Cole in My Stocking

by Jessi Gage

  But she didn’t get her coat. She headed down the hall and disappeared into a room halfway to the back of the trailer.

  He followed and found her spinning the combination dial of a six-foot tall safe to clear it. He stepped up behind her, not too close but close enough to read the numbers as she worked the dial. Bam, bam, bam, she hit the numbers Gripper had told him on his deathbed. This was the safe he’d been talking about, not the one up in the shop.

  Jesus.

  If everything Gripper had told him was true, Mandy was about to open a safe that contained almost four hundred thousand dollars in cash. He debated distracting her from the search for Grip’s military records but couldn’t figure out how to do it tactfully. So he held his breath while she clocked in the final number and swung the door open.

  The safe was crammed full of three rows of gorgeous rifles standing stock-down with their muzzles nestled in the velvety soft grooves of a custom shelf. In the front row, he recognized a twelve-gauge Winchester Gripper had let him fire once. That gun alone was worth a cool grand. Also in the first row was a World War II Beretta Model 1918 submachine gun with a bottom magazine and a bayonet, which made it a model 1918/30. His breath whooshed out. That was a nice gun. Very nice. And it looked in pristine condition. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. A quick count revealed twenty rifles, and about the same number of handguns supported by fabric-lined molds screwed into corkboard on the inside of the door. Each piece was special. Not a one would go for less than five hundred. Some, like the Beretta, would go for thousands.

  “You got a small fortune in guns here,” he said. “You know that?”

  Mandy stretched up onto her toes to pull an accordion file from an upper shelf that contained a bunch of specialty ammo boxes, some other accordion files and a blue duffel bag with white handles that looked about the right size to contain a great big wad of cash. His heart went into double time. He tried not to stare at the bag.

  Mandy faced him, hugging the accordion file. “I know. I hate it, but it all has to go. Dad was in so much debt.” She made a sweeping motion to encompass the guns. “All this will maybe cover what he owed on his truck and Harley.”

  Cole could tell it pained her to part with the things her father had held most dear. But he didn’t blame her one bit. What was she going to do with an arsenal of collectible guns? Maybe he’d help her out and buy that Beretta. He’d give her a good price for it too. It would be the centerpiece of his own collection.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “He would have wanted you to sell all this. He’s not going to appreciate them ever again. Might as well put them in the hands of collectors who will.”

  She nodded and put on a brave smile. “Well, here’s his military stuff.” She closed the safe and spun the wheel then led the way back to the kitchen.

  Cole was going to have to bide his time and hope for a few minutes alone where he could get into that safe and remove the bag. No doubt in his mind the money was in there. Dirty money, Grip had called it. He hadn’t wanted Mandy to have anything to do with it. He’d charged Cole with turning it over to the FBI.

  “I had no choice,” Gripper had said in his thready voice scant hours before his body had quit. “I did what they wanted me to do, and they paid me for it. But I never spent a dime of that money. Never knew what to do with it, so I held onto it. Now I know, but it’s too late for me to do it. You’ll take care of it?”

  “I will,” Cole had promised.

  “And you’ll take care of Mandy?”

  “I will.”

  “Then I can go.” Those had been Gripper Holcomb’s last words.

  Chapter 6

  I didn’t own many dresses, and I hadn’t had time to buy a new one in the twenty-four hours between receiving Max’s letter and hitting the road back to Newburgh. Fortunately, I had a couple of go-to ensembles for weddings and wine and cheese functions at the college. Guess I’d be wearing them to work parties now that I was no longer hobnobbing with assistant profs and research assistants.

  After my shower Wednesday morning, I returned to my old room and slipped into a cotton-blend sleeveless dress with conservative lines that hinted at my shape without clinging to it. It was black with a delicate white print that called to mind the wrought-iron railings of the French Quarter in New Orleans. The neckline was v-shaped and stopped a full inch above my cleavage. The hem fell to an inch below my knee. With sober Mary Janes and my hair up in a loose chignon, I faced the full-length mirror. It was the morning of my dad’s funeral, and all I could think about was whether the folks who came out to remember him would think I was a hussy for showing my upper arms in December.

