Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  “No, why?”

  “There’s no glass under the porch light.” She glanced around, trying to catch the reflection of lights on a shard—any shard—but there was no sign of glass anywhere.

  Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Go inside.”

  Alexa smiled inwardly at the authoritative tone. As she started to close the door, Joe reached out to stop her. “I’ll come in after I check this out. Look around and see if anything looks off to you—but don’t touch anything.”

  She roamed from room to room, trying to see or sense if anything felt off or out of order. Nothing—nothing seemed odd at all. A slow throbbing in her hand signaled that the numbing shot was wearing off. She read the bottle of pills and stared at the clock. Three more hours. Frustrated, she dumped a scoop of coffee into her coffee pot and punched the button. While it dripped, she gathered a pie server, forks, and plates and set them on the peninsula. She pulled her freshly baked caramel apple pie from the cake dome and began cutting it—the movements awkward from doing it left-handed.

  Joe startled her. “Did you check the rooms?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary that I can see.”

  He pointed to the pie server. “Need help with that?”

  Alexa passed it to him, nodding. “Thanks.”

  “I should chew you out for touching that, but if you give me a piece, I’ll let it go.”

  “Deal. Want some coffee? It’s already brewing.”

  He slid two pieces of mangled pie onto the plates with an apologetic grimace and nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be right back—should check the windows and things.”

  “You won’t get in trouble for sluffing off on the job or anything?”

  “Nah—one of the perks of being a small-town officer with a chief like Varney. We get the freedom to take a moment with a citizen and have a cup of coffee.” Alexa nearly snorted as he almost licked his lips in anticipation as he added, “And a piece of pie.”

  Minutes later, he stood leaning against the kitchen doorframe, a cup of coffee toasting his hands. “I didn’t find any evidence of a break in or anything. Whoever it was stayed outside.”

  “I didn’t think there was. I’m usually home all day. I’m sure I’d notice if something was amiss.”

  He took another sip of coffee. “I saw your clothes all laid out—wearing those to church tomorrow?”

  Alexa stifled a groan as she remembered her slip, camisole, bra, and nylons lying neatly beside her Sunday dress. “It’s one of my favorite outfits.” Before he could respond, she laughed. “I say that every time and it’s so ridiculous. They’re all ‘one of my favorites.’ That’s why I wear them.”

  Joe gave her an almost imperceptive once-over. “I wondered about those—”

  His unspoken question was evident. Why was she wearing a trendy outfit when her reputation was for period clothing? Though tempted to feign ignorance, something about Joe stopped her. He was too polite to press the question, and she guessed he wouldn’t be tempted by teasing, so she went with a straightforward answer.

  “I wear everything. If I like it, I buy it.”

  “Now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in something so contemporary.”

  Alexa passed him his slice of pie since he seemed disinclined to reach for it himself. “I don’t go out of my way to find trendy clothes, but I admit to enjoying it when I shake up my neighbors in a pair of jeans or something current.”

  “I’ve always assumed it was a publicity thing.”

  She carried her plate to her dining table, sipping her coffee before she answered the question she knew he wasn’t sure he should ask. “Not really. I changed my wardrobe in college and...” Embarrassed, she let the conversation die. Joe Freidan wouldn’t care about what prompted her clothing choices.

  “And...”

  So maybe he was interested. “It’s silly.” She toyed with her fork. “I just saw this dress in a consignment shop. I wanted that dress. It was exquisite—vintage.” Alexa glanced up at him, feeling sheepish. “My friends teased me when I tried it on, but it fit me like it was custom sewn just for me.”

  “So, you bought it.”

  As she refilled their cups, she continued her story. “I stepped out of the dressing room in that dinky little consignment shop and my friend said, ‘I would give anything for those to come back in style. Women used to look so classy.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard my mom and sister say the same thing about some styles.”

