The Christmas Target

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Call him. If he comes, we’ll keep an eye on things.”

  “And maybe we’ll ask him a few questions,” she responded. “He did give that money to someone, and I do think that’s the key to all of this.” She met his eyes. “When I say we’ll ask questions, I mean I’ll ask questions. My great-uncle is older, and—”

  “Make the call, Stella.” He cut her off because he wasn’t going to make any promises. He’d seen Larry a couple times, but the guy had scurried in and out, staying as far away from Chance as possible.

  Because of what had happened at Beatrice’s house?

  Or because he was hiding something and was afraid that Chance would uncover it?

  One way or another, Chance was going to discover the truth. Stella and her grandmother had been through a lot, and they deserved a little peace.

  He touched the Christmas tree.

  Stella had been right. He’d known the bare basics of her story. He’d read the articles. He knew about the drunk driver, the crash, the fire, the broken window, the father of three who’d been playing Santa for his kids when he’d heard the crash.

  He knew that Stella’s Christmas dress had been on fire when she’d been yanked from the wreck, that the man who’d saved her had been sure she was going to die because her body was broken, her skin peeling from her arm and shoulder, but he’d run with her into his house, laying her on the wood floor, covering her with a blanket, handing her a little stuffed toy one of his kids had abandoned—all while the car with her family in it burned.

  Yeah. He’d read all that.

  But he’d never heard the hitch in Stella’s voice. He’d never seen the pain in her eyes, the regret and sorrow and heartbreak. He’d never heard her tell the story in her own words, with all the details of the moments before and the moments after.

  He’d only heard her cry out in her dreams, and now he knew what the nightmare was, knew exactly what chased her from sleep.

  He couldn’t change it.

  He couldn’t make it different than what it was.

  He couldn’t ease the pain of loss or protect her from losing someone else, but he could be there for her. He could make the way a little easier. He could offer the best of himself and hope that it filled some of the holes in her life, made the empty spots less painful.

  If she let him.

  For now, he’d do what he knew—his job.

  Three times, someone had tried to kill Stella. If she were a different kind of person, she’d be dead. He could assume that the assassin didn’t know her background or her training. First, he’d come after her in the woods. Then in the hospital. Both times, he’d used the element of surprise, but he’d been willing to go hand to hand with her. Maybe assuming that a woman would be easy to overpower.

  The third time, he’d taken the coward’s way—avoiding direct contact.

  He was learning from his mistakes, and that could make him even more dangerous.

  He was also using some very odd weapons.

  Not a handgun or a typical hunting rifle. A Remington 22. Antique. Same for the bowie knife. It had been handcrafted in the 1800s.

  Stella had said she didn’t know anyone involved in the antiques trade, but she’d been busy since she’d returned to Boonsboro. Caring for Beatrice had become her job. He’d been calling weekly since she’d arrived, and she always had a list of therapies she had to bring Beatrice to, doctor’s appointments. Hair. Nails. Little outings to keep Beatrice happy and engaged.

  He met her eyes, realized she’d been watching him, her hand still on Beatrice’s cheek, her eyes still filled with all the memories she’d shared.

  “We’re going to figure this out,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “And then we’re going to find those stockings, and we’re going to hang them on the fireplace mantel, and we’re going to give your grandmother the best Christmas she’s had in years.”

  “We?”

  “Why not?” he responded. “Unless you’d rather go it alone.”

  “I’ve been going it alone for a while,” she said. “I don’t think I know how to do anything else.”

  “You can learn.”

  “I can also lose. Again. Don’t make me rehash it all, Chance, just so you can understand why I can’t think of Christmas and family and gifts and fun.” She swallowed hard, and he knew she was fighting tears.

  When she turned away, he let her.

  He wouldn’t push her.

  Wouldn’t beg her.

  He’d offered what he had.

  It would be enough or it wouldn’t.

  Either way, he was there for her.

  “I’m going to talk to Dallas and Simon,” he said. “There’s something about the choice of weapons that’s bothering me. This guy has to have access to antiques.”

  “You know what I’ve been thinking about?” she asked, obviously relieved by the switch in topics. “The frame that’s missing. Not many people would know how much it was worth. I just thought it was a gaudy little bauble, and I lived in that house for years. Whoever took it had to have knowledge enough to know what he was taking.”

  “So we’re back to the antiques angle.”

  “I’m going to ask my uncle to stop by the house tomorrow. I want him to see if anything else is missing. There are a lot of valuables in the house, and he has probably kept a record of them.”

  “You think he’s the right person to ask?”

  “I think that he’s the only person who will know if something is missing. Beatrice...” She shook her head. “He’s the only one.”

  “Ask him, then. I’ll have Trinity and Simon stay here. We’ll supervise Larry’s visit to the house. Dallas can help us with that.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Let me do this my way, okay? My heart isn’t involved. Not in the way that yours is.” It was involved, though. With her. With wanting the best outcome, the best ending.

