by Betina Krahn
“Which, I’m guessing, it did.”
His heart lurched as he recalled the noisy firefight, the panic and screams amid a cloud of dust. “The terrorists were bigger in numbers and better armed than I anticipated. Three guys on my team were killed.”
“By the terrorists?”
“Yes, but my aggressive tactics caused them to be in the vulnerable position in the first place. I should have done more recon. I should have anticipated the ambush.”
“I would think their job made them vulnerable.”
Her blind defense suddenly made him angry, though he knew from intimate experience that fury led nowhere. “I screwed up!”
“So why didn’t you die?” she asked softly.
“I have no idea.”
“I’m assuming you weren’t the only one who escaped.”
“Nine out of twelve.” He bowed his head, gripping his juice until he was sure it would shatter in his hands. “The military considered the mission a success.”
“You don’t, of course.” She drew her hand up his back. “And you maybe shouldn’t. You made a mistake, but since you were trying to save innocent people at the time, the government—and any other sane individual—should give you a break. Did your commander force you to retire?”
“He offered a leave of absence, time to get my head together and get counseling. I refused.” He lifted his shoulders to try to shrug off the decision he’d come to, but he knew he wasn’t doing nonchalance very well. “I can’t be trusted with other people’s lives anymore.”
“Which is why you’re scared of becoming sheriff.”
He cast her a surprised glance. How did she always understand so easily? Was he that transparent, or was she that intuitive?
“These are the most important people in your life—your family, friends, people you grew up with. You don’t want to risk them.”
He’d add her, and even Finn, to that list, but he didn’t want to distract her. “What if I screw up again?”
“News flash, Mr. Wanna-be Sheriff, you are going to screw up again. You’re not perfect, and nobody expects you to be.”
“My family—”
“Will love you no matter what. Do they know about the failed mission?” When he shook his head, she added, “You need to tell them.”
“But I was the quarterback, student class president, Most Likely to Succeed, Most Popular, honor graduate, war hero. All those accomplishments are listed on my election posters. I’m a fraud. I’m none of those things.”
“Mr. Everything has flaws. Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants?”
He scowled. “You’re making me feel foolish.”
“I’m sorry. You’re not.” She set the juice glasses on the coffee table and linked their hands. “And you still are all those things. It’s the way you deal with your setbacks that make you amazing, not having them in the first place.” She searched his gaze, her bright eyes glittering. “What if I’d given up on being with you?” she asked.
“But you didn’t. You went after what you wanted.”
She smiled. “With a little pushing and shoving by a friend, yeah. You need to put what’s happened to you into perspective. If guilt keeps you from being sheriff, then the loss you’ve suffered will only become greater.”
The heaviness in his chest suddenly lightened, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her in exactly the place he wanted her to stay forever. She sighed and hugged him tight.
It was crazy…her not turning away from him. He could hardly believe he’d shared something so intimate with a woman he was seeing. He’d never trusted anyone to that extent.
But when the unexpected jumped from behind a dark corner, Andrea was the one who’d have his back.
She didn’t seem at all phased by his terrible revelations. She loved and accepted her brother, even with the mistakes he’d made, so Tyler should have realized that telling her the truth wouldn’t be so hard. And despite the fact that they had to solve this case and clear Finn, plus get himself elected, none of that seemed like a burden, or even so difficult anymore.
The understanding in her eyes had given him back the hope he’d lost.
“Do you want to withdraw from the election?” she asked, leaning back to meet his gaze.
“And leave Lester Cradock in charge of law and order? Hell, no.”
“Really? I was so looking forward to finding the next cutting-edge belt designer who could accommodate bullwhip attachments.”
“Indiana Jones has long-cornered the market anyway.”
“Unfortunate for Lester, but probably true.”
He laid his hand against her cheek. “You’re pretty amazing.”
Rising, she wrapped her hand around his wrist and tugged him down the hall to his bedroom. “Am I? I bet I can upgrade that assessment.”
