Glass Slipper Bride

by Arlene James

  “The hissing?”

  “I thought it was gas escaping from the stove,” she said. “I ran down the hall to the kitchen, and that’s when I saw the light.”

  “You said the light was off,” he pointed out.

  She nodded. “Yes, the kitchen light was off, but he had a flashlight.”

  “Eibersen?”

  “I think so. I didn’t actually see his face. He was dressed all in black and his hair was covered up.”

  Zach grimaced with disappointment. “Go on.”

  “Well,” she said, “I screamed.”

  “And what happened then?”

  She shrugged. “It all happened so fast. I think I must have scared him half to death, because he jumped about a foot, dropped the can and took off. He was scrambling like a madman, and he bumped into me. My foot kind of caught with his, and I went down, smacking my cheek on the other side of the bar there and landing on my shoulder.” She laid down the cool towel and put her hand to her shoulder, wincing as she rotated the joint. “I grabbed at him,” she went on, “and broke a fingernail.” She held up her right hand, displaying an index finger with the nail torn back into the quick. “Before I could get to my feet again, he was gone. Camille came in and turned on the light. That’s when we saw this.” She waved a hand toward the cabinets, and for the first time Zach really looked around him.

  “Holy cow!” he said, his jaw dropping as he took it all in. “The can he dropped was obviously a paint can.”

  “Spray paint seems to be his medium of choice,” she commented wryly.

  Zach was shaking his head, trying to make it all out as he read aloud. “This time my heart knows—”

  “‘Its mind.’” she supplied. “‘This time my heart knows its mind. I am yours. You are mine.’ It’s from a poem.”

  “A poem?” he echoed incredulously.

  Sighing, she recited the whole thing for him. It was a pretty sappy piece about finding true love after many false hopes and mistakes, only to be rejected. “‘But I am constant,’” she recited, ‘“and will not be swayed. True love always finds a way.’”

  Zach studied the sloppy letters dripping bright red on the walls, cabinets and appliances. “This guy is nuts,” he decided finally. “I’ve been told that he’s fixated, but this doesn’t sound like he’s punishing Camille. It sounds like he wants her back and thinks vandalism is a courtship technique!”

  Jillian closed her eyes wearily. “I take it you haven’t found him yet.”

  Zach pushed out a disgusted sigh and shook his head. “He seems to be moving around, one night in this motel, one night in another. From what rve gathered so far, he’s sold or given away just about everything he owns.”

  “Isn’t that what suicides do?” asked a worried voice from the doorway.

  Zach turned to find Gerry and the others there.

  “I don’t have any indication that he’s planning a suicide,” he told her.

  Camille pushed her way past her mother then, her nose turned up haughtily. “You don’t have any indication of anything, from what I can tell! You haven’t even found him yet!”

  Zach rolled his eyes, holding on to his temper. “As I just told your sister, he’s been moving around a lot, but we’ll come across him sooner or later.”

  She waved a hand angrily at Jennings, who peered sheepishly over Gerry’s white turban. “Just tell this idiot to go out and arrest him!”

  Zach sent the man an apologetic look. “It isn’t that simple, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t understand why not!”

  “I didn’t see his face, Camille,” Jillian said, taking the blame. “I can’t swear that it was him.”

  “And even if she could,” Zach said irritably, “the cops don’t know where to look for him.”

  “They would if you’d do your job!” Camille snapped.

  “I’m doing my job!” he told her heatedly. “If you don’t like the way I’m doing it hire someone else.”

  She folded her arms but said nothing more. He pushed a hand through his hair. “What I can’t figure out is how he got past the security system.” Camille looked away. Gerry suddenly got busy folding and smoothing the collar of her robe.

  It was Jillian who cleared her throat and said, “The security system hasn’t been activated.”

  Zach couldn’t believe it. Throwing up both arms he bawled, “What? You told me you’d activate the system that next day.”

