The Damsel in This Dress

by Marianne Stillings

  A stiff breeze greeted her as the double-glass doors slid closed behind her. As she approached her car, covered with dew in the late night fog, she noticed a note shoved under her windshield.

  The Port Henry Police Department was housed on the waterfront on the ground floor of a hundred-year-old building that had served at one time as a cannery. While the Victorian brick and mortar exterior exuded much of the charm the rest of the small town held, the interior had been designed for, and looked much the same as, any modern law enforcement office in the country.

  The local joke was that there was always “something fishy” about the PHPD, since soap and water and paint had never been able to totally eradicate the odor of the building’s original occupants.

  Soldier sat next to Betsy at Officer Winslow’s desk as they examined the note Claire had found on her car less than an hour ago.

  HEY DIDDLE-DIDDLE-DOC

  TIME WE HAD A LITTLE TALK

  BETSY IS TROUBLE AND TO BLAME

  FOR MAKING DET MCKENNITT LAME

  —A FRIEND

  “Some friend,” Betsy snarled as she gazed down at the accusatory poem encased in the evidence Baggie. Soldier watched as her emotions flitted across her face.

  “I didn’t feel guilty enough about what happened to Taylor,” she choked as she crossed her arms. “And now this creep is practically charging me with being the one responsible?”

  “It’s all part of the stalker psychosis,” Claire said quietly from her chair next to Betsy. “He wants you to feel responsible for everything he’s doing.”

  Betsy looked over at her friend, giving Soldier a chance to take in the softness of her wind-ruffled hair, the curve of her pale cheek, the thickness of her downcast lashes. She sat at the desk in boots, blue jeans, and a jacket pulled tightly around her, as though she were trying to protect her most vulnerable side from attack.

  Betsy turned back to Soldier and looked him squarely in the eye. “Well, then in that case, I refuse.”

  Soldier smiled down into her defiant face and nudged her chin up with his knuckle. “Contrary as ever, hmm?”

  “Damn straight,” she growled.

  Claire stood and bent over Betsy’s shoulder. “I have to get home and get some sleep, honey. Big day tomorrow. But I can stay if you need me to.”

  Betsy patted her friend’s hand. “No, you go on home, D.K. I’ll be fine.”

  Soldier grinned. “D.K.?”

  “As in Doctor Kildare,” Betsy said. “It’s been my pet name for Claire since we were kids and she told me she wanted to be a doctor when she grew up.”

  “And what’s her pet name for you?”

  As Claire reached the front door, she said over her shoulder, “I call her Bitsy. ’Night everybody.”

  Soldier felt his grin widen. “Why Bitsy?”

  She shrugged. “When we were really little girls, I had trouble saying Elizabeth. It came out ‘A-little-bit.’ Eventually, it sort of boiled down to Bitsy.”

  Officer Winslow returned from the break room with a mug of herbal tea in one hand, an evidence bag in the other. Placing the bag on his desk, he said to Betsy, “This is the first note, the one stuck under the mutt’s collar. The guy must have used gloves because the only prints on them belong to you on the first note and Dr. Hunter on the second.”

  The handwriting on both notes was identical—each word was printed using all capital letters. Soldier gestured to the evidence bags. “We can assume the guy disguised his handwriting at least a little, but maybe he wasn’t very good at it. Do you recognize the handwriting at all, Betsy? The paper? Anything?”

  Betsy leaned forward and carefully examined both notes.

  “You know, I do recognize the handwriting. I just don’t know whose it is. There’s something about the D and the B and the C that seem familiar, like I’ve seen them written.”

  “Problem is,” Soldier said, “nobody handwrites anything anymore except their signatures. Everything’s voice mail or e-mail or typed on a computer.”

  Winslow took a sip of tea and laughed. “Yeah, I even write my grocery list on the computer. My handwriting’s gone to hell ever since I learned how to type.”

  Soldier glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He was exhausted, and he knew Betsy had to be on the verge of collapse after everything that had happened that day.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he helped Betsy from her chair.

