by Deborah Camp
A burly man in a shiny gray suit wandered near Shadow’s desk and appraised Whitney as if she were on an auction block.
“Hey, Tallwalker,” the leering passerby drawled, “how’s your love life?”
Shadow glanced up from the books he was flipping through and confronted the man with steel gray eyes. “Take a walk, Brewster, while you still can.”
The man chuckled and ambled away from Shadow’s domain, and Shadow resumed his search through the books on his desk. Whitney shook her head and smiled to herself. The exchange had made her think of all the stories she’d heard of locker room jock talk and she wondered if she’d been a topic of conversation among these swaggering detectives.
“Here we go,” Shadow said, turning one of the books around so that she could see a page filled with two-by-two-inch photos of frowning men. “Look over this page carefully and tell me if you recognize any of these men.”
“Okay.” Whitney leaned forward and studied each photo carefully. She was on the third row when her gaze was captured by a smooth-faced young man with a cocky smile. She stared at the photo, knowing she had seen the man, but unable to pinpoint his identity. Tapping her finger against the photo, she looked up to find that Shadow was straining forward to see which photo she had indicated.
“You know him?”
“I’ve seen him. Wait a second …” The face in the photo took on a personality and Whitney snapped her fingers. “It’s Steven York!”
“Right. Where have you seen him before? How well do you know him?”
“I’ve seen him at a few parties, but I don’t know him well at all. Hey! He was at Ashley’s party last night.”
Shadow made no comment as he pulled the book toward him and marked it with a strip of blue paper. “What does he do for a living?”
“He’s an actor, but he’s out of work most of the time. Anyway, that’s what I’ve heard.” She placed a hand on the book before Shadow could remove it from his desk. “Why is his picture in there?”
“He was arrested for disturbing the peace a year ago, and he has a history of erratic behavior.”
“Do you think he’s the Malibu Intruder?” she asked, hope surging through her.
“Do you?”
Whitney shrugged. “You’re the cop, you tell me.”
“I don’t know.” He placed the book in one of his desk drawers. “We’ll check him out.”
“Is that it?” Whitney asked, disappointed by his answer.
“That’s it for now. Thank you for your help. We’ll see you home now.” He stood up and straightened his tie.
“Don’t bother. I’ll call a taxi.” Whitney picked up her purse from his desk and started from the room.
“That’s not necessary,” Shadow said, moving around his desk and grabbing her arm. “Pritchard, here, will take you home. She’s all yours, Sergeant.”
A tall, blond man in a police uniform stepped in front of her and offered a friendly smile. “It’s my pleasure, sir. My little girl is just nuts about Perky Penelope. Do you think I could get your autograph for her, Miss Campbell?”
Whitney jerked her arm from Shadow’s grasp and returned the young officer’s smile. “Of course, Sergeant Pritchard. How old is your daughter?”
“She’s six, and she has red hair just like Penelope. My wife is Irish.” He motioned for her to precede him from the room. “My squad car is out front, Miss Campbell.”
“Thank you.” Whitney squared her shoulders and strode toward the exit, never once looking back to see if Shadow was watching her; but she felt as if she’d left a piece of her heart with him and she was terrified that she would never be able to reclaim it.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to stay with me tonight,” Hampton said, pouring Whitney another mug of hot cocoa. “At least I’ll get a good night’s rest. I wouldn’t have slept a wink if you’d stayed at your house alone.”
“You’re such a mother hen,” Whitney said with a teasing smile. “But, I love you anyway.” She shook her head when Hampton offered her a brownie. “No, thanks. This is enough chocolate,” she said, holding up her steaming mug. “I didn’t mess up your plans for this evening, did I?”
“No. I was just about to phone you and insist that you stay the night here when you called.” His blue eyes twinkled. “It seems we have the powers of ESP between us.”
“I didn’t want to be alone any longer.” She smiled and tilted her chin in a proud angle. “I worked on the illustrations today.”
