by Alana Terry
“What does he know,” Suzy snorted. “He’s the one who wanted gifts to their armpits, now he can pay for it.”
“Oh,” Alexa’s attempt at casual interjection failed from the second she opened her mouth. “So, do you want to hear the latest interesting tidbit regarding the New Year’s Eve Ball?”
“You have a date!” Alexa could almost see Suzy squirming and bouncing in her recliner as she squealed and demanded more information.
“Ding ding! Actually, we both do. Joe—”
“The cop...”
“Right, the cop, has a brother just a bit older than Lorie. They live close, and Joe was going to Chicago anyway, so...”
“It might be kind of a substitute for the formals she’s missed already.”
“That was Joe’s thought.”
Suzy’s enthusiasm waned as she whispered, “What’s wrong with his brother?”
“Nothing,” Alexa insisted.
“Is he homely? Socially backward? Something has to be wrong to pay that kind of money for a blind date. I saw what those tickets cost.”
“Joe says he looks like him—Joe. Man, people really do mix pronouns in speech. Anyway, Joe says he’s personable and outgoing.”
“Joe says. He’s not biased at all, of course.”
Alexa tried again. “I don’t know how to explain it, but if Joe says it, I believe it—without bias being an issue. Joe is very much into ‘the facts.’ I call him Friday.”
“Are you ‘His Girl?’”
Snickering at the pun, Alexa gave the most non-committal answer she could. “For that night, anyway.”
“I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense—that much money. Why would he—unless it was an excuse to take you out! He likes you!”
“It’s not the seventh grade, Suzy. He’s not looking for a girlfriend—not in me. I’m not sure what the deal is, but it’s not that.”
“Do you think it has...” Suzy was silent for a moment before she continued. “Really, do you think it has something to do with the case?
Alexa swallowed hard. “Maybe. Part of me thinks Joe would tell me if it was, but maybe not. He might not be allowed to or something—like with me not calling you. I hope not though.”
“Why not?
“If Lorie and Jeremy actually hit it off, it’d be terrible if Joe botched it by using the evening as a stakeout.”
AFTER A DINNER OF RANDOM leftovers that did little to curb her appetite but much to remind her of how much she disliked leftovers, Alexa grew antsy. The church and half the town would be assembling to light the star on the enormous Christmas tree in the town square soon. She hated to miss it. Though she could probably drive, if a twinge hit at the wrong moment, it could be disastrous.
Wilma had family. Heather was gone. Martinez would jump at the chance—if she hadn’t offended him too much with her tirade—but she didn’t like that idea either. It felt presumptuous to ask Joe, but he had shown signs of becoming a good friend—maybe...
The call took less than half a minute. He’d be there in thirty minutes. Alexa found hard-soled slippers and set them on the coffee table. Her hair, a mass of untamed curls from neglect after her bath, needed serious attention. She started to twist it up into a loose bun, but changed her mind as an idea formed. It took a few minutes to find the headband she wanted, but at last she found it in the back of a little-used drawer.
She had little time and no desire to stand long enough to apply cosmetics, so she went in search of her favorite cloak, and put it on just as Joe came through the door. Joe stopped her. “Wait, what kind of dress—you look like a completely different person!”
Embarrassed, Alexa grabbed the cloak and put it on again. “Are you through?” she snapped. Her chagrin deepened, knowing she was being unreasonable. As if she needed a second dose of overreaction, she added, an edge to her voice, “I’m going to be late.”
“Do you realize that with your clothing habits, you could easily be a con-artist?”
“I’ll remember that if I ever decide to change professions.” She shoved her feet into her shoes and glared at him. “Can we go now?”
His scrutiny brought a blush to her cheeks, one that made his next words even more embarrassing. “Do you have any idea how lovely you look?”
“Do you have any idea how late I’m going to be or how annoying you are?”
A quizzical expression crossed Joe’s face, but he said nothing as he opened the door. Exasperated, Alexa snarled, “What?”
“Is that coat thing warm enough?”
