by Jayne Denker
“Jordan.”
“Wilberforce.”
“William, actually.”
She bit her lip to keep her expression as serious as his. “I know,” she deadpanned earnestly.
“So? Are you going to answer my question?”
Shit, had he been talking while she’d been admiring his profile? No way was she going to let on that she’d been zoning out over his looks. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” she said coyly instead, leaning forward and placing her elbows on the edge of his desk. Casually, she nudged his stapler out of alignment.
Just as casually, he straightened it out again. “All right, fine. I have the basic information right here. This e-mail from the Sullivan County probation department says you’ve gotten allowance to serve the rest of your house arrest here in Marsden . . . that’s five more weeks . . . Wow, what did you do?”
“You don’t have those details too?”
“I could read through this whole thing, but why don’t you give me the executive summary to save time?”
“I was at the races.”
“At Monticello? Sure. And?”
She pursed her lips. “I wanted to ride a pony.”
Will raised one dark eyebrow but said nothing.
“We took a detour. Through the casino. Alcohol may have been involved,” she added, turning his tape dispenser and pulling an inch-long piece from the roll, but leaving it hanging off the edge.
“You don’t say.” Will ripped off the small piece of tape, threw it away, and turned the tape dispenser back around.
“Are you going to sit there being sarcastic, or are you going to tell me what I have to do for this house arrest thing? It’s making me crabby. It’s getting colder already, and I can’t fit my Ugg boots on over this stupid tracking device thing.”
“Because of course that’s the most important issue in your life at this point in time.”
“Hey, what did I just say about the sarcasm? Are you going to inform me of my rights or not?”
“That’s for when you’re arrested. You don’t want to go through that again, do you?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean.” He perused his computer screen a little more, clicking and scrolling. “Why are you back in Marsden, anyway?”
She shrugged noncommittally. “I . . . um . . .” was as much as she could get out before she faltered. How could she tell Will—or anybody, really—that she had nowhere else to go? “Why Marsden?” Jordan echoed him to buy time, pulling a few paper clips out of the magnetic holder and stringing them together. “Because. Why not Marsden? I love it here.”
Will snorted, pulled the paper clip chain out of her fingers, separated them, and put them back into the holder. “Typical Jordan Leigh, thinking everyone forgets anything you say or do the minute you leave town.”
She snorted back and crossed her arms. “Okay, here’s another answer to your question: Mind your own business.”
“Your business became my business when I got this notice that you’ll be in the Marsden Police Department’s jurisdiction for the next five weeks.”
“Yeah, well, lucky for you I showed up. Otherwise, what else would you do? Stroll down Main Street swinging your billy club and nodding at the locals, making sure they don’t litter?”
Will actually smiled. “And you believe Marsden is trapped in 1916 why, exactly?”
“Because experience. I used to live here, remember?” She paused, leaning forward again, and said in a low voice, “So tell me, Wulfred. . .”
“William.”
“I know. If I need anything during the next five weeks, would you be answering the call?”
Her tone was entirely uncalled for, but she sure did enjoy watching the brilliant flush of red creep from the top of his uniform collar, up his freshly shaved neck, toward his chin.
“Possibly. It’s a one-in-four chance.”
“Interesting odds. And if I misbehave?”
“That’s . . .” Will fidgeted uncomfortably, just as she’d hoped. “That’s for your probation officer to decide. And Chief Zoë.”
“Chief Zoë?” Jordan snickered.
“You’ve got a problem with our new chief? She’s very good.”
“I’m sure.”
“And you don’t want to cross her.”
“Hey, I am on my best behavior, here.” Jordan placed her hand over her heart for emphasis. “I just want to do my time and, um, what’s the saying? Keep my nose clean?”
“Well, you’re getting closer to the present era. I see you’re moving through the 1940s pretty rapidly.”
“Smartass.”
Will read more of the information on her and frowned. “Jordan . . .”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It says here you’re going to be staying with your grandmother.”