“Hurrah!” He held up his mug in a salute. “I think it’s truly amazing that you can even think with all this mishmash going on in your life.” Hampton reached across the dining room table and grasped her hand. “At the risk of having you chop me off at the knees, I’d like to ask you one more time if you don’t think it would be wise to leave your house for the time being.”
Whitney pulled her lower lip between her teeth and debated Hampton’s suggestion. She couldn’t go on living in her house without installing a security system—steel bars and blaring sirens. Whitney shuddered at the thought of doing that to her Malibu refuge. She looked into Hampton’s eyes and saw understanding there.
“I guess I could lease a hotel suite,” Whitney said softly, “or I could rent an apartment until this Intruder nightmare is over.”
“You can have all your art supplies moved to wherever you choose,” Hampton said. “I know you don’t want to leave your home, but—”
“It’s not my home anymore,” Whitney cut in. “Home is where you can relax and feel safe and happy. I don’t feel that way when I’m there anymore.”
“Once the Intruder is arrested, you can return to your little hideaway and it will seem as if none of this ever happened.”
“Will it?” Whitney sighed and shook her head. “I wonder.”
“Ah, we’re not talking about your house anymore, are we?” Hampton patted her hand and leaned back in his chair. “Is that silver-eyed detective on your mind?”
“His eyes are really gray,” she murmured, repeating Shadow’s earlier description. “And, yes, he is always on my mind these days.”
“What happened at the police station?”
“I told you.” Whitney gave a brief shrug. “I looked at the mug shots, recognized Steven York and—”
“Yes, I know that, but what happened between you and that detective? Is he still angry?”
“I think it goes beyond mere anger. It’s over, Hampton. I’ve lost him.” Tears welled in her eyes and she averted her face from him.
“There, there,” Hampton crooned, “you’re overreacting.”
“I’m not,” Whitney said, choking back a sob. “I said some terrible things to him. I told him he was messing up my life, and he won’t even let me apologize!”
Hampton began clearing the table, stacking cups and saucers neatly. “Have you ever thought what life with him might be like? Are you sure you want him on a permanent basis?”
Whitney stood up, wandered into Hampton’s French Provincial living room, and sank into a cream and gold wing chair. The room was fussy, just like its decorator. Whitney had never felt completely comfortable in Hampton’s house, even though he always welcomed her with open arms and waited on her hand and foot when she visited. For the first time since she had left her parents’ domain, Whitney felt like a gypsy, homeless, listless, a vagabond with no roots.
Hampton eased his lanky frame onto the black and gold loveseat and bestowed a sweet smile on Whitney. “Is he the one for you, Whitney? Are you completely besotted this time?”
“Completely,” Whitney whispered, tears spilling onto her cheeks. “I can’t bear the thought of losing him, Hampton.”
“And you really think you can be the wife of a policeman?”
“I want to be his wife, and I don’t care if he digs ditches for a living.” A sob shook her body and she hid her face in her trembling hands. “He was so cold to me today! I think h—he hates m—me.”
“What rubbish! Stop that sniveling this in
stant!”
Whitney removed her hands from her face and stared, dumbfounded, at Hampton, who looked positively disgusted with her.
“Children get what they want by throwing crying fits,” Hampton told her sternly. “You are not a child. Now dry your tears and let’s confront this situation with some maturity.”
His harsh command broke through Whitney’s shroud of self-pity. She wiped the tears from her face, sat up straight in the chair, and drew a deep breath. Her self-composure slipped back into place and she gave a short, choppy nod for Hampton to continue.
“First of all, the man does not hate you. He is disappointed, dismayed, and confused. Men are not that different from women, emotionally. I’d wager that Detective Tallwalker is experiencing the same pain you are right now.”
“Do you really think so?” Whitney asked hopefully.
“Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t have said it.” Hampton selected a pipe from a pipe stand and began filling it with tobacco. “You might conjecture that I am not speaking from experience, but I am.” His gaze touched hers briefly. “I have loved and I have been loved, in my own way, and I have known the pain of a broken heart.”
