The Girl Who Cried Murder

by Paula Graves

  “Okay.” He heard the soft thud of her footsteps as she hurried down the hallway and into his bedroom, then the scrape of the bedside table moving. A moment later, she spoke again. “I’m in the closet. There’s no way to lock the door.”

  “I know. I just wanted you in the closet because that’s where I keep my weapons.”

  There was a brief pause, then she whispered, “Oh.”

  “Do you know anything about handguns or rifles?”

  “I’ve shot guns before,” she said softly. “But it was a long time ago.”

  “I don’t think they’ve changed that much since then. Can you see anything in the closet?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “There’s a light switch just inside the door.”

  He heard a muted click and a huff of breath from Charlie. “That’s better.”

  “See the gun safe now?”

  “The big safe with a keypad?”

  “That’s the one.” He gave her the number combination and waited for her to punch it in.

  “It’s not working,” she said, her voice rising with alarm.

  He knew the sound of panic when he heard it. “Stop, Charlie. Stop a second and just take a couple of deep breaths, okay? In and out.” He breathed with her, even though his own body was so pumped with adrenaline, he felt as if ants were crawling all over him. “In and out.”

  He was only a couple of blocks away. Another block and he’d have his own preparations to worry about. His Glock 19 was loaded and snug in a hip holster, so he could go in hot. But he still needed to be prepared mentally as well as tactically, especially with a civilian in danger.

  “Try it again,” he said, pulling to a quick stop at the corner stop sign. He could almost see his house from here. Just a few more yards...

  “It’s open,” she breathed. Then she sucked in a swift breath. “Good grief, how many people do you plan to shoot?”

  His lips curved, trying to picture his gun cabinet from her point of view. He owned several pistols, a shotgun and a rifle with a sniper scope. He’d hoped he’d never have to use any of them, but life in a free country came with costs.

  “Do any of them look familiar?”

  She was quiet a second. “My brother had a Mossberg shotgun. I know how to load it, and from there, it’s pretty much point and shoot.”

  “Okay. Load it. But don’t shoot it unless your life is absolutely in danger, understand? I don’t want to get shot when I get there.”

  “I’ll sit right here and try not to shoot anyone,” she muttered.

  “I’m nearly there.” He could see his house now. There was a dark blue sedan parked in the driveway. He didn’t recognize it. He didn’t see anyone in the vehicle or standing on his porch, so apparently the driver had somehow made it past his dead bolt and entered the house.

  He drove past, parked on the street two houses down and used the neighbors’ yards and houses to provide cover as he headed for the back of his house. He could still hear Charlie’s soft, rapid breathing in the Bluetooth earpiece. “I’m on my way, Charlie. Can you hear anything outside the closet?”

  “I think maybe footsteps. I’m not sure.”

  “Nobody’s tried to get in the bedroom?”

  “No.”

  “Great. Hang tight. I’m hanging up now so I can concentrate, okay?”

  “Okay.” She didn’t sound as if she meant it.

  “It’s almost over. I promise. The next thing you’ll hear is me coming in the back door.”

  “You gonna bust in, SWAT-style?” she asked.

  “You like the sound of that, do you?” He kept his voice light.

  “Sounds kind of sexy,” she admitted, her own voice a little less shaky. “Once things are under control, I won’t complain if you take off your shirt and smolder at me a little bit.”

  He couldn’t hold back a grin. “You read too many books, Charlie.”

  “One can never read too many books.” She sounded considerably calmer now. Clearly, a little flirtation was Charlie’s version of relaxation.

  “Talk to you soon.” He disconnected the call, pulled off the Bluetooth headset and shoved it in his pocket.

  He was at the back door now. He stuck the key in the lock, taking care to turn it as quietly as possible, glad that he’d oiled the door hinges recently. The back door swung open with little noise, and he stepped into the kitchen and swept the room with his pistol.

  Clear.

  He heard a soft scraping noise coming from the front room. A chair leg moving across the floor?

  Silently, he crept up the hall, leading with the Glock. He paused just clear of the doorway into the living room and listened. He heard breathing now. Quiet. Calm. If the intruder was nervous about breaking into Mike’s house, he showed no outward sign of it.

  Edging forward, Mike peeked around the door frame and caught sight of the intruder. Tall, rawboned, with wavy blond hair cut short, poking at the wood in the fireplace, trying to coax the flickering flames to life.

  He dropped the pistol to his side. “Mom?”

  Amelia Strong gave a start, whirling to face him, the fire poker she held brandished like a weapon. “Michael, you scared the stuffing out of me!”

  He stared at her in confusion, his adrenaline rush subsiding. “What are you doing here?”

  She flashed him a sheepish grin and threw her arms out to the sides. “Surprise!”

  He frowned. “Surprise?”

  She put the fire poker back in the stand beside the anemic fire in his hearth. “Your birthday tomorrow? You didn’t call to make plans for celebrating...”

  “So you decided to drive up here and take it into your own hands.” He put his pistol in the holster and gave her a swift hug. “I’m sorry. I should have called and told you things had gotten crazy busy around here.”

