by Julie Miller
“Brace yourself,” Max warned, pressing the doorbell. “And remember, the idea is to keep them talking.”
Rosemary inhaled a steadying breath and hugged her shoulder bag closer to the navy blue animal-print dress she wore. “That shouldn’t be hard.”
Arlene Dinkle wasn’t smiling when she answered the front door. But then, neither was Max.
With a clean shave and a fresh shirt tucked into his jeans, there was little left of the man who’d held Rosemary so tenderly and securely through the night. This guy wore a gun and a badge and an attitude that out-grumped Arlene’s early-morning mood.
“Good morning, Mrs. Dinkle.” Max flashed his badge but not a smile. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“Detective Krolikowski.” Arlene carried pruning shears and a small bouquet of cut roses in her gloved hands. “I remember you. Did you catch that trespasser?”
“The department’s working on it. I’m following up on what might be a related crime. There was an attempted break-in at Miss March’s house last night, and I was wondering if you or your husband saw anything. May we come in?”
“Strange men at all hours, that old car parked in your driveway, and now this?” Arlene’s dark gaze slid over to Rosemary. “You draw a bad element to this neighborhood like a magnet, don’t you?”
Bristling at the catty remark, Max’s hand clenched at the small of Rosemary’s back. But his tone remained good-ol’-boy professional. “Let’s get one thing straight, Mrs. Dinkle. You do not get to speak to Miss March like that. She’s a victim, not a criminal. You’ll give her the same respect you would this badge.”
The older woman’s petite frame puffed up. “Well, I’ve never been spoken to—”
“Rosemary. Good morning.” Otis strolled out of the kitchen in a pair of track pants and a muscle shirt, carrying a ball cap and bottle of water. He reached around his wife to push open the screen door. “Detective. Please, come in.”
There was no offer of a cup of coffee, not even an offer to sit. The fragrance from the roses Arlene had been trimming overwhelmed their small foyer and tickled Rosemary’s sinuses. But Otis’s welcoming smile seemed genuine. “Trouble next door again?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“A man peeked in my window last night,” Rosemary explained, trying to keep her tone as even and uncowed by Arlene’s rudeness as Max’s had been. “He left a threat that indicated he wanted to kill me.”
“Oh, my. That’s terrible.” Otis’s smile faded. He swung his gaze over to Max. “Did you catch him?”
“The police haven’t caught anybody,” Arlene groused. “Now we have Peeping Toms making death threats running around our neighborhood? You know if they can’t get into your house, Rosemary, they’ll try to break into ours.” She thumped her husband’s arm. “We can’t afford the same kind of high-tech security she has. I told you we should have sold this house and moved ten years ago.” She swung her arms out, indicating the rest of the house, inadvertently drawing Rosemary’s attention to at least five more vases of roses scattered across the living room. “You never listen.”
“Is there a flower show coming up, Arlene?” Rosemary asked. The woman certainly loved her gardening, but the overwhelming smell of attar in the house was giving her a bit of a headache.
“I’m trying to save my prize roses,” Arlene explained. “That storm last night nearly did them in. At least I can dry these and save the perfume for potpourri. Unless, of course, some gang person breaks in and robs us. Or kills us in our sleep.”
“We’re perfectly fine here, Arlene.” Otis’s quiet, almost monotonous voice was such a contrast to his wife’s shrill tones. “Rosemary’s the one who’s been hurt, not you. It was probably some crackpot who wanted to see what a millionaire looks like.”
“Or someone casing the homes in the neighborhood to rob us,” she insisted. “I told you about that fancy truck I’ve seen cruising up and down the street at all hours of the night. And don’t think I haven’t asked. No one around here owns it.”
Otis shrugged. “I would have heard anyone poking at our windows. The game was on until one in the morning.” He scratched the bald spot on top of his head. “Now that I think of it, I did hear some shouting last night. I figured it was someone caught out in the storm.”
