by Lucy Quinn
Cookie huffed but slowed her pace. In truth, she sometimes forgot that her mom was much shorter than her own five foot nine frame. Apparently she’d gotten her height from elsewhere, though where exactly, Rain had always refused to say. And it didn’t help that she’d spent the day with Hunter, who was a few inches taller than her and took strides to match. She’d set a brisk pace, certainly, but it was cold out, and frostbite wasn’t on her wish list.
Of course, one advantage to making Rain sprint was that her mother hadn’t had enough breath left over to chat. Now that they were moving at a more leisurely gait, however, Rain quickly recovered and her curiosity got the best of her. “So,” she asked when they were still on the outskirts of town. “How was your date with Dylan?”
Cookie rolled her eyes. “Mother, have you been spying on me again?”
“Of course not,” Rain protested, hands flying to her bosom as if to shield her delicate heart from such harsh accusations. “Is it my fault if I overheard you talking on the phone last night? Or if I was up this morning and saw you heading out somewhere dressed in your best sweater, the one you save for special occasions? And wearing makeup, which you almost never do despite my constant begging.” She smiled at Cookie. “So?”
“It was fine,” Cookie said, and stifled a huff of irritation when Rain pouted at her. “Okay,” she continued, exasperated. “It was better than fine. It was really nice. Happy now?”
“Really nice? That’s the best you can come up with?” Her mother sniffed. “Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”
“What were you expecting, fireworks?” Cookie said, her tone harsher than she intended. She stopped and forced herself to take a deep breath and count to three, often a useful tactic when dealing with Rain. When she finally continued, she was a lot calmer. “It was really nice, Mom. Dylan’s a great guy. But you already know that.”
“I do,” her mother agreed, her smile more genuine now. “Believe me, if I were just a little bit younger I’d be after him myself. Can you imagine us competing over a guy?” Rain nudged Cookie with an elbow. “I’d give you a run for your money, you know.”
Cookie just shook her head.
“Luckily for you, you don’t have to worry about that. And Dylan’s perfect for you.” She chuckled and patted Cookie’s hand. “Trust me on this, sweetie.”
“Uh-huh.” Seeing as how some of the men Rain had suggested in the past included a local weatherman, their mutual OB/GYN, and a lion tamer from the circus, Cookie wasn’t putting a whole lot of stock in Rain’s matchmaking skills. Fortunately, she’d found Dylan all on her own, so she wasn’t too worried.
“Is this the real reason you wanted me to go with you?” Cookie asked as they continued on their way. “So that you could interrogate me about my date with Dylan?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘interrogate,’” her mother said. “And you know that I value your opinion, dear. But yes, I thought we could also have a little quality time together along the way.”
“Great.” Over the years, Rain’s idea of “quality time” had included such things as getting waxed together, taking a spin class, entering a pogo stick contest, and taking a rock-climbing class. At least two of those had been based on the hotness of the male instructor, so walking into town and talking about her love life was actually pretty tame in comparison. But it still wouldn’t have been on her list of the top ten things she wanted to do tonight.
They’d just reached town and were cutting through toward the VFW hall when Cookie heard something. “Shhh,” she urged, stopping short and holding up a hand.
Rain immediately ran into her, of course, nearly knocking Cookie off her feet. “What’s wrong?” her mother demanded, then repeated herself in a whisper when Cookie shushed her again. “What’s wrong?”
“I heard something,” Cookie whispered back, listening hard. It was dark out, and the town had shut down for the night. The Salty Dog and the Tipsy Seagull were both still open, but they were all the way on the other side of town, over by the water. Besides, it hadn’t been drunken conversation she’d heard. It was some kind of a thunk, like something heavy being moved. Or broken.
Edging forward again but doing her best to keep quiet, Cookie crept ahead a few feet at a time. Rain stayed right behind her, and for once in her life, Cookie’s mother was completely quiet. Which might have been because the last time she’d stumbled onto something late at night, Rain and Winter had gotten themselves locked in a freezer with Cookie, and the three of them had nearly frozen to death. Not to mention the time before that, when they’d been taken captive by a drug smuggler looking for his lost shipment. Perhaps Rain had finally gotten a little more cautious about such things.
