by Cassie Miles
Mona’s reaction was unexpected. She fluttered her thin fingers in front of her lips. Her eyebrows danced. And she giggled. “The new sheriff? My, oh, my. Is this a date?”
“I’ve never met the man. I spoke to him on the phone when I was asking about information in the county files.” For the memoir, she needed to find out more about Dorothy’s disappearance and death—a sore spot for Simon but significant, nonetheless. “Anyway, I thought it’d be useful to get better acquainted with Sheriff Coleman. You know, for research.”
“For your sake, I wish it were a date. You need to start spending time with people your own age. When I say people, I mean men.”
The housekeeper’s matchmaking intentions were clear but irrelevant. Vanessa wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. She needed to get herself straightened out before she plunged into a relationship. Still, she promised, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“You won’t be disappointed with the view. Sheriff Ty is a pleasure to look at. Did you clear this with Simon?”
“I did.”
“So that’s an even dozen for dinner,” Mona said as she went out the door. “When the sheriff arrives, I’ll bring him here to the library so you can meet him, one on one.”
“Not necessary,” she called after her.
“You’ll thank me.”
A moment later, Simon made his entrance. He flung his arms wide as if to gather all the energy in the room for his own private use. “I brought the contracts for our writing arrangement. I feel good about working with you, Vanessa, real good. Together, we can heal the family wound.”
“Sure.”
They’d never discussed the wound, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. Almost twenty years ago when she was ten, there was a rift between Dad and his sister, Dorothy—the estrangement severed their relationship like a machete through butter. Everything changed. Vanessa’s parents left Whitman’s Castle and moved to Denver. They never made amends, never spoke. Mom died five years later. Then Aunt Dorothy, three years after that.
Like a streak of red lightning, Simon charged across the room toward the long table she used as a desk. He was an outdoorsman, sunburned and ruddy. His dark red hair didn’t have a strand of gray even though he was sixty-five. He placed a small stack of legal documents on the table. “I need your signature. Even among family, it’s important to have written agreements.”
She separated three copies of a five-page contract and sat in her leather swivel chair to study the pages. Earlier, she’d read a draft and needed only to skim. “Give me a minute.”
“Let’s get a move on. I want to get back to the kitchen to oversee dinner prep.” He adjusted the buttons on his chef jacket, which was, of course, deep red.
“You could leave the contracts with me,” she said. “I’ll give them to you later.”
“We’ll do it now.”
He snapped his fingers at her. Really annoying, but she didn’t complain. No point in igniting his firecracker temper. His second wife, Chloe, claimed that his intensity came from being a perfectionist who was overwrought with the responsibilities of the gourmet kitchen in his restaurant, Simplicity. Vanessa didn’t think the explanation was that complicated. She believed Simon would be a narcissistic jerk whether he was a chef, car mechanic or surgeon. That was his personality, and she accepted it.
He paced the length of the table, then retraced his steps. His fidgeting distracted her. When she looked up, he was staring. “You know, Vanessa, you look a lot like Dorothy. You have the same honey-colored hair, the same chocolate eyes and the same peaches-and-cream complexion.”
His description sounded like a dessert tray. “You’ve mentioned the resemblance before.”
“When you smile, you have the same little gap in your teeth.”
While he continued to stare, she flipped through the pages. The document clearly stated a privacy clause that prohibited her from publishing any part of his memoir or research she uncovered without his permission. An understandable concern; he had enemies who would delight in bringing him down.
Her gaze lingered on the amount of her fee, which was broken into thirds. The total was more than she’d make in two years of teaching high school, plus she’d stay here at Whitman’s Castle rent-free while she was writing. A very good deal.
She picked up her pen and signed all three copies. Simon did the same. Instead of a handshake, they ended with a hug that he held for two seconds too long. His chef jacket smelled of garlic, grease and a hint of sweat.
“Dinner is at eight,” he said. “Eight o’clock sharp.”
