by Linda Turner
Staring after him, Blake grinned. Whether he knew it or not, Louis Vanderbilt hadn’t just helped the competition. He’d given him enough information that would—if it proved reliable after further research—blow Sabrina and the Daily Record right out of the water. It was, he decided, picturing the huge steak he was going to let her buy him next month, his lucky day.
Chapter 3
An hour later, Blake hung up the phone at his desk at the Times with a muttered curse. Louis Vanderbilt’s story had checked out—to a point. Carl Sanders had lost his job at the Daily Record after Sabrina did a series of stories on sexual harassment. And in the single, bitter exclusive interview he’d given the Times after his abrupt resignation, he had placed all the blame on Sabrina. There was no question that the man was a chauvinist of the worst kind and that he had the mind-set and motive to at least be considered a suspect. The only problem was that less than a month after he quit the Record, he had apparently moved to Billings, Montana. A check with information and a short call to a C. Sanders there had verified that he was still there and wanted nothing to do with anyone from San Antonio.
Considering that, and the fact that he couldn’t stroll into his old workplace without being recognized, the odds were slim that he’d threatened Sabrina, let alone killed Tanya Bishop or Charlene McClintock. So he was back to square one, Blake thought in disgust.
“Problems?”
Looking up from his musings to find Tom grinning at him, he growled, “No, thanks. I’ve got enough of my own. One, in fact, that you’re probably not going to like.”
“Let’s hear it and I’ll let you know,” his friend and boss said as pulled up a chair. “Lay it on me.”
“Tanya Bishop’s killer sent a threatening note to Sabrina Jones.” He filled him in on his conversation with the copy girl at the Record and his canvasing of Sabrina’s neighbors.
“This Carl Sanders character sounded like just the type of lowlife who would do something like this, but with him out of the picture, there aren’t any other suspects. So the only story I’ve got is a note I haven’t actually seen. I know its general contents, but not any specifics I can quote. And even if I did, I don’t like the idea of encouraging the jerk.”
Tom frowned. “If you’re suggesting we don’t print the story at all, I can’t go along with that. Two women have died in two weeks, Blake. The whole city’s abuzz about it, and just this morning, I heard on the radio that a record number of women are buying guns to protect themselves. Any developments in the case have to be reported—even if it concerns a reporter for the competition.”
“But the killer wants recognition,” Blake argued. “Why else would he have sent the note to Sabrina? If we give him that recognition, not only do we chance turning this into a media circus, but we’ll be giving him what he wants. He could get a real taste for this type of thing.”
“And kill more?” Tom asked shrewdly. “I doubt it. He didn’t need any encouragement for the first two. I can’t see why he would now.”
“But—”
“This isn’t anything like the situation in New York eight years ago, Blake,” he cut in quietly. “You don’t have information that’s going to get someone killed. If anything, letting everyone know what kind of threats this jerk is making could save lives. Exposure and the knowledge that most of the city is on the lookout for him may be the only things that keep him in check.”
Put that way, Blake had to agree. Still, he didn’t like the idea of publicizing the jerk’s sudden interest in Sabrina. Who was he? What did he want with her? And why was he—Blake—so concerned about her safety when she could obviously take care of herself? She wasn’t his problem. Why did he have such a hard time remembering that?
It was nearly dark when Blake finally left the paper and made his way home. When he’d first moved to town two weeks ago, he’d planned to move in with his grandfather so he could keep an eye on him, but the old man had let him know that first day that he didn’t need a baby-sitter, despite what Blake’s mother thought. Amused, Blake hadn’t pushed the issue. Pop had always been an independent cuss, and arguing with him only made him dig in his heels. So Blake had assured him that he’d moved to San Antonio for a job, not to watch over him, and backed off.