“Oh, Hampton.” Whitney left the chair and sat beside him on the loveseat. “You’ve never discussed these things with me before.”
“And I have no intention of discussing them now.” He lit his pipe and puffed on it until he got it going. “I mention my previous experience in these matters as a mere preface.” His hand curled around one of hers with gentle authority. “I think you both need a little breathing space. Your feelings for one another have knocked you both off your feet and you’re not thinking clearly.”
“That’s for sure,” Whitney said with a laugh.
“Your detective isn’t ready to accept your apology, so don’t force it on him. In a few days, he’ll cool off and realize what an idiot he’s being and he’ll contact you.”
“I don’t know about that,” Whitney murmured.
“He will,” Hampton stated firmly, “because he loves you very much.”
“I hope you’re right,” Whitney said, leaning her head against Hampton’s shoulder. “I said some hateful things to him.”
“You’ve said some hateful things to me, but I still love you.”
Whitney kissed Hampton’s soft cheek. “But you’re special.”
“So is he.” Hampton cleared his throat and gently disengaged himself from her. “I’m going to put those soiled dishes in the dishwasher and then I must retire for the evening. Don’t you think it’s time for you to get some sleep?”
“Yes, I think it’s past time for that.” Whitney stifled a yawn and stretched. “Are you putting me in the green room again?”
“Yes. It’s all ready for you.” Hampton set his pipe in an ashtray and pulled Whitney to her feet. “Good night, Whitney. Sleep well.”
“Good night, Hampton.” She gave him a good-night peck on the cheek and left him to tidy up his kitchen.
Upstairs, she went to the extra bedroom that Hampton had decorated in lime and emerald green. Too tired for a shower, she changed into her nightgown and snuggled under the satin sheet.
She thought of her own bedroom and her own bed and wondered if the Malibu Intruder were ripping it to shreds. Like it or not, she was going to have to make other living arrangements, she thought sleepily. She’d spend the next few nights with Hampton until she could decide whether to rent a hotel suite or an apartment.
It irritated her to think that the Malibu Intruder had won this battle by driving her out of her home against her will.
Steven York. Was it possible that he was the Malibu Intruder? Was Shadow close to arresting Steven as a suspect? She had a feeling that Shadow was onto something, even though he had acted as if her identification of Steven York meant little, if anything.
Ironically, this terrifying ordeal had brought something good into her life—Shadow Tallwalker. Whitney smiled, but it slipped from her lips quickly. When this was all over, would the good disappear with the evil, leaving her in a perpetual limbo?
Chapter Ten
“Be careful with those things,” Whitney warned the two men from the moving company who were boxing up her art supplies. “The worktable goes too, and the chair, and that file cabinet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of the men said indulgently. “We won’t damage any of your things.”
“When you get to the hotel, I’ve rented the Governor’s Suite, and I want those things placed in the bedroom.”
“Yes, ma’am, you’ve already given us those instructions,” the man said, grinning at his partner. “We’re not as dumb as we look.”
Whitney smiled, realizing she’d been fussing ever since they’d arrived at her home an hour ago. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to your jobs. If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” the two men said, almost in unison.
Whitney left her office, much to the relief of the movers. Nothing like making a nuisance of yourself, she thought with an inner laugh. Those poor men couldn’t know how upsetting this move was for her. She felt as if she were leaving the scene of a battle, war-weary and defeated. She was a gypsy again, and she despised the Malibu Intruder for tearing up her roots, roots she had so carefully planted.
