Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set

by Stacy Juba

  Cassidy resisted an urge to flick the bangs out of his grape green eyes. She'd never seen such light green, veiled by long lashes that curled at the tips. An odd little flicker of awareness flashed through her nervous system. "What did you have in mind?"

  "I found this great barbecue place with picnic tables."

  "You must mean Bailey's Barbecue. Guess you haven't heard of a tiny thing called cholesterol."

  "Don't know what that word means. I'm sure you'll tell me, though. I hear you harp on the subject." He lingered beside her as they strolled toward his red Honda, nice wheels for a freelance photographer. Zach had confessed to spending more than he should have after the muffler died on his Ford.

  "Who said I harp?" Cassidy asked.

  "I've read Alison's stories. While you were gone, your family said they could eat whatever they wanted without guilt. Fried food every night."

  She smiled at his teasing tone. Zach knew how to bait her. Interesting, since they had just met. Cassidy had to admit, she was attracted to him. Be careful, warned a small voice within her. He’s with the press.

  But deep down, she couldn’t imagine Zach betraying her confidence. Something about his friendly demeanor inspired trust. Still, Cassidy didn’t want to get too hung up on him. With her rigorous work schedule, there wasn’t time for a relationship.

  "Cute," she said. "My family’s lucky they have me looking out for them. I’m adding years to their lives."

  "I don’t know, the stress of hiding their junk food might be killing them slowly," Zach joked.

  Cassidy stalled in her tracks, all thoughts of romance flying out of her mind as Howie from the club strutted toward them, grasping Velcro ankle weights and a sports drink to his neon orange muscle shirt.

  Howie puffed out his chest, as if he had rock hard abs instead of a beach ball belly. "Cassie, fancy meeting you here."

  She frowned. "What're you doing at the track? I thought you ran on the road."

  "Wanted a change of scenery. You her new beau?" He elbowed Zach in the ribs.

  "So long, Howie." Cassidy veered toward the Honda. She got enough of this guy at work. She didn’t need him intruding on her private life.

  "You’re being a little rude, Cassie, don’t you think?" Howie called after her.

  "Catch me at the gym when I get paid to talk to you!" she flung back.

  Cassidy climbed into the car and glanced out the back window. Howie sipped his drink, watching them. He was like the groundhog that used to destroy Glenn’s garden, harmless but you wanted to attack it with a pitchfork.

  She faced Zach as he slid into the driver’s seat. A candle-shaped air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror, its hazelnut coffee scent overpowering the cherry new car smell. For his caffeine fix, Zach had explained. His equipment bag, notebooks and a leather-bound appointment book were stacked in the backseat.

  Deep grooves ridged Zach's forehead. "I don’t like the way that guy looked at you. Any chance he could be Miles?"

  "Howie? No, of course not."

  "How can you be sure? He might've followed you here."

  Cassidy fingered a stack of country western CDs in a portable carrier. It was coincidental to find Howie at the track. He'd bragged that even terrain was for sissies and that real runners tackled hills. Still, he couldn't be Miles. The stalking letters were almost poetic, while Howie was crude. If Howie wrote to her, his notes would overflow with X-rated terms.

  "Howie's a pain, not a stalker. He's been hanging around the gym for a couple years. Besides, most of the letters came from California."

  Zach turned the key in the ignition. "Just be careful. He couldn't stop ogling you."

  A half hour later, they shared a wooden picnic table under an awning. A roller-skating teenage waitress delivered twin plates of smoked barbecued ribs, french fries, cornbread and coleslaw.

  "I’m really splurging," Cassidy said as the tasty aroma filled her nostrils. "Promise you won’t blow the whistle to my family?"

  "As long as we can get ice cream," Zach said.

  Cassidy grinned. That wasn’t a bad idea. She hadn’t enjoyed a sit-down meal in a while. She was always eating on the run lately, but Zach brought her into the present moment, made her wonder why she was in such a perpetual hurry. "Tell me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?"

  "Nope. Just lots of cousins."

  "You must be close to your grandmother if you came here to be near her."

