Operation Prince Charming

by Phyllis Bourne

  What if she hadn’t pulled away? Would he have kissed her? And if he had, would it have been a whisper-soft brush of his full lips against hers or would his mouth have been firm and demanding?

  Ali sighed as she stuffed the folders into her tote. She’d never learn the answers to those questions, because hooking up with Hunter or any other man was not on her agenda. Besides, his heart belonged to another woman.

  She also could never pursue a man who was committed to someone else or respect one who cheated.

  Shouldering her purse, she grabbed her tote and headed out the door. It was time for her to get her head where it belonged, on work.

  Two hours later, Ali knew exactly why the customer service call center for Happy Home Handymen needed her help. She stood behind a podium in front of a conference room table occupied by twenty disinterested customer service reps.

  Her client had already indicated that the lackluster crew in front of her had been the best they’d been able to pull from their pool of applicants.

  So Ali pasted a smile on her face and continued with the training program.

  “People are already good and pissed off when they call here,” a thirty-something woman with fuchsia hair and a pierced tongue said. “I don’t care what you say about being respectful and addressing them as Mr. and Miss. It won’t make a difference.”

  An older woman seated next to her nodded. “They’re so busy complaining about having to wait two weeks for someone to look at their busted water heater or the repair guy botching the job, we can’t get a word in.”

  “They’re out for blood and ready to chew out the first person they get on the phone,” a woman who looked to be the youngest said between loud cracks of her chewing gum. She’d been texting on her cell phone the entire time, so Ali was surprised she’d heard a word. “It’s not my”—snap—“fault if they got fired”—pop—“are getting a divorce”—snap—“or whatever else they have going on in their life.”

  The nonstop gum popping set Ali’s nerves on edge, but she was determined to get through this presentation and, hopefully, get through to Happy Home’s phone reps.

  “Let’s try something a little different.” Ali walked from behind the podium. She picked up a phone from a back table and unplugged it, then asked the workers’ supervisor for another one.

  She set one of the phones down in front of the champion gum popper and glanced at her name badge.

  She then held a sheet of paper under the young woman’s mouth. “Jasmine, gum,” she said simply, giving her a no-nonsense look.

  Jasmine deposited the gum on the paper, which Ali balled up and threw in the trash.

  “Okay, Jasmine, we’re going to do a little role playing. I want you to pretend to be one of the more difficult customers you encounter,” Ali said. “And I’ll play the customer service representative.”

  Jasmine dived right into her role, blasting Ali with a long tirade. “Your guy stomps all over my carpeting with his dirty work boots, and now I’ve got to get someone else in to clean my damn carpet. So neither me nor my home are feeling very happy right now. Not to mention you showed up two hours after the supposed four-hour window you gave me. So, thanks to you people, I’m sitting here with grimy footprints on my white carpet, and I wasted a vacation day.”

  “First, allow me to apologize for your inconvenience,” Ali said. She turned to the class. “Notice how I let the customer get it all out and not interrupt. It’s important to hear them out.”

  Ali nodded for Jasmine to continue.

  “Damn right it was inconvenient. We’re talking about my hard-earned money here. I work hard,” Jasmine said.

  “I understand completely, Ms. Smith. Now let’s talk about how we can resolve this matter.” Again, Ali turned to the other reps. “Now that you’ve allowed them to vent, it’s time to move them away from the problem and toward working out a solution.”

  “Solutions? We aren’t going to pay them for the day or pay for their carpet,” Jasmine said.

  Ali turned to their supervisor. “If the complaint is legitimate, could you perhaps offer to send someone else out to clean the carpet for free and offer them another service at a deep discount?”

  When the man hesitated, Ali reminded him how much it could cost him in bad word of mouth.

  The supervisor nodded. “I guess we could do that.”

  She focused her attention back to the telephone reps. “Don’t argue, stay calm, and stick to the facts,” Ali said. “If the customer becomes profane or verbally abusive, they aren’t going to allow you to help them anyway. Simply pass them along to a supervisor.”

