Cress uttered the words too quick. Matters of reproduction were never lauded. Doing so opened a can of worms best left congealing. Gran had made her feelings on this clear for years: a houseful of unmarried thirtyish-somethings wasn’t in the plan.
“For your first boy,” Gran decided, based on reaction time alone. She handed Cress the little coat. “Uncle Lars wore that when he was little. I can still see him in it, so sweet.”
“Then shouldn’t Aunt Sylvie have it?”
Gran’s expression soured. “Grandma gave it to me because she knew I’d take care of it. Sylvie don’t care for anything that isn’t brand new, fresh from the package and she’d have never used this for her boys. No, this stays here until you’ve need for it, Cress. Someday.”
Audra and Kiera hadn’t said a word. Maybe that was how it worked. If you ooed and aahed first, you got the goods. Simple concept, except when the last thing she wanted to do was start thinking about biological clocks and passing seasons. But the feel of the short coat in her hands felt good. Warm. Safe. Like a cozy blanket on a winter’s night, or steaming hot chocolate after weaving Grandpa’s wood-slatted toboggan through tree-dotted, snow-covered hillsides.
Cress blinked. Last night’s cooling temperatures must have gotten to her. Cozy blankets? Sledding? Little boy clothes?
Detective Crescent Dietrich didn’t get moony-eyed, much less over something small, vintage and beyond the realm of current reality. “Here.” She handed the coat to Audra. “Set this on the bed. I need to grab my pain meds.”
She felt their combined stare as she pushed to her feet, then wobbled a second before feeling terra firma beneath the right leg. Ignoring whatever looks they might exchange, she moved toward the door. “I’ll be back. Whatever you do, don’t stop on my account.” Maybe she’d be lucky and they’d have the chest done before she made it back.
Doubtful.
Right now she needed air. She’d left the small-town claustrophobic antics of Watkins Ridge purposely as a teen. She’d made her way up the ladder of criminal justice with the same rigor.
Old feuds, cast aspersions, town gossip…
The combo stirred up too much. Watkins Ridge was a Miranda Lambert lament, a town where everyone dies famous. She’d headed to bigger and better, wanting anonymity. Needing it.
Now?
She was here for the duration, shelving her own secrets, weighing choices, facing a crossroads of her own doing.
The ping of a soft bell drew her attention as she filled a half-pint jelly jar with water. The melodious sound grew, a chant of tones marking the hour, old-time charm filling the moment. The soft chorus soothed in simple note cadence, sweet and wholesome.
She’d lost both qualities while gone. She wasn’t a bit sweet and she’d given up wholesome years before, but something in the bell’s notes said she could start over, begin anew.
Shep padded onto the porch. She swallowed the pain pill and walked through the door to join him. She settled onto the step, staring at nothing. That was all the invitation the dog needed. He curled beside her, not bothering with a three-circle spin. She stroked his fur as the music wound down, the final notes a longing of pling… pling… plong.
“Cress, that you?” The neighbor’s voice ended her short seconds of peace on Earth, good will toward men. “I heard you’d come back to help your Grandma! You girls are just what she needs, a sight for sore eyes, and just look at you!” Ginny Dumerese climbed the back steps with an ease Cress envied. “How’s Norma? How are things? I meant to get over the past few days, but your grandma ain’t one to want a lot of attention, now is she? And isn’t this just the way, how it takes tragedy to bring folks back together? At least it’s not a funeral, though, that’s what I said to Harold before I left the house, so that’s good!”
She beamed as if her words brought balm, but Cress understood the scolding behind the smile. Still, Ginny wasn’t a bad sort. She just knew too much, like so many, and unafraid to speak her piece. No wonder she and Gran got along. “Families need to stick together. Did you want to go see Gran? She’s upstairs sorting things, but I bet they could all use a break.”
Ginny considered, then nodded. “Well, I know your Grandma and she’d go all day and night if need be, but I bet you girls could use a minute to breathe something other than mothballs and cedar.”