  “It stuck with me. I bought the dress and wore it to church the next week.” She stared at her hand for a moment before adding, “Every woman that saw it loved it and said they wished things like it were back in fashion. This one woman, Mrs. Abernathy—I’ll never forget her—said, ‘All good fashion comes back from time to time. I just hope that the fifties come back before I die.”

  He waited for her to continue—she saw it in his eyes—but she didn’t. “So, because someone was waiting around for what she wanted to wear to come back into style, you decided not to?”

  “Well, that and the fact that I barely missed getting flattened by a semi on the way home. I sat in a ditch, my heart racing. I looked down at my dress and thought, ‘Life is too short—really, too short—to wait around for what you want to wear to come back into style.’”

  Joe’s radio punctuated her words, calling him to a fender bender on the square. “I have to go. Thank you for the coffee and that pie—delicious.”

  Alexa jumped up, butchered another piece of pie, and dumped it in a plastic container. She chased him down before he drove away and handed it to him as he rolled down the window. “For tomorrow. You earned it. Thanks again.”

  Chapter 5

  AS ALEXA BRUSHED HER hair, she hummed—what, she didn’t know or care. Waves of hair rippled down her back and framed her face. As she cocked a perky emerald green Tam o’ Shanter to one side of her head, she surveyed the results. Perfect—almost.

  One last glance at the kilt, weskit, and shawl tossed over one shoulder prompted a predictable sigh—a momentary twinge of regret that her hair wasn’t a strong carrot red or even auburn. Though she had often considered having it professionally dyed, the idea of being a slave to roots always stopped her. God knew what He was doing. He didn’t make a mistake, she chastised herself. I may like red better, but God chose brown. Be content. I will be content. I will. Really. No foolin’.

  Alexa hurried out the door. She only had twenty minutes before her appointment with Chief Varney. Her low black pumps clacked on the sidewalk with a satisfying sound as she strode into town and to The Coventry. She waved at Martinez as she passed, feeling just a little guilty for her relief that the chief had sent Joe instead.

  Once inside the restaurant, the hostess led her to her favorite corner, handed her menus, and confirmed her drink order. “Coffee for the chief?”

  She nodded as she removed a mini recorder from her purse, checked the tape and batteries again, and placed it off to the side. She retrieved a notepad, pen, and her reading glasses. Just as she finished setting up for the interview, the hostess returned with her Italian cherry soda and the chief.

  “Well, Alexa. Always so prompt.” He seated himself and nodded at her bandage. “How’s the hand?”

  Alexa held out her hand for his inspection. He tried to peek under the wrappings but they were too snug. At the questioning look in his eyes, she shrugged. “I didn’t want to get gel in it while I was fixing my hair.”

  “In it? I don’t think you got any on it—so pristine.”

  “I covered it with Saran Wrap too, but things seep. The idea of getting alcohol in those stitches... I’m finally off the Tylenol and codeine. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  He nodded absently as he let go of her hand. “You did a good job of wrapping it. Your fingers are warm, so it’s not too tight.”

  “I had it too tight yesterday, but Ray Connors at church rewrapped it for me. He showed me how to do it correctly.”

  Nodding, Chief Varney g
lanced at his menu for exactly three seconds before he closed it. She knew his order but never presumed to order for him. Some men would see that as a statement that she thought him boring—Varney was likely one of them. It wasn’t a good way to encourage cooperation. Once he slid the menu under hers, Alexa began her interview.

  “Ok, while we wait for Theo to come take our orders, I have even more questions than I had planned. Saturday’s accident got me thinking, so I want to ask a few questions about that first.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Well, when I realized there was no glass, the whole thing turned ominous. I didn’t want Joe—Officer Freidan—to leave.”

  “Joe’s fine,” Varney assured her. “This is Fairbury, and I don’t think you’re going to develop a lack of respect for his authority.”