  Jasmine sucked her teeth. “I just hang up on them.”

  “How angry would you be if the cell phone you’ve been texting all morning on was shut off, despite you paying your bill on time?” Ali asked.

  “I’d be pretty mad.”

  “What would you want, a rep who listened and tried to make things right or one who threw the same angry words back in your face or hung up on you?”

  “Well, if you put it that way…” Jasmine’s voice trailed off.

  “Thanks for your help, Jasmine,” Ali said, then turned her attention to the group. “I know rudeness is rampant these days, but don’t underestimate the power of good manners. It’s all about dealing effectively with other people. Learn how and you’ll be the one getting the raises and promotions on this or any other job.”

  The reps offered a weak applause at the end of her training presentation, but Ali wasn’t sure if it was because she’d helped them or they were simply relieved it was over.

  Still, deep down Ali couldn’t help wondering if rudeness was too rampant or if maybe she was in the wrong business.

  Hunter stood in front of the coffeemaker, mug in hand, waiting for the office sludge to finish brewing.

  If he was going to clear his head of last night’s near miss with Ali, he needed something strong, black, and bitter. Even after adding an extra mile to his morning run, she lingered on the edges of his mind.

  Filling his mug to the rim, he took a gulp of the toxic brew as if it were his punishment for coming so close to kissing another woman.

  What had come over him last night anyway? He and Erica had their problems, but they were still in an exclusive relationship and committed to weathering this storm.

  He didn’t know where the overwhelming urge to kiss Ali had come from, but he rationalized it was a onetime thing.

  He wouldn’t let it happen again.

  “Good afternoon, Prince Charming. Whatcha thinking about so hard?”

  Hunter looked up to see his supervising sergeant with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Not you too,” he groaned. “I’m going to kill Pete.”

  “Actually, Bishop mentioned how dapper you looked when you left last night. That charm school your girl has you in must be working, huh?” His boss chuckled as he filled his mug with coffee. “But do me a favor and don’t mention it if you happen to run into my wife. I don’t want to wind up being your new classmate.”

  A wisecrack about grown men being scared of their wives popped into his head, but he didn’t need charm school to know pissing off his sergeant was a bad idea.

  “So, did any of those leads on our burglars pan out?”

  Hunter shook his head. “They’ve all been dead ends so far.”

  Just then, Pete approached them. He nodded at their boss before turning to Hunter. “We’ve got two more break-ins reported. On the same block, similar m.o. to ours,” he said.

  “Let’s go,” Hunter said. He was eager to see if interviewing the latest victims would turn up a good lead, or even better, if their suspect had finally slipped up and made a mistake they could use to their advantage.

  Moments later, Hunter navigated the department-issued Malibu down Murfreesboro Road, while Pete adjusted the air-conditioning vents. “If spring is this hot, we’re in for one miserable summer.” Pete swiped at the perspiration dotting his forehead with his forearm.

 
“Yeah, I’m bracing myself for next month’s electric bill,” Hunter said. “I could have bought season tickets on the Titans’ fifty-yard line for what it cost me to keep my town house cool last year.”

  Pete eased back on the passenger side. “Your place is just a few years old. Just wait until it gets a couple of decades on it like mine,” he said. “Every time I turn around, something is on the fritz. Makes me wish Sandy was handy with a toolbox like your new squeeze.”

  Hunter’s head swiveled toward Pete. “I told you last night, Ali and I barely know each other,” he said. “I’m still with Erica.”

  Hunter’s words belied the images of Ali and that tempting mouth of hers playing through his mind. He felt as though if he inhaled he’d be able to smell the fresh, sweet scent of her citrusy perfume.

  “Well, it didn’t look like that to me last night.”

  Hunter slowed down as the yellow traffic signal changed to red. “She’s my teacher, Pete. We’re not even friends. Not really.”

