by Alana Terry
“Her friends are Bible people?” Her heart clenched at the sadness and loneliness of a woman so alone that she talked about dead people as though they were close, personal friends.
“Yep. She’s always been a little unique—so in love with the Word that she speaks of her Bible friends as though they might just walk through the door. Dad says she did it even when she was a lot younger.”
“That’s—”
“I know; it must seem odd. She often confuses people, but it is a great evangelistic tool.”
“It works? People take her seriously?”
Joe sighed. “She always leaves a Bible in their room with their name on the cover and a bookmark at just the right place with a note that says something like, “Read about my friend so-and-so. I think you’ll understand what he went through.”
At the Brunswick turnoff, Joe said, “Aunt Charity’s inn awaits.”
“What happened to dinner? You said we’d eat.”
He made a hard left onto the next street saying, “I’ve got a nice Italian place I want to show you.”
“Nice save.”
ALEXA FELT AT HOME the moment she stepped through the door at the Stafford House Inn. Charming and delightful, Joe’s aunt was everything he had described, and so much more. The affection between them told her he had risked something of himself to bring her there. “Aunt Charity, this is Alexa Hartfield.”
“When Joe called, I almost thought he was teasing me.”
Charity took them on an abbreviated tour of the house, showing most of the downstairs and a glance at the back yard before ushering them back indoors. “It’s so cold this year.”
The clock chimed nine-thirty and Alexa sent Joe a silent request for privacy.
“Aunt Charity, Miss Hartfield has a trip tomorrow. I think we should encourage her to try to get some sleep.”
“Of course. Come with me.”
To her surprise, Joe followed, glancing over the room before he stepped out again. “You’ll be fine.”
“And I will be praying for you. My friend David hid in caves from his pursuer—you can find him in Samuel—the first book I believe. Try chapter twenty-two.”
Joe winked at Alexa as he shut the door behind him.
He followed his aunt down the hall and held out his arms as she piled blankets on them. “Are you sure you can’t sleep next door? Leave the door open?” she whispered.
“I’ll be fine. I used to think it was great fun to camp out on your floor, remember?”
“You were also thirty years younger and with more energy than even a boy should be able to have. You didn’t sleep; you collapsed in exhaustion.”
“Something I cannot afford to do tonight.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “I know. I have one of those egg crate things. I bought it for the rollaway. I’ll get it.”
An hour later, the only sounds that penetrated the sleeping house were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway and the gentle hum of the aquarium filter at the end of the hall. Every hour, his phone buzzed, waking him to walk through the house.
WITH THE SUN STREAMING across the bed, beckoning her to return to it, Alexa turned the doorknob and gave one final glance around the room. She stepped forward and tripped over Joe. Her feet tangled with his legs, throwing her against the wall as she sank to the floor.
Joe sat up. “Wha—?”
“You slept outside my door?”
Before Joe could answer—if he was even coherent enough to answer—doors banged open along the hallway. A young man peeked around his doorjamb looking dazed and sleepy. A young woman, her middle quite decidedly “with child,” crossed her arms and glared at Joe. Charity reached the top of the stairs before anyone could speak. “Oh, are you hurt? Joe?”
The pregnant girl sent Joe a withering look before she turned to Charity. “Do you know him?”
“Of course. This is my nephew—Joe. Joe is an officer in Fairbury. He’s driving our guest to the airport.”
Alexa straightened her skirt and rescued her hat from Joe’s feet and blankets. As she tossed her hair behind her, the young woman punched her stomach in an obvious retaliation for a fetal kick and gasped, “You’re Alexa Hartfield! I recognize that hat. You were wearing it at a book signing I went to.”
“I will be sure to let my agent know that people do indeed remember my hats. Thank you.”
Joe watched amazed as she followed his aunt downstairs, chattering about her tryst with David and Saul the previous evening. A glance at his phone told him he didn’t have much time to clean up his mess before heading to the airport.
All the way to the airport, Joe devised new tortures for the man who would leave someone like Alexa Hartfield looking as uncertain as she did. Once on the highway between Fairbury and Rockland, he hoped to ask a few questions, anything to keep her from worrying, but she closed her eyes as they whizzed past the town. Though he doubted she slept, she was just relaxed enough for it to be possible.
They had attended the same church for three years. She passed and waved at him—well, all of the officers—anytime she wandered through town on an errand, and yet he knew nothing about her beyond whatever rumors rippled through Fairbury. She kept herself aloof—just open enough to be friendly, but never really investing in others. Probably the price you pay for a certain amount of fame, he thought as he pulled onto the Loop.
The transportation hub shuffled people to trains, buses, and the airport. He pulled up to the valet parking and began unloading the suitcases she had never removed from her car. Would she have clean clothes? They could have let her repack, surely.
The amount of luggage that she checked at the curb amazed him. Choosing only to carry a laptop bag that looked like a large clutch, and her purse, Alexa paid the fee and strode confidently toward the doors to the terminal. Inside, the usual bustling salad of nationalities, races, and socio-economic relationships milled about or waited in lines. Security lines stretched farther than he’d ever seen, and ticket counter personnel took “the customer is always right” to new levels as they tried to help people who insisted on things that simply could not be done.
