Did he think she wouldn’t be logical? A vague pounding began in her head. She rubbed her temples.
“That was a nasty nightmare,” Nick said. “You have those often?”
“No, no,” she said. “Not so much anymore.”
“But you used to.”
“Yes, I used to. When I was a kid.” She traced a meaningless design on the tabletop. If she didn’t think about the past, it couldn’t hurt her.
“Nightmares,” he said. “They’ll get you every time. You think you’ve got them licked during the day, but they catch up with you at night.”
Alyssa looked up at him. He has nightmares, too, she thought, but she could think of nothing to say. For several minutes, they were both silent ‒ Nick watching the coffee drip, Alyssa watching him. When the coffee was finished, Nick poured them each a cup.
“Cream?” he said and set a small carton and two spoons on the table.
She nodded. He had made her favorite, hazelnut. Of course, he’d had a fifty-fifty chance of choosing right. She only had one other kind in the cupboard ‒ regular. She poured a generous dollop of cream in her cup ‒ he’d left enough room for it. He, too, used cream, no sugar.
He settled into the chair opposite her, stirring his coffee. The pleasant aroma of hazelnuts made the whole situation almost ordinary. If it weren’t three in the morning. And she hadn’t been to an after-hours clinic for stitches. And she didn’t feel drugged. Not to mention the nightmare that still clung to her thoughts.
It was a small table, and his knees almost touched hers.
He cleared his throat. “So, do you want to talk about it?”
She sipped her coffee. No, she didn’t want to talk about it. If she didn’t talk, maybe he would just go away. Now that she was awake, it was becoming clearer there was something wrong with sitting in her kitchen in the middle of the night with a stranger. But the wrongness of the situation was balanced by the feeling of comfort she felt in his presence. Maybe it was the pain pill’s effects.
He looked up at her. “Your uncle?”
“How did you know?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You were talking in your sleep, I mean, in your nightmare, and said ‘Uncle Henry.’”
“What else did I say?”
“Nothing I really understood.”
She hesitated. Maybe she could just tell it in general terms. “I haven’t had those dreams in a long time. Uncle Henry died when I was twelve. The circumstances were … not pleasant. I miss him.” She put both hands around her mug, taking solace from the warmth. “I thought the nightmares were gone.”
“No such luck.” Bitterness tinged his voice. “Sometimes they fade, but they never completely go away.” He smiled, but it looked forced and didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t mind me.”
Sadness lurked in the depths of his brown eyes. And something else, something directed at her, something she could not define.
He lifted his cup and sipped, swallowed. “So, what’s it like?”
“What?” Losing her uncle? Or was he changing the subject completely? She still felt a little spacey.
“The antique business. What’s it like?”
Antiques. Antiques were safe. She could talk about that. She took a long sip of coffee. He’d made it strong. The way she liked it.
“Good,” she said. “At least my aunt did very well. It’s been a long time since I was really involved. I left the business when I went away to college, and only worked here summers.”
He smiled at her, his eyes warm. “It’s probably like riding a bicycle, you never forget. Besides, once you’ve got the information in your head, how much can it change? After all, old stuff just gets older, right? Not like computers where what you buy one day is outdated the next.”
Alyssa bristled. “Old stuff? Antiques are not just old stuff. And it’s not that simple.” The man was a cretin. She rose from her chair and flounced into the living room.
“Hey.” Nick followed her. “You’re supposed to take it easy.”
Alyssa ignored him and tapped the side of an early American highboy used for linen storage.
“See this? Do you know where it came from, when it was made, who owned it during its lifetime?” He shook his head. “I do,” she said. “My aunt bought it from an estate sale in Tennessee. It had been in the family since it was made in the early 1800s. We have the papers to prove it. Do you know how much it’s worth, who might be interested in buying it, where I could find similar pieces?” He shook his head again. “Neither do I,” she went on, “but in order to run a profitable business, I need to know. Knowledge in this field may not be expanding as rapidly as in yours, but it doesn’t stand still, either. We’re not all a bunch of little old absent-minded ladies who wander around with feather dusters.” An edge had crept into her voice. She didn’t mean to be rude. Lowered her voice. “In many ways, we’re keepers of the heritage.”