  “Thanks, Sam,” Soldier said.

  “No problem,” Winslow replied. “I don’t like this guy. What do you say we catch him?”

  Soldier sent the cop a wide grin. “I’m for that.”

  They said their good-nights and Soldier escorted Betsy to her car.

  He drove her home in silence, both of them too tired to speak. When they got to her house, he checked the place out thoroughly before letting her go inside.

  As Betsy started for her room, she paused on the staircase. “I’m truly sorry about your brother. Claire said he’s going to be fine.”

  “Thanks. It seems he’s every bit as hard-headed as I am.”

  She smiled at that and looked like she might say something else, but instead turned and walked up the staircase to her room. He heard her door close firmly behind her, and he couldn’t help but grin.

  The man stood across the street, gazing up at the Victorian. Such a pretty house. Beauty enough to make a fellow wax poetic just by standing and admiring.

  Three seventy-three Rose Avenue. The perfect address for such a lovely house. The lines, the elegance, the charm of an age gone by, preserved in cedar and glass, brick and paint.

  The era to which the house belonged had ticked away, minute by minute, hour by hour, until the heart of the house, its families, its many sons and daughters, were no more. All gone off to the city, to come back to build stiff, shapeless boxes in which to live. Now, only the cost mattered and none of the grace.

  As he watched, the kitchen light went out. Mere moments later, two lights came on upstairs. He knew they were bedroom lights.

  She was home again, but she wasn’t alone.

  He continued gazing at the old house, the panes in the windows staring back at him like square, hollow eyes. So many eyes, watching, watching.

  Pushing down on his nerves, he ignored them. They could not hurt him; they were not real. Only windows. Her windows.

  Patting his jacket pocket, he smiled. He could get in anytime he wanted. She must have forgotten about the hiding place where the spare key was kept. But he hadn’t forgotten.

  He had it now, and it gave him comfort. But since she wasn’t alone, it would have to wait for another day. He could wait. He had all the time in the world.

  A car turned the corner, its headlights reaching out to try to touch him, grab him, reveal him. With a few steps, he receded back into the shadows, to see, but not be seen.

  Oh yes. He could wait. After all, he’d waited this long.

  Chapter 15

  “It’s Monday morning, and I am going to work.” Betsy crossed her arms under her bosom and glared at Soldier, who stared at her bosom. He didn’t even have the courtesy to blush.

  “Yes, it’s Monday morning,” he said, “and we’re both going to work. While you’re busy ripping the heart out of some other poor author, I’m going to be talking to your coworkers. It’s one of them, Betsy. I can feel it in my bones.” He put his arms around her. “Hell, I can feel it in your bones.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe it’s just old age you’re feeling in your bones, buster, because nobody I work with is a stalker, let alone a murderer.”

  “Denial is a river in Egypt, or haven’t you heard?”

  “Like, that is such an old joke.”

  “Well, I’m fresh out of new material.” He released her and they went out through the kitchen door. He secured it behind them as Betsy went to unlock her car.

  Last night’s rainfall had emptied the clouds, leaving the morning clear and crisp and rosy. In the driveway, Betsy’s silver Saturn LS glitte
red with raindrops as though it had been strewn with tiny pink diamonds.

  “Ah, sunshine!” Betsy said as she opened her door. “I can sure use some of that today.” Though her world felt pretty heavy just now, a sunny day lightened the load a bit.

  The Ledger was located in the downtown area of Port Henry, and was large enough to take up a two-floor natural brick warehouse. The offices were located on the upper floor, while the paper was actually printed and distributed at street level.

  From Betsy’s desk by the front window, she had a nice view of the strait, Port Henry’s busy waterfront, and the ferry dock that signaled the end of Madison Street. Trees dressed in red, gold, and yellow leaves lined the avenues, celebrating autumn.

  The first person Betsy saw when she walked in was her boss, Ryan Finlay. His kind smile greeted her, and Betsy was certain it was genuine. Not a stalker, she thought.

  “Ryan, this is Detective McKennitt from the Seattle Police Department. He needs to speak with you.”