  She was staring at his head. “What did you do to yourself?”

  He lifted his fingers to the bandages. “It’s nothing.”

  “My God, is that blood on your face?”

  “Mom, I promise you I’m fine.”

  “You’ve been bleeding. And now that I look at you, you’re looking a little sweaty and pale.”

  “Maybe because I thought there was a burglar in my house,” he grumbled. “When I gave you that key, it was supposed to be for emergencies only. Remember?”

  “A forgotten birthday is an emergency.”

  “Mom, hold on a second, okay?” He put his hand up to keep her where she was, then hurried down the hallway to his bedroom. He knocked on the door. “Charlie, it’s Mike. Everything’s fine. You can unlock the door for me now. And leave the shotgun in the closet.”

  He heard the closet door open and footsteps from the other side of the door. The bedside table scraped out of the way and Charlie opened the door, looking up at him with wide eyes.

  Then she launched herself at him, her long arms wrapping around his neck as she buried her face in his neck.

  “Whoa, there.” He enfolded her in his embrace, breathing deeply of the clean smell he now associated with her alone. “Everything’s okay. It was just a false alarm.”

  She pulled her head back. “You mean nobody was here? I swear I heard someone coming in. And just a minute ago, I thought I heard voices.”

  “Michael?” His mother’s voice sounded uncertain.

  Mike and Charlie both turned to look at her.

  “I’m sorry. Did I interrupt something?” Amelia asked.

  Mike took a deep breath and turned to look at Charlie. “Charlie, meet your intruder. My mom.”

  * * *

  “SO, OF COURSE, since I hadn’t heard from him in over a week, I thought he was probably too busy to come visit me for his birthday, so I asked Lauren to watch the shop for me a
few days while I went to visit my handsome son.” Amelia Strong flashed Charlie a smile that had “I want grandchildren and I want them now” written all over it. “So, Michael, where have you been hiding Charlie?”

  “In the closet,” Charlie quipped with a nervous laugh.

  “Charlie is a client,” Mike said carefully. “She’s dealing with an unknown stalker. She’s staying here a few days so I can keep an eye on her.”

  “And she brought her cat?” Amelia arched one sandy eyebrow at His Highness, who had settled next to her on the sofa and was watching her with crossed blue eyes.

  “Cats,” Charlie corrected. “Although Nellie hasn’t ventured out from under the bed that much since I got here, so it’s almost like there’s only one cat. Except for the two food bowls.” She shut up, aware she was starting to babble, something she often did when she met strangers.

  She could almost see Amelia Strong striking Charlie’s name from her list of potential grandchild producers with a big red marker.

  She shot Mike a helpless look, her gaze snagging once again on the bandage strips stuck to the side of his head. He’d shrugged off her earlier question about it, but from her viewpoint from the armchair beside him, she caught a glimpse of drying blood on the patch of shirt she could see beneath his jacket. The fire had finally reached full blaze, driving out all the chill of the day, so she knew he had to be growing warm beneath the jacket. But he still hadn’t taken it off.

  What was he hiding?

  “Mom, I wish you’d called ahead. I could have told you the spare room was already taken.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said, smiling at Charlie again. “I’ve already made a call to that nice bed-and-breakfast in Campbell Cove. You know, the one near your office? They said there’s a room available and I can have it for three nights. So we’re set, then, aren’t we?”

  Mike smiled at his mother, but Charlie didn’t buy his cheery demeanor. Amelia didn’t, either, it seemed, for her expression fell.

  “I’m sorry. I should have called. I just—” She twisted her hands in frustration. “I thought I’d see more of you after you left the Marine Corps. I was counting on it.”

  Mike glanced at Charlie. She gave a slight nod toward his mother.

  He got up and crouched in front of his mother, taking her hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy trying to get used to being a civilian again that I’ve forgotten some of the perks of not wearing a uniform anymore. I should have called you. Made plans for my birthday. And Christmas.”

  “You missed Thanksgiving, too,” she murmured.

  “But I did call.”

  She touched his face. “Yes, you did.”

  “We’ll do something while you’re here. Maybe drive up to Lexington and see the holiday lights?”

  “Oh, and there are some lovely Christmas shops up there, too. I can pick up some new ornaments for the tree.” Amelia clapped her hands. “And Charlie will come with us, right?”

  “Oh, I don’t think—” Charlie began.

  “Absolutely,” Mike said, giving her a pleading look. “Charlie’s from around here, as a matter of fact. She can probably tell you all the best places to go shopping while you’re in town.”

  “I’m not much of a shopper,” she muttered.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll do all the shopping.” Amelia’s smile was infectious. “Tomorrow, yes? I’ll take my things to the B and B and rest for tonight. It’s a long drive from Black Rock.”

  “That’s a great idea, actually. Charlie and I have something we have to do tonight.” Mike pushed to his feet as his mother rose, already heading for her suitcases by the door. He grabbed them for her, glancing over his shoulder at Charlie. “But I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll all go do something fun tomorrow. Okay?”