Alexa knew it wasn’t what he had been thinking. “Friday...” She interjected every bit of “don’t mess with me” that she could muster into her tone.
It took him until he got her to his car door before he answered. “I was just amazed that you are so thoroughly unacquainted with Mrs. Post. That’s all.”
“Who is Mrs. Post?”
“Well, her first name is Emily...”
She waited for him to climb behind the wheel before she blasted him. “What does Emily Post have to do with anything? You are infuriating!”
“Well, I just thought someone like you would be very familiar with all those dos and don’ts in her books, and I know somewhere in one of them she has to talk about how to receive a compliment. I’m pretty sure,” he added with a heavy layer of sarcasm, “‘Do you have any idea how late I am going to be or how annoying you are?’ didn’t make the final cut.”
Though beaten, Alexa became more incensed than ever. “Thank you for your gracious compliment, Friday. I’ll be sure to avoid this dress in the future. I would not want anyone to accuse me of wearing it as a cry for attention.”
The ride to the church, unlike their first ride together, was most definitely uncomfortable. Alexa knew she would have no trouble describing, in minute detail, the frustrated sighs, the uncomfortable shifts in the seats, the tapping of shoes on the floorboard, or Joe’s destructive use of a turn signal. In fact, if they had to make another turn, she had no doubt he’d snap it off the steering column.
As he pulled up to the curb in front of the church, Alexa jerked open the car door. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll get someone to take me home. I truly appreciate it. Merry Christmas.”
Though her words were designed to be as gracious as possible, her begrudging tone removed all hope of courtesy. Joe peeled away from the curb like a teenager after a bad date. Those entering the church raised their eyebrows questioningly, but Alexa smiled as though she didn’t notice.
As usual, she sat alone. Ray Connors paused by her on his way to the utility closet. “Hello, Miss Lexie. All ready for Christmas?”
“Merry Christmas, Ray. I’m looking forward to a nice quiet day. Are you spending it with your brother’s family?”
Ray nodded uncomfortably. Alexa admired how hard he always tried to talk to people despite the visible misery it caused him. “I suppose quiet will be a nice change after all the excitement around your place lately.”
“Excitement?” Alexa waited for an explanation.
“Well, you know, the murders and all. I bet you never thought you’d have to deal with real flesh and blood people—dying, you know.”
Alexa shivered. What a revolting way to phrase recent events. Social misfits always knew how to make the unpleasant unbearable. “Well, it wasn’t supposed to become fact. I’m still in a bit of shock.” The reply seemed inadequate to her, but she didn’t have the emotional energy to explain herself.
“Not as much shock as the families of the victims, I imagine. Well, you have a good Christmas.”
Alexa’s mind swirled as she tried to follow Ray’s switch from death to the Epitome of life. Her encounters with Ray always confused her. He said a lot of nothing that resulted in a confused jumble of mental gymnastics.
JOE’S ANGER VANISHED as he drove around town for an hour. He had embarrassed her and then called her out on her lack of manners. If that wasn’t rude, what was? Though her anger surprised him, he began to suspect it had more to
do with the embarrassment and less to do with him. She hadn’t expected a compliment. Why? Surely, she received them often.
What had made such a difference? Dress—sure it was different, but weren’t all of hers? Hair—it wasn’t really styled. Her face... that was the difference. She hadn’t done anything. Simple clothes, plain hair, no makeup. He saw her at her simplest and the result appealed to him. She just didn’t expect it.
Would she remember to ask for a ride before everyone left? Did anger cloud her judgment? He didn’t know her well enough to guess.
His pride bruised, he chafed at showing up and having her reject an offer of a ride, but the idea of her reinjuring her ankle before their upcoming date forced him to overcome his reticence. They’d be miserable if they didn’t clear the air first.
As he rounded the corner from Center Street, his heart pounded and his hands gripped the steering wheel as a man grabbed a screaming Alexa, shoved her in the back of a white car, and sped away into the darkness. Something in the driver’s hand glinted under a streetlamp, but his mind refused to identify it.