  I yanked a light-weight black cardigan from a hanger and put it on over the dress. There. The look said “Bookish Republican headed to a very boring fund raiser,” not “Trailer trash one bad decision away from turning tricks in Boston.”

  It shouldn’t matter that my dad’s friends, half of whom made up the Newburgh PD, had dubbed me Gripper’s wild child or that the kids in school had given me some pretty unflattering nicknames. Six years had passed, and even if they hadn’t, I knew I shouldn’t let other people’s opinions bother me.

  But they did bother me. Head knowledge and practical application; between lay a gulf of incomprehensible proportions.

  I’d always thirsted for acceptance. Maybe because I’d lived a lonely childhood. Maybe it was just how I was wired. If people didn’t like me, it hurt me deep down in places only a precious few should have access to. I needed to guard those private places with a fireproof safe. Instead, I had a flimsy storm door.

  One day I hoped I’d get over those hang-ups. But not today. Today I promised to give myself permission to be who I was and accept what I felt. Needy, people-pleasing, confused, grieving Mandy Holcomb. Gripper’s daughter. Non-whore. Respectable, hard-working young woman with a couple of college degrees as proof to my would-be detractors. Most importantly, I had an out-of-state address, so if I let anyone make me feel bad, I could forget about it soon enough. Running away had worked the first time, after all.

  A horn honked outside. The sound was muffled since my room was at the back of the trailer. Snagging my purse and pea coat, I headed out to find my ride peering at me from the driver’s seat of a white pick-up truck, expression unreadable behind a pair of reflective Oakleys.

  My heart smiled. I was in so much trouble.

  While I locked up, I heard him get out of the truck. As I approached, I realized why. Looked like Cole was the kind of guy that opened the car door for a girl.

  No way was I going to read too much into that. He was just a friend.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, yourself,” he said, holding the passenger door for me.

  I frowned at the height of the seat. Cole’s truck was big. There was no way I was going to climb into the cab without hiking up my skirt. I so did not need to be hiking up my skirt with Cole six inches away.

  Before I could decide what to do, Cole’s hands encircled my waist. “Hold on,” he said, and just like that, my feet left the ground.

  I grabbed his shoulder for balance as he hefted me into the bucket seat as easily as he’d load in a bag of groceries.

  After situating himself behind the wheel again, he said, “You look good.”

  I couldn’t see his eyes through those lenses, but I could feel his gaze on me.

  A warm flush made the skin over my breastbone tingle. I’d take the compliment, even though I knew he was just being polite. I looked professional. Or conservative. Or prim. Not good. And that was by design.

  “Thanks. Um, so do you.” He had on a tan suit that fit nice. I wondered if Men’s Wearhouse charged more for suits that had to cover that much height and muscle. Or maybe they gave a discount, because when a suit looked that good, it functioned like a walking, talking ad campaign. The yellow tie was a good shade for him. It brought out the blond in his buzz cut.

  I waited for him to thr
ow the truck into reverse.

  He just sat there watching me from behind those mirrored lenses. Making my skin tingle some more.

  The cab of Cole’s truck should have felt huge, but with him taking up as much space as he did, it felt kind of intimate. And it smelled amazing, like ocean-breeze body wash and fresh coffee. A glance at the cup holder showed the travel mug I’d sent him home with the other morning, steam curling from the opening. Cole had the seat so far back there would have been no leg room for a rear-seat passenger, and still, his knees practically hugged the steering wheel. Head and shoulders canted in my direction, he sat with his legs spread. One hand rested on the top of the steering wheel, white shirt cuff peeking from the tailored jacket. The other loosely cupped the gear shift near my knee. His middle finger tapped the smooth surface.