“I’ll be there.” She was well aware of his insistence on precision timing for meals, which could be part of his perfectionism or could be a nasty little power trip.
Mona sidled through the door. “Sheriff Coleman is here. I thought Vanessa could give him a tour of the house before dinner.”
When the sheriff stepped inside, Vanessa knew why Mona had hyperventilated at the very thought of this sexy man who was prime boyfriend material. Ty had that cowboy thing going for him—handsome yet unassuming, as though he didn’t realize how gorgeous he was. Great body, probably six-four with wide shoulders and narrow hips. He wore jeans and a gray blazer. His dark blond hair was cropped close, military-style. He shook hands with Simon. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I can’t believe we haven’t had you as a guest before. It’s wise for those of us in the restaurant business to be friendly with local law enforcement.”
“And why is that, sir?”
“Because we’re both in the people business. I fill them up, and you take them down. Get it?” Simon brayed a laugh. “How did you and Vanessa meet?”
“Actually, we haven’t met,” she said. “I spoke to the sheriff when I was looking for documents that might have been filed in the county court.”
“Why poke around in that stuff?” Simon’s voice took on a darker tone.
“For your memoir. When I talked to your editor, she showed a great deal of interest in the Castle and in Aunt Dorothy.”
“Did she?”
Vanessa nodded. Simon himself had mentioned healing the family wound. Why was he angry?
“Let’s get this straight, Vanessa. The book is about me. If you have questions about the past, ask me.” He turned away from her and spoke to the sheriff. “Have you been to Simplicity?”
“Not yet, but I heard the pepper steak is real tasty.”
“Steak au poivre,” Simon said. “It’s brilliant.”
He never missed a chance to lavish praise on his gourmet French/Italian restaurant outside Aspen that was regularly awarded starred Michelin ratings. If she didn’t change the subject now, he’d roll through the entire menu. She shook Ty’s hand.
The intensity of that casual connection surprised her. A tremor rattled along her spine like a pleasant earthquake. For a moment, she lost herself in the reflection of his gray-green eyes. Struggling to stay on topic, she said, “Maybe you’ve been to one of my uncle’s franchises based on the Simplicity menu. They’re called Simple Simon’s.”
“An unfortunate name,” Simon said. “There’s nothing simple about me. My partner, Keith Gable, runs the franchise business.”
Mona loudly cleared her throat. “Other guests are arriving.”
“I suppose I should get back to my ratatouille,” Simon said. “Many people don’t appreciate the subtleties of the flavor profiles, and—”
“I’m sure they can’t wait to try it.” Mona the Matchmaker wasn’t about to let a recipe stand in the way of what she envisioned as a date. She grabbed Simon’s elbow and guided him from the room. “Let’s leave these two alone.”
Mona closed the door and a wonderful quiet settled around them in the library. The ambient sounds of the household seemed less intrusive. From downstairs, she heard people talking and laughing, preparing dinner. In here, the atmosphe
re was calm...and safe. How strange to think of safety!
“You haven’t been living here long.” Ty’s baritone hummed with a slight cowboy twang. “Where are you from?”
“I escaped from Denver.”
“Escaped?”
She tried to shrug off the word and the implication. The last thing she wanted was to run through the train wreck her life had become. “I might have had a stalker.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He wore a black ski mask. What a cliché! And he’d follow me around. Once he broke into my apartment and I had to call the police.” Her attempt to be nonchalant deflated when she remembered the cemetery. “He tried to attack me.”
“What did you do?”
“Threw a Mason jar at him, shot him with pepper spray and ran.”
“You did the right thing,” Ty said. “If you have any reason to think he’s after you again, let me know. It’s my job to take care of the people who live in Tremont County.”
When he placed a reassuring hand on her forearm, she felt an aftershock of that warm tremor. “Are you ready for the grand tour of Whitman’s Castle.”
“You bet.”