Crap. “Yeah, so? The judge said I could.”
“But Holly’s at the senior home.”
“Gran, Gran’s house, what’s the difference? Don’t split hairs, dude.”
Massaging his temples with his thumb and forefinger, Will kept his eyes closed as he explained not so patiently, “The judge agreed to this so your grandmother could keep an eye on you. She can’t do that from the senior home.”
“Well,” she said in a low voice, “what the judge all the way in Monticello doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Jordan, for God’s sake—!”
“Well, look who’s here. Right on time, too—a good sign.”
Both Will and Jordan looked up quickly at the sound of the new voice. Chief Zoë strode into the room, shut the door behind her, and smoothed down her blonde ponytail as she crossed to them.
“Chief,” Will stood and greeted his boss. “You know Jordan Leigh.”
“Sure I do,” Zoë answered congenially, hands on her hips. “Welcome home, Jordan.”
She stayed seated. “Hey.”
“I assume we’re not going to have any problems for the next several weeks.” It wasn’t a question, even though Zoë’s voice rose at the end of it.
“Not even a little. I’m an absolute angel.”
The chief grunted. “I guess we’ll see.” She looked from Jordan to Will and back again. “You and Officer Nash know each other well?”
“So well!” Jordan enthused. “We used to trade Beanie Babies in kindergarten.”
Will started to protest, “We did not—”
Jordan interrupted, asking him eagerly, “Do you still have my giraffe? I really regret swapping it for the turtle you unloaded on me. Bad trade.”
“Jordan—!”
“The reason I’m asking,” Zoë said forcefully, cutting off both of them, “is I think we’ll have Will keep a special eye on you.”
Will cried, “Chief—!” as Jordan gaped, looking from Zoë to Will, a goofily incredulous half-smile on her face.
“Yeah, I think that’s best. Jordan, you’re at Holly’s house, right? Your grandmother’s okay with this? Never mind. I’ll call her later. Will, let me get settled in and then we’ll talk about it, okay? Jordan, nice to see you,” Zoë said, effectively dismissing her and verbally pushing her out of the office.
Jordan found herself standing, ready to head for the door. Damn, Zoë was good. But not quite good enough to negate Jordan’s perpetual need to have the last word. She leaned over Will’s desk with the sole intention of knocking his blotter out of square. “See you later, Officer.” She grinned at Will’s stricken expression as he stared at the askew blotter. Mission accomplished. She pushed away from the desk and headed for the door.
Yep. This was definitely going to be fun.
Chapter 3
Will threw himself into his squad car, slammed the door, and dragged his fingers through his unruly curls, already wishing he could start the day over. He started down Main Street, trying to enjoy the peaceful town the way he always did, but it wasn’t happening. Normally he loved everything about Marsden, especially in the quiet of early
morning. Old-fashioned Main Street with its shops and restaurants and art galleries, the people he recognized and the people he didn’t—although by this time of year, the tourists visiting the former artists’ colony were pretty much gone. Marsden saw its fair share of visitors on the weekends in autumn, as the town played host to day-tripping leaf-peepers. But there was usually nothing doing on a Thursday, not in September. He should have been able to simply enjoy watching his village get back to normal, gradually easing into the quieter pace of the off-season . . . but today didn’t feel quite right.
He wanted to put it down to Kyra’s phone call. Or the fact that Mr. D’Annunzio, the deli owner, was currently losing a war with his often-rebellious awning and swearing a blue streak Will could hear even in his car. Or maybe the fact that the second of three stoplights seemed to be taking a little longer than usual to change. But he knew the truth of it: It was all Jordan’s fault. As usual.
Everything about her set him on edge. When he’d cornered Zoë after Jordan had left, his chief had been unapologetic at pinning this ridiculous assignment on him. “You’re very . . . by the book,” she’d said. “The perfect type to keep her from, um, taking liberties. And let’s face it, who else have I got? I’m not gonna babysit her, that’s for sure. And you think I trust Rusty? Or Heather?”