  I cleared my throat and tried not to think about how good it was to see him after three days. The only Cole-contact I’d had since our Saturday morning powwow was a phone call from him last night, when he’d said he would pick me up at nine this morning. He’d hung up before I could remind him the funeral wasn’t until ten, and it was only a fifteen minute drive to the funeral home.

  “Got everything you need?” he asked.

  I patted my purse. “Good to go.”

  “You ever get that phone out from between your seats?” He jerked his chin toward the beast.

  “Yeah.” I’d done that after he and Max had left on Friday. Finding eighteen texts, four voicemails, and numerous social media well-wishes from my friends back in Philly had lifted my spirits. It was like having a lifeline to the home I’d chosen for myself while I was stuck in the home I’d left behind. Since then, I’d been on the phone every day with my closest friend, Heather, and texting back and forth with my other friends. Maybe I’d been reaching out to them so often to help keep my mind off a certain hot cop.

  I was surprised he remembered I’d dropped my cell phone.

  “Good,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to use it, you get any trouble around here.”

  Ah. He was worried about security. Dad used to worry too. If he was going to be away for a hunting trip or a weekend ride with his biking brothers, he’d quiz me on the emergency protocol a hundred times before leaving.

  “You haven’t had anyone come by wanting to get up in the shop, have you?”

  I shook my head.

  He nodded with satisfaction. “’That changes now that word has spread about your father’s funeral, you dial nine-one-one. Better yet, if I’m off duty, you call me.”

  “I don’t have your number.”

  “Give me your phone.”

  I pulled it from my pocket and gave it to him.

  He entered some info with large, agile thumbs. “You got my cell and my desk. I’m off duty, you call me. I’m on duty, you call nine-one-one, and then you call me. I don’t care if you know the person or not, anyone tries to talk you into letting them upstairs, you make a call.”

  That seemed kind of extreme. “Why would anyone want up in the shop?”

  His eyebrows went up above the rimless Oakleys like I was missing something obvious. “Gripper’s got like fifty guns in the safe up there he was either working on or done working on. Most of his customers are fine, upstanding citizens. Some aren’t. Gripper didn’t discriminate. Money’s money. But I don’t want you dealing with everyone your dad dealt with. Guys wondering when they can pick up their guns, guys demanding the ammo your dad ordered for them, guys claiming your dad owed them a refund. You don’t need that right now, yeah? Didn’t Waverly tell you all this? I thought he was handling the business stuff for you.”

  Max had put me in touch with a lawyer who closed down businesses for a living. I was going to meet with him after the holidays. “He said I wouldn’t have to do anything with the business, not that I shouldn’t do anything with the business.” Max had made it seem like something I didn’t need to worry about. Cole was making it sound like something I should worry about.

  “Then I’m telling you. You shouldn’t do anything with the business. ’Kay?” He patted my knee and threw the truck into reverse.

  My skin burned from his palm—in a way that felt way too good, considering I was on my way to my father’s funeral and had decided I’d be ignoring any more-than-friendly feelings directed at Cole. Instead of dwelling on my tingling knee, I tried to be annoyed with Mr. Overbearing for telling me what to do.

  Nope. Couldn’t manage it. Not when I’d been dreading dealing with Dad’s customers.

  Not a week went by growing up where some new customer hadn’t knocked on the storm door, assuming they’d find Dad in the trailer despite the sign with the arrow pointing toward the stairs to the shop. I would poke my head out the main door and say, “Shop’s around the front. Over the garage.” I’d point then shut the trailer door, not giving them a chance to respond. If they kept knocking at the locked storm door, I would call Dad’s line up in the shop. “Yo, you’ve got a genius down here who can’t read a sign.”

  Dad would say, “Thanks, kiddo. Be right down,” and I would swear he’d have a smile in his voice.

  My eyes started to burn.

  “So what have you been up to the last few days?” Cole asked.

  I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. “Cleaning and estate stuff, mostly. Max set up an account I’ve been using to pay outstanding bills. He thinks he found a buyer for the property. It’s a guy in Vermont with a chain of gun stores. He’s interested in Dad’s equipment and might be willing to buy the business and property in one lump sum, vehicles, trailer and all.”