  With a nod of thanks, Alexa continued. “Nothing was out of place; clearly, no one came in or tried to come in. So, that begs the question, ‘Why did someone break a light bulb and clean up the mess?’ What was to be gained by that? It was especially creepy once I realized that it meant whoever cleaned it up did it before I got home. If they did it after I left, they would have messed with the blood, and I didn’t think the spatters looked disturbed.”

  Theo arrived to take their orders before Varney answered. Once he was gone, the chief spoke. “Considering that this is technically an ongoing investigation, I probably shouldn’t discuss it. Then again, you know as much as we do. Someone broke the bulb and cleaned up the mess but did not try to enter your house. Anything we think we know is pure speculation.”

  “Ok, speculate. What are your theories?”

  “Well, the obvious assumption is that you came home too soon and scared off a thief or attacker. If the glass had been there, I’d be sure of it. However, taking the glass away with them like that doesn’t make sense in that scenario.”

  “I wondered if maybe he cleaned it up and then saw me coming home before he had a chance to get inside—OCD or something.”

  “Possible.” Chief Varney agreed. “Usually people who break in don’t bother to clean up after themselves, but he might have if he didn’t want you to know he’d been there.”

  The implications of those words sent a shudder through her. “Ok, you implied you had other theories?”

  “Someone could be trying to rattle your cage. Have you made any enemies lately? Anyone miffed that you didn’t sign their book or something?”

  Alexa shook her head. “No, nothing. I don’t see that many people, and most are grateful that I go down to Bookends and sign at all.” A memory made her pause. “Well, there was a couple that walked by on Saturday. They gave me the most irritated look when they passed my house. I just assumed that it was because I was wearing something more modern. People like to think of me as the local eccentric.”

  “Did you recognize either one of them?”

  She waited to answer as their plates arrived. Theo must have put the order in before they even gave it—as usual. There were reasons she gave him enormous tips on her interview dates.

  “No.” She sighed. “I just can’t imagine someone breaking my light bulb because I didn’t have on a vintage outfit.”

  The chief nodded thoughtfully. “It’s probably nothing. Keep an eye out, though. If you see either one of them again, I want to know.” He chewed on the end of a fry before he continued—the gesture seeming more like chewing on straw than food. “Now, another scenario is a simple prank—kids out for a lark on a Saturday night and decide to mess with your head. Local murder maven gets the jitters and all that.”

  Every time Alexa thought she’d seen all the facets of Fairbury’s charming police chief, he threw something like “maven” at her. Before he said that, she would have assumed he’d never heard the word—particularly as he, once more, chewed on a fry like a piece of straw. “That sounds plausible.”

  “It’s the working theory, if you want the truth—that and accident. Someone stops by, knocks on your door, light goes out, they reach up to take it out and replace it for you and bam. Breaks. So, they sweep it up but by then they feel awkward about messing with it in the first place, so they leave and figure they’ll tell you about it later.”

  “I’d go with kids before that,” Alexa said. “It does make sense—maybe Hunter Badgerton or something.” That topic settled in her mind, Alexa changed the direction of the interview. “Well, I know how I’ll use the bulb thing. It’ll be a perfect scene in the book I’m writing.”

  “Glad you’ll get some use out of those stitches.”

  She laughed. “Something like that. Ok, I need to know what happens with a 9-1-1 call. Let’s say someone calls 9-1-1 and says they heard shots fired...”

  Alexa went on to describe the scene with an actual victim. When the woman had given her permission to use the actual crime—one still unsolved—she had been thrilled. As she described it, Chief Varney nodded. “The Salvo murder.”

  “Right.”

  “You trying to solve it, or are you switching to true crime?”

  She shook her head. “Neither. I am using elements in another book, but if I could figure out what happened for her, I’d love to.”

  “I never thought she did it, but all the evidence said she was the only one who could have. There was no sign of anything else.”

  “And she had no residue, her fingerprints weren’t on the gun, and—” Alexa forced herself to stop. “Sorry. I get into detective mode when I’m writing.”