Downstairs, as she wandered from room to room, a deep sadness built inside of her. Stopping before the sliding glass doors, Whitney stared out at the ocean and watched gulls dive and glide in a graceful ballet. For three nights she had stayed with Hampton until it became apparent to her that she would have to find other accommodations. Having lived alone for many years, Hampton was a meticulous housekeeper and, although he insisted that Whitney was welcome indefinitely, Whitney had known that she was putting a dent in his lifestyle. Hampton was so fastidious about his belongings that Whitney was afraid to touch anything. When she had placed a bottle cap in one of Hampton’s cut-glass ashtrays and he had almost broken his neck to snatch the cap from it and throw it into the trash can—where it belonged—Whitney knew that they would be at each other’s throats if she didn’t move out immediately. She had secured a suite in a Los Angeles hotel and, on hearing the news, Hampton had wasted no time in contacting a moving company for her so that she could relocate this very day.
The experience was positive proof that you could love someone and still not be able to live with him.
During the past three days Whitney hadn’t heard a word from Shadow and she was beginning to think that he had decided to end their relationship. Numerous times she had barely kept herself from phoning him and begging him to see her again, but her stubborn pride kept her from committing such a folly. She had tried to apologize for her hasty words and Shadow had not been willing to accept that apology. The ball was in his court, and she was forced to play the waiting game.
A car door slammed outside and Whitney whirled from her moody view of the ocean and started toward the front door, thinking that Hampton had stopped by to make sure that she was definitely moving. She opened the door, not waiting for the bell to chime, and stared with disbelief at the man approaching her house. Shadow! Elation swept through her, lighting her eyes with love and curving her mouth into an enticing smile.
He glanced over his shoulder at the moving company van as he climbed the outside steps.
“You’re moving?” he asked.
“Yes, to a hotel suite. I’ve been staying with Hampton, but it’s just not working out.” She motioned for him to come in. “I decided it would be best if I moved out of here for the time being.”
“I agree.” He walked into the house, then turned to face her. “Don’t bother closing the door. I’m only staying a moment.”
“Oh?” She realized he was holding a newspaper in his hand. “What have you got there?”
His mouth twisted into a bitter grin. “As if you didn’t know,” he said, his whole attitude accusing her of something vile. “Here,” he said, grabbing her wrist and shoving the newspaper into her hand. “I have
only one thing to say about this childish act of retaliation; practice what you preach!” He released her then and stormed from the house.
Whitney stared at the paper in her hands and slowly turned toward the open door. “Shadow? Shadow, what are you talking about?” Her anguished plea was drowned out by the scream of car tires as Shadow burned rubber out of her drive and down the street.
Wincing at the angry sound, Whitney unrolled the newspaper and groaned when she saw the banner—The Tattler. What now? she wondered as she scanned the headlines until one arrested her gaze and made her heartbeats falter. She read the headline several times, her mind rejecting it.
“Perky, Penelope creator blasts Malibu police for making her lover a scapegoat in the Malibu Intruder case,” Whitney whispered, reading the headline aloud but still unable to believe it. She stumbled blindly into the living room and sank onto the couch, her eyes scanning the article which insinuated that Whitney had granted an interview.
“Miss Campbell?”
Whitney nearly jumped out of her skin, having forgotten about the movers upstairs. She twisted around on the couch and looked up to the second landing where one of the movers was leaning over the railing.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Do you want these files cleaned out before we move the file cabinet or can we just move the cabinet with everything in it?”
Whitney frowned and turned her back on him. “I don’t care what you do with the cabinet,” she said, her attention focused on the article again.
“You don’t?” the man asked.
“No, I don’t! Just move the stuff!”
“Okay,” he said dubiously. “In that case, we won’t bother with taking everything out of the cabinet before we move it.”
“That’s fine,” Whitney answered, not really listening to him. She began reading the story carefully and saw through the cleverly worded implications. Nowhere in it did it actually say that she had been interviewed. Everything was attributed to a “close, personal friend.” This “friend” had told the reporter that Whitney was angry with the police department—especially Detective Anthony “Shadow” Tallwalker—for “delving into her personal life and making her friend, Jean-Claude Noir, suffer for something he had nothing to do with.” It went on to say that Whitney had called the police department’s efforts in the Malibu Intruder case “a mess” and that Detective Tallwalker was a “macho man with a delinquent streak.”