Derrick put the credit card slip he held with the others and closed the drawer. “No, she never misses.”
Chris frowned, vague uneasiness nibbling at his mind. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was sick. But she should have called. Especially since the only number he had for her had been disconnected. Anyone else, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought—a lot of people no longer had land lines. But this was Donna, and the disconnected phone line, on top of everything else, didn’t look good.
“Check this out, Mr. J.” Sam stepped down from the ladder and slid it to the side, offering a clear view of the window display she had just finished. A kayak hung diagonally, complemented by an interesting arrangement of paddles, a dry-top-and-pants set and miscellaneous fishing gear.
He nodded his approval at his newest employee. She was Sam, not Samantha, something she had made clear within moments of joining the Jamison Marine team. Sam fit her better, anyway. With jet-black hair in a short bob and energy enough for all three of them, she seemed like a Sam. He couldn’t get her to call him Chris, but he had finally convinced her to shorten Mr. Jamison to Mr. J.
“I’ve got an hour till I have to leave for algebra. What else do you want me to do?”
He thought for a moment. “An order came in yesterday from U.S. Marine that we haven’t had a chance to unpack yet. How about working on that?”
“Okay, Mr. J.”
He watched her head toward the back of the store, hauling the ladder with her. Hiring Sam had been one of his good decisions. He had to work around the classes she was taking at the community college, but the customers loved her, and no matter what he gave her to do, she jumped right in without complaint.
Which was more than he could say for Donna. She had to be threatened with unemployment to produce some simple financial statements. Unless something changed in the next week, he was going to have to fire her. Although it probably wouldn’t be necessary. She was likely already gone. If he was lucky, no Jamison Marine funds had gone with her.
By lunchtime, a solid knot of worry had formed in his stomach. He had to check on her.
“Derrick, I’m going to run some errands and pick up lunch while I’m out.” He wouldn’t say anything to Derrick or Sam just yet, in case he was wrong. “Do you want me to get you anything?”
“No, I’m getting ready to nuke some frozen lasagna.”
Sam leaned over the box she had carried from the back and, in one easy swipe, sliced the tape sealing its top. “I’m hitting the drive-through on my way to school.”
Thirty minutes later, the knot in his stomach was bigger than when he left. He had knocked on Donna’s door twice and rang her bell three times before soliciting the help of the manager, whose initial response was a solid no. She was a tough old bird, probably from years of dealing with incessant complaints and deadbeat tenants. The steel-gray eyes, pinched lips and severe haircut conjured up images of Nazi Germany, making the pen and clipboard she carried seem out of place. A more fitting prop would be an MP40 perched against her shoulder.
But here he was, standing next to her, getting ready to enter Donna’s apartment. The only thing that had swayed her was the possibility that her tenant had fallen and was lying on the floor, bleeding and unconscious—possibly creating a big stain on the carpet.
She turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Hello! Management. Anyone home?”
He started to follow, but she held up her hand. “Wait here.” The rigid jaw was enough to bring him to a dead stop, even without the stern tone. He waited at the open door while she disappeared behind a small wall separating the entry from the rest of the condo. Then she walked through the apartment, calling Donna’s name, her raspy voice like a file over sandpaper. It gradually faded as she moved toward the back.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to stand still. There was too much at stake. One little peek. She would never know. He stepped around the dividing wall, and the knot in his stomach became a boulder. The living room was cleaned out; there was nothing left except indentations in the carpet where furniture had sat. The kitchen was the same—not a plate, cup or piece of silverware left behind.
And that was how she found him, standing in the kitchen, hand on an open cabinet door.
“What are you doing in here? I told you to stay outside.”
Her voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t have to be. Her displeasure alone sent him scurrying for the door. How could one cranky five-foot-tall woman leave a grown man quaking in his boots? By the time she finished checking the unit, he was really kicking himself. He needed her help, something he would have been hard pressed to get before ticking her off.
“Donna is my bookkeeper,” he began, as she closed and locked the door. He went on to explain, while she listened without comment. Maybe she was softening. No, that would be stretching it. But she hadn’t thrown him off the property yet.
“Have you reported this to the authorities?”
“I don’t have enough to formally accuse her, but after all this, I’m inclined to think the worst.”
She turned to walk back to the office, and he fell in beside her. Somewhere in the distance, a motor cranked up. “You should never give someone that much free rein.”
He didn’t need anyone to kick him for the mess he was in. He was doing plenty of that himself. “I know. She’s been my dad’s bookkeeper for the past eight years, and he trusted her one hundred percent.” He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “I guess father doesn’t always know best.”
They turned the corner and found the source of the motor. A man in a maintenance uniform was hard at work with a pole saw. Several palm fronds lay scattered around his feet. When he saw his boss, he hurried to shut the machine off.
“Clayton, did you know the Andersons left, 413B?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
“That’s what I thought.” She swung open the office door and held it for Chris to enter.