  “I tried,” she said defensively. “But you have to choose a security code, and Camille—”

  He whirled on Camille then. “I should have known! You just couldn’t be bothered, I suppose!”

  She drew herself up regally. “I am a very busy person, I’ll have you know, and—”

  “You egotistical little twit!” he yelled, and then he turned to Jillian once more. “What about the locks? You got those changed, didn’t you?”

  She gulped and bowed her head. “The locksmith was booked up. He’s coming tomorrow afternoon.”

  “But he’s the very best,” Gerry added helpfully. “I believe in always going with the very best in the field. Why, he’s installed locks for the Pipers, and everyone knows they have a priceless art collection, not to mention all those jewels.”

  Zach rolled his eyes back in his head and smacked the heels of his hands against his temples, suppressing the urge to do worse. “God help me,” he groaned. “You three don’t need a private cop—you need a keeper!”

  Carpenter elbowed his way into the room then, asking Zach, “Want us to get a crew in to dust for prints?”

  “Won’t matter,” Jillian muttered warily. “He was wearing gloves.”

  Zach targeted her with a narrow look. “You’re certain?”

  She nodded. “I told you, he was dressed all in black, head to toe. He was even wearing a hood and a mask. I saw his hand where he was holding the flashlight, and he was definitely wearing black gloves.”

  Zach sighed. “Bag the paint can,” he said to the police officer, suddenly weary. “Maybe we can trace the buy.” Carpenter nodded and fished a rubber glove from one pocket and a plastic bag from another.

  Jennings came forward as his partner bagged the can, saying reluctantly, “I, um, better get a formal statement from her.” He pointed an ink pen at Jillian. Zach nodded reluctantly, hands at his hips. “Okay, but make it quick. She’s been through enough already.”

  The man parked himself in front of Jillian, legs braced wide apart, notebook in one hand, ink pen in the other. She told her story all over again, answering questions along the way. It was over in fifteen minutes.

  Afterward, Carpenter conferred with Zach. “We can post a drive-by every hour or, so for the next twelve, if you want.”

  Zach rubbed a hand across his nape. That was exactly what he’d ask for under almost any other circumstances, but something wasn’t right about this situation. “It’s all right. I’ll...I’ll stay till morning.” He sent a murderous glare at Camille and added, “At which point the security system will definitely be activated.”

  Camille flipped a shoulder unconcernedly. “What I want to know is who’s going to take care of this mess?”

  Jillian immediately volunteered. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  “It really ought to be wiped down now,” Gerry said.

  “I want pictures of it first,” Zach said. “Besides, Jillian isn’t wiping down anything. She’s been injured, in case you didn’t notice.”

  Gerry seemed to think she’d been insulted. “Well, really!”

  “Yes, really,” Zach snapped.

  Camille huffed in a put-upon way. “Are you all right, Jillian?”

  Jillian nodded. “I’m okay. You go on to bed.”

  “I do have an early call tomorrow,” Camille said, “as usual.”

  “Just make yourself comfortable, young man,” Gerry said, pattering after her retreating daughter.

  “Sure,” Zach drawled. “Thanks.” Gerry didn’t seem to even hear the sarcas
m.

  “I’ll show you where to sleep,” Jillian said softly.

  “Never mind,” he said, irritated at her behavior. “The couch will do me just fine. Right now I want to take a look at the point of entry. Do you have any idea where that might be?”

  “Well,” she said, “he went out the back door.”

  A muscle twitched in Zach’s clamped jaw. He motioned to Carpenter. “You come with me. Jennings, have you got a camera in that squad car?”

  “Sure do. I’ll run get it.”

  “Wait here,” he told Jillian. She nodded and pressed the cool towel to her cheek once more.

  It didn’t take long to determine that the lock had not been forced. They looked around for a few minutes but found nothing unexpected. By the time they were satisfied that there was nothing helpful to be found, Jennings had taken all the necessary photos of the damage done to the kitchen. Zach saw the police officers out and returned to Jillian. She looked unutterably weary.