As Alexa checked in, Joe stepped to the next agent, showed his badge and his ID, and requested a gate pass. “I’m escorting her onto the plane—for her own safety as well as that of the other passengers.”
It took a few minutes to get the request approved—minutes he suspected were spent calling Chief Varney for verification of his facts—but eventually Joe joined Alexa in line. The difference in the security lines for first class and coach astounded him. Less than three minutes after stepping up to the scanners, they were through the checkpoint and seated near the gate.
She seated herself near the boarding area, looking quite out of place. Other passengers pointed, stared, or whispered as they pointed and stared, creating quite a stir. He gave up his attempt at minding his own business and suggested, “I would have expected you to use the first-class lounge.”
“They’re renovating. I would have to travel the very day that they closed it completely. At least yesterday one small corner gave a little privacy.”
“Isn’t this a little uncomfortable for you?” Before she could answer, a man asked for her autograph—and her phone number. She signed the notepad he thrust at her and passed it back. Joe watched as the man reddened, gave her a mumbled apology, and retreated to a seat several rows away. “What did you write?”
“Alexa Hartfield. 1-800-Not Interested.”
He snickered. “Good one.”
“It seems to make people smile rather than feel insulted.”
“Happens a lot?”
Alexa shrugged. “Enough to have made me come up with a standard response, but not so much that I’ve lost my amusement over it.”
A voice over the PA system called for Jordan Friedan. He muttered that he’d be right back and hurried to the courtesy desk. Her curious expression as he returned told him she’d be asking about the badge. He had hoped to avoid it.
>
“I forgot your name was Jordan. Why do you go by Joe?”
He grimaced. “Almost every year in school I was in class with at least one other Jordan—usually girls. I had a choice between Joe and Dan.”
“And you chose Joe because...”
“My best friend was Daniel Holden. Two Dans would be confusing, so...”
“And the badge? I thought gate pass, but—”
He sighed. “Look, the only reason Chief Varney didn’t try to keep you in the state is because I assured him that I’d watch you until you got on the plane. If you deviate from your itinerary in any way, he’ll try to have you arrested as a flight risk.”
“Risk for what? Why would I be fleeing anything?”
Joe tried to keep his voice calming. “Because you are a potential suspect in a homicide.”
There it was, the pale, stunned expression he had hoped to avoid. “If it’s that serious, why did he let me go?”
“Because we have nothing on you. We can’t charge you with anything. He could try to keep you in town as a suspect in an ongoing investigation, but you and I both know that’s difficult to manage.” At her protest, he shook his head. “It’s not like TV, Alexa. We have to have evidence—probable cause. We can’t just order people around to make our lives easier. You really are innocent until proven guilty. The proving part is our job.”
“How am I supposed to enjoy this trip knowing that you guys are tracking my movements, that I’m being investigated, and that I am going to come home to a filthy house?”
Alexa’s voice rose enough to elicit curious looks from her fellow passengers. He waited, allowing himself to regain some composure before looking her squarely in the eyes. “Because you are innocent. We’ll probably have someone in custody by the time you get home.”
Boarding calls for her flight began. She reached into her purse and pulled out a sticky pad and pen. Writing her cell number and her hotel contact information on the note, she passed it to him. “First class boards now. I have to go. Call me. I know you have all this at the station, but put it in your phone, keep it at home—whatever. Please see if you can get someone you trust to come in and clean up. I don’t want to come home to that mess. I don’t care what it costs me. Oh, and make sure you watch them or get someone else to. I don’t want someone making copies of my keys or anything.” She dug into her purse and pulled out her keys, wrestling two off the key ring. “I need that back. My spares are in the house.”
“Where?”
“The safe.”
He sighed. “So much for that theory.”
Alexa stood and gave him a half smile. “I’m trusting you with my car and my house. If you’re the creep, I am going to feel pretty stupid.” The joke hung between them and crashed to the floor—an utter failure.
Though it crossed professional barriers he rarely neared, Joe hugged her quickly and said, “It’s going to be ok. Remember, you’re innocent. I’m going to prove that. It’s my job. Your job is to live your life. You go to New York, you do your signings or shop or write—whatever. Just enjoy yourself.”
“I’ll try,” she murmured as she pulled out her boarding pass and handed it to the agent.
He waited until she disappeared before squaring his shoulders and turning. He had to make it happen—somehow. No one should have to live like that.
Chapter 10
BLOOMINGDALE’S—A HOLIDAY tradition. Alexa’s mother expected her usual wrapped box of perfume each year, and only Bloomingdale’s carried the socks that her father loved. She bought a new sweater and a pair of earrings, aware that her sister Jeanne would return or regift it immediately. No matter what she bought, Jeanne never liked it.
She strolled through Bergdorf’s and FAO Schwartz, tempted to buy much and purchasing nothing. She hoped to find the right gift for James before the end of the day. Last on her Christmas list, Alexa wanted to find his gift and wrap up her holiday shopping in favor of what she liked to call “real shopping.”
