There were two entrances. One from the living room, the other led through a short hallway to the kitchen. That was good. Marta would know if anyone who didn’t belong entered her kitchen. Maybe Shelby could arrange temporary security for the evening to guard the kitchen area. That left only the main entrance to watch.
Feeling a little better about the layout and her ability to guard Rosalee, she started toward the kitchen. A yapping sound stopped her short. Looking back into the dining room, she spotted a little silver-gray Yorkshire terrier bounding along the wood floor with a pitter-patter that sounded like hailstones tapping on a windowpane. The dog headed directly for her and jumped. Quick reflexes were all that saved the dog from crashing into her as she caught the pup with both hands.
“Whoa there, rat-thing.” She held it under the front legs and searched through stringy hair for a pair of eyes. “Where do you think you’re going?”
For an answer, she received a single, high-pitched yip. With another yip, all four legs scratched at the air. She gladly lowered the animal. It scrabbled in place for a second or two before grabbing traction and racing through the hallway barking as though it had been shot.
Shelby groaned as she followed the noise. “This is not going to be fun.”
She entered the kitchen and found Rosalee bending over to pick up the dog. “You missed me, didn’t you, Oscar?”
A smattering of Spanish floated across the kitchen. From the frown on Marta’s face, Shelby was certain the dog had indeed missed its owner and made the housekeeper’s life miserable while the author had been out of town. She hoped taking care of rat-thing wasn’t going to be part of her responsibilities.
Rosalee spied Shelby. “There you are.” She nodded to a chair. “Come. Join me.” She stirred a drop of milk into her teacup.
Shelby sat at the table across from Rosalee as Marta slid a cup and saucer in front of her.
“Can we make a good security for the party?” Marta asked as she poured coffee into the cup.
“I think we can reduce risks if we’re careful.” Shelby inhaled the brew’s rich aroma before taking a satisfying sip.
Marta grinned. “I will do whatever you ask. You will take good care of Mees Rosalee.”
“Of course she will,” Rosalee agreed. “Oscar thinks so, too.” Rosalee held one of the dog’s paws in a wave. “Oscar, this is Miss Shelby. She’s going to stay with us for a while. I want you to be nice to her.”
“Just Shelby, ma’am.” The dog growled as she stared at it. “We’ve already met.”
“Excellent.” Rosalee smiled. “What do you think of my home?”
Shelby studied the kitchen.
Like the front entryway, the kitchen was airy and modern. Gleaming granite countertops and stainless steel appliances reflected the overhead light with nearly daylight brilliance. At one end was a breakfast nook surrounded on three sides by bay windows. More windows were over the kitchen sink and next to the back door. “Can the windows in here and the front living room be covered?” That fishbowl feeling was even more prevalent in this room.
Rosalee frowned. “Of course, but why? Don’t you like the light?”
“Security, ma’am. As much as you can see out, others can see in. Especially at night.”
Marta ambled to the wall near the back door and opened a panel. “I control them from here.” The housekeeper touched a switch and there was a whisper of a motor. An off-white shade lowered between the double glass panes. Another touch and the louvers opened and then closed.
Classy. “I suppose that will do for now.” Except, with white shades, there’d be a silhouette when the lights were on. She’d deal with the light as they moved from room to room. She turned to Rosalee. “At night, before you enter a room, I’d like the blinds completely closed. During the day, I’d prefer the blinds were down and the louvers only slightly open.”
“Oh dear.” Rosalee sighed. “With the days so short, that’ll be difficult to get used to. I didn’t realize how much all this security would make me feel like a prisoner.”
The comment reminded Shelby of her thoughts during the briefing. A warm flush crept up her neck. Recalling O’Neal’s instructions, she mentally admonished herself to watch her tongue. Clearing her throat, she said, “We intend to catch the culprit quickly. Perhaps you might even finish your book sooner than expected. Either way, we want you to have your life back to normal as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Mees Rosalee,” Marta chimed in. “See how well Mees Shelby takes care of you already?”