  “Well, whoever it was, he definitely has a key,” Zach said.

  “Yes, I’m sure he does,” she admitted.

  “But you’re willing to wait for the Pipers’ society locksmith,” he said caustically. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, eyes closed, and tried to calm himself. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. It’s Camille’s house and Camille’s problem.”

  “Which I’m sure Camille will take much more seriously now.”

  He lifted an eyebrow at that but said only, “How’re you feeling?”

  She shrugged and winced. “Shoulder’s tightening up, but otherwise—”

  “Here,” he said, stepping around behind her. “Let me have a look.” He pulled down the soft neckline of her big shirt, exposing her shoulder blade. Sliding his fingers over her satiny skin, he gently probed, rotating the joint slightly. “I don’t see any bruising,” he said, mouth suddenly dry. “It’s not out of joint.”

  “I didn’t think it was,” she whispered huskily.

  The sound of her voice sent shivers up his spine. He jerked his hands away, saying, “Got any frozen peas?” The question came out strangled.

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “Frozen peas. They make a great ice pack.”

  “Oh. Probably in the freezer.”

  She started to slide off the stool, but he held up a hand to stop her. He went over to the double-wide freezer-refrigerator in the corner, opened the door on the left and rummaged around the bins. finding what he needed. “Frozen corn works just as well,” he said, carrying the bag over to the counter. He started pulling open drawers until he found another towel. He carried the towel and the bag of frozen corn back to the bar. Folding the bag inside the towel, he fashioned a sling to hold the “ice pack” in place by looping the towel under her arm and tying it around her shoulder. “Now, let me see that finger.”

  She held up her right index finger. “It’s no big deal.”

  He surveyed it briefly. “Where’s the peroxide?”

  “Uh, there’s a first-aid kit in the cabinet above the sink.”

  He went there, used a paper towel to open the messy door and took down the kit, then carried it back to the bar counter. He fished around inside, extracting Band-Aids, antibiotic cream and a small pair of scissors. Using the scissors, he clipped the nail neatly. Then he applied the cream and two Band-Aids, one over the end of her finger and the other wrapping around it. “That ought to do it,” he said.

  She thanked him timidly, adding, “You don’t have to take care of me, you know.”

  He pulled out the other stool and sat down, knowing perfectly well that he ought to keep his mouth shut, but somehow, he just couldn’t. “Someone has to,” he said. “Your sister obviously won’t.”

  Jillian couldn’t quite seem to look him in the eye. “It wouldn’t occur to her. You have to understand how busy she is.”

  “I understand that she dumps everything that doesn’t have to do with her precious career on you.”

  She didn’t even argue with him. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I like doing things around the house.”

  He wanted to shake her, to make her stand up for herself, but it wasn’t any of his business. Why, he wondered, did the sweet ones always get treated like this? Suddenly he realized what he was thinking, and was shocked at himself. It must have shown, for she laid a hand on his forearm and asked earnestly, “What is it?”

  He didn’t want to talk about it. He really didn’t, and yet... “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he finally said.

  “Oh? And who would that be?”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “We’re getting off the subject We were talking about how you let certain people take advantage of you and then put you down, when they ought to be grateful and supportive.”

  She smiled wryly, as if touched by his concern. “It’s not like that. I’ll admit that it hasn’t always been easy, but it’s more Gerry than it is Camille, and before you start in on her, just think about it from her viewpoint She was replaced, literally, by my mom, who was several years younger, and yet she still took me in when I had no place else to go. It’s natural that she should resent me, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted, “but that was a long time ago. It doesn’t explain this subservient role they’ve cast you in.”

  Jillian seemed to be searching for the right words to explain. “I know this sounds absurd, but it’s almost as if Gerry is jealous of me on Camille’s behalf. I can’t imagine why, though.”

  “Oh, please,” he said scathingly. “Your sister has the personality of a diva.”

  Jillian sighed. “I guess you’re right,” she admitted, “but she still has more personality than me, not to mention looks.”