He’d had, however, no intention of leaving the old man to his own devices. Finding himself an apartment several blocks away from the house his grandfather had lived in for over sixty years, Blake had planned to come up with an excuse to check on him every day. So far, that hadn’t been necessary. If his grandfather didn’t call him around supper time every day, he was invariably waiting for him when he got home. After the first few days of finding him waiting on the landing outside his second-story apartment, Blake had given him a key.
Now, as he climbed the stairs, he caught the scent of chicken frying and had to grin. The rest of the world might be cutting back on cholesterol, but Pop didn’t have much use for what he considered a conspiracy dreamed up by a bunch of quack scientists who wanted to control the world. A cook in the navy, he’d been eating bacon and eggs and fried foods all his life, and at eighty-three, he was still going strong. Why the devil would he want to change his diet at this late date?
Letting himself in, Blake followed his nose to the apartment’s small kitchen just in time to see the old man slip a pan of homemade biscuits into the oven. Propping a shoulder against the doorjamb, he teased, “You’d make some old woman a great husband, Pop. Want me to place a personal ad for you?”
The old man only snorted, his grin a mirror image of Blake’s. “What makes you think I could only get an old one? In case you didn’t know it, I’m a damn fine catch. I’ve got all of my own teeth—”
“And most of your hair,” Blake added, chuckling.
“You’re damn right,” his grandfather agreed, playfully patting the cloud of wavy white hair that was his only vanity. “And you’re going to look just like me. If I were you, I’d be thanking my lucky stars you got your looks from the Finnigans, boy. Your daddy’s bald head shines in the moonlight.”
“Only when he polishes it,” Blake retorted, repeating one of his father’s favorite jokes about his lack of hair. Pushing away from the doorjamb, he strode over to the stove and started lifting lids. “You making gravy, Pop? I can’t remember the last time I had your gravy.”
With pretended fierceness, the older man swatted at him, shoving him away from his cooking. “Get out of there before I forget you’re my favorite grandson.”
“I’m your only grandson.” Blake laughed, snatching a green bean before he stepped back. “When do we eat?”
“When you set the table. I can smell those biscuits, son. Get moving.”
His stomach grumbling, Blake didn’t have to be told twice. Grabbing plates and silverware, he quickly set the table, then moved to help his grandfather dish up the food. Five minutes later, they sat down to a feast that would have fed a small army.
Filling his plate, the old man, as usual, asked about work. “So how’d it go today? You run into that Jones woman today?”
The question was smoothly, casually added, almost as an afterthought, but Blake wasn’t the least bit fooled by his grandfather’s attempt at subtlety. He’d made the mistake of telling the old man about Sabrina that day he’d met her at the scene of Tanya Bishop’s murder, and ever since then, Pop had been convinced that Blake was interested in her. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t ask about her.
Shooting him a hard look, he warned, “There’s nothing going on between Sabrina and me, Pop, so don’t start getting any ideas.”
As innocent as a choirboy, he arched a craggy brow. “Did I say there was? All I asked was if you ran into her today. If you read more into that, then it seems to me that you’re awfully sensitive where that girl’s concerned.”
“I’m not sensitive,” he began defensively, then caught the gleam in the old coot’s eye. “You old rascal, I know what game you’re playing and it’s not going to work,” he warned, grinning. “Just b
ecause Sabrina and I run into each other covering the same stories—”
“So you did see her!”
“Yes, but—”
“I knew it!” he cackled gleefully. “You just can’t stay away from her. So tell me about her. Is she pretty? How old is she? I know she’s got spunk—you can tell it from her writing. I always did like a girl with spunk.”
Amused in spite of himself, Blake said patiently, “Yes, she’s pretty, but that’s got nothing to do with anything. She got a threatening letter from Tanya Bishop’s killer, and I went over to the Daily Record to cover the story. That’s all there was to it.”
The old man snorted, unconvinced. “You went over there to make sure she was okay and you know it. That’s good. A man should protect the woman he cares about—even if she can take care of herself. So why haven’t you asked her out?” he demanded, pointing a chicken leg at him. “A girl like that won’t stay single for long.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said dryly. “According to one of her neighbors, her ex-husband burned her bad and she doesn’t even date. Anyway, even if I was interested—which I’m not saying I am—I can’t ask her out. She works for the competition.”