Will had rolled his eyes at the mention of his fellow officers. Neither one was bad at the job, exactly, and he liked both of them just fine, but Rusty could be a little . . . too relaxed. Not good for keeping tabs on somebody like Jordan. And Heather, new to the force, was still sort of afraid of her own shadow. Jordan could easily steamroll either one. So it fell to him. Just great. Babysit Jordan Leigh . . . and it would be babysitting. Either she was going to cause trouble or, on the ridiculously remote chance she’d changed over the years, she’d quietly run out her sentence and bore him to death. He laughed to himself at the latter option. “Jordan Leigh” and “boring” were mutually exclusive.
As he sat there at the red light, watching the people on the sidewalk and waving back to those who greeted him, all he could think of was what Jordan had said earlier—the stupid comment about how he probably wandered down Main Street swinging his billy club. Mocking Marsden, as usual. Jordan had never hidden her disdain for the town, which irritated the hell out of the residents. Will had always managed to shrug it off better than his neighbors were able to. What he didn’t understand was why she kept coming back.
With a sigh, he eased his car into an open spot near the gourmet coffee shop. He suddenly felt the need for a caffeine boost before he headed for the outskirts of town to patrol the strip malls and more wide-open spaces beyond the village.
When he entered the small, cozy café, the owner waved him over from behind the dark wood counter. “You know you could come back here and pour your own cup.”
Will merely waved back and took his place at the end of the line. “I’m fine right here, Gabe. No favoritism.”
“Because you’re a cop, or because you’re my little brother?”
“Both. Besides, that’s your job—I don’t ask you to run vehicle inspection checkpoints, do I?”
“Ever think helping yourself would take the pressure off me?”
“Like you’re overwhelmed. Large. Cream, sugar. I’m not complicated.”
Will’s older brother grinned at him, turned, poured a cup, and slammed it down on the pickup counter. “Here. Get out.”
“Wow, you sure have perfected the whole ‘customer service’ thing, haven’t you?”
“Anybody got a problem with my little brother jumping the line?” Gabe called to the rest of the customers. Of course nobody objected. Not only was Gabe a giant of a man, he’d made Will jump the line for years, whether Will wanted to or not. And he never wanted to. “There you have it. Now, what did I just say, William? Out. Oh, hey,” Gabe called after him, once Will had reluctantly retrieved his coffee and turned to go. “Mom said six-thirty tomorrow night for dinner?”
Will sighed. “You know she did.”
“You can get there, right?”
“Very funny.”
And he was chased out of the café by his brother’s uproarious laughter, matched by a few customers’ chuckles, as he felt his neck get hot. Like everyone didn’t already know his living situation: an apartment over a barn . . . in his parents’ backyard.
Once he was out on the sidewalk, he’d barely taken his first sip when the cup was nearly jostled out of his grip.
“Will, honey.”
The cloud of perfume told him who had come up next to him even before he could glance to his left. “Mrs. P. Good morning.”
“Not necessarily.”
He looked past the older woman to her consignment shop, Missy’s Hits for Misses, behind her. “Did your security alarm go off again?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s . . . well . . . have you heard?”
Will doubted it. Even with his connections in law enforcement, he could never keep up with how fast Missy Preston got gossip from her network. “What’s up, Mrs. P?”
A thin woman with eager eyes and limp brown hair going gray came up next to Mrs. Preston. “Jordan Leigh. She’s back.”
“Rachel!”
Ouch. Rachel Dwyer had stolen Mrs. P’s thunder. “Hey, Mrs. Dwyer. Yes, ladies, I know Jordan’s in town. That, in itself, is not a crime.”
Mrs. P stammered, “But it’s . . . it’s Jordan.”
“And?”
With a subtle curl of her fire-engine-red lip, she repeated incredulously, “Jordan!”
“Is there a problem with Jordan?”
“Huh!” she hooted, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. “As if you didn’t know.”
