Betsy quickly stooped and picked him up, then slammed and locked the back door.
Snapping the kitchen light back on, she examined every inch of him. He appeared unhurt, but something was definitely wrong. He seemed more shaky than usual. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he’d been traumatized.
Whimpering, he thrust his face under her arm and tried to burrow as far in as he could get, a featherless, bonsai ostrich hiding his head in the sand.
It was then she saw what was bothering him.
She reached out and warily touched the piece of paper tucked tightly under his collar. Pulling it out, she absently set Piddle on the floor and unfolded the paper.
HEY DIDDLE-DIDDLE,
I COULD HAVE NAILED PIDDLE
BUT I DIDN’T DO SUCH
’CAUSE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH
OR DO I?
Betsy’s heart skipped a beat while her breath caught in her throat. She lay the paper on the kitchen counter, and fumbling for a chair, sat down and stared at the scrap.
Her gaze moved warily to the back door. Should she open it to see who was out there?
Immediately her common sense shouted, Hell no! What a stupid idea!
The more she stared at the paper, the faster her heart raced. A lonely woman in a lonely house living a lonely life should be thrilled that somebody loved her. Except it was plain he didn’t love her.
Quite the contrary.
Officer Sam Winslow looked like a million bucks: tall, an all-American type with brown eyes, dark blond hair, a cleft in his chin, the works. Betsy held Piddle close to her chest as Officer Winslow completed his paperwork.
He grinned. Straight, white, perfect teeth. Inwardly, Betsy sighed with longing. It was a pleasure just to look at the man.
“Now, Ms. Tremaine—” he began.
“That’s Miss,” she corrected, trying not to appear too obvious.
“Ah, yes, then Miss Tremaine. You’re certain, ma’am, that you have no idea who could have written this note?” The note in question now resided in a small plastic evidence bag he held in his large clean hand.
Betsy shook her head. “No, sir.”
Winslow grinned again. “You don’t have to call me sir.”
“You called me ma’am.”
“Yes,” he said through a sheepish grin. How charming. “We’re supposed to do that. As a courtesy. Ma’am.” He grinned again as he tossed the evidence bag into his leather case. Betsy slid a glance to his left hand as he snapped the lock shut.
No wedding ring. Should she tell him now that she wanted to have his baby, or should she wait until she knew him better?
She wiped the silly grin off her face before he turned back to her. All he would see now was a serious young woman of medium height, with a plain face but rather good complexion, hazel eyes, short, chunky-cut blond hair, shoulders that were too square, a bust just a tad too full, a slim waist, and her grandmother’s thighs.
Like a mental ticker tape, her mother’s sad-but-true appraisal of her deficiencies ran yet again through her head.
You’ve got an hourglass figure, dear. Men hate hourglass figures. Look at movies and TV if you don’t believe me. Sleek and toned, lots of muscle, small breasts, long legs, trim hips. You do have good teeth, though.
Good teeth? Who did her mother think she was, Trigger?
Officer Winslow stood. Betsy rose, too, subtly pulling her pink sweater down over her hips. She’d changed back into her jeans and a top after phoning the police, and now wished she’d stayed in her nightgown. At least it covered her body, including those damned hips, from neck to toe.
“It looks like our guys have finished in your backyard,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with you if anything turns up on the note. I doubt we’ll find any prints on it besides yours, but you never know.”
“You never know. Right.” Betsy smiled. She absently wound a short curl around her finger then let it go and shoved her hand into her pocket when she realized she had come very close to being coy. “Do you think I’m in danger, Officer Winslow?”
The lawman stopped in the doorway. His shoulders were so broad, she couldn’t see past him to the street. He looked . . . heroic. Or was it just that she was . . . desperate.
“Read the literature I left for you. It’ll give you some tips on keeping yourself safe. Also,” he said, granting her another perfect smile, “we’ll increase the neighborhood patrols for a while. Oftentimes, a visible police presence is enough of a deterrent, but, well, we’ll see. I don’t want to scare you, but I do want you to be aware.”