She offered her support and her body, but he knew he hadn’t yet reached her heart. Since he’d only realized his own feelings not long ago, he’d have to be patient, let their connection grow and build until she, too, realized they were meant to be together.
And in the meantime, he intended to catch a thief.
THE NEXT MORNING, TYLER walked up the stairs to the sheriff’s department with a genuine attitude of optimism and promise.
Through the thefts and election preparation, he’d been moving forward with half his heart. Until last night, he hadn’t felt worthy of walking in either Sheriff Caldwell’s or his grandfather’s shoes.
And though he’d never forget the mistakes he’d made and the lives lost as a result, he was confident he could do the job the islanders would—hopefully—entrust to him.
Inside, Aqua wasn’t at her desk, but the object of Dwayne’s undying devotion, Misty Mickerson, and her three-year-old son, Jack, sat in the waiting room. “Can we talk?” she asked, standing and tucking a strand of her bright red hair behind her ear.
Clutching his toy plastic police car in his chubby hand, Jack, his white-blond locks a stark contrast to his mother’s, gave Tyler a broad grin.
“Your ex?” Tyler asked Misty, wondering how they could have that kind of conversation in front of Jack.
“No. I haven’t heard from him in months. This is about Dwayne.”
Tyler was even more confused, but he nodded. “Come on back.” Still wondering where Aqua had gotten off to, he led Misty and Jack to the sheriff’s office.
There, Misty laid down a blanket for the toddler and surrounded him with a collection of toys before she sat in the visitor’s chair in front of the desk. “He’ll be happy,” she said, casting her son a tired but proud glance. “For a good ten minutes anyway.”
“What’s up?” Tyler asked, leaning against the desk.
“You know Dwayne pretty well, right?”
“I guess.” Explaining about his tendency to hyperventilate probably wasn’t something Misty needed to know. “We work together every day. He’s a good cop…a reliable, thorough man.” He flicked his gaze to Jack and wondered if he might be pushing it when he added, “He’d make a good father someday.”
Misty sighed. “I want Dwayne to make a move.”
“A—” Tyler stopped. From what he’d heard, all Dwayne did was make moves. None of which had been reciprocated. “Pardon me?”
“He’s been asking me out nearly every week for the last two years. But, lately, nothing. He says he’s busy—working with you on a case.”
The accusation in her tone was unmistakable.
Hang on. “Why didn’t you accept one of his offers before now?”
She shrugged. “I just liked him asking.”
And people thought Tyler was a ladies’ man. He’d never understand the gender if he made decoding them his life’s work. To think he’d been in a good mood less than ten minutes ago. “If you’re just going to turn him down again, why should I convince him to ask you out?”
“I’m ready to accept now.”
“Why?”
Her soft brown eyes twinkled. “He’s a good cop, a reliable, thorou
gh man. He’d make a good father someday.”
“Uh-huh. A hundred or so dinner invitations, and zippo. But on my recommendation, you’re willing to give him a chance.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You and the sheriff said almost the identical thing about him. So I figure I’d been holding out a little too long. I mean, after my ex’s drunken tantrums, I had a right to be cautious, but the most potent thing Dwayne drinks is coffee at Mabel’s, and he’s so quiet and gentle. Maybe it’s time I move on.”
“The sheriff?” Tyler repeated. Those were the only words he’d really heard. “When did you talk to the sheriff?”
“About ten minutes before you came in. He left with the receptionist—the one with blue streaks in her hair. I’m sure they’ll be back—”
“But he’s in Bermuda.”
“Not anymore.”
Tyler’s heart jumped. “You’re saying Sheriff Buddy Caldwell—big guy, Stetson hat, boots—he’s on the island?” He pointed at the scuffed wooden floor. “This island.”
“Sure. I guess he was on vacation or something, but—” She stopped as Tyler straightened abruptly. “What?”
“He wasn’t due back until next Sunday.”
“Oh, well. I guess he changed his plans.”
