by Beverly Long
He didn’t look at her. She had the feeling that he’d prefer it if he never had to look at her again.
“Now what?” she asked, nodding her head at the plastic bags.
“We work the case.” A look of real pain crossed his face. “Somebody wants to see you pay. For what, Claire?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Honest to goodness, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just some creep who heard about what happened and is trying to scare me? Maybe it’s the landlord’s crazy brother?”
Sam’s head snapped up. “The landlord has a crazy brother?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just trying to make a point.
“There’s no stamp, nothing to indicate the post office handled it. This is interoffice mail.”
She’d come to the same conclusion and it was a chilling thought. She thought her coworkers liked her. Everybody was nice. She’d worked with the group for only four months. It was staggering to think that someone might hate her and even more appalling that they would come to that conclusion in such a short amount of time. “Do you think that everything is connected? That the robbery, Sandy Bird, that awful telephone call and now this are all tangled up?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Do people at your work know about the burglary and about Sandy Bird?”
“Hannah knows. Her cousin lives in my building. It’s hard to know who she may have told.”
“So, we have to assume that some people know. But what doesn’t fit is that the caller knew something about Tessa’s death that wasn’t public information. How could anyone at your work have that knowledge?”
“I don’t think they could.”
“Me either. We have to consider that it might not be connected at all. Maybe it’s somebody at work, who has heard about your troubles and decided that your lemons are his or her lemonade.”
“Huh?”
“It’s the equivalent of the playground pile-on. One of your coworkers isn’t a fan and has been secretly celebrating your misfortune. It gives him or her courage to express his own thoughts. It’s the little kid taunting the other kid, See, nobody likes you.”
“Who would do that?”
“I don’t know. But you’re not going to work today. You’re going to my parents’ house with me,” Sam said. “Tell your boss you need the day off.”
“I’m busy at work.”
“Bring it with you.” He pointed to the stack of mail. “Looks like you’re pretty used to that.”
She wanted to argue, wanted to pretend that she had better things to do. But truth be told, the letter, on top of the phone message, on top of everything else that had happened, had her freaked out.
She might not like being told what to do, but she wasn’t stupid. “What time do we leave?” she asked.
“Early morning. I should be back in plenty of time.”
“Back?”
“Yeah. I’m taking this in. Right now. We’re running out of time to find answers.”
* * *
SAM AND CLAIRE LEFT the apartment shortly after seven the next morning. Sam was dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt and he carried a thermos of coffee and a whole lot of attitude. Claire wore a gray midcalf corduroy skirt, black boots and a raspberry-colored lightweight sweater. She wanted the coffee and had more than enough of her own attitude.
Sam had had less than three hours of sleep. She knew that because she’d been awake when he’d come home. It had been another hour before she’d managed to shut down. Even Nightmare had looked a little cross with her tossing-and-turning routine.
When she’d stumbled into the kitchen shortly after six, Sam had been sitting at the table. He’d mumbled “Good morning” and shoved a box of cereal in her direction, before taking off for the shower. He’d never once looked at her.
She’d managed to push a few bites down, all the time wondering what the heck she was doing. She didn’t have to go to Sam’s parents’ house. She didn’t have to spend the day trying to ignore the furtive whispers or the wondering looks as his family searched for but found no resemblance to Tessa. She’d met the Vernellis just once, at Tessa’s funeral. She remembered them as quiet, polite people who were shocked by Tessa’s death. She remembered Sam standing over Tessa’s grave, long after the service had ended. Everyone else was making their way back to their cars. His mother had turned, walked back to her son, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him away from the grave.
Now, as he pulled his shiny red SUV up to the curb, she willed her legs to run. But just then, the bright morning sun bounced off the hood of the vehicle, crossed his strong features and caught the hint of pain in his dark eyes. And she knew she couldn’t do it.
She pulled open the door and slid in, noting that Nightmare, in the backseat, wedged between Sam’s duffel bag and her suitcase, looked the happiest.
She shoved her laptop case onto the floor and rested her feet on it. “Nice day,” she said, determined to try.
He didn’t answer.
“Perfect day for a high school football game.”
He looked at her. “You had plans to go to a football game?”
“No,” she said, her face feeling hot. “Just making conversation.”
He turned, facing forward again. “Right.”
Yeah, right. She stayed silent while he navigated the city streets, but traffic was light and soon they were flying along on the highway headed for Minnesota.
An hour out of the city, lulled into sleepiness by the warmth of the sun on her face, she drifted off. Later, she didn’t know if it was ten minutes or two hours, Sam gently shook her shoulder.
“Claire,” he said, his tone soft, like he didn’t want to scare her. “You need to wake up.”
She opened her eyes, blinking them fast. “We’re here?” she asked, stretching her aching neck.
“No,” he said. He stared at her, not smiling, but his tone seemed gentler than before. “I need to let Nightmare out to do his thing. I didn’t want to leave you alone in the car asleep.”