Was he just being polite? A lot of guys couldn’t care less about wainscoting, casements and arches. “If you’d prefer, we could go out to the patio for a drink. I’ve been told that Simon has an amazing collection of wines.”
“I’d rather see the house.” He shrugged. “Architecture is an interest of mine. I’ve been a carpenter, off and on, for most of my life.”
She could easily imagine him with a tool belt slung around his hips...shirtless and tanned. “Is that what you did before you became sheriff?”
“Mostly, I was a ski bum. In the summer, I worked on carpentry crews. In the winter, ski patrol. After I did some EMT training, I got a job with Search and Rescue. That led to working as a deputy. When the old sheriff died, I inherited his job.”
That was a tight little biography. No doubt there was a lot more to say but Ty didn’t seem like the kind of guy who bragged about himself. “Why does Mona call you the new sheriff?”
“I only got elected a year and a half ago. My job is mostly about handling traffic problems, robberies, bar brawls and domestic fights. I keep meaning to sign up for some forensic classes, but it doesn’t seem worth the four-hour drive to a teaching facility. Change comes slowly to the people in Tremont County. Maybe we’re a little old-fashioned. Like this room.” He scanned the library. “Looks like it hasn’t changed since the early twentieth century. I always wanted floor-to-ceiling shelves, even though I don’t have enough books to fill the space.”
“Getting the books is easy. Reading them takes more effort.” Inwardly, she cringed. What a nerd! “I used to be a high school English teacher.”
“I knew you were smart.”
She pivoted, grabbed her father’s urn off the table and returned it to the bookshelf. Then she marched toward the door. “Come this way.”
Somehow, he managed to reach the exit before her and open the door like a gentleman. When she strode through, she felt him following her. His nearness didn’t make her nervous. The opposite, in fact. Safe, I’m finally safe.
She crossed the wide balcony and spun around to face him. “This forty-five-foot tall room is called the Grand Hall. It separates the original Whitman’s Castle from the renovations and additions. The lower part of the opposite wall—” she pointed “—is made of granite mined from a local quarry. The upper part is cedar and was added in 1968.”
He leaned over the third-floor railing, gazed to the right, then to the left. “This balcony extends all the way from one end of the hall to the other. I’m guessing about one hundred and fifty feet.”
“Close enough. The dimensions on the floor are about the same size as an Olympic swimming pool.” She looked up at an arrangement of chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. “Swarovski crystals. That’s a one-of-a-kind design, and it’s supposed to represent the constellations.”
He stared down at the very long dining table in the center of the Grand Hall. Places were already set with china and silverware. “How many people does that seat?”
“Twenty-two, but there are only twelve for dinner tonight.”
“I’m impressed.”
He sounded surprisingly enthusiastic, and she motioned for him to follow. “At the end of this balcony, there’s a staircase that leads down to the second floor where there’s another long balcony overlooking the Grand Hall.”
On the second floor, she guided him along the wide balcony, explaining artwork and sculptures she recalled from her childhood. They were about halfway across when a door crashed open and they heard an angry shout. “Listen to me. If they sell, we’ll get it all back, every penny. We’ll make millions.”
Vanessa craned her neck and saw her cousin, Bethany Whitman-Burke, charging in their direction. Her complexion flushed pink under expertly applied makeup, and her long blond hair streamed behind her like a banner. Her black pencil skirt snapped with every stride.
Vanessa managed to leap aside before she got mowed down. “Bethany, are you okay?”
“Shut up, Vanessa. God, you’re naive.”
She dove into a center room and slammed the door. They heard her fasten the lock, which was very weird. Why would Bethany lock herself in Simon’s bedroom?
Chapter Three
Ty stared at the locked bedroom door. Then he looked at Vanessa. Then back at the door. He asked, “What’s her name?”
“Bethany Whitman-Burke.”
His instincts told him that the blond woman in the tight skirt was a first-degree troublemaker, but he hadn’t come to Whitman’s Castle as a law enforcement officer. Supposedly, he was here only as a dinner guest. And he didn’t know much about these people. Maybe it was typical for someone to throw a temper tantrum before a formal dinner.