She’d nailed Cress’s sentiments with enviable acuity.
“I’m not a keeper,” she continued as she crossed the porch. “I toss things I probably should save, but it spared me what you folks are up against right now. Sorting decades of maybes and if-onlys. Yes, I’ll go bother her a bit, it’ll be good for all of us, and it will save her facing Sylvie to plan the fall festival. Sylvie’s got it in her head that Norma shouldn’t be allowed on the committee. As if I’d stand by and let such a thing happen. Everyone knows when it comes to the hot dish table, your grandma beats all.”
“She what?” Hairs rose along the nape of Cress’s neck. The Scandinavian Fall Festival was a local tradition that involved all branches of her family, and Aunt Sylvie had headed the Swedish food volunteers for as long as Cress could remember. “She said that?”
“Oh, you know Sylvie. She’s a pill. I told her to never mind her bossy ways, that as long as your grandma and I could handle a stove or a fry pan, we were on board. But Sylvie’s got a bee in her bonnet over losing this farmland to development and I think she’s anxious to show her big sister the error of her ways. She had the nerve to tell Merle Langley that her bars were the last thing folks bought off the sweets table because Merle’s mighty stingy with the good stuff, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“The nuts and chips and goodies everyone and their brother expects in a good bar. And while Sylvie might be right, she was wrong, too, because no one works harder than Merle to get things done, make things right. Sylvie’s always had a mind of her own, and she’s far too inclined to speak it. She’s gotten to be a real pain in the neck these days, and it won’t do Norma a bit of good to hear of it. Mum’s the word.”
It was one thing for Cress to be upset with the loss of the farmland. She’d linked all that was good and holy from her childhood to the rolling meadowland now covered with fancy homes. But Aunt Sylvie had no right to interfere. Or get upset. Or say anything at all. Gran had obviously stepped on family toes by selling for development. The Ekstrom elders had strict rules concerning land sales. Family first, farming second, and development ranked dead last. Gran broke the rules, which meant more family fall-out. As if her father’s drinking problem hadn’t caused enough furor back in the day. She drew a breath, let Ginny precede her and decided she’d check things more closely before flying off the handle. Audra would have the insider’s edge on both sides of the issue. When you were nice, people talked to you.
Around Cress?
They clammed up tight, and that was all right. Their reticence saved her no small amount of annoyance. Except now she’d be in the thick of the aggravation, entering the last act of an elongated play. But if it helped Gran? She’d do whatever proved necessary.
*
“You mind that scrubber, Charlie. I don’t got money to be buyin’ new scrubbers because you’re too good-for-nothin’ to put some elbow grease behind the job. Ya gotta push down, push hard.” Her hand covered his over the semi-rotted wooden picnic table, showing him what she wanted, and when she did a sliver of the old table lodged in the soft palm of his right hand.
“Ouch!” He pulled back, the stab of pain making him forget. Miz Jane liked little boys to be quiet and still. To follow directions. And to stay quiet when folks came to visit, though few did.
A trickle of blood oozed from the wound’s open end. Not much, just a dot or two, but she saw it and screeched. “What have you done?”
“I didn’t,” he protested. “You did.”
Her face went still. Her eyes narrowed. He cringed, expecting to be smacked at best and thrashed at worst, but she stopped, stared, and then w
rinkled her face as if thinking. “This old table ain’t worth a darn, most likely.”
The boy held perfectly still, afraid to tip the scales in either direction.
“And if that gets infected, we’ll be havin’ to look for help, and there ain’t no good comin’ from that, is there, Charlie?”
Did she really want him to answer?
He couldn’t.
He’d love help, he’d love for someone to notice him. Care about him. Be nice to him. He maintained his position, motionless, silent, letting her work this all out. In the end, it would be her choice, so why risk the outcome?
“You go in, wash that up, then I’ll get that sliver out and there’ll be no cryin’ or whinin’, you hear me, boy?”
He did. And he’d follow the directive because no matter how bad the sliver removal might be, the punishment if he didn’t sit quiet and still?