He flipped on his lights and siren, but the people around him made it impossible to follow. After he wove through the crowd as it slowly parted to allow him through, he zipped toward the highway, back to the main streets, around the square, and came to a stop in front of The Fox. Where was the car?
White. The car could have been a Ford Focus—compact and a bubble-like thing. Where could it have gone? What was the driver carrying?
Joe groaned and zoomed away from the curb once more. He had to find her. The item in the driver’s hand—Joe now knew it. A camera with a high-powered lens. Reluctantly, Joe called in the abduction of Alexa Hartfield.
CHIEF VARNEY CALLED and insisted that Joe come straight to his house. The drive to Larkspur Lane—oh what a ridiculous name—didn’t take long. What self-respecting person would live on a street named Larkspur Lane? It sounded like a rip-off of a Nancy Drew novel. He chuckled to himself. It probably was a rip-off.
Varney paced his living room while Joe gave a thorough description of the evening’s events. “You just left her at the church—all alone?”
“And how was I supposed to stop her? If you recall, I’m on duty and she’s a free citizen.”
“Where is Martinez?” Varney seemed to consider it a logical question, but Joe couldn’t ascertain the significance.
“He’s doing a sweep of the streets. If he doesn’t find a white Ford Focus, he’s going to call out an APB on all of them in the greater Rockland area.”
“I thought we had the fellow’s license plate.”
Joe shook his head. “No, we only know that a white Ford Focus was parked behind a different neighbor of Alexa’s.”
“This is too confusing. Find the girl! I’ll get dressed and meet you down to the station.”
As he drove away, Joe rolled his eyes. Whenever the chief got agitated, his hick roots broke the surface and overrode the many hours of training his longsuffering wife tried to instill in him. Before he could call Martinez for an update, an APB came over the radio.
Joe swore. Disgusted with his lack of self-control, he tried replacing his inappropriate language with something less offensive. “Drat. Dang. Darn. Dagnabbit. Shoot. Blast—oh, what’s the use? It’s ridiculous.” He wanted to repent. Joe rephrased his thought. He wanted to want to repent. “Better,” he murmured.
The station beckoned, but Joe decided to make one last pass down Sycamore Court. As he turned onto the street, Joe choked. At the end of the court, boldly parked in front of Alexa’s well-lit house, sat a white Toyota Corolla. Joe slammed on the brakes and sucked in a sharp breath as the kidnapper jogged from the front door to his car, reached in, and retrieved the camera from the passenger side before jogging back into the house again. Something—Joe imagined it was the sound of screeching brakes—caused the man to pause and glance into the night before shutting the door behind him.
He couldn’t believe the killer’s audacity. How could he bring her back to her own home, knowing the police would be after him? It was beyond comprehension. He radioed for backup, parked his car, and un-holstered his weapon. Around the corner of the house and to the back, Joe crept, keeping his head low, to the back door.
Illogically, Joe noticed the back porch steps. Unlike the front, these looked new. He ran his hand over the doorjamb and fingered the screen door. The porch was new—very new. He felt the window frame—vinyl. People didn’t use vinyl at the turn of the twentieth century.
He shook his head free of inconsequential thoughts and tried the back door. Locked. Half a minute later, thanks to the pins from his nametag and badge, he slipped through a jimmied door. Alexa’s sobs—poor girl sounded terrified—echoed through the house. He saw the kidnapper examining packages under the tree and took the opportunity. The guy would never get to her in time to take her hostage if he acted now.
“Police—hands behind your head.”
Alexa’s howls increased. The man stood and his head bashed against one of the ornaments, shattering it into his hair. Alexa screeched louder. Joe stared. Something didn’t look—right. Her hysterics seemed out of proportion.
“Drop to your knees, face to the floor, and hands back behind your head again.”
Alexa tried to speak but gasped ineffectively instead. The man complied in one motion, causing his nose to connect forcefully with the floor. Blood spurted. Joe looked for something to hand the guy and grabbed a nearby afghan.
“No! Alexa collapsed into a clearly identifiable fit of giggles after stuttering out her order. “Not—that. Get—Wes—a paper—towel.”
