by Gina Wilkins
“Tell me again where you found this, Polly,” he said, slowly raising his gaze to hers.
Her expression told him she knew what he was thinking. “It has something to do with all those arsons, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know. But I’d like to know who this notebook belongs to. You said it was in the bushes behind the school?”
She nodded. “I saw the fight, you know. All those guys started pushing and shoving, throwing things. People got knocked down, and their stuff got scattered. I’m thinking maybe this notebook slid under that bush in all the confusion. I only saw it afterward because the sun was shining on the metal binding.”
“You didn’t see who dropped it?”
“No. There were only a few people still on the grounds when Jenny and I left school. We stayed late to decorate the hallway for spirit week.”
“Did Jenny see what was written in here?”
“No. I picked it up and looked inside the cover for a name. When I didn’t see one, I asked a few people if it was theirs and they all said no. So I stuck it in my backpack and told Jenny I’d take it to the office Monday. I’ve already told you the rest.”
“I don’t want you to say anything about what you read in here to anyone, you understand?”
She nodded gravely. “I figured you’d say that. That’s why I didn’t even tell Mom.”
A bit guiltily, he cleared his throat. “We’ll, uh, tell your mom later.”
His sister would chew his hide for not immediately calling her about this, of course, but Dan didn’t want anyone knowing about this notebook until he’d had time to study it more closely.
Because she was as aware as Dan that her dear mother was one of the worst gossips in Edstown, Polly smiled a little and nodded. “We’ll tell her later,” she agreed.
His answering smile faded quickly. “I’m very serious, Polly. Don’t tell anyone what you read, okay?”
She bit her lip before asking, “Do you think I could be…well, you know…in danger or something?”
“I sincerely doubt it,” he answered, keeping his voice reassuring. “But just to be on the safe side, it’s best to keep quiet.”
“Uncle Dan, do you think someone at my school has been setting those fires?”
He didn’t want to believe that a teenager had been responsible for so much devastation. And he really didn’t want to believe a teenager had so far managed to outsmart him, the fire chief, and the experts from Little Rock. But he’d been doing this job long enough to accept that anything was possible. “I’ll look into it,” he assured her. “It’s probably totally unrelated. Most likely just a kid who takes his frustrations out in writing. Like a journal or something.”
Which was entirely possible, he reminded himself. But he intended to quietly show this notebook to a few teachers, see if anyone could identify the handwriting. After that…well, who knew?
“I’d better go,” Polly said, looking greatly relieved to have the notebook out of her possession. “Jenny’s waiting for me.”
That reminded him that someone was waiting for him, as well. And he almost winced at the thought of what Lindsey would do if she found out about this notebook. She’d go directly into bulldog reporter mode, long before he was ready for any hint to get out about this discovery—which could very well lead nowhere.
He would just have to make damned sure he didn’t let anything slip. He would fix her faucet, as he’d promised, and then get the hell out of her house and back to his investigation.
Dan was holding a toolbox when Lindsey opened the door to him just two hours after she’d left him in the hardware store. In his gray University of Central Arkansas sweatshirt and faded jeans, he could easily have passed for a sexy handyman rather than a cop. She considered telling him so—then decided that might send him running a bit prematurely.
Play it cool, she advised herself, and moved out of the doorway. “Come on in.”
He nodded and stepped past her. “Where’s the leaky faucet that’s been driving you batty?”
“Getting right down to business, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you like a drink or something first? I can make a pot of coffee.”
“Go ahead. I’ll have a cup after I fix the faucet.”
She led him into the kitchen, where water dripped steadily—and noisily—against the stainless steel sink. Dan set his toolbox on the counter. “I’ll have to turn the water off under the sink.”
“Oh, wait. Let me fill the coffeemaker first.” She grabbed the glass carafe from the drip machine and moved beside him to reach for the cold-water handle. Her left arm brushed his right in the process; Dan moved back as if a static spark had arced between them.
He hadn’t touched her since he’d arrived, she realized. Hadn’t tried to ruffle her hair, hadn’t even patted her shoulder—both gestures he often made toward her.
“It’s all yours,” she said, smiling up at him.
“What—oh, the sink.”
“Of course.” She let her eyes widen a bit. “What else would I have meant?”
He gave her a somewhat suspicious look, then opened his toolbox. Lindsey started making coffee. Was there really an awareness between them that hadn’t been there before? Or was it only her own overactive imagination?
Twenty minutes later they sat at her table with mugs of coffee, the faucet blessedly quiet. Lindsey nodded toward the sink. “That’s much better. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“No need. After all, I told B.J. I’d help you out when I could.”
It was all she could do not to grimace. Once again he’d relegated her to his buddy’s little sister. What was it going to take to make him see her differently? She remembered Connie Peterson’s advice about getting a man’s attention: Sometimes you just gotta hit ’em over the head, girl. Men just don’t get subtlety.
Short of stripping and draping herself over the table, she wasn’t sure what Connie might suggest at this point.