  "She's a sweet old gal," Zach said. "Never forgets a birthday. I wanted to know her better before it was too late. Until recently, I’d only seen her a handful of times."

  "How come?"

  He dipped a fry into a rusty mound of barbecue sauce. "She never got up to Texas much, and my mother isn't one for flying. I’ve got an aunt in Connecticut, though, so my grandmother has always had family close by."

  "Where in Connecticut?"

  "Near Hartford. This is good. Wish I'd discovered this place sooner."

  They reached for a container of butter at the same time. Cassidy’s hand brushed against his square fingertips and an electric current zapped through her body. She wasn’t in the market for a serious relationship, but a little fling might not be out of the question.

  He cupped her palm. Cassidy instinctively jumped back as her cell phone rang and startled the hell out of her.

  It wasn’t Miles. He couldn’t know this number. She scooped the phone out of her purse. "Hello."

  "Cassidy, are you okay?" Her mother's words rushed together.

  "I'm fine. I'm with Zach from the paper. Mom, what's wrong?"

  "Your stalker broke into my house. You have to come home."

  Chapter Eleven

  Cassidy hurried past the police car parked in her mother’s driveway. Her stalker deserved to walk the plank, handcuffed, into a shark tank. If this bastard wanted to mess with her, fine, but no one screwed her family and got away with it.

  Zach came up behind her. "Maybe it's a random break-in. Coincidence."

  "I don’t believe in coincidences." She mounted the steps leading up to the pink ranch, the tip of her shoulder setting off the long metal tubes on her mother’s wind chimes.

  Before them, cars whizzed past on the main stretch of road. Her mother and brother lived off a street that was half-residential, half-commercial, with a strip mall containing a pizza place, gymnastics school and florist shop fronting a row of houses.

  Bo thrust open the screen door and folded his arms over his Boston Bruins tee-shirt. "Who does this guy think he is, breaking into our house?"

  Cassidy’s knees convulsed and she braced her hand against the porch railing to steady herself. What if her little brother had been here? Despite his macho bravado act, he was just a kid.

  "Don't worry, I'll beat this stalker at his own game," she said, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded. "He's not the only one with surprises."

  "What kind of surprises?" Bo asked.

  "I'm getting a gun, for starters."

  "Cool! We're gonna get this guy, Cass, I know it."

  "Guns aren't cool, Bo," she snapped. "They’re far from cool. I don't have a choice."

  She edged past him into the living room before he noticed that her legs were shaking more than the wind chimes. Since her mother hadn’t shared details, Cassidy took mental inventory of the television, DVD player and stereo. So far, nothing valuable seemed to be missing. Drawn chintz drapes shut out the sunlight.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  Bo closed the door behind Zach. "I was over Jason's house and came home for dinner. Mom wasn’t here yet so I played video games. After awhile, I looked around the room and saw that things were missing. When Mom got back, she freaked out and called the police. Can you show me how to use the gun?"

  "You're not going anywhere near it. This isn't one of your video games."

  Flushing a bright shade of red, Bo darted an embarrassed look at Zach. "It was just a question," he muttered. "Geez. It’s not my fault some wacko is af
ter you."

  "What was stolen?" Zach asked.

  Bo thumbed over his shoulder toward the screened fireplace, and Cassidy pivoted.

  Her gaze lit on the bare nail in the center of the wall which had once held an 8 x 10 of her college yearbook picture. Gaping spaces broke up the array of framed photos on the mantel, only photographs of her mother, Bo and relatives remaining. Pockets of nothingness replaced Cassidy’s prom picture, high school swim meet photos, and herself as a kid with ribbons in her curls.

  Her throat closed. Normal thieves stole stereos, televisions and cash lying around the house, not sentimental photos of one person.

  "They're gone," she said. "The pictures of me are gone."

  "That's what he took?" Zach said. "Pictures?"

  "Cassidy, I'm glad you're here." Her mother spoke from the hall, wearing her pinstriped waitress uniform. Her hand fluttered toward the pencil stub poking out from her swirls of yellow fuzz.