They’d only gone a dozen feet farther when Cookie heard it again. Thunk. It was closer now, and still up ahead. She picked up the pace a little, careful to keep close to the buildings so the shadows would hide her. A quick glance back showed that Rain was doing the same.
“There,” Cookie muttered as a large rectangular shape came into view maybe half a block up ahead. It was a van, the big delivery kind, and it was parked along the side of the street with its back doors wide open.
The van had the name Morgan Floor Refinishing stenciled on the side, the dark letters easy to see against the white walls even without the light. Cookie relaxed a little, assuming a crew was working on refinishing the floors in one of the downtown shops without disrupting regular business hours.
But then as she moved closer, she spotted the building they were supposedly servicing. It had large glass panes on either side of its door, which she knew said Peabody Gallery in ornate, swirling letters.
“Oh, damn, that’s not good,” she said softly as she watched two men in dark clothes emerge from the back of the van and head into the gallery.
“Maybe it’s a nighttime delivery,” Rain, who’d stayed unusually quiet, suggested in a loud whisper. “Or they’re getting the place ready for some big event. I was planning on having the VFW’s floors waxed, you know.”
“Normally I’d buy that,” Cookie agreed. “But who’d be getting anything ready at the gallery when its owner just turned up dead? Besides, why do something like this so late at night when the gallery normally keeps banking hours? And who let them in?” She grimaced as the list of unanswered questions piled up. But she did know a few things.
She ticked them off in her head. One, there was a floor refinishing crew outside of the gallery, and it was late at night; late enough that they probably hadn’t expected an audience. Two, they seemed to be taking things out rather than carrying them in. Cookie watched as two men emerged from the gallery, holding a long, flat rectangular crate between them—the kind of crate used to ship paintings. And three, when she and Hunter had visited the gallery just a few hours ago, Cookie had noticed that the gallery’s floors were gorgeous and looked like they’d been cleaned and polished within the past week or two. There was no way Petra had called them to come in and work on the floors again before she’d died.
All signs led to the conclusion the gallery was being robbed, and if Cookie had to bet, she’d put money down that the robbers were somehow involved in Petra’s murder. The two crimes would be far too coincidental to be unrelated.
That meant Cookie needed to be very careful because it was entirely possible that Petra’s killer was right across the street, and he’d already proven that he had no problem murdering women. Cookie’s leg throbbed a little, the cold exacerbating her recently healed gunshot wound. The same gunshot wound she’d received from a pastry chef who hadn’t taken kindly to Cookie investigating her lover’s murder. If Hunter had been with her, Cookie wouldn’t have hesitated to confront the suspicious men, but with her injury fresh on her mind and Rain in tow, it was best to take the safer, wiser course.
“Listen, Mom,” she said slowly, turning around to face Rain and even grasping her by the shoulder. “I need you to do something for me, okay?”
She must have looked deadly serious, because for once
her mother didn’t argue. She just gulped and nodded quietly.
“I need you to head back home.” Cookie saw the protest forming in her mother’s eyes, and cut her off before it could reach her mouth. “I know, I know, you want to check out the VFW hall,” Cookie said, and her mother nodded frantically. “I get that, Mom, I really do, but now just isn’t the time. Not with whatever’s going on over there.” She gestured over her shoulder toward the gallery and the men, who fortunately hadn’t noticed them… yet. Cookie was just hoping to wrap this up before that could change.
“What are you going to do?” Rain whispered, and Cookie could see by her wide eyes that her mother was scared. No doubt she was remembering the pastry chef, the drug smuggler and all the others who’d put them in danger over the past year.