  He could have let it pass. He should have let it pass. Instead, he said, “There’s nothing wrong with your personality or your looks. You have those enormous blue eyes and that model’s build going for you.”

  Her mouth fell open, but then she laughed, sputtering chuckles.

  “Stop that!” he ordered, angered that she’d take his compliment so lightly.

  She sobered, biting her lip. “Sorry. It’s just that tall and skinny does not a model make.”

  “Is that so?” he demanded. “Well, let me tell you something, lady. I happen to know a model’s physique when I see one.” Oh, brother! Why was he doing this? He meant to stop there, but the compulsion was too great. “Ever hear of Serena Gilbert?” he heard himself asking.

  The name seemed to float around in her brain and finally make a connection. “Wasn’t she that model who was killed by an obsessed fan?”

  He nodded solemnly. “The same.”

  She gasped. “Oh, no! You were working for her, weren’t you? You poor guy. You must’ve felt—”

  “I wasn’t working for her,” he interrupted sharply. “But she’s the reason I’m working for you, er, Camille, that is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He studied her face, wondering how best to get himself out of this, but in the end he found nothing with which to reply except the truth. He shrugged, trying to make light of it. “I was in love with Serena.”

  Her eyes widened and filled with tears. “Oh, Zach.”

  Suddenly he was almost enjoying himself, soaking up her pity like a sponge. “I was a policeman back then,” he explained. “I trusted the system to take care of her stalker, but he still got to her, and that’s when I realized I could do more good working the system from the outside instead of being a part of it.”

  “That’s why you do what you do, why you work so often for free when your clients can’t afford to pay.”

  He frowned. “Who told you that?”

  She smiled. “Lois.”

  Of course. Lois was one of those who had been living band-to-mouth while hiding from a controlling, abusive husband. He’d taken care of the husband and given her a job. She was the perfect secretary, except for a tendency to gossip. She seemed to think that bragg
ing about him was part of the job description, no matter what he said. For once, he couldn’t quite seem to be irritated about it.

  “The cops have their hands tied in too many ways,” he told Jillian sternly. “I promised myself that what happened to Serena wouldn’t happen to anybody else on my watch, and so far it hasn’t.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder, her big blue eyes as soft as clouds. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  He fought down a smile and tapped her nose with the tip of one finger. “I just wanted to prove that I know what I’m talking about. You’re not ‘tall and skinny.’ You’re sleek and—unique, with that gamin face. And I’m quite sure I’m not the only one who has noticed.”

  Her smile was wide and bright. Pleased, he curled a finger under her chin and raised her face, realizing with a jolt that he’d intended to kiss her and had just barely avoided it. “Uh, I—I better have another look at this face.”

  She lowered the towel. He tenderly explored the bruised cheekbone, his fingers trembling with the effort not to hurt her. “Don’t think anything’s broken.”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” she agreed, her voice gone husky and soft.

  He made himself look away, spied the first-aid kit and all but pounced on it. He searched around inside until he found a topical anesthetic. After uncapping the tiny atomizer, he sprayed some on his fingertips, then gently but liberally swabbed the painkiller on her cheek. “Does this hurt?”

  She licked her lips, whispering, “No.”

  He literally could not keep his gaze from dropping to her mouth. Of their own volition, his fingertips feathered along the edges of her jaws. She closed her eyes, and he couldn’t have stopped himself then if he’d wanted to. He kissed her, gently settling his mouth over hers, testing the fit and finding it perfect. She moaned and turned her head slightly. He remembered the way she’d felt in his arms, the free weight of her breasts pressed against him, and he pushed his hands into her hair. Silk. Caramel silk. Would she let him make love to her? he wondered, and just the fact that he did so, shocked him to the core. Dropping his hands, he jerked away. She looked as stunned as he felt. He gulped, inane words tumbling from his mouth. “My, uh, mom always says it’s the kiss that makes it better.”