Operation Prince Charming

by Phyllis Bourne

  Tearing himself away from another champagne breakfast atop Erica’s high-thread-count sheets had been difficult, but he’d already blown off one day at work to be with her. Although he was his own boss, he couldn’t afford to skip work again.

  He shut off his car’s engine and felt his phone vibrate in the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He checked the incoming phone number and smiled.

  “I got your present, baby,” a female voice purred.

  “Do you like it?” Taj eased back into the seat of his borrowed BMW. Work could wait, he thought.

  “What girl doesn’t love pearls?” She laughed softy, and the sound reminded Taj how much he missed her. “But you shouldn’t have.”

  He knew they’d talked about stashing away cash, but he couldn’t resist spoiling her. Besides, if things went according to his plan, he’d be able to shower her with jewelry and give them the life they deserved.

  “Did you get the money?”

  “Yes, I got it…” She hesitated. “But I worry about you. What if…”

  The concern in her voice touched him, but it also strengthened his resolve to give her everything she could ever want. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “But what if you—”

  “I won’t.” He cut her off, refusing to entertain the thought.

  “But—”

  “Look, I gotta go. Love you.” Taj blew out a sigh as he pressed the button to end the call. Business was too good to quit now.

  Besides, it looked as though he’d be due for a fat bonus soon. Compliments of the two prosperous-looking old biddies at Starbucks who couldn’t stop raking a woman named Erica Boyd over the coals.

  She’d been everything he’d overheard.

  Self-absorbed. Shallow. Grasping.

  All qualities he’d planned to use to his advantage.

  Taj grabbed his briefcase and jumped out of the car. He brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his tailored business suit as he crossed the street.

  “Morning, sir.” A man carrying a cup of coffee and walking a golden retriever spoke as he passed by.

  Taj inclined his head in acknowledgment. It never ceased to surprise him how much respect a well-groomed man in a good suit commanded.

  Instant legitimacy. He looked as though he belonged.

  Taj paused briefly as if he were checking the house number before strolling right up to the front door of 1079 Christie Street.

  There wasn’t a house across the street yet, and the recessed doorway made him invisible to the houses beside this one.

  Reaching into his briefcase, Taj pulled out his moneymaker. Then he wedged the crowbar between the door and the doorjamb and pulled until he heard the melodious sound of cheap wood splintering.

  He hadn’t seen an alarm company sign in the yard, nor had he heard one when he pushed open the door.

  An alarm wouldn’t have stopped him anyway. The cops would undoubtedly head to the more established Christy Way. The street he was on, Christie Street, was too new to be on a map or register on a GPS. So if there had been an alarm, it would take the cops at least ten minutes to figure out the mix-up.

  Thank God for developers who tried to out-skirt city planning regulations on streets with the same name by spelling them differently, Taj thought.

  He inhaled deeply as he moved swiftly through the living room to the master bedroom. He’d studied the house’s floor plan on the builder’s Web site and had committed it to memory.

  Like with most of the new constructions he’d visited, the owner had sprung for brand-spanking-new furniture. The place reeked of it.

  Once in the bedroom, he glanced longingly at the flat-screen television mounted to the mall. The temptation to pry it off was strong.

  “Money and jewelry, money and jewelry,” he chanted the reminder as he dumped the contents of a jewelry box onto the bed and began rifling through it.

  Junk, he thought, quickly surveying the pile of faux baubles, until a ruby bracelet caught his eye. He pocketed it and moved on to the bureau, tearing through the drawers.

  Taj glanced down at his watch, before grabbing the side of the queen-sized bed’s mattress and flipping it over. His eyes lit up when a thick business envelope fell to the floor.

  “Cash,” he said, peeking inside it. “My favorite.”

  Taj spent another five minutes in the room, looking into what most people mistakenly thought were hiding places, taking anything of value that would fit into his briefcase. Then he left the house on Christie Street the same way he had come in, right through the front door.

  He looked down the street as he walked back to his car. Opening the trunk, he slid his briefcase into it and pulled out an empty one identical to it.

  Taj couldn’t help whistling as he drove slowly down the block. He still had work to do along Christie Street.

  “I’m going to have to stick you under the dryer for twenty minutes, Miss Boyd.”

  Erica blew out a sigh. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why a spa day was considered pampering or even remotely relaxing.

  She’d spent the afternoon running from room to room of the Babe Salon for a massage, facial, nails, and now hair. She didn’t care what anybody said, looking good was hard work.

  “Would you like a glass of wine or coffee?” her stylist asked before pulling the dryer hood over her head and switching it on.

  Moments later the stylist returned with a glass of white wine in one hand and the latest issue of Making a Scene magazine under her arm.

  Erica immediately reached for the magazine. The slim, glossy magazine was a free weekly covering social events throughout the county, and it was her habit to thumb through it at the salon while her hair dried.

  She studied the cover and frowned. It was a shot of Vivian Cox and her cochair from the Library Ball. She thought about how the woman had practically snatched her donation check from her hands and then proceeded to avoid her the entire evening.