“So? What’s that got to do with anything? Your grandmother’s family didn’t even talk to mine, but Sadie was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. And she had just as much spunk as your Sabrina. I’m telling you, boy, you’d better snap her up while you can. Women like her don’t come along every day of the week. Believe me, I know. Why do you think I never married again after your grandma died? A good woman is hard to find.”
Giving up in defeat, Blake laughed. “Okay, okay! I’ll think about it.”
Pleased, the old man passed the platter of chicken to him and grinned. “If you’re going to get mixed up with a woman like that, you’re going to need to keep up your strength. Here. Eat.”
Tired, a nagging headache throbbing at her temples, Sabrina pulled into her driveway at twenty minutes to seven and sighed in relief. Finally! It had been a long, disturbing day, and all she wanted to do was collapse into bed, pull the covers over her head, and forget the world. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about the two women who had been murdered and the note personally delivered to her from their killer.
But as she cut the engine and stepped from her car, she found herself wondering if the killer who had dared to track her down at work had made it his business to find out where she lived. A first-grader could have done it—she was in the book, under S. Jones. There were three others, but that wouldn’t present much of a problem for a man who had committed two murders without leaving behind a single clue that could be used by the police to identify him. All he would have to do was scout out the others or follow her home from work.
A cold chill slithering down her spine in spite of the fact that the heat of the day had yet to ease much, she whirled, her heart thumping, and searched the street in both directions. But the neighborhood was blessedly normal, and there wasn’t a stranger in sight. Louis was washing his car next door, and across the street, the Garzas’ oldest son, Chris, was mowing the lawn. Other than that, the street was quiet and deserted.
“You’re being paranoid, Sabrina,” she chided herself as she waved to Louis and Chris, then turned back to unlock the front door. “And that’s just what the killer wants. Why else do you think he sent you that damn note? He’s trying to scare you and you’re letting him. What’s the matter with you? You’re not the type to jump at your own shadow. Straighten up, for God’s sake! No one’s been here, so quit looking over your shoulder and get inside. You’re perfectly safe.”
Her chin up, she hurried inside and did something she rarely did except at night when she went to bed—she shot the dead bolt into place. The click it made was loud in the silence, and she couldn’t help but smile sheepishly at her own foolishness. “You’re losing it, Jones,” she chided herself, and turned toward the kitchen to see about supper.
She’d barely taken two steps when there was a sudden knock at the door. Startled, she jumped, then cursed herself for being so skittish.
It was probably just Chris wanting to know if he could mow her lawn, she decided. He was saving for a car and did chores for her and everyone else in the neighborhood whenever he got a chance.
But when she opened the front door, it was Mrs. Anderson who stood there smiling gaily, a plate of just-baked brownies in her hand. “Hi, sweetie. I saw you drive up and thought I’d bring you some dessert for after supper.” Not the kind to stand on ceremony, she didn’t wait to be invited in, but simply swept inside and headed straight for the kitchen. “I won’t stay long—you look a little tired. Did you have a rough day?”
If she hadn’t been so drained, Sabrina might have laughed. “Don’t ask.” She caught the scent of warm chocolate then and lifted her nose to the air. “Mmm. That smells heavenly. How did you know I needed a chocolate fix, Mrs. A.?” she asked as she followed her down the entrance hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. “I didn’t even know it myself.”
“That isn’t surprising, considering the day you’ve had,” the older woman said as she set the brownies down on the table and waved her into a seat. “Sit down and dig in, honey, while I get you a glass of milk. My mama always said nothing tasted better than something sweet from the oven after a bad day. What do the police say about that nasty note you got? I hope they’re doing something about it. Just imagine, a cold-blooded killer waltzing into that paper and leaving you something like that! All I can say is, if I was in charge, I’d string him up by his thumbs the second I got my hands on him.”