“I take it her lease wasn’t up?” he asked.
“No, they still had another three months. They left during the night, or I would have known.” She circled around behind the desk and sat. “If there’s any chance she embezzled, you’d better get it reported. And you might need this.”
He looked down at the business card she handed him. Priscilla Hammond. Priscilla? She didn’t look like a Priscilla. More like a Hilda or Gertrude. Maybe her tough shell was a carryover from growing up with the nickname Prissy. “Thank you, Ms. Hammond. There’s a good chance the police will be in touch with you.”
She acknowledged his thanks with a nod and a grunt, then turned her attention to the papers stacked on her desk, effectively dismissing him. With one last glance at the top of her bowed head, he strode from her office. He had to go to the authorities. But not without proof. And that proof was in the form of piles of handwritten ledgers. Just the thought sent waves of dread washing over him. One college accounting class was all it had taken to realize he was much better suited to police work than business. Debits and credits made his head hurt.
The first task would be removing Donna as a signer on the bank account. Large checks required a second signature—it said so on the checks. But anything under five thousand dollars, Donna had signing authority.
The next step would be advertising for an experienced bookkeeper.
He was going to need one.
* * *
Melissa inhaled the earthy scent of the rich, black dirt and straightened to admire her work. Small green plants stood full and healthy in their neat rows and gentle mounds. Soon the delicate yellow-and-white flowers would give way to Barbie-size replicas of the fruits and vegetables that would eventually grace her table.
There was something therapeutic about gardening, the fragrant smell of the herbs and flowers, the feel of the cool, moist eart
h on her fingers, the inspiring display of the miracle of life. Her passion for gardening started two years ago with a single potted tomato plant and had expanded each season since, one container at a time. Now, two four-by-twelve boxes allowed her hobby full expression. The boxes were already there. All she had to do was add organic fertilizer and plants.
She glanced at her watch and began stuffing the plucked sprigs of grass into the trash bag at her side. In a few short minutes, daylight would be pushed away by impending night. She picked up her pace, trying to quell her rising uneasiness. The broken window had a logical explanation. So did the apparition in the middle of the night. Maybe even the note was a prank.
But the closer it got to dusk, the greater her apprehension, and no amount of explaining was going to change that. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, suddenly anxious for the safety of the house. Now that the sun was down, the temperature seemed to have fallen several degrees. Or maybe that chill was coming from inside.
In one smooth motion, she hefted the bag over her shoulder, straightened and spun around—right into a hard male body. She gasped and stumbled backward, landing on top of the bag in an unladylike sprawl.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The breath she had just sucked in was expelled in a whoosh, but her taut muscles relaxed only slightly. It was Dennis Johnson. His stocky frame filled her vision as he leaned over her, one hand extended to help her up. When her gaze flicked to his other hand, panic spiraled through her.
It held an envelope. Just like what was left on her front door.
She rolled from the trash bag and backed away, mind screaming its denial of the proof right in front of her. What little hope she had held out that the note was a practical joke died a sure and quick death. She was being stalked, and her stalker was Dennis.
“Relax, lady. I’m just bringing you this.” He took a step toward her, and his hand shot out with the offending item.
She jumped away as if it was poisonous. She didn’t want to read any more notes. She just wanted to curl into a tight ball with the comforter pulled snugly over her head and find that place where all was peace and safety and no one meant her any harm. But Dennis stood between her and the house.
“Look, I’ll just lay it right here.” He bent to place the envelope on the edge of one of the planter boxes. “It was left in my grandmother’s box by mistake.”
His words penetrated her swirling thoughts. His grandmother’s box? What was he talking about? She dropped her gaze to the envelope waiting atop one of the two-by-twelve’s framing her garden. The Tampa Electric logo occupied the upper left-hand corner, and a computer-generated name and address showed through the clear plastic window in the center. It was only the utility bill. All her personal mail came to a post office box, but the Tylers’ electric bill still came to the house.
She bent to retrieve it, silently chiding herself for being so paranoid. When she straightened to apologize to Dennis, he had already turned and started back across the yard toward his grandmother’s place.
“Thank you,” she called to his retreating figure.
Although he didn’t turn, his response floated back to her on the quiet evening breeze. “Lady, you need to get some help.”
Maybe he was right.
He kicked a small downed limb then continued across the yard. Before coming to Harmony Grove, he had played high school football. Then he got into trouble and got kicked off the team. According to his grandmother, he had walked around with a chip on his shoulder ever since.
She watched him disappear through the gate, then she plopped the trash bag onto the concrete patio. A green hose snaked to a sprinkler some twenty feet from the garden. No sense running a whole zone of the automatic system to cover a ten-by-twelve area. She turned the valve, and pressure filled the hose with a controlled hiss. Just as she straightened, her phone began to vibrate in her back pocket. She wiped her hands on her jeans and put the phone to her ear.
“This is your weekly checkup call.”