Of course not. Careful Detective Vernelli would want her awake and aware. While she’d thought she might enjoy sleeping for another couple hours, she appreciated the fact that he seemed determined to keep her safe.
“No problem,” she said. Sam had pulled into a highway rest stop. There was a large, grassy area and a small, neat brick building that she assumed offered restrooms. “I think I’ll go inside myself,” she said, reaching for the door handle.
Sam looked around the parking lot. She did the same. Five cars and two semis. Looked safe enough to her. Must have to him as well because he nodded. “Okay. I’ll meet you inside in a few minutes.”
She grabbed her purse, pushed open the door and headed inside. The restrooms were surprisingly neat and when she finished, she drifted over to the brochure rack that covered one side of the lobby wall. She’d skimmed most of them by the time Sam came inside.
She saw him, flashed a quick smile, and stuffed one of the brochures in her purse. Not quick enough, however, to avoid Sam’s eagle eye.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She pulled it out and handed it to him.
“Canoeing?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “You like to canoe?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never done it.”
He frowned at her. “Never?”
“My parents weren’t crazy about my trying anything that had any potential for danger.”
“What?” He looked puzzled, but then he sighed and shook his head. “Everybody copes in a different way.”
“I guess. Anyway, I have wanted to try it for years. Maybe I can work it in yet this fall. If not, then next spring for sure.”
He handed her back the brochure. “That’s a good place,” he said. “I’ve done their trips. They range from three hours to three days.”
“Three days? Yikes. That would be two nights of sleeping outside?”
He laughed and suddenly looked years younger. “Oh, yeah.
No extra charge for the mosquitoes.”
“Great. I love a good value.”
“Come on,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “let’s go before Nightmare eats the seat cushions. If I’m right, Mom’s pulling the fresh-baked coffee cake out of the oven right now. Hope you’re not philosophically opposed to sugar.”
“Uh, no,” she replied as she almost tripped. Having Sam’s arm around her shoulder made it difficult to walk or talk. Not that it meant anything to him.
“How much farther?” she asked as they reached the car.
Sam took his arm away and used it to open her door. “We’ll be there in an hour. Can’t wait to see the little rug rat.”
Claire slid in and smiled at Nightmare who had his head hanging over the front seat. “How long have your brother and sister-in-law been married?” she asked, once Sam got in.
“About a year. I think they were both anxious to start a family.”
“How did they meet?”
Sam smiled. “Well, it’s sort of a funny story. Now, that is. At the time, it was pretty tense. Joanna, known as Tara then, was hiding in Wyattville. Living under an assumed name, living a life totally different than the one she’d had to leave before her sorry-excuse-for-a-man ex-fiancé made good on his promise to kill her. Jake was doing some interim duty as the police chief, helping out an old friend. Short story is he managed to get the guy and the girl. He got damn lucky on both counts.”
“Do they still live in Wyattville?”
“Yes. Joanna has a little restaurant there. Works her tail off. Maybe a baby will slow her down a little.”
“Does Jake work at the restaurant, too?”
“No. The interim job turned into a full-time gig.”
She frowned at him. “I thought I remembered my mother saying once that your father was a police officer.”
“He was. Guess it’s in our blood. We all seem to like it pretty well.” He backed the car out of its parking space. “How about you? You like your job?”
Getting the anonymous letter at work had left a bad taste in her mouth, but yes, she loved her job. Loved the opportunity to be creative every day, to talk to customers, to offer new ways to advertise their products. “Yes. I’m incredibly lucky to be working at a top agency.”
“They knew talent when they saw it.”
Oh, man. “I guess I work pretty hard to make sure that I earn the right to work there.”
“So, do you work closely with that guy you were sitting on the steps with? Mission, right?”
“Some. I did my first big market-research project with Pete and I learned so much.”
“I’ll bet.”
Claire swiveled in her seat, pulling on her seat belt. Sam faced forward, his eyes scanning the road, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Then she noticed the grip he had on the steering wheel. His knuckles were almost white. “He lives in a very nice neighborhood,” Sam said.
“Hannah said that his parents died when he was in his early twenties. That was their house.”
“Is he married?” Sam asked, surprising her.
“No. I’m sure he dates. He doesn’t say much about it.”
“So how old do you think he is?” Sam asked, his tone casual, too casual.
Why was Sam so fascinated with Pete? “Why? Are you interested in him?” She knew it was a ridiculous question, but Sam was acting very weird.
Sam gave her a look that told her he didn’t think she was funny. “Oh, fine,” she said. “I guess about forty. I don’t really know.”
Sam shrugged. “He’s way too old for you.”
“What?”
Sam shrugged and faced forward again. “I just think you need to be careful around men like that?”
What the heck was he talking about? “Men like what?”
He tapped one finger against the steering wheel. “Never mind.”
“No way. Don’t say something like that and then just shut down.”
He checked both mirrors, flipped on his signal and switched lanes. They drove another half mile and with each turn of the tires, Claire could practically feel her blood pressure rising. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Look, Sam. When two people have a conversation, it’s helpful if they both talk.”