“Let’s pretend I don’t. Has she caused you any problems in the past? Or recently?” Come on, she hasn’t been in town five minutes, he thought. She couldn’t have done anything offensive . . . yet. Before Mrs. P could reply, Will cut her off with a qualifier. “Anything that could be considered illegal, I mean.”
“Well . . .” Mrs. P hesitated, suddenly at a loss for words. It was obvious she wanted to pin a lot of things on Jordan but didn’t quite have the means.
Rachel took the opportunity to speak for both of them. “She says . . . things.”
“ ‘Things’?” He really didn’t have time to draw this stuff out of them, but he wanted to know the level of torch-and-pitchfork wielding he was going to have to deal with in the coming weeks.
“That . . . that . . . I should dress my age. The nerve!” Mrs. P huffed while Rachel Dwyer nodded vehemently in support. “I have more fashion sense in my little finger than . . . well, a girl her age who wears ribbed tank tops and cargo pants like some Special Forces soldier. She should have more respect!”
“She’s just plain rude,” Rachel added, nodding again.
“Being rude isn’t against the law, ladies.”
“Well, it should be,” Mrs. P said, fluffing her cloud of orange hair. “Plus she has a criminal record from way back, you know.”
“Yes,” Will said patiently. “I know. Anything she did back then was juvie stuff, though.” Ancient history. Sealed records. But that didn’t matter in Marsden; everyone remembered everyone else’s past transgressions, whether they were supposed to or not.
“Maybe she’s making a career out of adult crimes now.” Rachel tipped her chin, using it to point across the street and down the block.
Will turned in that direction and saw some people on the sidewalk, gesturing dramatically, just as his radio crackled with the words “Marsden Mercantile” and “disturbance.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. P, Mrs. Dwyer.”
It only took him a few seconds to swing his car around to go back up Main toward the market after he replied to the dispatcher; for a split second he’d considered walking, but if he had to arrest someone, he wanted his cruiser nearby.
He wasn’t willing to automatically assume any call he got from now on was going to involve Jordan, even if the town gossip
s did, but the figure standing just outside the market doors, hands on hips, arguing with Walter, the market’s manager, looked all too familiar. A small crowd had gathered, and almost before he’d stopped the car, Mrs. P and Rachel arrived. They sure could hotfoot it for a couple of older ladies, but he wasn’t surprised; they’d swim the Marsden River if a show like this was on the other side.
“You’re seeing things,” he heard Jordan snap as he pulled up. “Get new glasses, whydoncha?”
Good old Jordan—as warm and cuddly as a ball of steel wool. He threw the car in park and hurried to put himself between Jordan and Walter.
“Okay, let’s all calm down,” he said, all the while getting the feeling his usual placating spiel wouldn’t do a bit of good. And it didn’t.
Walter burst out, “She’s a shoplifter!”
“I didn’t take anything!” Jordan insisted.
“The magazine!”
“Ooh, like I need to steal something that isn’t even worth the two-dollar price.”
“Jordan,” Will said in a warning tone.
“Oh sure, pick on me.”
“I’m not picking on you. I just want to find out what’s going on. Walter, why don’t we all go inside and—”
“She’s not coming into this store! Who knows what’ll end up in her pockets along the way? I remember you,” he said, frowning darkly and wagging his finger at Jordan. “Always with the nail polish and the bubble gum.”
“I was twelve!”
“Once a thief, always a thief. Will, arrest her, would you please?”
Will wanted to snap at the older man not to tell him how to do his job, but instead he took a deep breath and replied, “Okay, if you don’t want to go inside, we’ll do it out here, audience and all. Walter, what’s your story? Jordan, no interrupting.”
“But—”
“No interrupting.”
“Fine.”
She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, looking for all the world like the juvenile delinquent everyone in town thought she still was. And suddenly, despite that electronic device adorning her right ankle, a part of Will desperately wanted her to prove everyone wrong.