  Torrents of guilt poured over Cassidy. Her mother’s life had been violated, all because of her. Cassidy had read how David Letterman’s stalker broke into his house on various occasions, claiming several times to be his wife and the mother of his fictional son. After stints in prison and in a mental institution, the woman committed suicide by kneeling in front of an ongoing train.

  Cassidy hoped she’d be lucky enough to have Miles throw himself before a train, then wondered whether she would feel sadness that her lack of interest had driven someone to such desperation. Right now, she couldn’t imagine feeling anything but fury.

  "I'm sorry this happened, Mom," Cassidy said. "We got here as soon as we could."

  "This is Officer DeCosta. I told him you were working with that detective." Her mother gestured behind her to a clean-shaven young officer in a pressed blue uniform.

  "I called Detective Pierce after your mother told me about your stalker," the officer said. "He’ll be here soon. In the meantime, we can get started."

  Cassidy walked past DeCosta and her mother into the neat but cramped country kitchen. Zach pulled out chairs for her and her mother, and hedged in between them. Bo positioned himself beside DeCosta, sneaking glances at his open notebook.

  "Let's begin with the basics," DeCosta said. "Miss Novak, could you review your day?"

  "I worked 6 a.m. to 3, stopped at the police station because this Miles person left me a note and cookies on my car at work, then I went home and lifted weights," Cassidy said. "I called Zach, and we went jogging. We were eating dinner at Bailey's Barbecue when Mom called."

  Discussing work reminded Cassidy that she’d have to contact her personal training clients ASAP and cancel her evening appointments. It looked as if she’d be here awhile. Cassidy narrowed her lips into a line. She’d always prided herself on being dependable. She’d been naïve to believe she could balance a normal full-time job with the pros and cons of being a celebrity.

  "I’ll need your full name and address for the record," DeCosta said with an expectant glance at Zach.

  "Zach Gallagher. I'm between addresses. I have a room at the Countryside Motel."

  Really? He hadn't mentioned living at that dump. Cassidy had assumed he was renting an apartment.

  DeCosta tapped his pen against the notepad, wearing a slight frown. "How long have you been in the area?"

  "About a month," Zach said. "I've been freelancing, trying to build my photography clips. I'm with the Garrett Daily News."

  "Planning to stay in town?"

  "I've been apartment hunting."

  "Where were you before you met up with Cassidy?"

  "Riding around, looking for stand-alone shots, pictures that appear in the paper without a story. I took some at the park, a summer camp and at Stella Lake." Zach rustled a mound of coupons on the table.

  "Officer, Zach's a friend of mine," Cassidy interrupted. "Can we please focus on the break-in? Were there any clues?"

  Sighing, DeCosta flipped back through his notepad. "I understand your impatience, Miss, but we have to question everyone to get a clear picture. The break-in happened between 1:30 and 5. The thief gained entry through the walk-out entrance in the basement and picked the lock. It looks as if he exited the same way.

  "He probably made one trip in and out of the house, using a shopping bag or duffel bag. Your mother says one photo album appears to be missing, in addition to the pictures from the living room. I don’t think we’ll find much else, because if he wanted to get in and out fast, he couldn't carry much. There's no sign of tire marks outside, so he might have parked at one of the businesses down the street. It's a short walk out of the neighborhood."

  "What do we do now?" Cassidy asked, lacing her fingers on her lap. "How do we catch this nut?"

  "We’ll need to interview your neighbors and employees at the businesses. Your family should make a complete list of what's missing, where the items were in the house and fill out paperwork. Touch as little as possible, especially points of entry and flat surfaces. We’ll be dusting for prints."

  DeCosta shuffled through his notebook before speaking again. "Listen, fingerprints are tough. Don't get your hopes up. If the guy was smart, he wore gloves."

  Cassidy restrained an urge to spray the house with Lysol and rid it of Miles’ presence. She pushed back her chair. "I have to cancel some appointments, then I want to look around."

  Ten minutes and two phone calls later, Cassidy strode down the hall with her mother close behind. She paused outside her mother's bedroom door. Hot pink nail polish, compacts and hair brushes jumbled the brass vanity in their usual disarray. Her mother’s morning makeup routine took so long, she never had time to put anything away. Cassidy eyed the dozen photo albums scattering the carpet, a different kind of mess.