He let out an audible puff of air. “Fine. When a guy looks at a girl’s butt the way he was looking at yours, I don’t think he’s really all that interested in doing business. Unless his business is focused around getting some on the conference-room table.”
A vision of skinny Pete Mission with his pants around his ankles leaning her backward over the polished cherrywood table made her want to howl.
“Well?” Sam prodded. He looked so serious and it made Claire work extra hard to keep from laughing. She turned her head toward the window, buying time until she could get it under control.
“Claire,” he said, his voice husky. “I’m a jerk. That was crude. There are probably ten ways I could have said that better. I’m sorry.”
He thought she was offended. That was even funnier. She was just about to let him in on the joke when he leaned over and placed his hand on her knee. Her leg, the stupid, traitorous limb it was, jerked, just like Nightmare’s rump did when Claire petted it. Sam’s hand felt firm and capable and she could feel the heat all the way through her skirt.
She really needed to get the upper hand here before she did something crazy like grab his hand and stick it down her shirt. She turned toward Sam and gave him her best wide-eyed, don’t-have-a-clue look. “Do you really think that’s what he’s interested in? You think he wants to...to sleep with me?”
Sam’s neck turned red, matching the plaid in his shirt. “I’m just saying,” he said, his voice sounding strangled, “that you need to be careful.”
Claire waved her hand. “Oh, we’d be careful. There’s a lock on the conference-room door.”
Sam’s truck swerved and Claire heard the satisfying sound of tires on loose gravel as Sam brought the vehicle back on the highway. “That’s not what I meant,” he said.
“You think we should leave the door open?” she said, her voice deliberately shocked.
Sam glanced at her, his mouth open.
“So people could watch?” she asked, cocking her head to the side, like some stuffed dog in the window of an old lady’s car.
Sam shut his mouth and narrowed his eyes. With a sudden movement, he flipped on his signal, pressed on the brake and pulled the car far off the highway, almost into the short, yellow-green grass. When the car had stopped, he turned in his seat. “You’re yanking my chain, aren’t you?” he said, his voice soft.
“I just can’t help but wonder,” she said, “do outrageous things just fall out of your mouth or do you have to work at it?”
He held up a finger and pointed it at her. “Laugh all you want. He wasn’t happy about my being at his house the other night. That tells me that he’s got a thing for you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Even if you’re right, which you’re not, but if you are, I can handle Pete Mission.”
Now she could see the anger flashing in his eyes. He leaned over toward her and gently grabbed her chin. “I’ve investigated more than my share of sexually violent attacks against women,” he said, his voice stern. “It’s not pretty and it sure as hell isn’t something to laugh about. Most of these attacks are perpetrated by somebody the victim knows. So don’t assume anybody is harmless.”
He was so close. She could feel the heat coming off his body. His lips were just inches away. She licked her lips and then his grip around her chin tightened, not enough to hurt, but just enough that she knew he felt the connection as much as she did. Oh, man. Sam Vernelli shouldn’t be worrying about her virtue or safety; he should be worrying about his own.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away. She couldn’t think when he was touching her. “I got carried away at your expense.”
He let his hand drop back into his lap. “You had me going,” he admitted. “Th
e watching thing was a little over the top. That’s what did you in.”
“Watching isn’t your thing?” she asked, suddenly feeling bold.
He stared at her, not blinking, maybe not even breathing. “I prefer to participate,” he said finally. Then he shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just said. “I should not be having this conversation with you.”
With you—Tessa’s sister. He didn’t need to say it. The meaning was clear enough.
“Well,” she said, looking straight ahead, “because you’re into participation, when we’re a man short on our volleyball team, at least we know who to call.”
Sam started the car. After he’d pulled out onto the highway, Claire risked a look at him. His jaw was set, his lips pressed together and he looked mad as hell.
She didn’t know if he was mad at her or himself. She didn’t think it probably mattered.
Chapter Eight
Sam, with Nightmare dancing around his heels, yanked open the back door of his parents’ house. “Shouldn’t we knock?” Claire asked, more certain than ever this was a mistake.
Sam frowned at her. “I used to live here,” he said. “Come on. Something smells good.”
At least he was talking again. He’d barely spoken for the last hour of the trip. Claire let him lead her down the wide, ceramic-tiled hallway into a large blue-and-white kitchen with oak cabinets and a big, round, pedestal-style oak table in the center.
Mrs. Vernelli had her back to them, bending over an open oven door. Her husband stood next to her, stirring a pot of something, while he stared out the kitchen window, focused on the small yellow birds that were hopping on and off the bird feeder that hung on a backyard tree. Ten feet away, through the wide archway that led to the family room, an absolutely gorgeous woman sat on the couch next to a slightly older, leaner version of Sam. The man held the woman’s hand and they both stared into the bassinet that was trimmed with yellow and green ribbons.
“Hey,” Sam said, loud enough to get some attention but not so loud as to wake a sleeping baby. “What’s for lunch?”