Shelby smiled her thanks at Marta. With the trusted housekeeper in her corner, getting cooperation from Rosalee might be easier.
“I suppose,” Rosalee said grudgingly. “How did you sleep?” She changed the subject. “I can’t imagine that dinky bed in the room next to mine was comfortable.”
Last night, Rosalee had tried to talk Shelby into taking one of the better-appointed guest rooms, but she insisted on the room adjoining Rosalee’s. “I slept quite well. Thank you.” That “dinky” bed in the luxurious room was ten times better than the one in her apartment.
Rosalee leaned in. “I must admit, I slept better myself, knowing you were close by. All this nonsense has affected me more than I expected.”
“I’m sure being in your own home helped.” Shelby took another sip of her coffee.
Rosalee sat back. “Well, of course. Still…” She gazed out the window with a shadowed expression. “I will be glad when this book is finished.”
“We can begin as soon as you’re ready.” Shelby drained her cup and then shook her head when Marta held up the coffee pot.
“We’ll start this morning.” Rosalee took a final sip of her tea, then pushed away from the table. “Come with me.”
Shelby stood at Rosalee’s abrupt exit and glanced at Marta before hurrying to follow. She caught up with Rosalee on the stairs, impressed with how quickly the older woman moved.
Rosalee paused at the top of the staircase and pointed to the right where the hallway led to a turret-like room. “I know you checked out my office last night. I’m hoping you’ll allow me to work in there.” Although she was smiling, a note of sarcasm bled through the words.
Not one to pass up a challenge, Shelby walked over to the room and poked her head through the open door.
Large west windows immediately drew her attention. The second story afforded a spectacular view of the harbor. The fog was breaking up but the sun had yet to make an appearance. She stepped inside and found the switch positioned like the ones in the kitchen and lowered the blinds to block the view from the outside before turning on the lights.
Rosalee peered in, her gaze arrowed to where Shelby’s hand rested on the switch. “You care more about your clients than you let on, don’t you?”
It wasn’t really a question. Shelby felt a bit exposed at being pegged so accurately.
“Tell me,” the author continued. “How is it working with all those delicious men at Northstar?”
Shelby started at the unexpected question. “Excuse me?”
“I know Riley’s married, but he’s still a hunk.” Rosalee gave a wicked grin. “A lot like his father. It must be heaven with all that eye-candy walking the halls.”
“I work mostly out of L.A.” Shelby shrugged. “I don’t see any of my coworkers very often.”
“But you are interested in men, aren’t you?”
Shelby squared her shoulders. “Of course.” Mostly, men didn’t stick around long enough to be interested in her, though. She was usually off to the next job before any relationship had a chance of becoming more than a couple of forgettable dates.
Rosalee smiled. “Well, that answers that question.”
Shelby frowned. The author was digging again. Sharing her personal life was something Shelby didn’t do, even with people she knew well. Time to redirect the conversation. “When would you like to get started on the book?”
Rosalee backed out of the office and headed toward her bedroom
. “Give me an hour.”
“Sure.” Shelby turned off the lights and closed the office door. She headed to her own room grateful for a few minutes away from the author’s prying questions. Her hand was on the doorknob when Rosalee shouted Shelby’s name. She whirled around, adrenaline surging as she ran into Rosalee’s room.
The author sat on the edge of the bed removing her slippers. A quick glance around told Shelby there was no danger.
“Ma’am!” She stepped inside the room, hand on her baton, and crossed to the bed, still looking for the threat. “Are you all right?”
Rosalee put her slippers neatly beside the bed and looked up at her. “I’m fine. I was just wondering if you’d join me in my morning Tai Chi.”
Shelby did a double take. “Tai Chi?”
Rosalee chuckled. “How else do you think I keep these old bones from freezing on me?” She scooted her slippers under the bed. “Your boss told me you’re an expert in martial arts. Can you follow along while I do my form?”
Unexpected relief brought out a rare smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve practiced, but I’m sure I can keep up.”