The friendly male voice caused a flutter in her stomach, along with a touch of annoyance. “Don’t you mean daily?”
“Those others weren’t calls.”
No, they weren’t. Sunday he was on her doorstep by the time she got home from church, and Monday and Tuesday he dropped by, too. “Well, I’m fine. Just finished weeding my garden.”
“You’re outside?” He didn’t sound pleased. “You shouldn’t be outside after dark.”
Annoyance flared anew. At twenty-five years old, she didn’t need to be told what she should and shouldn’t do. “It’s not after dark. It’s just now dusk.” Well, maybe a little after dusk. The dazzling display of sunset had faded some time ago, and the western horizon glowed with a faint luminescence, clinging to those final moments of daylight before succumbing to darkness.
“Any more notes or gifts or anything?”
“Not a one.” She stepped through the kitchen door and locked it behind her. “Isn’t it a little late to still be at the store? I thought you guys closed at six.”
“We do. I’m working on paperwork. You know how that goes.”
Something wasn’t right. She could hear it in his voice, as if he was trying too hard to sound cheery. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Why?”
He couldn’t fool her. She knew him too well. “You don’t sound fine. What’s going on?”
Her question was followed by a long, heavy silence. When he finally spoke, his tone was solemn. “I lost my bookkeeper today. She split.”
Was that all? It was hardly the end of the world. “I’m sure you can find someone to replace her. There are enough people out of work right now.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’ve been pushing for computerized financial statements since I got here. I think I know now why she kept stalling.”
“You think she was embezzling?”
“That’s what it looks like. I got back to the store and started looking for the financials, and nothing has been entered. She’s been stringing me along.”
His discouragement struck a chord in her, and for half a second she considered dropping everything and running to the store, if for nothing more than to offer moral support. Then she checked herself. Their lives were becoming way too entangled. A month ago she was never going to see him again. Now she had been rooked into daily contact.
“I don’t know how bad it is,” he continued. “I’ve gone over the past few months’ bank statements, and there aren’t any big withdrawals. So if she’s been taking money, it’s been in small increments. I’ve removed her name from the checking account. But it’ll be a while before I can sift through everything.”
“Since there’s nothing obvious, maybe any damage will be minimal.”
“Maybe,” he answered hesitantly. “But I don’t feel good about this at all.”
His usual optimism was gone, smothered beneath a heavy blanket of discouragement, and she was once again struck with that urge to run over there and do something stupid, like wrap him in another spontaneous embrace. She shook off the thought. Encouragement offered over the phone was a whole lot safer. “I’ll pray that everything works out okay.”
“Pray?”
She smiled. That had slipped out as naturally as talking about the weather. BethAnn was rubbing off on her. “God’s an important part of my life now.” Not that she had been an atheist before. She knew God was out there somewhere. She just didn’t think that had a whole lot to do with her. And as long as she was kind to animals and didn’t kill anybody, she would make it.
“So you do have some other surprises. How did that come about?”
“BethAnn. I liked the changes I saw in her. It seems like no matter what she’s going through, she always has this peace about her. Well, I finally decided to go
to church with her and check it out for myself. I learned that God isn’t just some distant, way-out-there force. He’s close and personal and cares about every aspect of our lives.”
Chris was silent for several moments. He was either letting her words sink in or searching for the smoothest way to change the subject. Finally he spoke. “Well, since you’ve got a direct line to the Big Man Upstairs, put in a good word for me, will you?”
“I’ll do that.”
“And it probably wouldn’t hurt to throw in a few for yourself.”
“Believe me, I do. All the time.”
“You should let me stay with you.”
“You’re not moving in here.” She didn’t need a bodyguard. Especially one whose rich, smooth voice and warm gaze sent a steady barrage of cannonballs slamming into her defenses. “I’ll be fine. Everything’s locked and I’m in for the night.” Except for shutting off the sprinkler. But she wouldn’t mention that.
“Maybe I can just come over and hang out. What are you doing tonight?”
“Working on transcription.”
“What about tomorrow night?”
“Going to the mall with BethAnn.”
“And Friday night?”
She smiled at the exaggerated eagerness in his tone. “Washing my hair.”
Laughter roared through the phone. “Okay, okay, I get the hint.”
She snapped the phone shut, shaking her head. His overprotectiveness was about to drive her nuts. But it was hard to stay annoyed with him for long.
Why did he have to be so doggone charming? If she wasn’t careful, she was going to find herself right back where she’d been five years ago: head-over-heels in love and poised for yet another heartbreak.
And she just wasn’t willing to go there.
SEVEN
“Hey, isn’t that Chris?”
Melissa followed BethAnn’s extended finger and craned her neck to see around the four teenagers coming toward them. They walked abreast, multiple piercings, heavy bling and colored, spiked hair proclaiming their individuality—or their rebellion. The mall was crowded for a Thursday night.
Midnight Shadows (Love Inspired Suspense) Page 7