Stalling for time, she fell back on the one topic that was always guaranteed to spark a conversation…work. “Any progress on the arson investigation?” she asked, expecting a negative reply.
The expression that flashed almost instantaneously across his face awakened all her reporter’s instincts. Someone else might have missed it—but she knew Dan too well. “What?” she demanded, leaning forward.
“Nothing. You got any cookies or something? I’m hungry.”
She set her coffee cup down with a thump. “You’ve learned something since I saw you last. What is it?”
He looked her straight in the eyes and spoke very deliberately. “All I can tell you at this point is that we still don’t have a suspect.”
“Then what do you have?”
He stood, crossed the room and opened the pantry. “Oreos. Great. Is there any more of that coffee?”
“Not for you,” she snapped, jumping to her feet. “Not until you tell me what you’re hiding from me.”
“Don’t start that refrain again, Lindsey. It gets old fast.” He tossed the pack of cookies onto the table, picked up his cup and moved to the coffeemaker.
“Dan, if you’ve learned something that could lead to an identification of the arsonist, you really should tell me.”
He sat, dug a couple of cookies from the bag and eyed her with faint amusement. “Assuming I did have a possible lead, why on earth do you think I’d have any obligation to discuss it with you?”
“It’s called freedom of information.”
“Not when it involves an ongoing investigation.”
“I wouldn’t jeopardize your investigation. You know very well that I would only print the information I think the public needs to know.”
“Yeah, well, you and I don’t often agree about what that is. When there’s something concrete for you to report, you’ll get an official statement from my office.”
“At least tell me if you have a possible new lead. I can report that without giving any details. If nothing else, it will reassure people aro
und here that progress is being made in the investigation.”
He didn’t fall for the admittedly weak enticement. “No comment,” he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.
“Off the record then.” She was determined to pry something out of him just to satisfy her own rampant curiosity. “Tell me what you’ve got. I’ll keep it to myself until you give me permission to use it.”
He reached for another cookie. “No comment.”
Lindsey felt her jaw drop. “You don’t trust me?”
His smile might have tempted a lesser woman to hit him. As it was, Lindsey’s palm itched. “Not as far as I can throw you, princess. Not when it comes to your job.”
“I can’t believe this!” She slapped both hands on the table and pushed herself out of her chair, beginning to pace the kitchen in a rush of temper. “I told you it would be off the record, promised not to breathe a word, and you still don’t trust me.”
He twisted a cookie and ate the cream center.
His lack of an answer only angered her more. “You really aren’t going to tell me anything?”
“Nope.”
“I can’t believe this,” she repeated.
“My long friendship with your brother—and with you—will get your faucet repaired, but it won’t get you any inside information about my investigation.”
That casually spoken statement literally stole her breath for a moment. When she was able to speak, it was in a clipped voice that should let him know just how infuriated she was. “I have never called upon my friendship with you to get any special favors on the job. Ever. And as for the faucet—I was perfectly capable of fixing that myself.”
“So what am I doing here?” The irritation in his voice let her know that he was growing impatient with her haranguing him.
“If you weren’t such a blind, stubborn, thickheaded male, you’d have figured that one out yourself,” she snapped. “Maybe you’d better go, before you decide I’m trying to buy your damned classified information with cookies and coffee.”
“Fine.” He stood and reached for his toolbox. “Try to do a pal a favor,” he grumbled half beneath his breath.
“I am not your pal!”
“Look, I’ll talk to you later, okay? And I promise as soon as I have any solid information to release, you’ll be the first person I call.”
He still thought she was angry only because he wouldn’t tell her about whatever clue he’d found in the arson investigation. “Don’t do me any favors,” she said, more quietly now. “Call Riley.”
Shaking his head, Dan let himself out the back door.
Lindsey thought for a moment about crying. But since throwing something seemed like a much more satisfying option, she left the kitchen before she was tempted to smash all her dishes.
She was giving up, she told herself, storming into the living room and collapsing on the couch. Waving a white flag. Throwing in the towel. Sounding “Retreat.” Any other metaphor for surrender that she could think of in her hurt-and anger-induced funk.
She’d been an idiot to think that a new haircut and some new makeup would make Dan see her in a different light. As for swallowing her pride and pulling that ridiculous stunt of pretending she needed him to fix her faucet—or any other chore that she was quite capable of handling herself—that hadn’t worked, either. He’d just been “helping out a pal.”
Lindsey had never easily conceded defeat—except with Dan. She was doing so now. It was time to give up. Grow up. Move on.
Deep inside she’d always known this time would come. She just hadn’t anticipated how much it would hurt to abandon her longtime dream. She couldn’t just stop loving Dan, but she could—somehow—learn to stop expecting him to love her in return.
She didn’t know why Dan couldn’t feel about her the way she felt about him. Maybe it was because he’d known her so long and still saw her as the little girl he’d first met. Maybe he was still hurting too badly from his divorce to open himself to anyone else. Maybe he still harbored feelings for his ex-wife, no matter how badly she’d hurt him. Or maybe Lindsey just wasn’t his type. She certainly bore little resemblance—physically or in any other way—to his ex. But whatever the reason, it was clear that nothing was going to change.