  “I was there. I saw you, man.”

  For a split second, Hunter thought Pete had actually seen Ali in his arms. Not that it mattered. Nothing had happened between them, he reminded himself.

  “I saw the way you were staring at her all through dessert,” he said, and Hunter sagged in relief. “She was eating her cake, but you looked like you wanted to eat—”

  “You’re out of your mind.” Hunter cut him off.

  “I think you protest a bit much,” Pete said. “And you looked relaxed for a change, like you were actually having a good time. When is the last time you had fun with Erica?”

  Hunter successfully changed the subject by asking Pete about his oldest son’s first season of Little League and the other boys’ upcoming T-ball games. He knew once his friend started talking about his kids, he’d forget all about offering opinions on his love life.

  However, Hunter hadn’t forgotten Pete’s last question. When was the last time he and Erica had fun? He didn’t know what he didn’t like more, the question or his unspoken answer to it.

  “Make a left.” Pete pointed out a tulip-flanked brick monument sign at the entrance of the Magnolia Cove subdivision.

  Magnolia Cove, like the other communities their suspect favored, was brand-new. He estimated about half of the homes in the subdivision were occupied, with the rest in various stages of construction. Some of the roads hadn’t even been paved yet.

  Hunter braked to let workers behind the wheels of a slow-moving bulldozer and an excavator past him on the narrow gravel road. They followed the winding road until Pete spotted the street.

  Pete pointed to a yellow two-story Cape Cod. “This is it.”

  They knocked on the front door and a thin, blonde woman peered at them through a sidelight window. Like anyone whose home had been violated, she looked visibly shaken. Hunter pulled his shield and identification from his pocket and held it up to the window for her to check.

  A few moments later he heard the barrel bolt slide, and she eased the door open. Hunter noted the splintered wood hanging onto the now useless dead bolt and glanced at Pete. The hollow-core doors and weak door frames the builder had used on these houses were no match for a crowbar.

  “I’m Detective Coleman and this is Detective Jameson. We’d like to talk to you about what happened here, ma’am,” Hunter said.

  The woman stepped back to let them in. He looked down to see a toddler clinging to her leg. “Go play with your blocks while Mommy talks to the nice policemen,” she said, then turned her attention to them.

  “I was hoping you were the locksmith. They’re coming out to fix the door and locks this morning. I’m also expecting the installer from the alarm company,” she said.

  “Good,” Pete said.

  “You also might want to consider a steel or solid wood door,” Hunter suggested.

  They asked her a few basic questions as she walked them through pristine living and dining rooms, filled with what appeared to be new furniture, toward the back of the house. “Like I told the officers who were here earlier, nothing was touched except our bedroom,” she said.

  Once they got to the bedroom, Hunter heard the woman’s muffled sob. The room had been ransacked. Tossed clothing hung from open drawers and was strewn across the floor. Whatever could be broken was, including lamps, mirrors, and photo frames.

  Hunter swallowed the lump of anger rising to his throat. He was mad as hell at whoever did this, but furious they hadn’t been able to apprehend them yet.

  He heard the sound of toddler footsteps coming their way, but Pete managed to stop the little girl before she entered the room filled with shattered glass.

  “Whoa.” Pete picked the girl up and handed her off to her mother.

  “It’s like they had radar,” the blonde said. “They took all of my jewelry: two pearl necklaces, a diamond choker, and my great-grandmother’s wedding band. They got the new leather briefcase I’d bought my husband for his birthday next week. It was hidden in my closet. I hadn’t even had a chance to wrap it yet. Oh, also the gold Rolex and a fleur-de-lis lapel pin left to my husband by his father were also stolen. We’ve only been in here a few weeks. There was just so much to do, I didn’t get a chance to go by the bank and put it in our safe-deposit box…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Fleur-de-lis?” Hunter asked.