Her true fun would begin when she hit the lower east side. She’d scour Greenwich Village for new vintage clothing and accessories—and possibly a few new antique books. Her seamstress expected the boxes of new skirts, jackets, dresses, blouses, and slacks that arrived every year a few days after Christmas. This year’s box would include a new coat or two as well—if she could find them.
Once she finally found the perfect gift for James, a wine bottle of the month subscription from a lovely little specialty shop, she returned to her hotel, anxious for a late-night chat with her best friend, Suzy. All day her mind had swirled with new ideas for her book, and the only person she trusted with the discussion was Suzy.
She kicked off her shoes, hung her coat, and reached for the phone to order room service. As she gave her order, she removed her hat and pulled out her pajamas. Once set, she punched the number of her friend. “Hey, Mike. Is your wife available?”
Mike’s “Nope, she’s taken,” while as predictable as the joke that prompted it, still made her smile. He liked the exchange, and Alexa was happy to oblige.
“Give me that phone and go make the kids suffer with your silly jokes.” To Alexa, Suzy said, “Got it. You’re good to amuse him.”
“It’s the least I could do. I need to talk murder.”
“Oh, goodie.” Suzy’s half-muffled voice warned Mike that she would need to sleep with a nightlight. “Spill it.”
Alexa opened with the scene on her porch, went through her lunch with Chief Varney, and then to the chapter she’d written. She described the murder while she was in Chicago, swallowing hard at Suzy’s gasp. “It was unreal. So, I have this book. Do I finish it, or go back to the other one and hope that this is the end of things?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because the book is about a serial murderer.”
“Oh.” Seconds ticked past as her friend weighed the options. “If someone just wants to copy your murders, they’re going to do it regardless of the book. If you have this one plotted, just write it and pray the police can stay one step ahead of him.”
“Or her...”
Suzy laughed, albeit without her usual heartiness. “Come on, aren’t you the one who says that women rarely commit murder face to face? They like things like poison or guns in a dark alley or whatever.”
“True...”
“So, tell me the plot. Let’s get this figured out.”
“Well, my killer is making a statement. The murders aren’t random, they aren’t even personal to the victim, but they do make a very personal statement. The killer cares about his own perverted sense of justice.”
“Ok, so he’s mad about cops writing bogus tickets so he kills a cop?”
“Well it might be a cop... or it might just be that he uses a ticket book to smother or bludgeon or something—and it doesn’t have to be a cop. He uses whoever is convenient.”
“Okay... I think I’m getting it now. Well, as much as the average reader would love poetic justice like a ticket book smothering the cop for once, I doubt that’ll work.”
“Right,” Alexa agreed. The ticket book was beginning to annoy her. “I need scenarios like the first one. Slashed throat versus slashed papers. What else is there?”
They brainstormed for an hour, stopping only long enough for Alexa to open the door for room service and tip the attendant. While she enjoyed her chicken dinner, they considered brutal bucherings that seemed too sensational to Alexa, daggers to the heart and the back of the head—a hundred and one picturesque ways to kill with a point.
Suzy sighed. “Too bad you didn’t start with poison pen letters like in the old Miss Marple book. That first woman might have had half a chance.”
“I’ll add poison to the list. It’ll be perfect for a gossip.” Alexa shoved her cart out into the hall and locked the door behind her. “Ok, enough of murder. Tell me about Mike’s Christmas party. I could use some new character sketches.”
Suzy regaled Alexa with stories of office intrigue and gossip. Fro
m the drunken karaoke to jealous wives, the stories gave Alexa a glimpse into lives she didn’t live. Alexa loved Mike’s Christmas and retirement parties for that reason—as did Suzy. “You know,” Suzy said with a happy sigh, “If it wasn’t for you, these parties would be miserable. I would feel so out of place. Instead, I feel like some kind of cool spy on a reconnaissance mission.”
“I’ll have to tuck that away for an idea...”
“Tell me about New York. Did you get your Christmas shopping done? Is it widows or orphans this year?”
Laughing, Alexa corrected her friend’s ideas. “We have exactly four widows, which I discovered two years ago, and no orphans unless you count the little Chinese girl that the Fremonts adopted a few years ago.”
“Then who are you buying for this year?”
“Mothers. I have a list of every mother in the church and what those who love and know them say they’d want more than anything.”
“Ouch.”
Alexa sighed. Her friend knew her well. “It’s nice to buy for mothers who will enjoy it.”
“At great emotional and personal sacrifice. You’re a good woman, Alexa.”
“I’m a dirty rotten sinner just like the rest of humanity.”
Suzy conceded the irrefutability of the theological point. “That said, you’re pretty darn cool. So, what was the most unusual suggestion that you received?”
“Underwear.”
“What?”
Pleased that she’d managed to surprise her friend, Alexa told the story of a four-year-old who said his mother needed new underwear. “He swore that each leg has two holes—the ones they came with and new ones. I had this mental picture of leg holes in the seat, but I guess the elastic has come unstitched around the legs.”
“So, are you buying her new underwear?
“Not on your life. If she wants to live with holey underwear, then more power to her. We all need a little holey-ness in our lives, don’t we?”
A snicker preceded Suzy’s obvious question. “So, what is she getting?”