“Sophie.”
“Hmmm?”
When he saw her attention pull to him, he lowered his head, as if he was suddenly unsure of himself.
“What?” she asked.
“Yesterday, in the shop. I wanted to talk to you about…” He lifted his head and looked at her, his gaze steady and unflinching. “It’s about Peter.”
Wariness flooded her. Yesterday had been Saturday. This meant he could only be referring to when Peter had come calling.
Upon reflection, it was hard for her to pick out a more suitable expression for Peter’s unexpected arrival. In all the years that Peter had been coming around, casually buying a coffee and sliding in a request for date, which she usually turned down, he had never once arrived on a Saturday. Yet he had pulled his big, black truck into his usual slot at the front of the café just after eight yesterday, making Sophie pause from flipping eggs on the griddle to watch him make his way to the front door.
Not only was it a Saturday but he had traded the police cruiser in for his truck and he was wearing jeans and a denim shirt under the thick sheepskin jacket. His western boots hinted at his flatland origins out east of the state. His hair had that just-washed-and-slicked-back look.
Cal whistled. “Well, he pretties up, don’t he?”
Sophie felt herself stiffen a little. Peter had come a-callin’. It was with effort she went back to casually turning over the eggs, sausages and bacon.
Even the way he entered the store was subdued. It wasn’t the first time he’d been around since Martin had pulled his sting the first week he’d been here but it was clear that Peter was upping the ante. He was just a little unsure of himself without the shield and hat and the new role he was trying on didn’t quite ride easy yet.
He settled on a stool at the counter. “Mornin’, Sophie.”
“Good morning, Peter. Here for breakfast?”
“I thought I’d have a bite,” he volunteered, taking off his jacket and slinging it over the backrest. “I’ve never had this Saturday Special of yours everyone raves about, so…”
“It’s nothing that unusual. Brunch stuff, mostly. Eggs, sausages, bacon, hash browns, toast, hot maple syrup. You could get it at any diner between here and Helena.”
Which was true but the reason everyone liked Sophie’s was because it was here and not somewhere else. On a lazy Saturday, after a long hard week, lots of folk liked the idea of heading to Sophie’s for a stomach bustin’ brunch that they didn’t have to make themselves. The coffee cups were bottomless, the newspapers on the house and Sophie never tried to coax people out the door to free up tables as she might have during the week. Saturdays were one of her busiest days as a result. She didn’t make a lot from each customer—they could stretch endless coffee a long way—but the happy, busy atmosphere and value for money they enjoyed meant they would come back. Also, they would tell their friends what a nice morning they’d had.
And they would come back in during the week if they were looking for a bite to eat. During the week, Sophie used the normal menu prices.
There weren’t any customers yet, except Cal, who was chewing his way through bacon with what he had left for teeth, enjoying every morsel he retrieved. Usually, people started coming through the door closer to ten. Peter must have been real anxious to get her on her own to arrive this early.
“What will you have?” Sophie asked, fighting to keep her voice and words as simple and casual as she always did.
“Coffee. Bacon and hash browns and some scrambled eggs and toast. Are those tomatoes on the griddle, there?”
“They are.” She scooped up a couple of them and added them to the plate she quickly filled and placed in front of him. She turned up a coffee mug and filled it and placed the sugar bowl next to it. “Jam, syrup or something else?”
“I’ll let you know,” he said, looking over the plate. “Looks good,” he offered.
“Bon appétit.” She dropped the day’s thick Kalispell Inter Lake next to the coffee and moved back to the griddle again.
When she glanced over five minutes later, Peter was eating with gusto and the newspaper was open at the sports pages. She smiled to herself. Peter may have come a callin’ but the food had distracted him quite neatly.
She slipped Cal an extra-crispy bit of bacon she wouldn’t dare put on a paying customer’s plate and went back to cooking. Peter didn’t even look up.
When he had finished his plate, he pushed it away a little and straightened up, his hand to his stomach. “That was excellent, thank you.”
“There’s hotcakes if you want something to finish it off,” she offered, filling up his coffee mug again.
He blew a breath out, filling his cheeks. “Hell, no. I’ll roll home as it is.”
She nodded and returned the pot to the hotplate and set up the brewing of another potful. The rush would start soon.
Peter had both hands around his coffee cup, as if he were cold. Or nervous.
“So, Sophie—”
“Hey, Soph, could I have another coffee, please?” Cal asked, pushing his mug across the counter.
“’Scuse me,” she murmured and took the pot over. Cal watched her fill the mug and when she looked up, he winked at her with his left eye—the eye farthest from Peter. “Thanks, honey,” he said.
Sophie mulled over Cal’s silent championship as she returned the coffeepot. Peter was waiting with forced patience, his hands around the mug. He was watching her steadily. She was reminded of a cat watching a mouse, nothing interfering with its concentration.
She stopped in front of him. No way to duck it now. “I’m sorry, what were you going to say?”
He smiled a little and the smile seemed forced. “I was going to try passing the time of day but it’s not one of my better social skills.”
“You could always try interrogation,” she suggested lightly.