Arlene clutched the roses to her chest. “They were probably sending signals, telling each other how to get in. Otis, you should have called the police.”
“Why? I couldn’t make out any words.”
Max held up a hand to end the marital debate. “It was probably me shouting. The perp never said a word. Could you tell me a little more about this ‘fancy truck,’ ma’am?”
The woman could certainly be counted on for details. “I don’t know models and makes, but it was one of those extended cab trucks, with a backseat for passengers?” Max pulled a pen and notebook from his pocket and jotted the description. “It was dark green—almost looked black, but I saw it under the street lamp a couple of nights ago and it was definitely dark green. The trim around the wheel wells was black, though.”
“Did you happen to get a license plate?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t think it had one. It had those stickers in the window—the ones the dealer puts on when you first buy a car?”
“That helps.”
Arlene almost smiled at the morsel of praise.
But her sour frown returned when Otis reached out and patted Rosemary’s shoulder. “Are you all right, dear?”
She nodded. “But understandably, seeing the man gave me a good scare. I’m lucky Max was there.”
Arlene crossed her arms with a noisy harrumph. “Your parents would have been mortified to know you’re alone in their house entertaining a man overnight.”
Her parents would have been glad to know that Max had kept her safe. “Not that it’s any of your business, Arlene, but Max is renting Stephen’s old apartment downstairs.”
“Oh.” That seemed to deflate Arlene’s judgmental superiority a bit. “I misunderstood. So the police are providing extra protection for dangerous neighborhoods like ours?”
The only danger zone on this block seemed to be Rosemary’s house. But until she could prove her innocence, she supposed Arlene would continue to believe she lived next door to a murderess and a hive for illegal activities. “It’s nice to have a cop living nearby, isn’t it?” Rosemary choked out the polite words in the name of neighborhood peace and getting the Dinkles to answer Max’s questions.
Max didn’t waste time with making nice. “Did you see the green truck last night, ma’am?”
Arlene pursed her lips together, thinking. “No.”
“When the truck was here before, did you happen to look at the driver?”
“Not really.”
“Did either of you see or hear anything around midnight last night?” Max asked.
Otis crossed his arms and shrugged. “We had that big thunderstorm blow through about that time. Pretty noisy. I didn’t hear anything.”
“But you were awake watching the ball game?” Max clarified. “I pursued the suspect in the direction of your yard. He crashed through the hedge out front and took off between the houses. I lost him in the storm.”
“My hawthorn bushes?” Arlene set the stinky roses on the nearby credenza and pushed between Rosemary and Max. “First my roses and now the hedge? I’ve been training those bushes for years now.” When she hurried out the door and across the yard, Rosemary, Max and Otis followed. “If you arrest this Peeping Tom person, I’m suing him for property damage, too.” The older woman stopped in front of the gap of crushed branches in her leafy green hedge. Her shoulders sank with dismay. She picked up one of the broken stems, still full of green leaves and long thorns. “This is ruined. I’ll have to plant a whole new shrub and trim the others down to match
.”
“I’ll pay for the new bush, Arlene,” Rosemary offered.
“Of course you will. This is your fault. And it’s not as though you can’t afford it.”
For a split second, when Max reached around Arlene, Rosemary thought he was shoving her out of the way for being such a witch. Instead, he pulled loose a scrap of soggy black sweatshirt material that had caught on one of the bush’s long thorns. He showed the tatter to Rosemary before holding it up for the Dinkles. “The man I chased wore a black hoodie. Have you ever seen anyone like that around here? The driver of that truck, perhaps?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arlene answered first. “It’s too hot to wear a sweatshirt, even at night. Ours are all packed up until the fall.”
Max closed the torn material in his hand and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. “I didn’t ask if you owned a black sweatshirt, Mrs. Dinkle. I asked if you’d seen anybody wearing one.”