Again, he turned to Vanessa and asked, “Should I talk to her? Do you think she needs help?”
“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “The locked door is a fairly serious indication that she doesn’t want to be bothered.”
“Guess I don’t need to bust the door down. But I’ve got to ask if Bethany pulls this kind of stunt every night. What can you tell me about her?”
“She’s a distant cousin, and I don’t know her well. We met for the first time when she and her husband moved in a few weeks ago.”
“But you have the same last name.”
“There are dozens of people who use the Whitman name and have only a tenuous connection to the family. Mona calls them shirttail relatives.”
She leaned against one of the vertical posts that supported the balcony and railing. The natural light from the windows at the far end of the Grand Hall had begun to fade, and someone—probably Mona, the housekeeper—had turned on the dangling crystal chandeliers. Pinpoints of light glittered behind Vanessa. In her gauzy blue blouse and denim skirt, she was a vision—a good-looking woman with untamed golden curls, dark eyes and a sprinkle of freckles across her pug nose.
He jerked himself back to reality. “Why do people want to be Whitmans?”
“They think there’s an inheritance attached to the name, but they’re dead wrong. I’m a direct descendant, and I barely have two nickels to rub together.”
Even if that were true, he suspected Vanessa hadn’t always been broke. There was something classy about her graceful posture, the way she walked and the way she smiled. Her voice was mellow and precise without being prissy. When she’d invited him to dinner over the phone, he’d been curious to find out more about her, but that wasn’t the primary reason he agreed to come to the Castle. A few days ago, he’d gotten a lead on a drug dealer who was working at the Simplicity restaurant, which wasn’t the kind of place he could barge into and make demands. He needed finesse. If he had an “in” with Simon, he could learn more about the dr
ugs and arrest the bosses instead of one dumb flunky. More likely, he’d pass his information to the DEA and let them do their job. Ty didn’t care about a drug bust; he was happy in his role as the sheriff of a small county where nothing much ever happened.
“What about your family,” she asked, “do they live around here?”
“We’re from Montana near the Little Bighorn River. When we have reunions, there are dozens of Colemans, and I know every one of them.” Family was important to him. Twice every year—at Christmas and in the summer—he returned home to renew, recharge and reassure Ma that marriage and family were still on his horizon. “I have one brother and one sister. You?”
“I’m an only child.”
The way she said only made him think she was lonely, but it was too soon to make that kind of judgment. He stepped up beside her and looked over the edge of the railing. The arrangement of the Grand Hall with two tiers of long balconies seemed appropriate for Simon Markham, who enjoyed looking down on people. Two stories down, Ty saw a platinum blond woman in a white cashmere sweater fussing with the flower arrangements on the long table.
“That’s Chloe Markham,” Vanessa said.
“I’ve seen her around town. She almost always wears white.”
“That might be why people call her the Ice Princess.” Vanessa let her comment dangle, leading him to believe there might be other reasons for the label. “She’s quite a contrast with fiery red-haired Simon, but they fit together well. Opposites attract.”
He caught a whiff of baked goods and inhaled deeply. “Smells like somebody’s baking.”
“There’s sure to be some kind of bread with the meal.”
The thought of fresh-baked bread or muffins—he loved corn muffins—set his belly to rumbling. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, and that was only a burger and fries. “How come I smell bread instead of whatever spices go into ratatouille?”
“Blame it on the architecture,” she said. “This section of the Castle where we’re standing was added to the original structure in 1968. The central part of these three stories and balconies was an interconnected block. On the top floor is the library. The middle—where we’re standing—is Simon’s master bedroom suite and a guest room with a bathroom. The ground floor is for cooking. When Simon does a big meal, the breads and cakes are prepared in the bakery just off the Grand Hall, and the aroma rises. A delicious anomaly.”