“I could just get to the point too,” he said.
“You could.”
“As this is clearly not a day for making you stand around and listen to long-winded conversations.”
“Very true…” She smiled and waved at the griddle. “Thirty seconds,” she promised and went back to turn the bacon and sausages before they sizzled into charcoal.
When she returned, Peter had finished his coffee but kept his hands wrapped around the mug. They were big hands, each finger short and wide and the palm thick with flesh. Together, they completely enclosed the mug and overlapped each other. Martin’s hands were big too but his fingers were longer and much leaner, the fingers quick and clever…
She realized where her thoughts were going and shifted her weight impatiently to the other foot and smiled at Peter. “Sorry but you’re right. This isn’t a day for long conversations.”
“Then I’ll get to the point, like I said.” He finally pushed the cup away, showing his relief at being able to shuck off the delicate suitor approach. “Come out with me tonight, Sophie. Shut up early, get yourself dressed up and we’ll make a night of it. Anywhere you want to go, you name it.”
She couldn’t help her smile. “Dressed up? Where could we go around here where I wouldn’t be completely overdressed?”
“Actually, I was thinking of Kalispell. Do you dance, Sophie? I bet you do.”
Not anymore. That had been one thing even the best specialist in the country and the most rigorous physical therapy had not been able to give her back. Her center of gravity was no longer properly centered and as a result her balance was at best a precarious thing. She had adjusted to it eventually and under most normal circumstances she was fine. But the delicate balancing and coordination in even the simplest sort of dancing had been lost to her.
“No, I don’t dance,” she said softly. “Thanks for the offer but—”
“Then we won’t dance. A movie then. There’s that new complex in Kalispell, with the stadium seating—”
“Sophie, sorry I’m late.”
Martin stood just behind Peter’s stool, shrugging out of
his worn parka.
Late? Late for what? The words had bubbled up in her mind but she hadn’t spoken them. There was something in Martin’s face, something in the eyes that held the questions in.
Peter looked over his shoulder. “Ah, fuck,” he murmured. It was low enough that Sophie was certain he hadn’t intended it to be heard. His hand slapped on the counter as he straightened up and turned the stool so he was facing Martin.
“Don’t tell me…you work weekends too?”
Peter had planned on him not being here. Of course. Full courting plumage demanded nothing less than a strategic battle plan that included scouting out the opposition’s movements and deployment.
Martin looked him in the eye. “There’s a bylaw about working weekends?”
Peter stood up. “You can work your dogs off for all I care. Earn your keep, Stride. Get around the counter there so I can take your boss aside and have a conversation with her without being interrupted every thirty seconds.”
Martin stood for moment, considering. “Sure,” he agreed amiably and moved around the end of the counter, picking up an apron off the hat rack as he passed it. He smiled at Sophie. “I know what needs doing,” he assured her as she handed over the egg turner.
Suddenly, she wanted to stay on this side of the counter. “You’re sure?” she asked, just as quietly.
“More sure than you are. I can cook more than coffee and soggy cake, you know.”
The oblique reference caught her by surprise. Her heart did a little flip and she wondered if she had misheard. “Jack?” she asked, her voice almost bodiless.
He looked away quickly and she saw him grimace a little. Then, he strode over to the griddle where an egg was turning black around the edges and pushed it into the gutter before it burst into oily flames. “Go,” he told her. “I’ll be right here.”
Obscurely comforted by Martin’s verbal slip, Sophie took off her apron and slid into the other side of the booth Peter had settled into. He had threaded his fingers together, elbows spread. As she sat down, he cracked the knuckles. She wondered if the action was a truly unconscious one, or a mannerism he had cultivated because of the physicality it implied. She didn’t like it either way.
“Peter, I’d appreciate it if you kept your nose out of my business. You’ve no right to order my staff around like that. Even if you were wearing your uniform, it still wouldn’t be your place.”
He looked a little startled. He blinked. After a moment he took a breath, let it out. “You’re right,” he agreed. “I’m sorry. But you’ve gotta know, I don’t like that Martin guy. I don’t trust him.”
“You’re really going the right way about getting me to agree to a date,” she countered.
“Ah, fuck the date. You know what, Sophie? I so don’t trust that guy that I’ll willingly kill off my chances of a date to tell you what I think of him.”
“That’s not a good idea, Peter—”
“He’s a drifter. In legal parlance, he’s a vagrant. People don’t just hit the road because they feel like it. That sort of thing went out with the sixties. People start traveling because they’re running away. I don’t care how many jobs he’s holding down, or how many toys he makes for your kids, he’s running from something. You don’t have a clue what that is and that’s what makes him dangerous.”
“Peter, he’s just—”
His hand came down on the table, flat and with a sharp crack that made her jump.
“No, he’s not just anything!” he hissed. He looked around, realized he had drawn attention to himself and pushed back on the bench, trying to make himself less intimidating. “Look, Sophie, I’m not stupid. I can see how the guy is winding his way into your life, making himself indispensable. I don’t know how you think it’s going to end but with a guy like him, there is no happy ending. It never works that way.”