  With wanting to make good on his promise that everything was going to be okay.

  She hesitated, her gaze dropping back to Beatrice and then returning to him. “Fine. We’ll do it your way, but don’t expect my acquiescence to become a habit.”

  He laughed, opening the door and stepping out into the hall. Dallas and Simon were waiting there, one sitting in the chair, the other leaning against the wall. Both newer to the team. Both as hard-core and well-trained as anyone.

  A good team. A ready team.

  The guy who was after Stella?

  He’d made a big mistake going up against a member of HEART. He probably didn’t realize that yet, but he would.

  Chance was going to make certain of it.

  ELEVEN

  Beatrice’s fever got worse overnight and, by seven in the morning, her cheeks were pink, her eyes glassy. She seemed in good spirits and even managed to eat one of the chocolates, but Stella was concerned. So was Larry. He’d stayed at the hospital through the night, pacing the small room and driving Stella nearly insane with his worry.

  She thought Larry was driving Chance insane, too. He’d taken a seat near the door, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d asked Larry a few questions, but Larry had brushed off the interrogation, his focus on Beatrice.

  Either Chance had wanted to keep the peace, or he hadn’t believed Larry had anything else to offer. Either way, he’d retreated to the chair an hour ago and had been sitting there silently ever since. She should have been able to ignore him, but that had proved impossible. Even in his silence he was a loud presence in her life.

  She’d found her eyes drawn to him again and again. Found herself moving in his direction more than once.

  She’d stayed way, because she needed to.

  She couldn’t do Christma
s and family and stockings and gifts, and she didn’t want to keep him from having all those things. She cared too much, loved too much to ever be the one to make him miserable.

  “You’d think they’d have come to get her for the X-rays already,” Larry muttered for what seemed like the fiftieth time. He was sitting next to the bed, his shoulders stooped, his hair uncombed.

  “Who is having an X-ray?” Beatrice asked, and Larry patted her hand.

  “You are, sis.”

  “Am I sick?”

  “I certainly hope not.” He smiled, and Stella saw the gentleness of his expression, the kindness in his eyes. He loved his sister. He’d never hurt her.

  Not for money. Not for anything.

  “Me, too, because I’m ready to go home.” Beatrice looked around and frowned. “Where’s the girl?”

  “Girl?” Stella asked. “Karen, you mean?”

  “Not Karen. She and I don’t see eye to eye. It’s the other one that I like.”

  “Since when do you and Karen not get along?” Stella asked, surprised by Beatrice’s comment. Karen had been working for Beatrice before Stella arrived—cleaning the house every Monday and Thursday, taking her to the store when Henry couldn’t. At least, that’s what Larry had told her when he’d recommended that Stella keep Karen on as a part-time home care aide.

  “Since the day she walked into my house,” Beatrice responded. “Now Henry? He thought she was wonderful, and who was I to argue with your grandfather. The man had the softest heart.” She closed her eyes and smiled, caught in some long-ago memory.

  “Nana,” Stella prodded, “why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like Karen?”

  “Of course she likes Karen. Of course you like her,” Larry cut in. “You’ve told me she’s a great housekeeper and a good driver.”

  “And nosy. I don’t like people digging around in my home.” Beatrice frowned. “What were we talking about, dear?”

  “Karen?” Stella said.

  “Right. She’s a hard worker, but the other girl reads to me. What’s her name? Charlie?”

  “Trinity?” Stella offered.

  “That’s it! Trinity. She’s a lovely girl. Where is she?”

  “At the house. She’ll be back soon.”

  “Maybe she can bring Henry when she comes. Do I have her number? I’ll call her and tell her to bring him.”

  Larry looked stricken, his eyes watery, his cheeks pale. “Beatrice—”

  “Remember that game we used to play when we were kids, Larry?”

  “Which game was that?”

  “The one with the flashlights. You’d make all those little animals with your hands. You always were the clever one out of the two of us, and I never could figure out why Dad left me the house.”

  “Because he’d already bought me a place, remember?” he responded gently. “I got married, and he bought me that house in town. It seemed only right that you and Henry have the family home. Besides, you always loved it more than I did.”

  “If I don’t ever get back there—” she began, but Stella couldn’t listen to it.

  “You’re going to get back there, Nana. Soon. You just need to get a little better. That’s all.”

  “You can’t know what tomorrow will bring, sweetie. If I don’t get back there, it’s yours. You know that, right? I want you to fill it with happiness. Just the way your grandfather and I did. Just the way your parents would have when we handed it over to them. You know that was our gift to them that Christmas, right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We had that wonderful Christmas lunch together, and Henry and I told your mother and father that the house was going to be theirs.” She was crying, tears sliding down her cheeks.

  Stella wiped them away, tears burning her own eyes and clogging her throat. She wouldn’t let them fall, because Beatrice needed her to be strong.

