Holding Out for a Hero

by Pamela Tracy

  “My parents weren’t like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I barely remember my dad. He was in the military, too. He was gone a lot. He was discharged when I was twelve. He came home for a week, and then one morning, he walked away and never looked back.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t...” She’d been thinking of her parents. She couldn’t imagine her dad walking away. But her husband, Larry, had walked away. She tried again. “I’m sorry. Not all dads are like that, but the ones who are...”

  “My uncles are good guys, like your dad,” Oscar said. “I have more than twenty cousins, and my siblings and I were always doing something fun at their houses.”

  “Maybe you can be more like your uncles.”

  He’d been somewhat animated while talking about his family. That expression went away as he said, “I joined the military like my father. I was mostly special ops, lots of danger. I saw firsthand how someone like me shouldn’t be married. After my discharge, I majored in criminal justice and worked at a law firm while in college. Saw up close quite a few nasty divorce and abandonment cases. Left me with a bad feeling about marriage and why I’ve always tried to help others.”

  “Sounds lonely,” she said.

  He paused, seemingly a bit disconcerted, then finished with “I’ve mostly been around dedicated men and women in difficult, sometimes life-threatening situations that—”

  Shelley nodded, understanding. “I get it. You’ve been busy and jaded. It makes sense.” She took the socks from him, picked three pairs and then headed to the cashier with her loot.

  “Three dollars and fifteen cents,” the cashier said.

  “I don’t need the white socks.” Shelley pulled them from her pile.

  “Two dollars and ninety cents,” the cashier said, not even blinking.

  “I’ll get the other pair of socks,” Oscar offered.

  “No, I don’t need them. I picked them up by accident.” Shelley put the dime in her purse.

  They stood in front of Sell It Again Sam, the mood somber. Finally Shelley said, “I’m being careful with my money until I go back to work.”

  Oscar stared at her, his steely gaze daring her to tell the truth, open up, about everything.

  “I didn’t say anything, but if you need help, I’m here.”

  They stood a few more moments, the ebb and flow of Sarasota Falls surrounding them. Finally Oscar moved toward the SUV, asking, “How much do you know about babies? You’re an only child.”

  Shelley chuckled and rubbed her stomach. “What I know, Ryan’s taught me. I never even babysat. I didn’t need to. I worked for my mother.”

  “She was a great cook as well as a great baker,” Oscar said. His eyes lit up. “You hungry?”

  “I’m now craving a chocolate muffin,” she joked, trying to push away the worry about money and her ex-husband and the attention of this man who might or might not have been an ally.

  “I was thinking something a bit more nutritious,” Oscar said, “but I’d never say no to a woman in your condition.”

  “I need to find out what’s wrong with my car.”

  “I can help with that. But if I don’t eat first, I’ll faint, and you’ll have to drag me off the street. My treat.”

  She had food at home, but she also had, here, a man willing to look at her car. She gave him directions to the Station Diner. It was late for breakfast but early for lunch, so only a few customers occupied the red vinyl seats. Shelley figured it wouldn’t appear unusual if she just ordered soup. Buying clothes and going out for a meal were not in her budget.

  “About time you visited me,” Jimmy Walker scolded Shelley as she walked through the door. “I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore.”

  “I like you just fine.” She went behind the counter and gave him a hug. “How are you feeling?” He’d been on oxygen ever since she could remember, and she’d bullied him into not smoking when she was twelve.

  “Can’t complain.”

  Oscar chose a booth near the back of the diner. She used the facilities and joined him, thinking that if she got any bigger, she’d need to sit at a table instead of a booth. It was that tight a fit.

  “Need a menu?” he asked.

  “No, I memorized the menu years ago. I’ll have chicken strips and french fries.” Not good for the baby, but excellent comfort food.

  He put down the menu and said, “Me, too.”

  She knew then that she could really like him. He was easy to talk to when he wasn’t acting like a cop, and he picked up on the little things that mattered.

  “You’ll need to go tell Jimmy. He doesn’t keep a waitress during off-hours.”

  Oscar headed back to the cash stand, placed the order, said a few other things to Jimmy—making the older man laugh—and then returned to the booth.

  “You come here often, then?” he asked.

  “I used to. My mom actually made desserts for Jimmy. I would deliver them here. He’d always set me in a booth and give me a cup of soup while I waited for her carryall bags.”

  “He’s a tough old bird,” Oscar observed.

  “He’s had a few offers to buy the restaurant, but he says he’ll work here until they carry him out. Some people are like that. Their job is their world. I’ve always felt sorry for him.”

  Oscar frowned. “Well, some jobs are so important that—”

  “Not more important than family or health,” Shelley said.

  “I disagree. When I was in the military, I’d be off the radar for months. If I weren’t willing to make the sacrifice, then who would?”

  “I didn’t say that people shouldn’t sacrifice,” Shelley pointed out. “What I am saying is that priorities are important and that knowing when to change a priority is important, too.”

  “How did we get on this subject?” Oscar still frowned.