“Wes?” Her fits of laughter did little to make her words comprehensible. “I can’t take my gun off him. Can you get it?”
After a few more seconds, Alexa managed to gasp, “You can put away your gun. That’s my brother—Wes.”
Joe’s gun lowered without any help from him. “Your brother?”
“Yes. Get him something before he loses any more blood on my carpet. I’ll never get all that out, and that thing is an antique.”
Joe fumbled around the kitchen, trying to remember where he’d seen paper towels. When he returned, he shoved a wad into Wes’ hands and dialed Chief Varney. Alexa jumped when he handed her the phone and said, “You explain to him why we have an APB on a white Ford Focus. I’m still a bit confused.”
Chapter 19
ALEXA STRETCHED UNDER the covers, smiling. Christmas morning. The furnace kicked on with the predictable bang of expanding metal as the heat rushed through it. Only an incredibly cold night combined with a dead fire could kick the thermostat on this early in the morning. Shivering, she crawled from the covers, pulled on her robe, and hurried to adjust the thermostat. At fifty-five, the house was too cold for comfort.
Though stiff and a little awkward, her foot gave her no pain as she moved about the kitchen. While cinnamon rolls baked and tantalized the senses, she molded sausage around hardboiled eggs. She’d planned on a mini breakfast casserole, but Scotch Eggs were a Hartfield family Christmas tradition, and Wes would appreciate it.
By the time Wes stumbled into the kitchen, his pajamas twisted awkwardly and his hair standing on end, breakfast was ready and Alexa sipped her coffee—black as usual. “Morning, dozing dufus.”
“How’s the ankle?” Wes blindly poured a cup of coffee, nearly scalding himself, and loaded it with milk and sugar.
“How can you ruin a perfectly—”
Wes growled at her. “It’s too early to preach about the virtues of virgin coffee. I’ll duel your brain after we’ve eaten.”
Wes inhaled his breakfast as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Alexa scrutinized him as the food disappeared swifter than she could replace it. Thin—too thin. His pickiness often meant that he semi-starved on his journalistic stints in far-away places. Two weeks in Bahrain had almost killed him once.
On his third plate of fruit, Alexa stood. “I’m going to go open presents. The cinnamon rolls are coming
with me. Feel free to absorb all food stuffs in the general vicinity, but if you want rolls, the living room is the place to go.”
Wes nodded. He carried his plate to the living room and sank into his favorite chair. Alexa piled her gifts around her on the couch and deliberated on which to open first. Wes teased her about the foolishness of wondering which to open, considering she’d purchased most herself. “It’s like buying a house and then driving onto the street and saying, “Hmmm, I wonder which house is mine?”
“Aha, mine brother, but you do not know how wrong you are! I got smart in my old age and made friends with counter clerks and shop owners. I asked them to choose something for me in a certain price range and presto! Surprise for me!”
Wes’ eyes drooped. “Do you have any idea of how you’ve made an art of being alone?”
“Why, thank you!”
“That wasn’t a compliment, Annie.”
“Neither is calling me Annie.” Alexa forced herself to squash the rising irritation. When Wes called her Annie, he meant it as an endearment, not Jeanne’s loathsome taunts.
With unusual restraint, Wes didn’t respond. Instead, he pointed at a package. “Open that one first. It’s pretty.”
Alexa retrieved a small box from the top of the pile, grateful for a change in topic. “Oh, this is the one I called about.”
“Called?”
“When I got it, it was so small that I thought maybe I had someone’s ring or something—it’s from Tiffany’s soooo...”
She pulled a silver keychain from the box. Dangling from one corner was a flat molded “Tiffany’s box.” “That’s just perfect,” she sighed. “I love it.”
“Hey, giving yourself gifts like this—you can avoid the whole thank-you note thing.”
“Except that I’d want to thank the people who helped me shop—if I can.”
After a few more gifts, she nudged him, passing him his gift. “Open mine now. It’s your turn.”
Wes fumbled awkwardly with the rectangular box, making Alexa nervous. She ached to shout, “That’s fragile!” but forced herself to keep silent.