The dark-haired woman glanced up at her husband. But was that a plea for help out of talking herself into an awkward corner or the remembrance of something familiar in her eyes?
Otis, oblivious to any underlying message, threw up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I have no idea where my old hoodie is.”
“I don’t suppose you could produce that hoodie, could you, Mr. Dinkle? Let me check to see if there’s a chunk of cloth torn out of it?”
“You think my husband is spying on Rosemary, Detective? That he would threaten her?”
“Like I said, ma’am. I’m just here looking for some answers.” Max wrapped his fingers around Rosemary’s arm, indicating the interview was over. “If you two find that hoodie, or spot anyone else wearing one in the area, give me a call. Let me know if you see that truck again, too. Thank you for your help.”
Rosemary hurried her steps to keep up with Max’s long strides around the end of the hedge and across her yard to climb inside his blue Chevelle and head to their next appointment. As she buckled herself in, she waited for him to finish texting on his phone and asked, “We didn’t find out anything useful from them, did we?”
“I’m asking Trent to see if he can run down the owner of that truck. It’s a long shot, but it could be significant.” He tucked the phone into his pocket before starting the car’s powerful engine and backing out of the driveway. “We also found out that Otis was awake when our unsub was running through his yard. I can’t believe that neighbors as curious as they are didn’t go to the window when they heard me shouting. Unless one or both of them are hiding something. And we found out he owns a black hoodie—even if he claims to not know where it is.”
“We’ve been friends and neighbors for years. Why would Otis want to kill me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t. But I can’t imagine he’s a very happily married man. I’m guessing he’s got all sorts of hobbies to distract him from that shrew. Listening to music, running.”
“You think scaring me to death qualifies as a hobby?”
Max reached across the center console to squeeze her hand. “The Dinkles’ information might not mean a thing except that you need to find better neighbors. I’m figuring out all the pieces to the puzzle right now. Pretty soon we’ll be able to discard the ones that don’t fit, and put the right ones together and find our answers. We’ll get this guy. Whoever it is. We’ll clear your name. I promise.” He released her to shift the car into Drive. “Want to have a little fun?”
“I thought we were focusing on finding those puzzle pieces.”
He grinned. “Not all day long. Hold on.”
He gunned the souped-up engine and spit out a cloud of exhaust right in front of the Dinkles’ house before speeding away.
Rosemary laughed when she saw, in the side-view mirror, Arlene’s hand fly up and the woman launch into a tirade that had no place to go except at her poor husband. But Otis didn’t put up with it for long. Arlene was probably still complaining about ruined hedges and smelly exhausts and who knew what else when Otis plugged in his earbuds, pulled his cap over his head and took off on his morning jog.
She turned and relaxed in the car’s bucket seat. “You’re naughty, Detective Krolikowski.”
Max slid his mirrored sunglasses on. “Yep. I kind of am.”
But her smile quickly faded when she considered the idea that turning her life upside down and forcing her to live like a recluse might be someone’s idea of a hobby.
* * *
ROSIE STROLLED THE grand hallway on the executive floor of the Endicott Global building, studying the oil paintings and watercolors displayed on the paneled walls. Max stood close by, studying her.
The drive to the industrial park area north of downtown Kansas City had given Max the chance to get the Cold Case Squad up to speed on events from the past twenty-four hours. He’d dropped off the party-store recording device and the sick threat buried inside it at the precinct with Trent to see if the lab could get anything useful off the water-soaked items. Liv and her fiancé, Gabe Knight, who thought he recognized the society event in the photo with the young man Rosie had ID’d, were using his connections at the Kansas City Journal to track down a name. Trent had given the information about the dark green truck cruising Rosie’s neighborhood to the team’s information guru, Katie Rinaldi. If anyone could track down the owner of a truck with no license plate or VIN number, it was Katie and her magic computer tricks.
Right now, Max was playing a waiting game—his least favorite part of police work. Waiting for information from his team, waiting for the appointment that was running late...waiting for these feelings he had for Rosie to start making sense.