  Erica crossed her legs and opened the magazine on her lap. Taj had been her saving grace that night. He’d taken the sting out of her being snubbed by dancing with her and making her laugh. He’d told her how beautiful she’d looked that night in red, and his compliments had made her stand taller.

  Hunter hadn’t done that for her.

  Unlike Taj, Hunter didn’t understand she didn’t need him getting angry on her behalf or trying to protect her feelings. She needed him to use masculine charm to help her persuade Vivian and the rest of her friends what a terrific asset she’d be to the country club and their Ladies’ League.

  But she and Hunter were over now. Even if a small piece of her heart didn’t want to believe it.

  Erica took a sip of her wine. Her leg swung back and forth as she continued to flip through the pages.

  A photo caught her eye and she did a double take, her glass nearly slipping from her trembling fingers. She put the wineglass down on the table beside her and looked closer to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.

  It was her, all right. Erica felt her face break out into a huge grin as the stared at the photo of herself dancing with Taj.

  ERICA BOYD DANCES THE NIGHT AWAY, the caption underneath it read.

  She quickly scanned the page and spotted a second photo of her snuggled up to Taj. She didn’t remember posing for it, but that wasn’t surprising considering the amount of champagne she’d consumed that evening.

  In the close-up photo, they were both smiling and it was obvious to anyone what an attractive couple they made.

  SOCIALITE ERICA BOYD AND TAJ ST. JOHN DAZZLE AT LIBRARY BALL, the caption read.

  Erica pushed back the dryer hood, picked her purse up off the floor, and began sifting through it for her cell phone. She scrolled through her contacts until she got to her publicist’s name.

  Carrie answered on the first ring. “I take it you’ve seen the latest issue of Making a Scene,” she said.

  “Oh yes, and I’m extremely pleased.”

  “There are
a few more photos of you and your date on Making a Scene’s Web site, Miss Boyd,” the publicist said. “I promised you results.”

  “You already have my schedule, but just to remind you, tonight I’m attending that cocktail party and benefit concert.” Erica couldn’t remember exactly what cause it was benefiting, but that was beside the point. “I expect to see more of these good results.”

  Erica snapped her phone closed. However, before she could stick it back in her bag, it rang. Taj’s name popped up on the tiny screen, and she smiled.

  “Just wanted to hear your voice,” he said. His smooth tones reminded her of melted chocolate.

  “How’s work going?”

  “I’m done for the day, so I’m headed to the driving range to work on my golf.”

  Erica was impressed. Golf was a game important deals were made over, and apparently Taj understood that fact. She spotted her stylist coming to check her hair and waved her off.

  “I’ve got a little surprise for you tonight,” Taj said.

  “Really, what?” Erica asked, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  “Like I said, it’s a surprise.”

  “Well, I’ll see you tonight, then.”

  “My tuxedo is pressed and ready to go.”

  Erica released a contented sigh. She didn’t have to cajole this man into proper attire or beg him to attend etiquette classes.

  Taj St. John was her ready-made knight in shining armor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You’ve got to find whoever did this and get my mother’s ruby bracelet back.”

  A woman with spiked gray hair walked Hunter to her broken front door, which a locksmith was busy repairing and replacing the lock on.

  “You will get the bracelet back, won’t you?”

  He and Pete had already interviewed her, but she continued to ask them the same question over and over since they’d arrived at the scene.

  “We’ll do our best, ma’am,” Hunter said, knowing even when they did catch up with whoever had done this, chances were slim her jewelry would be recovered.

  “But you don’t understand,” she said. “It was the last present my father gave her before he died.”

  The tears brimming in the woman’s eyes spilled down her face. “She only let me take it to get the clasp fixed. She didn’t want to,” she said. “I was going to give it back to her this evening. How can it be gone?”

  Hunter could feel the muscle in the side of his jaw jerk as his back teeth ground against each other. He looked across the woman’s porch at Pete, who mirrored his frustration.

  They’d been working this case for weeks, and they hadn’t got one step closer to finding a suspect, let along apprehending one.

  “I hope her mom takes it okay,” Pete said, after they were back on the sidewalk.

  Hunter shook his head. “Did you hear her say her mother is ninety years old?”

  “It’s going to break that old lady’s heart.”

  “And we couldn’t say a damn thing to soften the blow.”

  Hunter stood at the end of Christie Street and blew out a long breath. He wondered how many other homeowners on the street would come home to discover they’d been victimized.

  He and Pete had investigated two already. All obviously done by the same suspect.

  “What’s keeping Morrison?” Pete asked. “He should be here by now.”

  Hunter shrugged. “I’m going to start knocking on some neighbors’ doors. Two houses on one block. Somebody had to have seen something,” he said.

  Pete looked around. “What neighbors?

  He was right, of course. Like the rest of the subdivision that had been hit, Honey Bee Glen was new. Only two hundred of the proposed six hundred houses had been built so far, and they were scattered throughout the development.

  “I got to do something,” Hunter said. “I’m going to start on the street behind this one.”

  Pete inclined his head in the other direction. “I’ll take the one over here. Hopefully, we can turn up a good old-fashioned nosy neighbor.”