“I’ll be fine,” Cookie promised. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to confront them all on my own, okay? I’m not stupid.” She scowled and rubbed at her leg. “Not that stupid, anyway. As soon as you’re gone I’ll call Hunter, then I’ll just keep an eye on them until he can get here.”
For once, Rain didn’t have anything disparaging to say about Hunter. “Good,” she said instead. “He’s big and scary and carries a big gun.” She reached out and hugged Cookie close for a second. “But be careful, all right? I still need you to help with the revue. Who else can I trust to not make out with all my best dancers?”
Cookie smiled. She knew perfectly well what her mother was really saying. “I will, Mom,” she promised. “You too, okay?” She glanced over her shoulder again. “Now hurry and head back before they hear us.”
Rain nodded, gave her another quick hug, and then turned and started at a fast pace back the way they’d come. Cookie waited, crouching down behind a mailbox, until she was sure Rain was well out of sight. Then she let out the breath she’d been holding. So far, so good.
Of course, that had been the easy part.
13
“Come on, pick up,” Cookie whispered into her phone. But it rang and rang.
Finally, it clicked, and a deep, familiar voice said, “Hi, this is Hunter O’Neil. I can’t answer the phone right now, but if you…”
“Argh!’ Cookie resisted the urge to hurl the phone and instead left a terse message. Why was nothing ever easy? What was she supposed to do now? She didn’t know why Hunter wasn’t answering. The man was more attached to his phone than a teenager was to her first boyfriend. Maybe he’d decided to take a late run or a shower. Or he might’ve just been on the phone trying to track down Petra’s mystery guest. The latter was far more likely. But all these possibilities led to the same result—she couldn’t reach him.
Of course, she’d just sent Rain back home. If Hunter was lounging in the living room, chatting on the phone like nothing was wrong, it was likely Rain would storm over to him and knock the phone out of his hands. Then she’d start screaming at him to get off his fine ass and move it downtown ASAP to save her darling daughter from a bunch of art-thief thugs.
Yes, Cookie could totally picture that happening. And it filled her with a warm feeling inside, the same one she always got whenever Rain demonstrated that, flakiness aside, she was actually devoted to Cookie’s well-being and happiness. She just had a funny way of showing it sometimes.
The only problem was, in order for that particular scenario to work Hunter would have to be downstairs. If he’d gone up to his room or out somewhere else, Rain might not even realize he was still around or that he hadn’t received Cookie’s call.
Which meant she couldn’t count on him to get out here and help her.
Now what? She asked herself.
Cookie reached back and pressed her gloved hand against the small of her back, feeling the reassuring weight tucked in there. She still carried a gun even on the sleepy island. It had become second-nature while she’d been in the FBI, and she felt safer knowing she was armed, just in case. With a little maneuvering she could get to it despite the cold and the many layers of clothing. So she was far from helpless.
But she didn’t know how many men were in that van, or what kind of weapons they had. Two of them, unarmed? No problem. Two of them with guns? Maybe, if she got the drop on them both. Most people knew better than to go for a gun when one was already pointed at their chest, and with two she’d be sure to take one down and actually had decent odds on nailing the other before he could draw and get off a shot himself. But three? That was a problem, especially if one of them was still in the van or still in the gallery when she confronted the other two. More than three? No way. And if one of them had an assault rifle or a shotgun, all bets were off.
She really needed backup. There were just too many ways this could go wrong otherwise.
Dylan, she thought. She could call him. He’d certainly shown that he could handle himself in a fight. But did he even own a gun? She was fairly sure he’d been in the military at some point—one didn’t learn moves like his at the local dojo. It was likely he knew how to shoot, but he might not have a weapon. She’d certainly never seen him with one, not even a hunting rifle. And the island wasn’t exactly teeming with wildlife. Dylan had a fishing pole, and around here that’d be a lot more useful for catching supper.
Assuming she could reach him, she was sure Dylan would come if she called. But without knowing if he had a gun and was prepared to use it, Cookie wasn’t sure if he’d be an asset or a distraction.
