Undercover Bodyguard

by Shirlee McCoy

  Not answering dozens of phone calls about Maureen’s death.

  Not trying to sleep when Maureen’s dog howled and cried for her owner.

  Nothing had been easy lately.

  So, of course, Old Blue wouldn’t start.

  She turned the key again and again and again, tears streaming down her face and probably smearing the makeup she’d applied to try to hide the fact that she’d spent most of the night crying.

  She didn’t care.

  Because the stupid car would not start, and she was too afraid to walk, and right at that very moment her life stunk.

  The Cadillac door opened, and she screamed, slapping at a hand that reached in to snatch the keys, her pulse racing with terror, the metallic taste of fear on her tongue as she tried desperately to escape through the other door.

  Someone snagged her belt loop, easily pulling her back.

  “You need to be more careful with your key, Shelby Ann. You break it in the ignition, and then where will you be?” Ryder’s deep voice poured over her, thick and rich as melted chocolate, and Shelby collapsed onto the seat, all the strength seeping out of her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, wiping at her cheeks as she straightened.

  “Dottie was worried when you didn’t show at the bakery. She wouldn’t—”

  “Let you buy your doughnuts and coffee until you came and checked on me?”

  “Exactly. Looks like you’re having car trouble again. Need some help?” He leaned in, sweat trickling down his brow, his breath coming hard and steady, his blond hair dark with moisture. Had he been running? She glanced around. No Hummer. That explained why she hadn’t heard him arrive.

  “Blue is being fickle lately, but I’ll get her started. Go on back to the bakery. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Actually, I was hoping to catch a ride back with you. I did a five-mile run to the bakery and a three-mile run here. My leg is protesting.” He rubbed the muscle of his thigh and grimaced.

  “You strained it?”

  “It’s an old injury. It acts up once in a while. How about you let me give Old Blue a try? Maybe we’ll both make it back to the bakery before Dottie sends out a search party.” He slid into the car before Shelby could protest, nudging her out of the way and sliding the key into Blue’s ignition.

  “She’s not going to start,” Shelby said as he turned the key.

  So, of course, Blue started.

  “There. Piece of cake. Buckle up, and let’s get out of here.”

  “I can drive.”

  “I thought all the black stuff around your eyes might make it difficult to see the road.”

  Black stuff?

  Shelby pulled her compact out of the Gucci purse her sister had given her for Christmas and looked in the mirror.

  Mascara ran from both eyes. Shelby grabbed tissue from the glove compartment, dabbing at the mess.

  “A gentleman wouldn’t have mentioned how awful I look,” she grumbled as Ryder pulled out of the driveway.

  “Who said I was a gentleman?” he responded. “And who said you look awful?”

  “I’ve got mascara running down my face. Of course I look awful.”

  “Actually, you look beautiful. Even with black tears running down your face.”

  “There’s no need to flatter me to get doughnuts.” She tried to keep her tone light, but she was still shaky from the surprise of seeing him, sweaty and gorgeous and too perfect for words, before she’d even had her first cup of coffee.

  “Flattery implies an undeserved compliment. I’m not into that sort of thing.”

  “Then what sort of thing are you into?” she asked, and he shot her a look that curled her toes.

  “Honesty.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good.” She felt gauche and schoolgirlish, and she didn’t like the feeling at all. She took a deep breath, steadied her thoughts and her thundering heart. He might look like Hercules, but he was a man, and she was done with men forever.

  “I need to apologize for Dottie. She shouldn’t have sent you out looking for me.” Better. Much better.

  “She should apologize for herself.”

  “She won’t. The thing is, she means well, and the good news is, eventually, she’ll get over her fixation with you—”

  “Fixation?”

  “She thinks I should be dating. She keeps trying to fix me up with customers. Last month, it was Mr. Hampton, the president of the seniors’ birding society. He’s eighty-nine.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m curious, Shelby Ann. What does all this have to do with you crying your eyes out?” He pulled into Just Desserts’ crowded parking lot, found a spot and turned to face her, his dark eyes scanning her face as if he could read the truth there.

  “Nothing. This place is busy for six o’clock in the morning. I’d better get in there and fix the doughnut machine.” She opened the door, but he grabbed her hand, his touch light but so compelling she couldn’t force herself to pull away.

  “It’s fixed. Dottie had me look at it before she sent me to find you.”

  “I still need to get in there.”

  “Is there any reason why you don’t want to answer my question?”

  “Is there a reason why you asked?”

  “Because I’d be happy to take care of him if you need me to.”

  “There is no him.” Not anymore.

  “No?” He slid one of her curls between his fingers. “I think I might be glad about that, Shelby Ann.”

  “Ryder…”

  “So, if you weren’t crying about a man, you were crying about Maureen.” He changed the subject, and she was relieved. She didn’t want to think about what he’d meant, didn’t want to know what he’d meant, because she really couldn’t believe he’d meant anything.