  Hunter’s frustration mounted as he stepped off another porch with no more insight than he had before he’d started. It was the same story every door he knocked on. Nobody home, and if they were they hadn’t seen anything.

  He sighed as he trudged up the driveway of a house a street over. A man opened the door and an eager golden retriever bounded down the drive.

  The dog danced around Hunter’s feet, until he leaned over and patted him on the head.

  “Mike, get back here,” the man called.

  Mike gave Hunter’s hand one last friendly lick before returning to his owner.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Coleman, Nashville Police Department.” Hunter held out his identification.

  “I’m investigating the burglaries of at least two of your neighbors’ homes today, and I’d like to talk to you.”

  The man’s mouth fell open. “Burglaries? Here? I just moved in a month ago. These are brand-new houses,” he said. “You’re kidding, right?” Hunter shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Have a seat, Detective Coleman.” He gestured toward two rockers on the porch.

  Unlike the homes that had been burglarized, Hunter noted, this elevation didn’t feature a recessed entryway.

  The man extended his hand. “I’m Art Pryor, and this is my dog, Mike,” he said. “Can I get you anything? I have cold beer and soda in the fridge.”

  Hunter shook his hand briefly. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “So, you said these burglaries occurred today?”

  Hunter nodded as he listened.

  “I had the day off, so I’ve been home all day. I had no idea.”

  “And you didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary? Anything or anyone out of place?”

  “That’s the thing, there’s so much construction noise around here. The hammers, drills, and construction vehicles drown everything out,” Art said. “As for strangers, I haven’t had a chance to meet anyone yet.”

  It was a familiar refrain, Hunter thought.

  “The burglaries occurred one street over from you on Christie Street,” Hunter said. “So anything you could tell me would be helpful.”

  “Yeah, of course. Just ask.”

  “Were you at home all day?” Hunter asked. “You didn’t leave the house at all?”

  “Actually, I took Mike for a walk earlier, and we were on Christie,” he said.

  Hunter’s ears perked up. “Can you remember approximately what time?”

  “Hmmm.” He pressed his lips together. “Shortly after nine in the morning.”

  “Mr. Pryor, I’d like you to try and remember every person you saw, talked to, or walked by,” Hunter said. “Don’t leave anyone out.”

  He shrugged. “I was just out walking the dog, you know? I really didn’t see anyone.”

  “Just think,” Hunter pressed.

  The man took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “Do you think retracing your steps will help jog your memory?” Hunter asked.

  “Let’s see, I saw a guy on a bulldozer and workers bricking in the house on the corner with the Sold sign out front. And we walked past a thin lady with silver hair as she was backing her car out the driveway.”

  “Had you seen them before today?”

  Art nodded. “I’m pretty sure I have,” he said. “Oh, there was also the guy in the suit. I think he was a real estate agent or something.”

  “Was he wearing a name tag?”

  The man shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  “Did you see which house he went to?”

  “No, I just said hello as we walked past him. I didn’t turn back around to look.”

  It was probably nothing. Still, Hunter made a note to stop at the model home and get the names of any Realtors who had shown or checked out houses that morning, so he and Pete could talk to them.

  “Can you tell me what the guy looke
d like? Did you happen to see his car?”

  “He was tall, with short hair. Maybe black, maybe Hispanic. I couldn’t tell. He had on a dark suit, and I think he was carrying a briefcase.”

  “Would you know him if you saw him again?”

  Art nodded. “Probably.”

  More than likely it was nothing, but it wouldn’t hurt to check, Hunter reasoned. Maybe the Realtor had seen or heard something they could use.

  “Do you have a number where I can reach you in case I have more questions?” Hunter asked.

  The man rattled off his number, and Hunter made note of it. Then he passed on his business card. “If you remember anything else, give me a call.”

  Ali slowed her car to a stop in front of the familiar two-story Colonial and immediately spotted her aunt kneeling in a bed of sunny daffodils.

  Ali had insisted Aunt Rachel take a well-deserved break. No classes were scheduled. So there wasn’t a reason for the older woman to spend a gorgeous spring day stuck at the school.

  Her aunt, who apparently hadn’t heard her car pull up, abandoned her weeding and turned around when Ali closed the driver’s-side door.

  “Morning, Alison. I was hoping you’d drop by. I’ve been dying to hear all about your interview,” she said as Ali crossed the lawn. “How did it go?”

  “Fabulous,” Ali said. “In fact, I drove straight here from the newspaper office. I could hardly wait to talk to you.”

  Ali watched her aunt’s smile brighten. “That’s wonderful news. We’re going to have to find a way to celebrate your new job,” she said, yanking off her gardening gloves.

  “Oh, I didn’t get the job,” Ali corrected. “Apparently, the newspaper’s finances aren’t much better than ours.”

  “I see.” Her aunt’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry, dear. I was hoping…”

  Ali touched her aunt’s arm. “It’s okay, Auntie.”

  “I don’t understand. If you didn’t get the job, why are you so excited?”

  “Well, the managing editor of the paper said the most interesting thing. It flipped on the lightbulb inside my head, and I came up with what I think is a great idea.”