  While dealing with the entire estate at once would simplify the transaction, I would have a far smaller chance of inheriting anything than if I sold it piecemeal. I couldn’t make up my mind which I wanted more, the express route out of Dad’s estate—and therefore out of Newburgh—or the scenic route, which would require a lot more time and effort than I was inclined to invest. I’d told Max I’d think about it and let him know whether to move forward with the Vermont guy after Christmas.

  “How about you?” I was pretty sure he’d worked a couple of shifts, since I’d recognized his Oakleys through the windows of the state patrol cruiser that had coasted by a few times on Monday and Tuesday. Knowing Cole was at least keeping an eye on Dad’s place had lifted some of my melancholy at his not paying attention to me. Which was exactly what I told myself I wanted: Cole’s inattention. “Do any more Christmas shopping?”

  “Some,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Worked the last two days. Have today and tomorrow off.”

  “Nice. Christmas Eve and Christmas off? Did you have to sell your soul to a coworker to get that deal?”

  He chuckled. “Not this time. Got lucky. That’s just how the schedule fell this year. Don’t worry, though. I’ll make up for it working a double shift on the thirty-first. A friend of mine wanted New Year’s Eve off, so I said I’d work for her even though I’m already doing the day shift.”

  “What kind of hours does a statie work? What does a double shift mean? Like sixteen hours? Twenty-four?” I asked because I didn’t want to think about whether this friend he was doing a favor for might be Officer Busty. Also, if a double shift meant twenty-four hours on the clock, I worried that wasn’t healthy.

  “Staties in New Hampshire work in two-week rotations. Week one, you’re on duty five days out of seven, twelve hour shifts. The next week, you’re only on duty two days out of seven. Those weeks, you get a three day weekend, which, I’m not going to lie, is pretty sweet. It works out to eighty-four hours every two weeks. I do two weeks of days then two weeks of nights. This is week one on days. Today and tomorrow are my two-off. Rest of the week, I’m on duty six a.m. to six p.m., but next week is my light week. I’ll have plenty of time to help you with your dad’s estate stuff. If you want.”

  My heart leapt at the possibility of seeing a lot of Cole next week. “I want,” I said before I could run it through the filter
of appropriateness. Shoot. I covered my eagerness with, “I’ll take all the help I can get.” A little voice in my head added, And all the Cole I can get.

  Shut up, stupid voice. We don’t do relationships, remember? We especially don’t do relationships with anyone from Newburgh.

  “So, when’d you become a statie?” I asked.

  “Oh-eight,” he said. The year I graduated high school and booked it out of Newburgh.

  That was weird. I hadn’t heard anything about him wanting to be statie, not that I would have been privy to Cole’s career goals. “Why the change?” I asked.

  He shot me a glance behind those shades, and the air in the truck got heavy. He was quiet for so long, I thought he hadn’t heard me. Then he blew out a breath and said, “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “About me leaving Newburgh PD? Your dad didn’t tell you?”

  “Dad and I didn’t talk. Like ever. I sent him cards a couple times a year. That’s how he knew all my news. But I never heard from him. Not about you or anything else. I didn’t even know he was sick.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. I thought I heard his teeth grinding. “You stay in touch with any of your friends?”

  I shook my head. My “friends” had all written me off after that party. Part of the fault lay with me. I became way less fun after my assault. Part of the fault lay with the way my reputation had gone from questionable to outright bad after I’d been seen leaving a party drunk and with three grown men. Several of my friends admitted their parents forbade me from coming to their houses anymore.

  “You haven’t been in touch with anyone from Newburgh since you left?”

  “Not until the letter Max sent letting me know Dad had died. Why?”

  Cole cursed.

  “What?”

  He shook his head.

  I stared at him, willing him to say whatever his stony expression refused to reveal. My stomach shrank into a prune. Something bad was growing between us. “What don’t I know, Cole?”

  “Later, honey. I’ll tell you later.”