He’d been with a few women most of the world would consider prettier, and certainly more outgoing and daring than Rosie. But this was more than a pickup in a bar—a one-night stand before he moved on in the bright light of day. This was more than repaying a debt he owed an Army pilot he’d never met, more than an assignment Lieutenant Rafferty-Taylor had given him. Whatever was happening inside him, it was even more than doing for her what he hadn’t been able to do for Jimmy. Whatever was going on between him and Rosie Posy was complicated and messy, unlike any sort of relationship he’d toyed with before.
Sure, her needy grabs and shy kisses could turn him inside out. A man could lose himself in her cool eyes and the warm scent of her hair. They’d talked. She’d listened. He’d listened. When the hell had that ever happened? He was no lothario, but her responses to his touch, whether it was a drunken kiss or a platonic cuddle, made him feel powerful, male—as if he might just be a decent catch for the right woman, after all. But how could a woman who was so wrong for a guy like him ever be the right one?
And since when did he get so philosophical about a woman or wanting to understand his feelings, anyway?
He had a job to do. Period. HUA. He wasn’t going to let any distracting emotions cloud his judgment or get in the way of solving this murder again.
In a few long strides, Max caught up to Rosie. She seemed to like these paintings of farms and fruit and people he didn’t know, hanging in gaudy gold and heavy wood frames that seemed more about showing off how much money Endicott Global made in a year rather than the art itself. Or maybe Rosie was just more capable of being patient and feigning interest than he’d ever be.
She’d stopped in front of a life-size oil painting of a white-haired man with a wizened face, standing in front of a fancy marble mantel. The old geezer’s posture was surprisingly straight, which made Max think the guy was former military. But with his pin-striped suit, and thumb tucked into the watch pocket of his paisley vest, Max got the idea that the guy was more of a politician or businessman than anybody who’d gotten his hands dirty down in the trenches.
“He looks important,” Rosie said, staring up at the painting.
Nope, he wasn’t any good at pretending to be interested in something he wasn�
�t. He went for prettier works of art himself. Like the woman draped over his randy body when he’d woken up this morning. He reached over and brushed a curling copper tendril off her cheek. She shivered when his fingertip circled around her ear. Yep, this lady was more responsive to his touch than she probably ought to be. “Why do you wear your hair like this? Don’t tell me it’s in deference to the summer heat.”
She shrugged and moved a step beyond his reach. “It keeps my naturally wavy hair under control.”
“You’d turn more heads if you lost a little bit of that control.”
“I’m not interested in turning heads. I’ve been in the spotlight far more than I ever wanted to be. I already have bright red hair and pasty white skin.” Warm copper silk and unblemished alabaster that was finer than the marble in that pretentious painting was a more accurate description in his mind. “It’s calmer, easier to get through life, to be more subdued or conservative—whatever you want to call it—and not draw attention to myself.”
“That’s Bratcher’s doing, not yours.”
Rosie swiveled her gaze up to him. “That makes you angry?”
“Yeah. He’s been dead six years. It pisses me off that that man can still hurt you.”
“Wearing my hair in a bun hurts me?”
“Thinking you’ve got to have a certain look or act a certain way or else somebody’s going to hurt you. Being afraid like that isn’t right.” He tugged at the tendril that had sprung back onto her cheek. “Be yourself. Tell the world what you want and go for it. I think there’s some fire hiding under that ladylike facade of yours. Wear your hair down and loose if that’s the way you like it, or shave it off in a buzz cut—which I hope like hell isn’t what you really want.”
“Max. Your language,” she chided in a whisper, glancing over at the receptionist at the main desk. “We’re in a public place.”
Instead of apologizing, he fingered the top button of her blue-and-white dress. “Unhook a few of these. Good grief, woman, it’s ninety-three degrees out there and it isn’t even noon yet.”