the details and press about the drug bust a hundred times and still couldn’t pinpoint who might have set it up.
Taking a long draw on his beer, he pulled up files he’d created on key people in town, especially those who’d vocalized frustration and concern over the chief’s victory speech. The hardware store owner had gone public for a Baltimore news station. The mayor, too, more than once. Riley chalked that up to making the most of free publicity for the hardware store and the mayor was leveraging the attention for his political advancement. The well-spoken politician was nearly as irritating as the whiny Mr. Filmore.
Riley was digging deeper into Filmore’s background when the doorbell chimed. He quickly closed the windows related to his search and brought up the remodeling sites that fit his cover story. In the hall, he spied visitors at his kitchen door. Chief Jensen and an older lady. Both were smiling, but only the older woman looked like she was truly happy to be there.
He manufactured a smile and answered the door. “Evening, ladies.” He flashed the chief a covert smile.
“Excuse us for dropping in without any warning,” the older woman said cheerfully. “I’m Matilda Wilks, just two doors down. Abby here offered to join me in welcoming you to the neighborhood.”
Abby’s cloudy expression told a much different story. He grinned, knowing she’d either been dragged along or had joined Mrs. Wilks solely for the purpose of checking the Hamiltons’ property. His money was on the latter.
“We brought cookies.” Mrs. Wilks waved the foil-covered plate in her hand. “Fresh from the oven.”
“I’d be a fool to turn you away,” Riley said, holding the door wide for them. Let Abby look around. She needed to realize he wasn’t a threat to her, even if he couldn’t tell her outright that he was her best asset.
Mrs. Wilks bustled in and the scent of warm chocolate-chip cookies tickled his nose. But the scent of Abby, as she strolled past him in the narrow hall, brought his entire body to high alert. She’d let down her hair and the glossy blond mane smelled of flowers warmed by sunshine. While he didn’t understand the science behind fragrances, he appreciated the effects.
That scent took him back to the garden behind the orphanage, where he’d first discovered the satisfaction of working with his hands.
“Poor Abby here hadn’t heard about the Hamiltons, what with everything she’s had on her mind,” Mrs. Wilks was saying. Making herself right at home, she put the plate on the table and removed the foil, revealing a pile of thick, perfectly browned chocolate-chip cookies. Then she spotted the beer on the counter. “Tell me you have milk? Or even coffee?”
“Both,” he said, grinning.
“Good boy.” Mrs. Wilks beamed up at him, her steel-gray hair swinging as she turned to the chief. “Which do you prefer, Abby dear?”
“Milk, please.”
Mrs. Wilks arched a brow and gave a soft, speculating hum. “Your stomach must be a bother with all this extra stress.”
When a blush crept into the chief’s cheeks, Riley tried to distract Mrs. Wilks. “Have a seat,” he encouraged, pulling out the nearest chair. Mrs. Wilks claimed the seat. Riley reached for the next chair and smiled at the chief.
“No, thanks,” she said, obviously in police chief mode. “Mind if I look around?”
“Abby,” Mrs. Wilks scolded, “at least have a cookie before you go investigating.”
Riley smothered a laugh while he filled three glasses with milk. “Aside from a suitcase and my laptop, I promise you it’s just the way the Hamiltons left it.”
“I’ve told her everything they told me,” Mrs. Wilks said. She arrowed Abby a knowing look. “She just doesn’t know how to relax.”
Abby threw up her hands in surrender and took a seat.
Riley joined them, taking the one remaining chair and being careful not to bump Abby’s knee with his.
“A body gets tired of the cold,” Mrs. Wilks was saying. “If I had family in Florida, I might do the very same thing.”
“I’m not sure I could let you do that,” Abby said, choosing a cookie. “Who would bake for me?”
“You know your way around a kitchen, young lady, don’t even pretend. What about you?” She turned a sharp eye his way. “Do you need me to bring over a casserole?”
He grinned at the older woman again. “I can
manage. Thanks.”
“More than beer and chips, I hope.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He broke a cookie in two and stuffed one half into his mouth. As he chewed, he watched the way Abby dunked her cookie in her milk glass. Deliberate and methodical, he found it oddly endearing. “The cookies are perfect, Mrs. Wilks. Thanks for bringing them by.”
“Good company makes everything better.” She looked around the kitchen. “What did the Hamiltons want you to do here?”
“A little of this and that,” he replied. “There’s some minor repair work I’ll take care of first.”
“That rotted wood under the sink, I hope. Abby, do you remember what a mess that was?”
Abby bobbed her chin, her mouth full of cookie. Riley smothered a laugh. “I was just debating tile or vinyl. Any thoughts, ladies?”
As Mrs. Wilks launched into a full report of which families on the street had made which type of upgrade, Riley caught the chief watching him.
He arched his eyebrows and her gaze abruptly returned to the glass of milk in front of her. “Another cookie?” He nudged the plate her way.
She shook her head and pushed back from the table.
“You don’t have a preference on the flooring?” he asked.
The look she sent him was cool at best. “No. You should go with whatever the owners want,” she replied, taking her glass to the sink and rinsing it.
“True,” he admitted. “I’ll work up a few ideas for them to consider. If it were my place I’d go with tile.”
“Hard on the knees,” Mrs. Wilks interjected. “Then you just end up with rugs and mats everywhere.”
He mentioned the reclaimed hardwood and Mrs. Wilks offered an exuberant opinion on the value of that idea. He pretended not to notice Abby slipping away from the kitchen.
Mrs. Wilks had no such problem. She motioned for him to lean in closer. “That girl is suspicious of everyone these days. Don’t let it bother you.”
“I hear she has cause.”
“That she does,” Mrs. Wilks agreed. “Go with the reclaimed floor. Better all around.”
“All right,” he said, listening to the stair treads creak. He grinned at Mrs. Wilks. “I promise I’m not here to cause more trouble.”