“Perfect. We’ll have breakfast afterward.” Rosalee’s eyes twinkled with a wicked gleam that Shelby was starting to think of the author’s “just got my way” look.
Keeping the client happy was all part of the job, so she’d let the other woman have the small wins as long as it didn’t interfere with security.
Shelby turned to leave, but a book on the bedside table caught her eye. She reached over and picked it up.
The title indicated it was about the OSS during World War II. She held it up. “What’s this?” She remembered the photograph downstairs and then thought of the file on the USB drive.
Rosalee leaned over to look. “Oh. That’s just some research for a little side project I’m working on.”
“About World War II? Does it have something to do with the photograph of the couple I saw in the living room?”
Rosalee nodded, her smile fondly remembering. “My parents. I wish I could remember my father. I was only two when he entered the war. He never came home. My mother and sister used to speak of him often.” She pointed at another book resting on the table. “This was my father’s diary.” Then her smile slipped. “Mother died of a broken heart barely ten years after he died, and I went to live with my sister and her husband.”
Shelby realized Rosalee’s past held similarities to her own. “That must have been hard.”
“It was.” Rosalee seemed to shake herself out of her memories, then tapped a recorder on the table next to a notepad. “Can you guess what this is for?”
Shelby shook her head. “Dictation? Will I be transcribing from that?”
“No, I’ll do dictation directly. This is for when inspiration strikes in the middle of the night. At my age, I can’t afford to let those moments slip away.”
Ouch. The age thing again. “About my comments yesterday…”
“Don’t give it another thought. I find your candor refreshingly genuine.” Rosalee waved a dismissive hand. “Now, I need to change. Join me outside on the back lawn in ten minutes.”
Chapter Four
The morning started earlier than Nelson Kane planned. Unable to fight sleeplessness any longer, he’d showered, dressed, and turned on the morning news, all before seven a.m. With Grady Cooke still on the loose, Kane had passed on his usual morning run in the dark.
Now, he scrubbed a palm down his face and leaned back on the couch. Staring beyond the TV screen, he didn’t really see the walls in his apartment. Instead, he kept reliving the previous night’s shooting.
He closed his eyes to shut out the image of the dead man’s face. At some point today, the team would identify him. Until then, the young man remained nameless. Kane wondered if the shooting had saved taxpayers the burden of another incarceration, or if the man, a kid really, was in the wrong place at the wrong time—just trying to make a buck. Either way, someone’s son, maybe someone’s husband, was dead. His life cut short because Kane had pulled the trigger.
The knot of tension at the base of his scalp began to ache. Too much time to think made him antsy. If he were with his team, searching for Cooke, these kinds of thoughts wouldn’t surface. He hated getting benched, especially with a cop killer roaming free.
Kane had put Cooke away the first time. He’d learned Cooke’s methods, knew his connections—or so he thought. Last night’s bust proved he’d gotten it wrong.
The week’s suspension stretched like an eternity before him. No matter how much it frustrated him, he’d follow orders and sit on his hands hoping for the best possible outcome in the investigation. He wouldn’t risk permanent loss of his badge by digging around on his own. Past experience was enough proof that mavericks risked too many lives by breaking the rules.
The last time another agency took the lead, he’d almost lost his life. The dichotomy of those circumstances still grated. He’d nearly died because Northstar overlooked crucial information. Yet he also owed his life to the quick reactions of the agent who’d saved him.
His second chance at life hadn’t lessened the sting of his broken marriage. When that gunshot wound landed him in ICU, the taut thread keeping his marriage from unraveling finally snapped. Two days after his surgery, his wife miscarried. He hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Denise moved out of the house, and filed for a divorce the same week he was released from the hospital. He didn’t blame her. Even though she professed to accept the risks of his job, she simply couldn’t handle the stress of not knowing if he’d come home at night.
He tried not to blame himself, either. Most days he succeeded. He loved his work. Maybe more than he’d loved Denise. Theirs was just another entry on the Bureau’s divorce statistics.