  “You said that Jimmy was a tough old bird. Well, Jimmy made this restaurant his life. Work shouldn’t be your life. My mom invited him to our house for Christmas, and he didn’t want to come.”

  “If he didn’t want to come, he shouldn’t have had to.”

  “But what’s the joy in working on a day when everyone else is opening presents and catching up with family?”

  “What if even one family needed a place to eat on Christmas? Like the movie where the dogs got the Christmas dinner and the family wound up having Chinese food.”

  “Fiction,” Shelley argued.

  “Not everyone is blessed with a family like you had.”

  “You’ve talked about your mom, your siblings and your uncles’ families. Sounds like you had a pretty good childhood.”

  Oscar slowly nodded. He’d spent way too long thinking about the empty space where his father should have been.

  “I did,” he admitted. “And I didn’t appreciate it enough. But also, I didn’t appreciate my freedom to choose. In Afghanistan, I saw entire villages completely pulverized. Whole families gone. They’d never break bread again. I never thought about that, not completely.”

  Shelley felt something stir in her heart. Entire villages completely pulverized. That was so much worse than what her ex-husband had done to Sarasota Falls, to her. She’d been telling herself over and over how blessed she was to have Ryan and soon Isabelle in her life. But heck, she was lucky to be sitting here, across from a handsome man willing to buy her lunch, and to have a home—albeit small—to return to.

  She cleared her throat, her respect for this man growing. Her desire to confide in him nudged her, making her reconsider, but she wasn’t ready yet, wasn’t willing to put Ryan at risk.

  She had no legal hold on Ryan.

  None.

  “How did you wind up working as a cop here in Sarasota Falls?” Her voice was thick. “I mean, I kno
w your aunt lives here, but...”

  “Order!” Jimmy called.

  Oscar fetched their soup and brought over a pitcher of water. After finishing half the bowl, he said, “I came here to check on my aunt, and the opportunity to work for the police department more or less fell in my lap. It’s only temporary.”

  Disappointment swelled, but she pushed it away. She needed to be glad he was leaving. She’d been divorced only a little over six months, and she carried enough baggage to sink a ship.

  “Hard to imagine you being pushed into anything you didn’t want to do.”

  “Sometimes you do the job that needs to be done because you’re the only one who can.”

  Chicken strips didn’t take long to eat, and too soon, he was holding the door open for her and guiding her out of the diner and back to the SUV. He’d just settled behind the wheel when his phone rang. He answered it with “Guzman.”

  She listened to one side of the conversation, catching on that it was something that concerned her, concerned her very much.

  When the call ended, she looked at him and asked, “So, Jedidiah Carraby found the brooch that my ex-husband stole from him?”

  “Yes, and Mr. Carraby insists that it just appeared on his bedroom dresser. He says it couldn’t have been there all this time. He’s wondering if your dad could have had it. Maybe even gotten it from you.”

  “No, I didn’t have the brooch, and I don’t know how my dad would have come to have it.”

  Her ex-husband had taken the brooch. That she knew.

  Most likely her ex-husband had returned the brooch. Why? To send her a message? Again, why? Having her dad go missing from the care center was message enough.

  But if the brooch was worth what Jedidiah claimed, her ex would never have returned it.

  “Any chance the brooch is a copy, a fake?” she asked.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Just the way my mind works.”

  Oscar made another phone call. After hanging up, he said, “Riley’s not happy, but he’s willing to check it out.”

  She rubbed her stomach. Any joy the day had offered had been sucked away by the thought of her ex-husband. It was only a ten-minute drive home, and Oscar parked behind her car, the neighborhood strangely empty. Unusual given the activity of the last few days. The news media had made frequent appearances, visiting Vine Street with crews from both the Albuquerque and the Santa Fe stations. They’d turned their cameras toward her apartment but hadn’t said too much about her since the first few days.

  Strangers, too, had taken to walking the street, gawking at Candace’s house. Their vehicles drove up and down Vine Street, slowing for a look. A good number of the cars were white, blending into the universe like her ex-husband always tried to do. He was here, nearby, playing with her, and now she knew he was capable of murder.

  Telling the police didn’t mean they’d find him. They hadn’t in the six months they’d been looking for him.

  They didn’t seem to be able to find him; he easily found her, and he knew how to get at her emotionally when it came to her father and son.

  She wanted to stamp her feet, wanted to curse, wanted to shout to the world how unfair all of this was. She was having a baby! And the only person around who temporarily cared was a cop who’d probably been assigned to watch over her in case she decided to take flight again.

  Unfair.

  “Looks like Candace’s dad is down at my aunt’s place,” Oscar remarked. “Probably checking in.”

  Shelley looked, and sure enough, the white minivan was in front of Bianca’s Bed-and-Breakfast. “Maybe you should head home. He might have some questions for you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he does,” Oscar said easily. “But I have even more for him.” He got out of the SUV, came around and opened her door, then walked to her car. Shelley disengaged the seat belt, rubbed her stomach and followed. She felt unwieldy but somehow right. Her doctor had been pleased with the baby’s heart rate and growth and with Shelley’s blood pressure.