  A flirt, a player, that’s what he had to be, but when she looked into his eyes, she was pretty sure he wasn’t either of those things.

  “Look,” she said, “Maureen is dead. I feel like it’s my fault, like maybe I could have saved her if I’d done something different. This stupid car never starts when I want it to, and my head is pounding, and I’ve got a whole day of work ahead of me. That’s why I was crying. Happy?” The words spilled out, and he shook his head.

  “Not if you aren’t. You couldn’t have saved Maureen, Shelby Ann. No matter what you did. She was dead before the explosion.”

  “The fire marshal hasn’t confirmed that yet.” Though she’d called before she’d left the house and left a message reminding him to call as soon as he heard anything.

  “Because he doesn’t have a friend who works for the medical examiner. I do. I called this morning. The autopsy is almost complete. They’re just waiting on toxicology reports before they release their findings.”

  “So, the gas asphyxiated her?”

  “No. She was killed by blunt-force trauma to the head.”

  “What?”

  “Someone murdered her, Shelby, and made it look like an accident. That’s one of the reasons I was here before the bakery opened this morning. I wanted to let you know that you need to be very, very careful. If the guy you saw is responsible for Maureen’s death, he might not be content to leave any loose ends.”

  Loose ends?

  As in, Shelby?

  She shivered, remembering his hollow, icy stare. “Thanks, Ryder. I’ll be careful. Now, I guess, I’d better get inside and help Dottie handle this rush. Do you want a couple of doughnuts to go?”

  “What I want is to know that you’re going to be okay,” he said quietly. She looked into his eyes again and was caught in his dark gaze.

  “I’m always okay, Ryder. It’s just
part of who I am,” she responded, but her voice shook, because he seemed to see beyond her cheerful facade, seemed to see so much more than anyone else ever had.

  “I don’t think so. I think you’re always running around making sure everyone else is okay, and I don’t think you spend five seconds worrying about whether or not you are. Come on. I’ll walk you into the bakery.” He got out of Old Blue, and she had no choice but to follow.

  Because he was right.

  She did have to make sure the people she cared about were okay.

  The bakery teemed with people, its walls seeming to bow from the force of so many bodies, and Shelby hurried behind the counter, taking a customer’s order, answering half a dozen questions about the fire and Maureen, and then moving on to the next guest.

  Over and over again.

  The same routine.

  Serve, answer, serve, answer, her head pounding, her body sluggish, Ryder’s words echoing through her mind.

  Killed by blunt-force trauma to the head.

  “You okay, boss?” Zane Thunderbird asked. At nineteen, Zane had lived through more than most people double his age. Kicked out of his stepfather’s home when he was sixteen, he’d been homeless for nearly two years when he’d walked into Just Desserts, tattooed and pierced and offering to wash the bakery windows in exchange for food and coffee.

  Shelby had given him a job instead, and now he was in college, studying to become a nurse. She couldn’t be more proud, and the last thing she wanted to do was worry him. “Just a headache, Zane. You know how I get when I’m tired.”

  “Then go home and rest. We can handle the bakery for another day or two while you recover.”

  “Are you kidding? This place is hopping. We need all hands on deck.”

  “All capable hands, and yours aren’t. Not today,” Dottie cut in, her blue hair vibrating with the force of her words. “You get on out of here. Go home and sleep.”

  “You’re the one who called me to come in, Dottie.”

  “To fix the fryer. It’s fixed. So, go.”

  “Ms. Simons?” A tall, thin man cut in front of the line of customers and stepped to the counter, his dark hair receding from a broad forehead.

  “If you’re a reporter, she doesn’t have time for an interview,” Dottie growled, and the man pulled a wallet from his pocket, flashing a badge and ID.

  “I’m Sheriff Lionel Jones with the Spokane County Sheriff’s Department. I have a few questions I’d like to ask if you have a minute.”

  “Sure.” Shelby wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out from behind the counter, stopping short when she saw Ryder sitting in a booth near the front door. She’d been sure he was gone, but there he was, watching her with a dark, steady gaze.

  “Would you like to do the interview here or down at the station?” the sheriff asked, and Shelby forced herself to look away from Ryder and focus on the conversation.

  “Here is fine. I have a small office in the back, or we can sit in a booth.”

  “A booth is good. I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. It’s been a long night.” The sheriff smiled, his gaunt, solemn face transforming into something nearly handsome and much more approachable.

  “Go ahead and have a seat. I’ll bring you something.” Shelby grabbed a muffin and a steaming cup of coffee and set them down in front of the sheriff, studiously ignoring Ryder as she slid into the booth behind him.

  “So, what did you want to ask?” She brushed imaginary crumbs from the table, restless and anxious to get the interview over with. Though the morning crowd had thinned, she was sure the lunch rush would be hectic, and she needed to make sure the staff was prepared.