  Coldness slithered over her. How long had Miles been here? Had he leafed through the albums and pondered over each picture? Grabbed one and ran?

  "I haven’t opened most of those in years," her mother said. "He got them out of the trunk in the closet."

  Not answering, Cassidy swiveled toward her childhood room. She sucked in a breath around the swelling in her throat. Miles had seen the sports and teen idol posters on the walls, the stuffed tiger she won at a sixth grade carnival and the dog-eared novels cramming the wooden bookcase. Titles ranged from Hardy Boys mysteries to Stephen King novels. Her hands wound into fists. She triple-checked the shelves, just to be sure.

  A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett was missing. It had sat face-up in the right-hand corner as long as Cassidy could remember. Her family never touched her books.

  Miles had known.

  He'd seen the torn cover and water stain on the back, and guessed the story had sentimental value. She'd read it over and over in third grade, cheering on Sara Crewe, the strong-willed girl who survived even after her father died and she was left penniless, her role changing from richest student in boarding school to beggar confined to the attic.

  She had identified with Sara, admired her courage.

  Cassidy smacked a hardcover Nancy Drew into the wall.

  He had glimpsed her childhood, her vulnerability. She circled her arms around her chest.

  "Oh, Cassidy, why did you get yourself into this?" her mother murmured.

  Cassidy whirled on her. "Do you think I asked for this? It's not my fault that some psycho fixated on me. He has no right."

  Her mother stared at the fallen book. Her concealer had worn off, showing the bags underneath her tan. "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't put yourself in the spotlight. This lunatic never would've known you existed."

  "Going on TV doesn't give him the right to invade my life!" Cassidy was yelling and knew the others could hear in the kitchen. She didn’t care. Making it worse, Cassidy knew her mother was right. She’d bought fame for a price. She couldn’t expect the world to hand her money and esteem, yet have her privacy level remain the same.

  "Come on, guys, we have to stick together. It’s not Cassidy’s fault, Pepper. And Cassidy, your mom’s just concerned
."

  They both turned at the new voice. Glenn jingled coins in the bedroom doorway, bushy eyebrows burrowed together. His presence both reassured and irritated Cassidy. As comforting as it was to see her stepdad, he’d try to take over and she didn’t need that right now.

  "Who asked you?" her mother muttered. "What are you doing here, anyway? We have it under control."

  "Bo called me. I want to help."

  "You didn't have to come," Cassidy said. "I'm fine."

  Glenn clapped a beefy hand on her shoulder. "I wanted to. I'd like you to stay with me. It's not safe for you to live alone, especially on the ground floor. We'll get a burglar alarm for your mother and Bo, in case he tries this again."

  "This creep isn't forcing me out of my apartment."

  Her stepfather shook his head. "It's great to be independent, but don't be stupid. Let me do this."

  "Stay with him," her mother said. "Please."

  It must have killed her mother to side with Glenn. Cassidy pressed her hands to her temples. Maybe her stubbornness was foolish.

  "Just until I get a gun," she said. "My application could take awhile to be processed. I'm sorry, Glenn, I do appreciate the offer. I'm just frustrated."

  Her mother’s blue eyes lasered at her. "A gun? Since when are you getting a gun?"

  "Are you sure you know how to use one?" Glenn asked. "I don’t think that's a good idea."

  "I know how to load it, clean it and shoot it," Cassidy said.

  Zach cleared his throat from the hall. "Sorry to interrupt, folks. Detective Pierce is here. He'd like a word with Cassidy."

  "You all go ahead," Cassidy said. "I'll be right there."

  After they left, she examined her reflection in the oval wicker mirror. Shadows rimmed her bloodshot eyes.

  "You all right?" Zach asked.

  Cassidy jumped. She'd thought he had gone with the others. "It ticks me off that this maniac is taking away my freedom. It's not fair. I'm not some victim he can walk over."

  Zach stroked her arm, kindling a fiery jolt in her stomach. "I'm sorry you're going through this."