  As the two men shook hands, Ryan’s forehead furrowed in obvious confusion. “What brings you to Port Henry, Detective?”

  Glancing around at the desks piled high with papers, reference manuals, photographs, and the like, Soldier said, “Can we go in your office?”

  Betsy had always thought Ryan’s brown eyes were warm and he had nice crinkles at the corners. His hair was gray and thin, and he had a jagged little scar on his cheek that he’d gotten in his youth, a reminder of the two years he’d spent in Vietnam. “Sure, sure. Right this way,” he said congenially.

  As Soldier followed Ryan into the inner office, Betsy moved toward her desk. It was just as she had left it—in its normal disorderly, disorganized state. She pulled out her chair and glanced around the room. Six desks, all with computers, phones, the usual office paraphernalia. Nobody was in yet, but they should be arriving shortly. It was always tough getting in right at eight on a cold Monday morning.

  Through the window that served as the enclosure to Ryan’s office, she watched Soldier, his face animated and earnest. As he spoke, Ryan’s brows shot up, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He flashed a glance through the glass at Betsy, then returned his attention to the detective, who was obviously not leaving out a thing.

  “So, how was the seminar?”

  The voice behind her made Betsy jump half out of her chair. Turning, she recognized Carla Denato, her assistant. About Betsy’s age, Carla had short, light brown hair, styled in a similar way to Betsy’s. She considered Carla a friend and confidante, since they shared the same taste in clothing, books, and movies.

  “Hi, Carla,” she said. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Apparently,” Carla said through a laugh. “Anything interesting happen at the conference? Meet any tall, dark, handsome strangers?”

  What in the hell was that supposed to mean? Betsy wondered. Did she know about the stalker? Had she been there, seen Soldier? Was Carla a murderer?

  Oh, no, what was she thinking? Just because a coworker asked about her weekend didn’t mean she was a criminal.

  Instantly, Betsy was filled with a deep sense of humiliation and regret. What was she going to do now, turn her every acquaintance into a stalker, or worse, just because they were making casual conversation?

  “Um, it was great,” she lied. Soldier had instructed her on how to behave today. She was to remain calm and observant. He would be interviewing her coworkers, but he didn’t want her saying anything to any of them until he had a chance to speak with each one himself.

  Smiling, Betsy continued, “I’m glad to be home, though. Kind of tired.” That part sure was true enough. “So, what did you do this weekend?”

  Carla dropped into the chair next to Betsy’s desk. Wrapping her arms around the bundle of files she held, she said, “Boy, not much. Watched some TV. Read a book. Wished for a tall, dark, handsome stranger to come along and take me away from all this.” She laughed, her pretty eyes sparkling with mirth.

  No, Carla was not the stalker-murderer, Betsy mused. She was too nice. She just wasn’t capable of putting a little dog in a refrigerator, or hitting somebody over the head, killing them.

  No, it wasn’t Carla.

  Taking a breath, Betsy let it out and relaxed, having come to the conclusion that she could discount at least one person from her life as being an evildoer. Well, two, counting Ryan.

  Glancing toward their boss’s office, Carla’s eyes widened and she leaned forward in the chair. “Say, who’s that hunky guy who came in with you? Was he with you? God, he is so hot! Is he yours? What’s he want with Ryan?”

  Betsy was half inclined to confide in her assistant, but Soldier had expressly warned her to trust no one. He was wrong, of course, but she would do as he asked.

  “You were here when we came in?” Betsy said, shifting the subject. “I didn’t see you.”

  Just as Carla was about to reply, Ryan’s office door opened and Soldier stepped out.

  For the umpteenth time in five days, Betsy’s heart gave a flip at the sight of him. She had a feeling it always would. His nearness affected her as though she had perpetual spring fever. Certain she was blushing, she tried to look away, but found she couldn’t. It disgusted her to think that all women probably looked at him that way. He wasn’t blind. When he saw her looking at him like every other woman on the planet, all he probably saw was just another silly conquest. Well, he hid his arrogance well, she’d give him that.