  During the next hour, Chief Varney and Alexa discussed every angle of the crime scene in order to fictionalize it accurately. By the time they finished, Alexa had enough material to write her first chapters. She signed their check and pulled a box of chocolates from her purse, passing it across the table. “I brought these for Mrs. Varney. I know how much she loves my California chocolates.”

  The chief grinned. “And I sneak one or two when she isn’t looking.” He rose and pulled out her chair for her—something that always touched a soft spot in her.

  As they strolled out into the sunlight, she smiled at her friend. “Thank you again. I’ll be sure to let you know if I find out what happened with that bulb.”

  Frank Varney pointed to her hand. “Take care of that, too. The world would be mighty disappointed if you had to start typing one-handed.”

  EXASPERATED, ALEXA closed her eyes and interrupted her agent. “Look, James. Either you tell her or I will. I’m not doing fall tours every year. Every other year is enough for me. Period.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “What?”

  “She made it sound like you were just humoring me about keeping yourself a little elusive.”

  She rolled her eyes as she said, “Look, sorry to burst your bubble, but it’s not about you and your ideas for keeping me an enigma. It’s about Christmas. I’m not going to be gone for a month before Christmas every year. It’s that simple.”

  “Let me think it’s because I’m a good agent who knows how to work the public.”

  “Whatever. Hey, I’ve got the first chapter done on my new manuscript. It’s taking forever with one hand, but it’ll work. I'm quite pleased with it—first victim is dead, too.”

  James sighed. “Don’t you take a break?”

  “Yes. When I need one. Right now, I’m excited about a new project, and I’m going to use it to my best advantage.” She glanced around her. “Look, I need to get going. I still have to pack for the trip—see you and Elise in Chicago.”

  “Do you want me to pick you up at the airport?”

  “Of course not. Ridiculous. You know, you don’t have to come to the signing. It’s nice of you, but I’m not exactly a virgin author anymore, and Elise can handle things without your oversight.”

  At his insistence that he knew best how to ensure maximum profits for both of them, Alexa rolled her eyes and reminded herself that she couldn’t find a better agent and wouldn’t want another one if she could. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Give me a break
. I think you just like an excuse to travel and write it off on your taxes. See you on Thursday.”

  Alexa pulled the headset off and dropped it on the bed. Dresses hung from the door, over the mirror, and over the end posts of the bed. Several already hung in the garment bag, ready to go. Shoeboxes lay scattered around the room, awaiting her final clothing decisions. With a sigh, she removed one ensemble from her garment bag and replaced it with another. Several boxes of shoes returned to their place in the closet.

  Undergarments, nightwear, and exercise clothes went into her suitcase. Two of her favorite hats, cushioned by her other clothes and protected by stiff cardboard rings, nestled in the middle of the suitcase. With a glance around her room and back at her planner, she sighed and pulled out another suitcase from beneath the bed.

  Rarely did Alexa regret her clothing choices. Several weeks away from home, on the other hand, sometimes tempted her to create a specific simplified traveling wardrobe. Twice she’d even shopped for one but couldn’t bring herself to purchase what she considered uninteresting clothing. You’re spoiled, Alexa Hartfield, she scolded herself.

  HIDDEN IN THE BACK of a Lincoln Navigator parked two driveways down, Ted and Cheryl peered out the window with small binoculars trained on Alexa’s house. They watched silently as Alexa loaded her car with suitcases.

  After the third trip, Cheryl grabbed her camera. “With that much luggage, she has to be staying away for at least a couple of weeks. We have time, but we should still work fast.”

  Ted nodded awkwardly as if unconvinced. “If she took one of those things with the long, full skirts, it could fill up that one suitcase by itself.”

  “Who would do that?”

  He rolled his eyes at her. “You have to ask that question?”

  “True.” She set the camera in its case and started to scramble over the seat. “Let’s get going.”

  Ted grabbed the bottom of her shirt. “No, wait. Look. She’s driving off. If she sees you, she’ll think it’s weird.”