  “Nana, you and Henry were the best parents anyone could ask for, and I love you for it, but I’m not going to listen to any more talk about me inheriting the house. We’re going to live there together for a long time before that ever happens.”

  “She’s right, sis,” Larry cut in, pouring water into a cup and handing it to Beatrice. “You’ve got many more years ahead of you. A lot of good years. You’ll see.”

  “And Christmas is coming.” Beatrice wiped at the last of her tears, offered a watery smile that made Stella’s heart hurt even more. “I love Christmas. Are you hosting a party this year, Larry?”

  The two began discussing parties and Christmas and family, and Stella tried to listen, to contribute, to act cheerful. Inside, she still wanted to cry. Mostly because seeing her grandmother lying in a hospital bed, her hold on reality tenuous, was as painful as remembering the accident.

  “You okay?” Chance asked.

  “I will be.”

  “Trinity is on her way. I texted her.” He leaned close, his lips against her ear as he whispered, “I don’t think I can take another second of your uncle’s pacing or worrying.” The confession surprised a laugh out of her, and Larry glanced their way, frowning.

  “You’re standing a little close to my niece, young man,” he snapped. “How about you go out in the hall and wait there?”

  “How about we both go out in the hall? I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “You already asked me plenty. So has the sheriff. I’ve answered them all, and I’m not in the mood to answer again.”

  “Where did you meet Karen?” Chance asked, the question as surprising to Stella as it seemed to be to Larry. His mouth opened. Closed.

  “What do you mean, where did I meet her?” he hedged, and every nerve in Stella’s body jumped to attention.

  Karen.

  She’d been knit into the fabric of Beatrice’s life before Stella returned to Boonsboro. She had a key to the house. She had full access to every room in it. She cleaned and polished and ran errands. Stella hadn’t thought much about that when she’d arrived. She’d been too concerned about Beatrice, too focused on dealing with Henry’s death. Karen had just been a side note in the drama that had been unfolding.

  Only maybe she wasn’t a side note.

  That’s what Chance was thinking. She could see it in his face—the grim set of his jaw, the hardness in his eyes.

  “It’s a simple question, Larry. You met her somewhere. I’d like to know where.”

  “Church,” he rushed to say, but the damage was done. He’d already taken too long, and Stella wanted to know why.

  “When Trinity gets here, we’re going to the house, Uncle Larry,” she said, “you can come with us. I want to see if anything besides the picture frame is missing.”

  “What frame?” Beatrice asked, and Stella wished she’d kept quiet.

  “Just one of the ones on the mantel. I was looking for it.”

  Beatrice seemed satisfied with that answer, but Larry looked...

  The only way to describe it was sick.

  “I’d rather stay with my sister. She needs someone looking out for her best interests.”

  “Don’t worry,” Chance said. “I’ll have people here to make sure she’s okay.”

  “I’d rather—”

  “You’re coming to the house, Larry,” Chance said. “If you don’t, I’m going to wonder why.”

  That was it.

  Larry pressed his lips together and didn’t say another word.

  Maybe Larry had met Karen at church, but it seemed odd that a man his age would make such a quick connection with a college student. If his wife had been the one to suggest that Beatrice and Henry hire the young woman, Stella might have believed the story. As it was, things didn’t make sense.

  That bothered her. A lot.

  She eyed her uncle. He was
a nice-looking man. Still fit and handsome, despite his advanced age. Was it possible he and Karen...

  No way.

  There was no way the two had been having an affair.

  Was there?

  If they were, that might explain the missing money, the nervousness that Larry exhibited every time his financial situation came up.

  It might also explain the attacks.

  With Beatrice and Stella out of the way, there’d be nothing to prevent Larry from giving Karen everything she might want. Money, expensive things. Was it possible that’s what the young woman wanted? Could she be the one responsible for luring Beatrice outside, for attacking Stella?

  No. The person with the knife had been a man. Stella was certain of that.

  But...

  Karen. Yeah. She might be the piece of the puzzle that had been missing. If Stella could figure out who she was and what she wanted, she just might find the answers she’d been looking for.

  * * *

  After too many hours watching Larry pace the room, worry over his sister and avoid answering questions, Chance was ready to shake the truth out of the guy. Despite his obvious affection for Beatrice and Stella, it was clear he was hiding something. Whatever it was, it was wearing him down. Even Chance could see that.

  He wanted to know what it was.

  Something that had to do with Karen?

  Maybe.

  Chance texted Trinity and requested that she run a full background check on the young woman. Sure, she’d looked at Karen’s class schedule, confirmed how long she’d been in town, found her address, but she hadn’t run her photo through HEART’s face-match program. It was possible Karen had changed her identity before moving to Boonsboro. It was possible she wasn’t the person she was claiming to be.

  Twenty minutes later, Trinity walked into the room, her computer in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other and a huge duffel bag tossed over her shoulder.

  “What’s the word?” she asked, going straight to Beatrice’s bed. “I hear you’ve got a fever and won’t be going home.”