  From the door of Ryan’s office, Soldier locked gazes with her, his eyes startling in their clarity and intelligence. He had the height and build of an athlete, and it stirred her senses just to think about his body without clothing, without constraints of any kind, and how that body would move against hers when she was lying in his arms. The night he’d come to her room, the feel of his warm skin under her fingertips, the things he’d done to her . . .

  As he walked toward her now, she felt her pulse speed up and her palms grow damp. She was falling in love, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  He stopped in front of her desk and placed his large hands palms down on the edge. Leaning forward a bit, he said, “Ryan wants to have a word with you.”

  Next to her, Carla stood up and smiled at Soldier.

  “Hi,” she said through a beaming smile. She looked chipper and eager and alert.

  Pert, damn her, Betsy thought. She looked pert. God help me, did I look that goofy the first time I saw him? She cringed when she realized she probably had.

  Betsy stood and gestured toward Carla. “Oh, uh, my manners. Sorry. Carla Denato, this is Detective McKennitt from Seattle.”

  Carla shot a glance at Betsy. Detective? her eyes seemed to say.

  “Is there a room, someplace we can talk privately?” he said to Carla.

  “A room? You and me? Privately?” she squeaked. “Yes, sir. Right this way.”

  She took him by the arm and led him quickly down the hall to the small conference room where Ryan usually held his staff meetings.

  Without giving Betsy so much as a parting glance, Soldier closed the door behind them. She fiddled with her pen for a moment, trying to pretend she hadn’t seen the light in Soldier’s eyes when he’d looked at Carla, and her obvious response to him.

  Carla was cute and Carla was thin and Carla wasn’t shy. Betsy had the sinking feeling she may have just lost Soldier, although, truth be told, she’d never actually had him.

  Taking a fortifying breath, she turned and walked toward Ryan’s office. She would put Soldier and Carla out of her mind and get on with the business at hand. That would be the mature thing to do. Then she’d go buy a Carla doll at lunchtime and stick pins in it. That would be the satisfying thing to do.

  Tapping on the partially open door to Ryan’s office, she smiled and said, “Knock-knock.”

  “Yeah, come on in, Betsy. Close the door, would you?”

  Well, that was ominous enough. She placed her hand on her stomach to try to quell the sick
feeling that had begun churning her insides. Stop it, she warned herself. Ryan is not a stalker, not a murderer.

  As she took a chair, Ryan leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk.

  “Betsy. I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were being stalked. And . . . and the murder. Jesus Christ. I don’t know what to say. If there’s anything I can do, anything you need, you just say the word. Okay?”

  “Thanks, Ryan. I’m sure Detective McKennitt will get this all straightened out and things will return to normal.”

  Ryan nodded, but he seemed distracted. Well, murder was certain to do that. Finally, he caught her gaze and held it. “On another topic,” he said. “I’m sorry to have to ask you about this today, after all you’ve been through, but it’s something that needs to be cleared up right away.”

  Alarm bells clanged inside Betsy’s head. Geez, now what? This wasn’t going to be good. Ryan never spoke to her this way.

  “Um, okay, Ryan. I’m listening.”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Out with it man! I’m stressed enough!

  “There’s a rumor going around,” he began.

  She swallowed. “A rumor?”

  Ryan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked a little in protest. “The rumor goes that you are, uh, having an affair with a member of the Ledger staff.”

  Shock slapped her in the face. She just sat there staring at him, unable to speak or even form a coherent thought.

  “Me. And who, Ryan? Who am I having this so-called affair with?”

  “Dave Hannigan.”

  Betsy burst out laughing. Oh, it was a joke! A sick joke, but a joke nonetheless.

  “An affair? Dave Hannigan? You mean the kid from the copy room? That Dave Hannigen?” She relaxed in her chair and laughed some more.

  Ryan’s brow furrowed. “Well, are you or aren’t you?” His face was red and the veins in his neck were prominent as his eyes probed hers, as if he could find his answer there.