He reached down to pat Piddle on the nose, but the dog took offense and growled. Officer Winslow’s smile stayed frozen in place. “Uh, nice dog.”
“No he isn’t.”
Piddle sneezed.
As one of Port Henry’s finest walked back to his patrol car, Betsy couldn’t help but notice the man’s empyrean body.
Empyrean! What a stupid word. It meant ideal, sublime. She knew because she’d been forced to look it up. J. Soldier McKennitt had used it to refer to somebody in his book, and now she couldn’t get the damn word out of her head.
Empyrean. Well, if it meant perfect, Winslow surely was that all right. He slid behind the wheel, gave Betsy a smile and wave, then drove down her quiet, tree-lined street and out of sight.
“He works out,” she confided to Piddle. “He wouldn’t want a woman who doesn’t work out, I’ll bet.” With a man like Winslow, hourglass figures wouldn’t do. He was buff; he would want buff.
Against the now late evening chill, Betsy closed and locked her front door. In the Olden Days, she thought as she meandered toward the kitchen, men courted women for their ability to cook a good meal, keep a clean house, raise healthy kids, plow a straight furrow, milk a cow single-handed. Nowadays, you could cure cancer on Monday, climb Everest on Tuesday, solve world hunger on Wednesday, but unless you had a perfect body, a sexy guy like Sam Winslow would never give you a second glance.
The hunky cop had instructed her to keep her doors and windows bolted, her drapes closed, and her eyes and ears open. Whether he found her interesting or not was the least of her problems.
She was being stalked. Maybe. She wanted to go deeply into denial, but that wouldn’t make the situation go away. As much as she hated the very idea, she was going to have to behave like a crime victim, because the simple fact of the matter was, she was a crime victim. Well, maybe.
In the blink of an eye her orderly life had changed, and she had to respond accordingly. To ignore the warnings could mean her life. Or not. Only if she really was being stalked.
The urge to dismiss the whole thing was overwhelming. Gosh, she thought, maybe she was just turning this little molehill into a mountain. Perhaps the note was intended for Mrs. Banes next door. Sure, Mrs. Banes was an eighty-five-year-old widow, but you never knew who had the hots for whom. Maybe some old gent at the Port Henry Senior Activity Center had designs on her.
Besty nibbled on her lip. She didn’t know who, she didn’t know why. But someone had come secretly into her backyard and terrorized her dog. By mistake? Well, the note he’d left her was now being analyzed at the county crime lab.
She shuddered when she recalled pulling the back door open without turning on a light or even checking to see if someone was out there. As a woman living alone, she should have known better than that.
Betsy looked down at Piddle. “As my Canine in Shining Armor, I trust you will protect me if and when the time comes?”
The dog’s luminous eyes stared into hers. He looked guilty. But then, he always looked guilty. His long lashes fluttered nervously, his wet nose twitched.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Betsy went into the kitchen and opened the pantry door. The brass knob felt cool and smooth in her fingers.
“Hm,” she said, leaning down to pick up the dog. “Just like Old Mother Hubbard who went to her cupboard to fetch her poor dog a bone . . . although why she kept bones in the cupboard, w
e have no way of knowing.” Piddle burrowed deep under Betsy’s armpit and began quaking hard enough to register on the Richter scale.
“A little something to settle the nerves, I think,” she mumbled as she pulled a dust-covered bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the depths of her spice shelf. “My nerves, not yours.”
It took concentration to keep her fingers from trembling as she unscrewed the cap with one hand, but she managed it.
For a moment she considered calling her best friend just to hear a reassuring voice, but after checking the time, Betsy realized Claire would still be at the hospital. And, after all, what was happening to her wasn’t exactly an emergency, so interrupting her doctor friend’s rounds would be a selfish thing to do.
Splashing an ounce or two or three into a tumbler, she added Coke and a few ice cubes.
“It’s probably not a good idea to drink too much of this stuff on an empty stomach,” she said to her companion, “but I’m too freaked out to stay totally sober.”