He’d been in a really good mood ten minutes ago.
While Tyler’s mind was racing about which victim—Mrs. Jackson, Cal Wells or the Catholic Church—might have called him home, the imposing figure of the man himself filled the doorway.
Nodding briefly at Misty, he crossed his arms over his massive chest. Then he transferred his gaze to Tyler, who could have sworn the other man’s piercing blue eyes bored a hole through his skull. “I hear your big case is headed for the crapper.”
12
“LET’S GO BACK TO THE people who had contact with Mrs. Jackson,” the sheriff said. “Do any of them cross-reference with friends or associates of Cal Jones or the church leaders?”
While the sheriff sat behind his desk, Tyler was wearing out the floor. “It might be easier to count people who don’t. More than half the people on the island attend St. Matthews.”
Rubbing his stubble-laden jaw, Sheriff Caldwell nodded. “True. We have a devout population.”
“And one bad egg.”
Again, the sheriff nodded. A man of few words.
With all his intimidating bluster, his boss and mentor had been really cool about the theft case. Though he’d come back from vacation early, he’d blamed the decision on too much sun and lousy fishing. Tyler was positive he was lying, but other than his opening dig, he hadn’t shown a moment of regret that he’d recommended Tyler for his job or disappointment in the way he’d handled the investigation so far.
“No leads from the pawnshops?” the sheriff asked.
“None. The stolen items haven’t shown up anywhere.”
“At least none you’ve been told about.”
The phone rang, interrupting Tyler’s reply. The calls came every few minutes—from city council members, concerned citizens, the mayor. They were never going to get the case solved if they were picking up the phone and calming everybody’s nerves every five minutes.
“The mayor again,” the sheriff said shortly as he hung up the phone.
“Maybe we’ll hear something later today from the faxes and e-mail alerts we sent out this morning,” Tyler said, getting back to the case details.
“I’m havin’ a hard time picturin’ the tea set or chalice turning up in the average pawnshop.”
“I have some unusual outlets covered, too.” As he’d sent messages to pawnshops, he’d also e-mailed Andrea to ask her to check in with her “friends.”
The sheriff raised his bushy eyebrows. “Such as?”
“A friend who’s a fraud specialist is checking with some of her acquaintances. They’re in the professional acquisitions industry, so they might have a lead.”
“Thieves, in other words.”
“Well…yes, sir.”
“And you don’t suspect this friend’s acquaintances in our case?”
“No, sir. I get the feeling we’re too small-time for them.”
“If the Hope diamond goes missing…”
“They’d be the first ones to call. But, thankfully, that wouldn’t be our jurisdiction.”
“True.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “But maybe there is a ring of thieves at work. A small-time one. There’s a lot of money on the island. Maybe they figure it’s a nice, quiet place to set up shop.”
“Could be, I guess,” Tyler said respectfully, even though he didn’t think that was the case. “They haven’t stolen much for a group.”
“They’re at three, and we got zip. I’d say they aren’t havin’ any trouble scoring.”
Tyler felt his face heat. “Good point.”
“We’ll catch up, Deputy. This community’s strong. We’ll pull together and find this creep. Or creeps.”
On that note, the phone rang again. Tyler tried to remember the support and understanding he’d seen in Andrea’s eyes the night before.
He needed her solace even more now.
ANDREA POLISHED OFF THE last of her cinnamon crumb cake and silently praised the mixture of butter, eggs, sugar and flour in the hands of a bakery master.
Maybe Gilda’s Gourmet Delights, with its confectionary bright-pink-and-silver decor, was an odd place for the discussion of a task force, but this was Palmer’s Island, after all.
“Are you sure they’re okay with this?” Andrea asked Sloan for what had to be the twentieth time.
“Stop worrying,” Sloan said, checking her makeup from a compact she’d pulled out of her purse. “Men always appreciate help.” She paused significantly. “As long as it’s accompanied by a good bribe.”
Andrea glanced across the table, meeting Sister Mary Katherine’s gaze.