  “It’s a plan!” Amelia smiled up at him, then looked at Charlie, who had trailed along behind them because she didn’t know what else to do. “It’s been lovely to meet you, Charlie,” she said as Mike headed out to the car with her bags. She lowered her voice. “Get that jacket off him. I think you’ll find there’s blood on his shirt. He’s going to act as if it’s no big deal, but make him let you see what he’s hiding under those bandages.”

  The cheery good humor, Charlie realized, hid a quick and serious mind.

  “Already on it,” she told Amelia.

  Amelia reached out and took her hand. “I like you, Charlie Winters. Mike must like you, too, to go to such lengths to protect you.”

  “It’s his job.”

  “Right.” Amelia squeezed Charlie’s hand and headed after her son.

  Mike was back in a few minutes, carrying the box with the cat food. He had also brought the quilt from her bed, she saw with surprise. “I thought you might want a little piece of home. Besides the cats, I mean.”

  To her surprise, tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

  He set the box on the coffee table. “I’m sorry about all that. With my mom, I mean. She should have called first.”

  “Don’t worry about it. A little adrenaline rush in the middle of the day gets the blood pumping.” Now that the scare was over, she mostly meant it. Most of her days were spent editing technical manuals and directives for handling military demolition ordnance, which sounded a lot more exciting than it was.

  “My father died not long before I left the Marines, and with my brother working in England—he’s a news producer for a cable network’s European bureaus—”

  “Your mom just misses you?” Charlie finished for him.

  “Yeah.” He tugged at his jacket collar absently. “You want me to take that box into the spare room?”

  “In a minute.” She crossed until she stood close enough to see the first purplish hint of bruising on the side of his forehead. “But first, you want to show me that gash on your head?”

  He touched the bandages with his fingertips. “Just a cut.”

  “Trip on something?”

  He dropped his hand. “You remember that intruder in your house?”

  “He did this?” She reached up and tugged the collar of his jacket aside, revealing an alarming number of bloody blotches on the front of his shirt. “Did you have a fight with him?”

  “No. He hit me right off. After that, it was all catch-up. Which clearly I didn’t do.”

  She tugged down the zipper of his jacket. “Are you hurt anywhere but your head?”

  He shrugged off his jacket, his expression a valiant attempt at playing it cool. “It’s just a little cut on my head. No big deal. I didn’t lose consciousness or anything.”

  “And that’s your criteria for whether or not an injury is serious?” She tugged at the edge of the lower bandage, wincing as it tugged against his wound and made him suck in a quick breath. With the first of the bandages gone, she saw a nasty, curved gash in the thin skin of his forehead. “Oh, Mike. That looks terrible. What did he hit you with?”

  “A can of tomatoes, I think.” Mike caught her hand as she started to lift the second bandage. “I can do it.”

  He pulled off the remaining bandage. The wound was about two inches long and curved like the edge of a metal can, suggesting Mike was right about what had hit him. The skin around the cuts was starting to turn an ugly shade of purple.

  “Maybe you should see a doctor,” she said.

  “No need. I’m not concussed and the wound isn’t deep enough to require stitches. I’ll just give it a good wash and put something on it, mercurochrome or antibiotic ointment or something.”

  “Come into the kitchen. Let me get a better look at it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is this where I’m supposed to take off my shirt and smolder at you?”

  “Yes.” She caught his hand and tugged him with her down the h
all to the kitchen. Pointing toward one of the kitchen chairs, she asked, “Where do you keep the first aid kit.”

  “Shh. I’m smoldering here.”

  “You can’t smolder with your shirt on. Is the first aid kit in the bathroom?”

  “In the top drawer of the sink cabinet,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “Can’t we just skip right to the kissing it all better part?”

  She leaned toward him, closing the distance between them until she felt his breath on her lips. Catching his stubbly chin in her fingers, she made him look at her, almost instantly regretting it. He was, quite simply, a pretty, pretty man. And all she had to do was lean forward a notch and her lips would be on his.

  It took all her strength to pull her head back and say, “No.”

  She turned on her heel and hurried away to the bathroom, her heart pounding like a drum. She found the kit right away, but she took a moment to calm her rattled nerves.

  It was just a game. A way of putting the tension of the intruder false alarm out of their minds and finding something to laugh about. That was all.

  Wasn’t it?

  When she returned to the kitchen with the first aid kit, she found Mike at the table, tugging off his shirt to reveal the lean, toned body of an infantry Marine.

  She stopped midway to the table and let out a quick breath.

  “Can you tell if I have a wound back here?” he asked, his head twisted toward his back. “When I got hit by the can, I slammed into the door frame, and there’s a really sore spot on this shoulder.” He turned his back to her, revealing another spectacular set of muscles, along with a linear bruise from the top of his shoulder to the bottom of his rib cage.

  “Just a bruise,” she said, “but a pretty big one. Sure you didn’t crack a rib, too?”

  “No, I’ve had cracked ribs before. Not something you can have without knowing it.” He turned back to face her. “I can treat my head wound myself.”

  “I can see it better,” she murmured, not willing to give up the chance to touch him, complication-free. “You think we should call the police about what happened?”