Fortifying herself with a gulp from her glass, she went through the house to her desk once again and plopped into the vintage chair. Setting Piddle on the floor, she straightened and took another swallow of the fizzy drink.
Who had written her the note? And for God’s sake, why?
Visions of some sicko with gnarled, hairy knuckles scratching out those horrible words made a chill creep up Betsy’s spine. She had to leave in four days for the conference. Would her house be okay while she was gone? Perhaps she could get Carla or Dave from work to keep an eye on the place for her over the long weekend?
Did he know her routine? Would he follow her into Seattle? Maybe she should buy a gun.
Right. Like she knew how to use a gun. She’d end up shooting herself or Piddle . . . hmm. Piddle. Naw. Her mother would never forgive her.
After a few minutes Betsy realized her vision was getting a little hazy. A decidedly warm feeling infused her entire body. She felt relaxed. More than relaxed. She grinned to herself and twirled the chair around a couple of times, holding her drink in the air as though toasting some unseen visitor. Downing another large gulp, she giggled into the tumbler.
This is cool, she thought ten minutes later as she held the empty glass in her hand. Nothing like getting shit-faced when you were being stalked and could be murdered at any moment.
The trill of musical notes caught her attention. She glanced at the computer. Uh-oh. Another note from J. Soldier. Taking a steadying breath, Betsy absently wondered what the J stood for and why the old guy preferred to go by his middle name. She wasn’t sure she cared enough at the moment to find out.
Ms. Betsy:
Granted, yours is only one opinion, but because it is so divergent from the sentiments expressed by others, my curiosity is piqued and I thought I’d give it another try.
What is it about my books you don’t like, exactly? I’m an adult and a professional. I can handle criticism.
If you’d take a moment to enlighten me, I’d appreciate it.
Thanks,
JSMc
So he couldn’t let it rest, huh? Betsy thought as her eyes tried to focus on the screen. So he can handle criticism, can he? Well, be careful what you wish for, Detective Mr. J. Something McKennitt. You just might get it.
Her fingers lightly tickled the keyboard as she considered her reply.
She sucked on her lower lip. Then she sucked on her upper lip, which was not nearly as easy to do. Finally, she giggled and blew her bangs out of her eyes, then got down to business.
“Okay, Detective Mr. J. Soldier McKennitt Person,” she mumbled to the computer screen. “You want enlightenment? You got it.”
Detective JSMc, sir (I learned that from the police today):
Pfffft! That’s right. Pfffft! That’s my reply. Why don’t I like your books? Pfffft!
Not to put too fine a point on it, the writing is about as polished as my kitchen floor (which really isn’t very polished, thus the comparison, but you’d have to see my kitchen floor to understand what I mean). Your plots are about as believable as Santa Claus, which whom I used to believe in him but life is nothing if not occasionally disappointing. So sue me.
Your characters are bland. Bland, bland, bland. No life. The dead ones have more life than the live ones have who have no life. And they’re stupid. The live ones. They act irrationally.
I’ve read my share of mystery novels and crime thingies, and, given the facts you give, your conclusions are faulty. I find I do not buy them, sir! I would characterize your style, such as it is, as cold, impersonal, vulgar, and graph-ick!
My sincerest apologies if I have in any way hurt your feelings. I’m really a very nice person, but I’ve had a rough day. Somebody says they love me except they don’t and I’m frightened.
And then I got your message and I just feel it’s important to tell the truth. I’ve always been that way. People don’t always want to hear the truth and sometimes it serves no one, but I don’t know any other way. My father taught me that honesty is the best policy, but he’s been out of my reach for years now, so he won’t ever say that to me again, even though I can still hear his lovely voice in my heart.
Continued success on your writing career. I meant to tell you what a jerk I think you are for accosting me with your e-mail and demands for explanations, but now that I think about it, I just can’t do it. I mean, I do think you’re a jerk, but I’m just not going to say it.