“And the point to all this edification?” she asked, keeping her voice even and light. She wanted to see how far Peter would push it.
“Cut the ties. Fire him, kick him out. Whatever it takes. Get him out of your life. You don’t want to be around when whatever he’s running from finally catches up with him.”
Peter had unwittingly pointed out a truth that she did not want to face. She didn’t know what Jack was running from and even Jack himself had hinted that if he stopped for too long, if it became known he was here, it would find him again—the mayor with the shotgun.
In the past few weeks, she had forgotten that. Having Peter point it out made it harder to acknowledge. Righteous anger was easier to hide behind and as she jumped to her feet, she felt it crackle through her. Her thighs hit the edge of the table with a solid thud and she almost fell straight back onto the bench but her indignation was too powerful—she pushed at the table and scrambled to the floor where she could stand up.
“Let me tell you what I think of you, Peter. Tit for tat. You’ve had your turn. Now it’s mine. I think you’re an unethical, jealous bastard who will stoop to anything, anything, to grab my attention. If that means destroying everything around me to get it, you will.”
“You’re wrong,” Peter said calmly, one arm resting along the back of the bench. He seemed stoical, ready for whatever she dished out and that made her fury complete. She wanted him wounded, dammit!
“Martin is none of your business! Stop being a cop for once and back out of my affairs. I don’t want you busting in here and telling me how to run my life. I’ve got along perfectly well without you until now and I’ll be just fine from now on. I don’t need you and I don’t want you.”
“You’re angry because you know I’m right,” Peter said.
“Just stay the hell out of my life!” she screamed.
Of course, the whole shop came to a stop behind her. It was rapidly filling with Saturday trade and no one could possibly have failed to hear her, for it felt like she’d blown a blood vessel as she had strained her vocal chords.
Appalled at her lack of control, she just stood there, her chest heaving. The leftovers of her adrenaline surge had given her the shakes.
Peter picked up his jacket from the back of the table. “Fine,” he said quietly. “I guess even I can understand that one.” He slid out of the booth, which put him right next to her. He paused, his head down. “Just one thing, Sophie. I never did search his name. I’m not wearing my uniform now. I could have kicked him out of town any time the last few weeks and no one would have said dick about constitutional rights or abuse of power. They would have applauded me and you know it.” He looked up then, straight into her eyes. “I’m not the enemy you should be watching.”
He walked out, not looking back, not looking around, while her customers stared at their plates, afraid to catch his eye.
Then she remembered Martin’s assessment of Peter. He’s all about face, he’d said.
Hadn’t she just humiliated him again? She’d rejected him on a personal level, in the most public way possible.
For the rest of the day her mind had turned over the kernel of truth in Peter’s warnings, though, unable to leave them alone.
“I’m not the enemy you should be watching.”
Sophie looked at Martin now, the scene in the shop yesterday with Peter flicking through her mind in a quick flash. The highlights were already well engraved in her memory.
“What about Peter?” she asked. Weariness crept through her. She didn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Especially not with Martin. There was that nugget of truth Peter had handed her, that indigestible nugget that weighed down her conscience.
“He wasn’t expecting me there yesterday—”
“Hell, I wasn’t expecting you,” she shot back. “What made you pretend you were there to work, anyway?”
“Peter being there. The lack of uniform, the way he was leaning toward you. There was no cruiser out the front, which means he must have come in his own car and I watched him climb into that black truck when he left. All of it pushed my hackles upright. He’s set his sights on you now,
Sophie.”
She snorted. “Not any more. Not after I humiliated him in front of a shop full of people.”
Martin’s gaze was unwavering. “That won’t stop him.”
“I made myself pretty clear, I thought.”
His tone didn’t change. “It won’t stop him. He’ll be back.”
“Would you come back after that?”
“You’d never have to hit me over the head with it like you did with him,” Martin said. “That’s the difference between him and me. He’s not going to take no for an answer.”
“The whole town must know by now I’ve told him to get lost,” Sophie pointed out. “He’s going to look pretty stupid if he comes back for more.”
“Sophie, for god’s sake…” Martin pushed a hand through his hair. “You don’t get it, do you? He thinks you’ve made him look stupid. He’s not going to take that lying down. He’ll come back and he’ll keep coming back until he gets what he wants.”
It’s all about face.
Sophie stared at him. “But…he was calm at the end. Reasonable. He just seemed to want to warn me…” She tried to laugh. “Well, warn me about you.”
Martin pushed back in his chair, folded his arms. He was smiling. “The aimless, no-good drifter?”
“He made a good point, though,” Sophie said.
“He did?”
The weight of it was dragging at her again. She needed to air it, speak of it aloud. Who else could she speak of it to than Martin? “He said that drifters are always running from something. That it didn’t matter what I thought of you, for as long as you were here, sooner or later what you were running from would catch up with you and I’d be within range.”
Martin’s smile faded. Sophie’s heart started to hurry along as even his color faded and his stare turned inward.
Dead Again: A Romantic Thriller Page 16