Far worse.
He went inside, trying to ignore the smells, the waste, the dirt, pretending he was surrounded by soft yellow walls and pretty white flowers. He used to see the room clearly in his head, and he’d imagine himself there, laughing. Playing.
The image was gone now, but the colors stayed, warm and sweet. But even those were graying along the edges. What would he do when even the tiniest glimpses of “before” vanished?
He had no idea.
Chapter Three
A flash of color interrupted Alex’s work the following week. He turned as Cress Dietrich stepped into view, the wide cherry entry trim framing her rust-brown hair and matching eyes. He tried to ignore the appealing look, mostly because he was way too familiar with the scornful attitude beneath the prettiness.
She looked perturbed, much like she had when he stumbled upon her in Gran’s kitchen seven days before. But with Cress, irritation wasn’t exactly a news flash.
He refused to sigh. Instead, he eased a hip onto the edge of his desk and waited, silent. The cop side of her met his gaze dead on, unwavering, until he hiked a brow and inclined his head. “You wanted me, Detective?”
“Like a mouse wants a trap.”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “Equating yourself to a rodent? A new low.”
Her brick-brown eyes sharpened. “Or you to an inanimate predator, watching as you plan how to bilk other grieving old folks out of their life savings.”
He’d rather die than reveal Norma’s secret, so he’d leave Cress Dietrich to think what she would, although part of him— a very small part— wanted her approval, but he chalked that up to old crap, re-visited, and shoved it aside. “Still quick, Cress.”
“But not quick enough it would seem.”
He eased off the desk and inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Now that the customary pleasantries have been exchanged, what can I do for you?”
“My grandmother sent this.” She handed over a folder. “Said you requested it.”
Alex angled his gaze, meeting hers, taking his time. “And— the cookies?”
She flushed. Obviously she didn’t realize Norma called ahead. Alex kept his face flat while he smiled inside. “My cookies, Detective?”
She met his look, resolute. “In the car.”
“Stealing’s a crime.” He moved closer. She’d lost the cop face the minute he mentioned her grandmother’s oatmeal raisin confections, melt-in-your-mouth delicious. “Might even be considered grand theft, considering the worth of Gran’s cookies.”
“Or I simply forgot to get them out of the back seat.”
“Hmm.” He crowded her space. She stepped back, a move of concession, making him wonder why she’d do that. The Cress he knew wouldn’t hesitate to stand her ground. “I don’t think you forget too much, Detective. You figured to punish me by maintaining the cookies in absentia. You commandeered my stash. Lucky for me, I knew they were en route and was able to track their progress. Very Fed Ex.”
“Gran talks too much,” Cress asserted. Her stance tightened. “And hangs with the wrong crowd.”
“Mary Jenkins? Ginny Dumerese?” Doubt edged his tone. “I think they’re nice.”
“I meant you.”
“I’m wounded.” He feigned pain, set the folder down, and moved toward the door. “Where’s your car?”
She looked angry and trapped. Good. She deserved both. And maybe an old fashioned spanking to top things off. That thought led him in the wrong mental direction and it took work to maintain an easy expression. But he did it.
She jerked her head. “On Sixth.”
“I’m hungry. Let’s go.”
“I can get them myself.”
He waited as she went through the door, followed, then pulled it shut behind him, making sure the lock engaged. “That’s like asking the cat to guard the fish. You had your chance. You blew it.”
“That’s it? You’re a one chance kind of guy?”
“Yup. You nix it, you’re done.”
“Shortsighted.”
“I would say protective, but that’s semantics. In any case, you used your shot.”
When she grimaced, he backtracked, a hand to her shoulder, flicking a look to her leg. “Hey, listen, not the best choice of words. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She shrugged away from his hand and moved through the exterior door, her gait awkward.
“Cress.” He reached a hand out again, chin down, trying to meet her gaze. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
She stared ahead, not moving, unblinking, then blew him off. “You’ve got a lot more than that to be sorry for, Counselor.”