  “A symbol usually associated with French monarchy. It looks like a flower with three petals joined at the bottom,” she said.

  Hunter shot Pete a questioning look.

  “It’s also the emblem on the New Orleans Saints football players’ helmets,” Pete said.

  Well, why didn’t you say so? Hunter wanted to ask, but refocused his attention to the victim. “Anything other than the jewelry?” Hunter asked the woman.

  “We kept some cash in the house—six thousand dollars—you know, in case of emergency,” she said.

  “So, again,” Pete said. “You were at work when this happened?”

  She shook her head and readjusted the little girl on her hip. “No, that’s the thing. My husband’s away on a business trip, but I was just at the grocery store buying milk for Jennifer’s cereal. I couldn’t have been gone for more than a half hour.”

  After a few more questions, Hunter and Pete wound up the interview just as both the locksmith and the alarm installer arrived.

  “Do you think we’ll get any of our things back?”

  “We’ll do our best,” Hunter said.

  The second victim’s house was only a few doors away, so they walked the short distance. “So, what do you think?” Pete asked.

  “This guy is breaking in through front doors in broad daylight,” Hunter said. “He’s either a criminal genius or an idiot. Either way, we’ve got to put an end to his spree.”

  Hunter’s cell phone vibrated. He glanced at the number on the screen. Erica. So she was finally bothering to return his call from a few days ago. He started to let it go to voice mail, but decided to answer it.

  “Oh, Hunter. I’m glad I caught you, sweetheart,” she said as if everything was going great between them. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve been here,” he said, not wanting to get into why she’d been avoiding him in front of Pete, “but I’m working now.”

  “Are you free tonight?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  Hunter frowned as he listened to the real reason behind Erica’s call, and he wished like hell he hadn’t answered.

  Chapter Eight

  Ali rearranged the numbers she’d inputed into the bookkeeping program a third time, but the tallies remained the same.

  The school was hemorrhaging money, and the small infusions of cash coming in hadn’t been enough to stem the bleeding, let alone stop it.

  She’d added five thousand dollars from her own meager savings to keep them afloat, but it wouldn’t last much longer. The postman brought so many bills, her stomach began to hurt when he walked through the door.

  Ali stared at the numbers on her
computer screen until they began to dance in front of her, and then pushed away from her desk. She walked over to her office’s sole window and stared out at the street.

  Like the school, the neighborhood surrounding it had fallen on hard times. The recent brutal economy had turned storefronts that once housed flourishing small businesses to abandoned spaces.

  Graffiti covered the building that used to be a flower shop, and sheets of plywood covered the broken-out windows. The bridal shop and furniture and office supply stores had met similar fates.

  Now nail shops and convenience and cash-advance stores were the neighborhood’s thriving enterprises.

  The only exception was the coffee shop down the block. Voted the best coffee in Nashville three years in a row in both newspaper and television news surveys, it boasted a citywide customer base.

  In fact, Ali suspected the proximity of the coffee shop to the school was one of the main reasons some parents had enrolled their children in her classes. They could enjoy a caffeine break while she transformed their rambunctious offspring into little ladies and gentlemen.

  Ali drew in a deep breath and exhaled. She went back to her desk and stared at the numbers again, hoping a miracle had occurred and the sums were no longer in red.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked the computer screen.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and massaged her shoulders with her fingertips, but she couldn’t rub away the tremendous burden on them. Images of her aunt Rachel and the photos of generations of Spencer women who had come before them lodged themselves in her brain.

  While Ali’s stint at the school would only be temporary, if she failed she’d be letting them all down, and she couldn’t let that happen.

  She closed the bookkeeping program and opened up a file of ideas she’d been brainstorming.

  Somehow she had to make it work.

  Having no one else to turn to, Hunter knocked on the door of the one person he thought would be able to help.

  Ali jerked up from her laptop screen. “Hunter?” She frowned. “I thought our next class wasn’t until tomorrow night.”