She just hadn’t known it would hurt quite this much, she thought, rubbing her chest as if that would somehow ease the dull ache there.
Chapter Five
Dan was reading through the notebook for perhaps the tenth time when his telephone rang at nearly ten Saturday night. Well accustomed to calls at all hours, he wasn’t startled by the ring. He was mentally prepared to put on his boots and head out the door when he answered.
He certainly hadn’t expected to hear his niece on the other end of the line. “Uncle Dan? Something’s happened.”
He gripped the receiver more tightly as he sat straight up on the couch. “What’s wrong, Polly? Where are you?”
“I’m at home—in my bedroom.”
“Are your parents there?”
“No. They went to a movie with some friends, and I think they were going to get dessert when it was over. They said they’d be home by eleven.”
The edginess of her answer had him reaching for his boots even as he asked, “What happened to frighten you?”
“I got a phone call. It was a guy. I didn’t recognize his voice. He asked if I’d found a notebook at school.”
“Look, I’m on my way over. You can tell me everything he said when I get there.”
“Okay.” Polly didn’t try to disguise her relief. “I’ll be watching for you.”
“Fifteen minutes. Don’t open the door to anyone but me.”
“I won’t.”
He had one boot on by the time he hung up the phone.
Apparently Polly had been quite literal in her promise to watch for him. He saw the curtains twitch when he climbed out of his car in her driveway, and she had the front door open almost before his finger touched the doorbell.
Closing the door behind him, he put an arm around her slender shoulders and led her to the deep, leather couch in the rustically furnished den. The room was decorated with his sister, Tina’s, primitive art collectibles and the stuffed ducks that her husband, Ron, had bagged during the past few hunting seasons. Early middle Americana—that was the label Dan’s ex-wife had given to most of their neighbors’ homes. Whatever Melanie and the other decorating critics might call it, Dan liked it. He was as comfortable in this room as he was in his no-frills mobile home—a place Melanie wouldn’t be caught dead in.
But he didn’t know why he was wasting time thinking about his ex-wife when he had so many more important things to think about. “Tell me about the phone call.”
Her hands nestled securely in his, Polly nodded, apparently choosing the right words to begin. She’d removed her makeup and pulled her hair back into a ponytail for the evening. That, combined with her Piglet T-shirt, jeans and pink-and-white-striped socks, made her look more like a little girl than the young woman who’d visited him that morning. Dan’s protective instincts were on full alert.
She cleared her throat. “I was talking to Jenny on the phone, and I got a beep, so I took the other call because I thought it might be Mom—you know, checking on me or something.”
“But it wasn’t your mom,” he offered, helping her along.
“No. It was some guy. He said, ‘Is this Polly Drury?’ and I said, ‘Yes. Who is this?’ He didn’t tell me his name, he just said he’d heard I found a notebook at school yesterday and he wondered if I still had it.”
“How did he find out about it?”
“I don’t know. I told you, I asked several people if the notebook was theirs. Maybe someone mentioned to this guy that I’d found it. He wouldn’t tell me.”
Trying to suppress his displeasure that his niece had been drawn into this unpleasant case, Dan asked, “You didn’t recognize his voice?”
“No. Either he was disguising it—you know, making it a lot deeper than n
ormal—or he’s someone I don’t know. One of the older students, maybe.”
“Exactly how did he ask about the notebook?”
She wrinkled her short nose, trying to recall the exact words. “Something like, ‘I heard you found a red notebook at school. Do you still have it?’”
“And what, exactly, did you tell him?”
“I told him I turned it in to lost and found.”
“That’s what you said? Lost and found?”
She nodded. “I didn’t want to tell him I gave it to you. I think he assumed I meant that I turned it in at the school office.”
“Then what did he say?”
“There was this long pause—I thought maybe he was going to hang up—and then he asked if I’d read what was written in the notebook.”
“And you answered…?”
“I told him no. I said I’d just looked inside the covers for a name and when I didn’t find one, I turned it in.”
“Do you think he believed you?”
“I think so. I kept my voice real casual, like it was no big deal. And then I said I had my friend on the other line, and he just hung up.”
“Did you tell Jenny about the call—or about anything you saw in that notebook?”
A bit indignantly she answered, “Of course not. You told me not to tell, so I didn’t.”
He squeezed her hands apologetically. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to imply that I doubted your word.”
Her sweet smile was instantly forgiving. “It’s okay, Uncle Dan. I know you’re in cop mode right now.”
He chuckled. “Actually, I’m in overprotective-uncle mode. I’m trying to get back into cop mode.”
As he’d hoped, that made her smile. It briefly occurred to him that he wished Lindsey was as easy to appease as Polly was. He didn’t know how long it would take Lindsey to get over being mad at him for refusing to tell her the details of his investigation. She thought he didn’t trust her. Why couldn’t she, like Polly, understand that he was only doing his job the best way he knew how?