Empyreanly yours, Betsy Tremaine
Soldier looked up from the screen and blinked at his brother, who was laughing so hard he was drooling.
When Soldier spoke, his voice was low and solemn, filled with awe at what he had just read.
“Drunk,” he said. “She must be blitzed on her butt.” He shook his head. “I’ve read letters from Ka- zakhstani crack addicts that made more sense than this.”
Taylor laughed harder as he read the e-mail again. “I think you should frame it,” he howled. “Hang it right next to the picture we drew of her.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “God, this is a classic, Jackson. Maybe you can blackmail her with it.”
Soldier shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know whether to put out a hit on her or give her a hug. The woman is in worse shape than I thought.”
Taylor pulled up a chair. “Go for the hit. I’ll do it if you want.”
“Very funny.”
“You gonna respond?”
Soldier widened his eyes. “What in God’s name would I say? ‘I’m sorry you’re a lunatic? Perhaps a little therapy would be in order here?’ ”
Pressing the print key, Soldier watched as the laser jet rolled out a copy of the e-mail. He picked up the paper and folded it together with the picture Taylor had drawn. Shoving them in his pocket, he sighed. “Well, my life may be crap, but I’m a lot better off than Betsy Tremaine. Not only is she ugly,” he smirked, thinking of his brother’s artistic rendition, “but she’s nuttier than a Snicker’s bar.”
However, even as he said the words, he felt uneasy. He sure didn’t agree with her reviews, but they had at least been well-written and coherent. Her e-mail had been okay, too. Something must be wrong. Perhaps she was just getting up there in years. Undoubtedly, she was a spinster and lived alone. Probably had a dozen cats, or some yappy little dog. The fact that she’d mentioned the police and that she was frightened bothered him, even if she’d been drunk or crazy at the time.
Soldier didn’t know the woman, yet he felt a sense of connection with her. She didn’t like his books and had said so. No crime in that, except it had pissed him off. He knew the male ego had the tensile strength of a wet Kleenex, but he’d always thought he possessed a stronger sense of self than to let some little old lady from Nowheresville upset his apple cart.
Abruptly, the thought that had been subtly nagging at Soldier for weeks pushed itself to the forefront. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he rested a hip on the kitchen doorjamb.
“What do you think, Taylor. Should I go back to work full-time?”<
br />
In the meaningful silence that followed, Soldier stepped away from the threshold and sauntered over to where his brother was constructing a towering sandwich. “Make me one of those, will you?”
Crunching on a dill pickle, Taylor nodded and pulled out a second plate. “Why are you asking my opinion?” he said. “You never ask my opinion. You’re the big brother. You know everything.” He took another bite of pickle and sent Soldier a grin.
“Just because I know everything, doesn’t mean I know everything. So, should I go back out on the street?”
Both McKennitt sons had inherited their father’s intensely blue eyes, eyes that appeared to sear directly to the bone. Taylor leveled those eyes now on Soldier.
“You’ve been sitting on your ass long enough,” he said, working on Soldier’s sandwich. “That thing with Marc sucked, but it wasn’t your fault and it’s time you got over it. You’re a cop. So, get it together and go be one.”
“I failed Marc,” Soldier all but growled. “I made an error in judgment that cost him his life. Now his widow and kids are paying for my blunder.”
He felt his stomach knot. Marc’s death had been a horrible blow. They’d been partners for four years and he’d grown to love the guy like a brother. When Soldier had realized he’d been fed false information, and that he’d sent Marc right into the trap, he’d broken every speed law on the books trying to get to his partner in time. But it had been too late.
Soldier had found Marc’s torn body thrown in a trash bin. He’d pulled him out of the garbage and called for help. But by the time the paramedics had gotten there, it was over. Marc had died in his arms, his wife’s name on his lips, his fingers gripped around Soldier’s wrist.
Whether Marc’s death grip was a demonstration of trust or hatred remained an unanswered question that haunted Soldier’s dreams.
The Damsel in This Dress Page 2