In the process of bringing a nice thick square of brownie to her mouth, Sabrina stopped halfway. “You know about the note?” she asked in surprise.
Her faded blue eyes dancing, Martha Anderson sank down in the chair across from her and leaned close to confide, “That nice Mr. Nickels came by asking about you earlier and told me the whole story. I tell you, I was shocked, dear!”
“Blake was here? Asking about me?”
“Oh, yes. And he was very concerned.” Helping herself to one of her own brownies, she took a healthy bite and frowned. “I think these need a little more sugar. My sister gave me the recipe, and this is the first time I’ve made them. What do you think? Should they be a little sweeter?”
Struggling for patience, Sabrina assured her they were delicious just the way they were. “But what about Blake? Just what kind of questions was he asking?”
“Oh, the usual thing,” she said airily. “I think he thought the killer might be someone you know, so he wanted to know about your background, if you had any enemies or former boyfriends who might have a grudge against you, that sort of thing. I laughed, of course. I just can’t imagine you having any enemies. Why, you even managed to stay friends with Jeff after you two split, and how many people can say that?”
“You told him about Jeff?”
She nodded and rattled happily on. “It just came up when I mentioned that you didn’t date much. Then Mr. Nickels just naturally assumed that there must be some bad blood between the two of you, so I had to set him straight.”
Suddenly realizing for the first time that she might have let her tongue get away with her, she frowned worriedly. “You’re not mad because I told him about the divorce, are you? I really didn’t mean to tell tales out of turn, but he was so nice. And he seemed genuinely concerned that you were in danger. I just wanted to help. If something happened to you because I kept a vital piece of information to myself, I’d never forgive myself.”
Knowing the way Mrs. A dearly loved to gossip, Sabrina knew that was never going to happen, but she only smiled and patted her hand. “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” she assured her. “And no, I’m not mad.” At least not at her. But Blake Nickels was another matter. Temper starting to simmer in her eyes, she said, “You did the right thing, Martha. I’m just surprised that Blake felt the need to question you and the rest of the neighbors. I saw him this afternoon at the pap
er, and he never said a word about his plans to check me out.”
“Well, you work for opposing newspapers,” she pointed out with a mischievous grin. “Maybe he wanted to outscoop you on your own turf.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Sabrina began, only to hear his teasing words ring in her ears as clearly as if he were standing beside her.
Honey, when you get to know me better, you’ll find out that I’ll dare just about anything.
“Oh, I’d like to see him try,” she seethed. “That note was delivered to me, not him, so that makes it my story. He’s not going to come in through the back door and snatch it right out from under me. Just wait till I see him again—he’s going to get an earful.”
Martha laughed gaily at that and rose to her feet. “Just don’t be too hard on him, sweetie. He’s such a nice-looking young man. And he wasn’t wearing a ring,” she added with twinkling eyes. “Who knows what might develop if you give him a chance?”
A snowball had a better chance in hell, Sabrina thought with a snort, but there was no use telling Martha that. A hopeless romantic, she had been trying to find Sabrina a man ever since she and Jeff had split. In spite of Sabrina’s insistence that she wasn’t looking for a man, Martha refused to believe that she was perfectly happy going through life alone.
“The only thing that’s going to develop between me and Blake Nickels is an all-out war if he doesn’t quit trying to muscle in on my turf,” she replied as the older woman turned to leave. “But thanks for the brownies—they were just what I needed.”
Wandering back to the kitchen after she’d shown Martha out, Sabrina couldn’t shake the image of Blake canvasing her neighborhood, questioning the neighbors about each other and her friends. And the more she thought about it, the more indignant she got. Talk about nerve! The man had it in spades. Who the heck did he think he was, anyway? She wasn’t the story here—the note and whoever wrote it were, and if Blake didn’t realize that, maybe it was high time she told him.