“It’s fine,” the nun said reassuringly. “I can usually get Father Dominick to see my point more clearly when I bring a tin of cookies to the meeting.”
It was an odd task force—the fourth member of which was waiting at the police station—but Andrea was confident they could make a difference in solving the silver case.
She wasn’t, however, quite so sure the sheriff and his deputies would see things that way. Which was why they’d stopped by Gilda’s to strategize over coffee and cake, and, of course, bring the men a tasty bribe in their effort to persuade them they needed help on the case.
What lawman doesn’t crave peach pie after a long, hard day catching bad guys?
And if she felt silly about the strategy, she only had to glance at Sloan to know what she’d say.
“We’ve got to get you out of the insurance business,” she said. “It’s made you a worrier.”
“I’ve always been a worrier.”
Sloan shrugged even as her blue eyes gleamed. “I’ll handle everything.”
Somehow, Andrea wasn’t convinced.
They gathered their bags and the pie, waved goodbye to Gilda, then headed across the street to city hall, where Andrea’s concerns were realized. “Great,” she muttered, recognizing the beady eyes and moplike hair of the man loitering on the steps with another sleazy-looking guy. “The press has arrived.”
Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Sloan snorted. “Some press. Jerry Mescle and his cousin Clyde.”
“Oh, my,” Sister Mary Katherine said. “That poor boy always did make unfortunate choices in apparel.”
As Andrea climbed from the car, she studied the men and presumed the sister was referring to Clyde, who was wearing a white T-shirt with dirt-brown polyester pants.
“Is there a Patron Saint of Polyester, Sister?” Sloan asked as they started up the stone stairs.
She shook her head. “I always defer to Jude in these situations.”
“Lost causes,” Andrea said. “Appropriate.”
The two men rushed them, Jerry shoving a tape recorder in Andrea’s face and Clyde holding up
his cell phone, presumably to take a picture. “What do you know about the maniac on the loose on our island?” Jerry shouted.
“I’m ready to call a cop,” Sloan said, shifting her stiletto sandal dangerously close to Jerry’s beat-up tennis shoes. “Especially since the maniac’s standing right in front of me.”
“Don’t you feel that law enforcement has aggressively failed us in—”
“I think you need to take a giant step backward,” Andrea warned, shifting her body in front of Sister Mary Katherine. “We’re here on a spiritual mission.”
“Sister.” Jerry pushed the tape recorder over Andrea’s shoulder. “How do you feel about the missing chalice? Are you here to take the sheriff and his incompetent staff to task for their failure of civic duty?”
Sister Mary Katherine’s voice was scalding. “I’m here, young man, to bring peach pie to our hardworking civil servants.”
Jerry obviously wanted to say more, but the sister in her traditional habit was a pretty intimidating sight, so he stepped aside.
“Can I go back and stomp him?” Sloan asked as they made their way to the door.
“Later,” Andrea muttered. “Let’s not cause a bigger scene. Anything we do or say will wind up in the paper.”
“With Jerry’s personal spin.” Sloan nodded. “I get it. The election is twelve days away.”
Once they were inside, the waiting area was deserted. Aqua, who completed their double-X-chromosome task force, waved to them from her glassed-in office. “Are they busy?” Andrea asked.
Aqua rolled her black-rimmed eyes. “Still yammering. I thought lawmen were supposed to be the strong, silent type. But those dudes can talk.”
As she rose—barefoot—to lead them back to the sheriff’s office, Andrea noticed both her fingernails and toes were painted a shade of electric-green. With her long, multicolored bohemian skirt and skimpy white tank, which revealed a dangling belly-button ring, she wasn’t the average person’s idea of a police dispatcher, but Andrea admired her funky, uninhibited style.
Andrea’s own wardrobe seemed boring by comparison. Like the night of the costume ball, she felt the unfamiliar call of daring. She’d been responsible and conservative her whole life. It had led to plenty of professional success, but not so much in the personal arena.