She’d been watching the men while she thought through her options. They continued to travel back and forth between the van and the gallery, loading a new painting into the van each time. They were both good-sized guys, she noted, sizing them up automatically. Six feet, maybe six one or six two, one of them broad-shouldered and tapered like an athlete, the other just solid-looking without showing the kind of definition you usually got from working out. They weren’t wearing masks. Covering their faces would have been a dead giveaway to anyone spotting them, and they were clearly too careful for that.
Cookie squinted and did her best to not only make out, but memorize their features. The athlete had a long, narrow face, with a long nose over a small but wide-lipped mouth, plus heavy-lidded eyes. The other guy had a heavier jaw, thin lips, a nose that looked like it’d been broken more than once, and deep set eyes under a heavy brow. He looked like a young but badly battered Boris Karloff, she thought. After watching them a few minutes, she was confident she could pick them out of a lineup.
She had yet to see anyone else emerge. Did that mean there were only two of them? The van’s driver-side window was rolled up and tinted, so there could easily be someone sitting in there, hands on the wheel, and she wouldn’t know it. Best to play it smart.
Cookie glanced around, hoping maybe she’d find something she could use to even the odds. She didn’t see anything, though. The street was quiet at this hour, and no one else was around. There weren’t even any cars parked along the main street because that was actually a ticketable offense and if there was one thing Deputy Swan was good at it was…
She froze as a horrible idea occurred to her. It was a terrible notion, truly one of the worst plans she could imagine.
But right now it also looked like her only option.
With a heavy sigh and a muttered curse, Cookie rose to her feet. And with one last glance at the van, she hurried away from the mailbox she’d been sheltering behind. She broke into a trot and soon enough spotted the lights on in a single-story brick building a few blocks away. As she ran, she braced herself for what she was about to do.
Any way you looked at it, this was going to suck.
“Well, well,” a voice drawled out as Cookie pushed open the door to the sheriff’s office and slipped inside.
The interior was as she remembered it, a decent-sized room with a glass wall separating the back from the rest. The entire space was toasty warm, and she loosened her scarf and her jacket collar, pulling off her hat and gloves as she crossed the room, weaving between the empty desks. The station had either been built during more prosperous time
s or more optimistic ones, because even though it could accommodate several deputies at once, there was only a single officer posted here—the notorious Deputy Swan.
“Miss Cookie James, as I live and breathe,” Deputy Swan continued. He was sprawled in his desk chair, feet up and crossed on his desk. His shirt collar was open, his hat off, and his broad, fleshy face was flushed. She couldn’t help noticing that his thick black hair was as glossy and perfect as ever, though, making Cookie wonder yet again if it was real or some kind of plastic shell.
“Deputy Swan,” she replied, reaching the glass wall and standing in the open doorway. “I’m glad to find you’re still in. We have a bit of a situation, and I need your help.”
“Wait, what?” With a start, the deputy pulled his feet down and sat upright, regarding her with tired eyes. The faint smell of stale alcohol permeated the small office, but as she glanced around she didn’t see any conclusive evidence the deputy had been drinking on the job. “Did I hear you right?” Swan asked, his eyes wide with what was clearly feigned shock. “Did the great Cookie James, solver of cases and protector of innocents, just request my help? Me, a lowly sheriff’s deputy, assisting the mighty and powerful Miss James, who never needs anyone?” He shook his head, though amazingly not one hair fell out of place despite the vigorous motion. “My ears must be deceiving me.”
Cookie sighed but forged ahead. “No, you heard correctly,” she said. “Some men are robbing the Peabody Gallery this very second. There are at least two of them and probably one or two more. They have a van, and I’m guessing they’re armed. We need to shut them down before they can get away.”
Swan, much to her surprise, actually leaped to his feet, but then stumbled slightly when his chair slid away from him, leaving him wobbling and grasping the desk for balance. “Someone’s robbing the gallery?” he asked once he was stable, his voice sharper and clearer than she’d ever heard before. “Right now?”