“Make me a list?”
“Not enough paper.”
“Use e-mail.”
“Don’t care enough to bother.”
“You’re wrong there.” He changed tacks as they approached the intersection. “You hungry? Lunch? I’m buying.”
She swung to face him. “I would sooner—”
He put two fingers against her lips and leaned down, trying not to notice how soft her mouth felt against the pads of his skin. “Whatever snide analogy you were about to make is probably something you’d regret later. Consider this,” he dropped his gaze to her mouth and tried to ignore the tiny points of ivory-gold circling jet black pupils, how they brightened when she flashed in anger. He’d never noticed that before, and it wasn’t for lack of exposure. “Me, saving you from yourself.”
“Remove your hand or you’ll be the one who needs saving.”
“Maybe I like my hand there.” This time he caught her gaze and held it, letting his fingers linger, the feel of her mouth a welcome respite. “Maybe I like the feel.”
She pulled back. “You’ll be feeling something else if you don’t back off.” She clicked her remote and the door locks disengaged.
He swept her, the car, and the key fob a disbelieving look. “You locked your car in Watkins Ridge? Talk about overkill.”
“There’s scum everywhere, Counselor.”
“Pessimistic POV.”
“Realistic. Check the company I’m in.” She bent to retrieve the plastic box of cookies, and he couldn’t resist pure male appreciation of her God-given attributes, but masked the emotion. This was Cress, a woman trained in deadly force, probably packing heat right now. Was a great body worth possible death?
No. Usually.
Something about Cress hiked his irritation receptors beyond the norm. Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d head back to Minnesota. Stop annoying him. She straightened, caught the direction of his gaze and thrust the Rubbermaid container into his solar plexus with more power than a five-foot-five girl should have. “You check me out, I’ll clean the sidewalk with you.”
“Possession of stolen goods, now threats of bodily harm.” He let the up-note of his voice underscore his opinion of her behavior. “Mounting evidence.” He inclined his head toward the Italian deli a few doors down. “Come on, it’s lunchtime. Let me feed you. I think they’ve even got a special on raw meat today.” He punctuated his reference with a cat-like yowl.
“Kiss off.�
�� The words didn’t completely negate the glimmer of respect he saw as she rounded the car.
He acknowledged that by lifting the Rubbermaid. “Thanks for the cookies.”
“Enjoy them. I helped make ‘em.”
“Domestic.”
“One of my many talents.” She smiled across the roof of the low-slung coupe, a feline grin. Her right hand played with the chain suspended around her neck. Nothing dainty for Cress Dietrich. Uh, uh. This chain was thick-linked and pewter-finished, tough and unpolished, like the wearer. She leaned his way, fingers braced along the top edge of the car. “Did you know Gran keeps her rat poison in the pantry?”
He let a grin steal over his face as he hoisted the cookies. “Above the flour?”
“The sugar, actually. But proximity’s proximity, right?” She didn’t let him answer. Instead she climbed into the car, started the engine, revved the eight cylinders for full effect, then peeled out as she moved away from the curb, tires squealing.
Adolescent. And sexy. Interesting mix. If you had a death wish.
He pried open a corner of the plastic lid, hefted two cookies and grinned as Officer Les Budall pulled out of the Shop-n-Go parking lot, lights flashing, siren wailing, in pursuit of Cress’s streamlined, low-slung Mazda for cruising through the four-way.
Alex held the cookies aloft, a sweet salute to law enforcement at the right place, right time. “Go get her, Les. And good luck.” He eyed the cookies, slid his glance down the road to where an irate Cress argued the senselessness of Les’s ticket, weighed up the possibility of rodent poison, dismissed it as at least unlikely, and took a bite.
Delicious. Chewy. Raisin-studded goodness filled his mouth, making him realize how hungry he was. Rat poison or not, these were still great cookies.
He’d die a happy man.
*
Worst morning, ever.
Cress deleted a few chosen words from her evaluation as she stomped through the grass to the back door of Gran’s aging two-story farmhouse.
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