  Harmony within chaos, Shelley thought, because her blood pressure should have been shooting through the roof. The same with her heart rate.

  A door slammed behind her, and she jumped. Oscar gave Robert Tellmaster, her landlord, a wave and said, “I’m impressed with the locks. Good work.”

  Shelley looked between the two men. She’d wondered why Mr. Tellmaster had installed new locks. She’d ask Oscar when the opportunity arose. She forced a smile before saying, “Morning, Mr. Tellmaster.”

  “Something wrong with your vehicle?”

  “Yes—it didn’t start this morning. Have you seen anyone near it?”

  “No, but I thought I heard something this morning about three. Abigail’s yappy dog. Wonder if somebody was out here? Come to think of it, I heard that dog the morning Ms. Livingston was murdered. I think I mentioned that to the cops.”

  “What time did you hear the dog the morning of Candace’s murder?” Oscar asked.

  “That would have been about five. I know because I looked at the clock.”

  “You sure of the time?” Oscar asked.

  “Five minutes after five.”

  “You open the window, look out or anything?”

  “Nope,” Robert said.

  “I heard Abigail’s dog that morning, too,” Shelley said. “I didn’t hear her this morning.”

  Oscar wrote something down on a tiny notebook he pulled from his shirt pocket. Then he raised her hood and slowly looked at all the components inside. Shelley stood next to him and stared at the engine, black; the battery, black; and the coolant container, white. There were plenty of hoses and belts, too. Nothing looked out of place.

  “See anything?” Robert queried, edging closer.

  “Not yet.” Oscar apparently wanted to be thorough. He not only touched everything but also touched it twice and jiggled it.

  “I saw you two take off this morning in Bianca’s SUV. I wondered what was going on.”

  Shelley rolled her eyes. This was the most conversation she’d gotten from Robert. “Nothing’s going on. I had a doctor’s appointment, and Officer Guzman happened to be across the street—”

  “I saw Jack Little across the street.” Robert looked impressed.

  “—and Officer Guzman,” Shelley continued, determined to have her say, “offered me a ride when he saw my car wasn’t starting.”

  “Everything okay?” Robert looked at her stomach, and to Shelley’s surprise, he appeared concerned.

  “Yes.”

  Oscar went down to his knees and peered under the car. “Nothing leaking.”

  “Well,” Robert said gruffly, “if you need a ride to the doctor and Officer Guzman isn’t around, just let me know. I’ll take you.”

  Shelley looked at the man. He neither smiled nor appeared enthusiastic about the offer he’d just made, but he was wringing his hands and chewing on his upper lip.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  As if afraid he might say something else nice, he turned and walked stiffly back to his front door. She watched him go, an old man just as alone as she was.

  Oscar was too busy walking the length of the car to have paid attention to the exchange. “I don’t know what’s wrong. We’ll need to get it to the shop. I can—”

  “No, really, you’ve helped enough. I can get it to the shop. Thanks for driving me today.”

  “I can—”

  “No, you can’t. This is something I have to deal with myself.”

  He stared at her, a look she was familiar with. He’d stopped being her friend and had returned to being the cop investigating her. One who was dancing too close to the truth by asking questions like, “Do you think whoever killed Candace might have something to do with your car?”

 
She didn’t know how to respond. She’d been looking over her shoulder, expecting the worst, for four days now, ever since seeing Candace Livingston’s body. She’d managed to keep her fears from Ryan. Maybe keeping them from Oscar Guzman, a cop who wouldn’t go away, was a mistake. Inside her, the terror festered.

  Larry could be somewhere nearby, watching her, wondering why she was spending so much time with a cop. In truth, if Larry had the ability to get this close to her car and money—heck, to her father and Jedidiah Carraby—he could get close to her.

  Oscar returned his cell phone to his back pocket. The New Mexico sun shone behind him. His eyebrows weren’t nearly as bushy as she’d made them out to be. His hair was longer than that first impression, and the tousled look might be something he should attempt more often.

  Maybe, though, she didn’t need to tell him the truth. Possibly he’d figure it out himself.

  He paused, and she knew he was hoping for a response from her. No matter how good-looking, no matter how polite and caring, he was still a cop. Definitely so, because his next sentence was “Maybe it was the murderer, but maybe it was your ex-husband.”

  Right on both counts.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE LOOK SHE gave him proved one thing. Her ex-husband scared her more than the thought of a murderer in the neighborhood.

  And maybe she should be scared. He’d just found a GPS tracking device on her gas tank. Oscar assumed it was Larry Wagner taking an interest in his ex-wife’s whereabouts. But why? Wouldn’t Larry have left this town and all his victims behind?

  “So, could your ex-husband have done this?” He asked the question, searching her face, trying to decide if he wanted to tell her about the GPS tracking device. One thing for sure—he didn’t want to scare her into premature labor. She had enough on her plate. He just kept adding more.

  She looked at Oscar as if expecting help.

  “Why would he want to disable my car?” Shelley asked, her voice soft and raspy.

  “You tell me,” Oscar suggested.

  “I don’t know.”