Although he missed the physical relationship, it was almost a relief to come home to an empty apartment. He didn’t have to worry about who he’d left behind. That freedom lent focus to the job—made him a better agent. Yeah, he was alone, but he was stronger for it. Intimacy was overrated, right?
He rose from the couch and wandered into the kitchen, anxious and restless. As he filled his cup with coffee for the third time, his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. Roberts. It was early, but he hoped the team had good news on Cooke.
****
Rosalee impatiently tapped her notepad with the tip of her pen, making her ever-present gold bracelets jingle like mismatched Christmas bells. “I’m finding it difficult to work with the blinds closed.”
Shelby glanced up from her place behind the functional computer desk used by Rosalee’s assistants.
The author sat at her ultra-sleek glass-top desk. The covered window barely let in daylight. A floor lamp behind her gave her slender silhouette an ethereal appearance. The fragile image faded when Rosalee scowled, and then furiously tore a page off a yellow notepad, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room. “How will we ever make the deadline?”
In the two hours Shelby sat learning the layout of her tasks, Rosalee had deliberately used the inclusive “we” no less than five times when she spoke of her work. Shelby was beginning to feel ownership of the project before she’d even started to transcribe notes. This was Rosalee’s book. Shelby’s job was to make sure the author successfully delivered it to the publisher without dying first. Failure wasn’t an option, so she accepted the joint ownership.
She stood, gathered up the crumpled paper, and tossed it in the wicker trash basket beside her desk. “The blinds are closed for your safety.”
“I understand precautions.” Rosalee’s eyes narrowed at the windows as though trying to see through the shades. “I truly do appreciate the security. But is this cloistering really necessary?”
A knock at the door interrupted Shelby’s answer. She swung around as Marta peered in.
“It is time for your break.” Marta bustled into the office carrying a tray of tea. The aroma of warm shortbread filled the room with a sweet scent. On the
corner of the silver tray detracting from the fine china tea set, was a manila envelope. “This came for Mees Rosalee.” She put down the tray and picked up the envelope.
Something in the way Marta spoke alerted Shelby. “What is it?”
“I am not sure.” Marta raised a rounded shoulder.
“Give it to Shelby.” Rosalee gestured to the tray. “I’d love a biscuit with my tea.”
Shelby accepted the envelope and looked at the label. “Who sent this? It isn’t a standard delivery. There’s no bar code or tracking number.”
Marta shook her head. “I heard the doorbell ring. When I answered it, I only saw the back of the delivery man who left the envelope on the doorstep.”
Shelby pressed for more information. “Did you see what the truck looked like?”
“No. No truck. I think maybe he was parked along another street, making more deliveries.” Marta’s brows knitted together. “Did I do something wrong?”
Shelby glanced at Rosalee. “Do your fans typically drop off mail at the house?”
Rosalee’s cup froze halfway to her lips. “No.”
Shelby immediately moved her grip to the edge of the envelope and slid it on the desk. She donned a pair of latex gloves from a small case she’d brought to the office earlier that morning. Then she picked up the envelope by the corner and held it to the light.
There was no return address. A plain white label, affixed to the center of the envelope, showed Rosalee’s first and last name. A buzz stirred in Shelby’s chest at potentially receiving a real clue on this case.
“Are you just going to look at it? Or do you want me to open it?” Rosalee’s words held a hint of impatience, but Shelby was sure the author didn’t hear the tremor in her voice.
“I’m checking for unusual protrusions or wires.” She studied the envelope from top-to-bottom and side-to-side.
Marta straightened from pouring tea, a few drops spattering the table. “A letter bomb?” The teapot clattered as she set it on the tray.
“I don’t think so.” Shelby’s attention was still on the envelope. “Too smooth and flat.” She lifted a corner and tested the weight. “I don’t think there’s anything here but paper.” Digging a penknife out of her pocket, she teased a corner of the envelope. It ripped. The sound brought gasps from the other two women in the room.
Tell It Like It Is Page 5