  “Mind if I take notes?” The sheriff pulled out an iPad from its case, and Shelby shook her head.

  “Not at all.”

  “Good. I’m sure you’ve heard that Maureen Lewis’s death may not be an accident.”

  “Yes.”

  “We should know for sure tomorrow, but I’d like to ask you about her friends and family. Was she close to anyone in particular? Did she have a boyfriend? A love interest? Any enemies that you know of?”

  “No love interest. No boyfriend. I think she broke up with the last guy she dated over two years ago.”

  “What about her family? Were they close?”

  “She has an ex-husband, who lives in London, and a son, who lives in Chicago. She doesn’t have any contact with her ex, and I don’t think she and her son are…were very close.”

  “How about enemies?”

  “I don’t know. Maureen was a good friend, but she could be tough to get along with. She was demanding and expected things to be done her way. Not everyone appreciates that.”

  “How about her work? Did she ever complain about it? Did she receive threats from anyone she was interviewing or writing about?”

  “Not recently. At least not that she mentioned. She started a new project last month, and she seemed really caught up in it.”

  “Do you know what she was working on?”

  “A book about the Good Samaritan murders.” The case had been all over the news four years ago when a nurse named Catherine Miller was convicted of murdering eleven patients at Good Samaritan Convalescent Center.

  “I’ll check into it. I have a report that you saw someone leaving 21st Street yesterday morning?”

  “That’s right.” She gave a quick description, then explained that she’d seen the same man outside the hospital.

  “That was reported, too. Another reason I wanted to stop by and talk to you. You’re sure it was the same guy?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “We’ve already canvassed Maureen’s street. There’s no one in any of the houses that will admit to being out jogging yesterday morning. I’m going to call the state police. They have a composite-sketch artist on staff. Hopefully, we can get her down here in the next day or two. Will you be able to come to the station to work up the sketch with her?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. I think that’s it. At the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re in imminent danger, but be careful.”

  “I will be.”

  “I’ll give you a call if we turn up any more information. Have a good day, Ms. Simons.” The sheriff finished his coffee and took his muffin as he left.

  Seconds later, Ryder slid into the booth across from Shelby.

  “You’re still here,” she said, and he smiled.

  “I still haven’t had my coffee and doughnuts.”

  “Will you leave if I bring them to you?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Well, you are taking up space other customers could use.”

  “There aren’t many customers right now.”

  “There will be.” She got up and grabbed his doughnuts and coffee, making sure everything was packaged to go and handing them to him over the counter.

  No more men.

  She’d promised herself that after she’d walked out on Andrew, but she just couldn’t seem to keep herself from looking deep into Ryder’s eyes.

  “Take the sheriff’s advice, Shelby Ann. Be careful,” Ryder said, his gaze sweeping over her face like a physical touch. Then he turned and walked out of the bakery, left her there staring after him.

  “You going to work or going home? Because right now, you’re just in the way,” Dottie muttered.

  “I’m working. We have two weddings next weekend, remember?” Shelby walked to the kitchen, irritated with Dottie and with her own weakness when it came to Ryder.

  What she needed to do, what she had to do, was immerse herself in work, forget everything else for a while.

  Fifteen hours later
, she was still working as Dottie muttered about die-hard foolishness, locked the front door and left for the night.

  Maybe she was right.

  Maybe Shelby would be better off at home, but working kept her mind off all the things she couldn’t change.

  Maureen’s death.

  The cold-eyed man of her nightmares.

  She hummed under her breath as she wiped down the display case one last time, rolled the last tray of dough into the walk-in refrigerator to proof over night. She’d make sweet breads from it. Sticky buns and cinnamon rolls and caramel-pecan rolls that she’d bring to church in the morning.

  She walked into her tiny office, grabbing her purse from under the desk and catching sight of herself in the small mirror Dottie had hung from the back of the door. A mess. That’s what she was. Hair escaping the clips she’d pulled it back with, skin pale and still slightly stained with mascara—she looked gaunt and exhausted and sickly.

  And that’s exactly how she felt.

  A soft sound came from the front of the bakery.

  Subtle, but there when there should be nothing.

  No sound. No whisper of another’s presence.

  Shelby’s heart thundered in response, her muscles tight with fear as she grabbed a knife from the kitchen and peered into the serving area.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  Just the way it should be.

  But the sound came again.

  Not inside.

  Outside.

  And her gaze jumped to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass door.

  The man standing there.

  Medium height.

  Medium build.

  Something covering his face, distorting his features.

  He leaned close to the door handle, seemed intent on something.

  Slowly, the door she’d watched Dottie lock opened, the bell above it ringing. Shelby dived for cover, falling onto her hands and knees and crawling toward the back exit, trying desperately to find her cell phone in the overstuffed pocket of her purse.

  Please, God, don’t let him see me!

  But she could hear his feet padding on tile floor, knew that he was coming for her.