He chuckled.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Ms. Mallory, I don’t know what I said to provoke such a response, but I apologize.” He stepped across the room in three easy strides and stood in front of her. For a tall man, he moved lightly. The Depression glass in the cabinet barely trembled.
“I really didn’t mean to imply that people in the field of antiques are elderly, or slow, or in any way subhuman. I don’t know anyone in this field. I didn’t mean to start a fight with you.” He turned slightly to look past her. “In fact, I quite like your chest ‒”
“Highboy,” she said, pointing at the piece, then realized the double entendre.
To his credit Nick’s face turned red. “I like your highboy. It’s a great piece of furniture.” He moved to a small table by the window.
Alyssa gnawed at her lip. Why had she gotten so angry with him? Why had she heard in his tone something that probably wasn’t there? Was she just being foolish? Heat spread up her face. Why was this all so difficult to sort out?
“And this.” He patted the tabletop. “This is very nice.”
“It’s a re ‒” Alyssa bit off the word “reproduction.” Instead she finished, “really nice piece. Thank you.”
He turned and stared out the front window into the darkness and was silent a long moment.
“What are you looking at?” she said, moving closer to the window.
He turned back. “Nothing, nothing at all.” He took her wrist and gently pulled her across the room.
“What are you doing?”
Nick plunked her on the couch. “Here, sit down. You must be tired.” The concern in his words did nothing to soften the steel-edged sound of an order. He moved around turning off lights.
The man bewildered her.
Finally, the only light left on was the one above the stove in the kitchen. Back in the living room, he said, “Too much light isn’t good for head injuries.”
“It’s a little cut on my eyebrow.”
“And where is your eyebrow? Right next to your head.”
“Where do you get your medical information?” Alyssa could not hide the mockery in her voice.
He came up in front of her. “My medical knowledge came from my grandmother. She was Indian, Chippewa, actually, and was considered a healer.” Although he spoke to her, he kept glancing at the window.
“Anyway,” he said with a shrug, “it just seems to me you should rest, and I think you’ll do that better if it’s quiet and dark.”
A sense of dismay swept over Alyssa at the thought he was leaving. She’d be alone again. Well, she’d been alone before, and she’d gotten through nightmares on her own, too.
She forced her voice into the gracious tones Aunt Ellen had taught her. “Well, thank you for all you’ve done for me, Nick. Maybe sometime next week I could buy you lunch. As a thank you.”
He didn’t respond. She shouldn’t have said it. She’d insulted him again. Thank God for the darkness so he couldn’t see the flush of embarrassment that burned on her cheeks.
“I’m not leaving
.” His voice was calm and deliberate. “You need to rest, undisturbed. You should have someone here, just in case. And it seems I’m the only one available.”
He waved aside her protest. On his way to the bedroom he said over his shoulder, “I’m going to bring your pillow and blanket. You’re going to lie down.”
A moment later he was back. “I’ll sit in that chair and talk boring things about computers and such until you go to sleep.”
He plopped a pillow at one end of the couch, picked her feet up and swung them up, then covered her with the coverlet. He tugged the overstuffed chair closer to her, sank into it and, glancing again at the window, propped his feet up on the coffee table. He wore sensible, comfortable walking shoes. Not the gaudy athletic kind, but expensive Rockports.
“Nick, I ‒”
“I told you I’m not going. I can’t in good conscience leave you here by yourself.”
Even in the dimness she could see the stubborn set of his chin.
“Okay, okay. I’m too tired to argue.” She smothered a yawn. “How are you going to talk me to sleep?”
He chuckled softly. “OS. Operating system. Windows. IOS and so on. RAM means Random Access Memory. ROM means Read Only Memory. I’ll explain that later. You see, computers are not really magic. They function by a complex series of microscopic binary relays engraved on microchips made of silicon, and .…”
Alyssa could not explain the warm, comfortable feeling that suffused her. She relaxed and floated into a doze. She drifted in Nick’s rich baritone, not giving computer explanations, but softly quoting Robert Frost: “’But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep.’”
***
When Alyssa’s breathing took on the measured, regular rhythm of sleep, Nick tiptoed into the bedroom and retrieved the tire iron. He went to the kitchen where he turned off the stove light. The apartment was dark, but memory served him well, and he negotiated around furniture to the couch. He tucked the coverlet around Alyssa. Then he returned to the chair and moved it, as quietly as possible, a few more inches toward the window. He settled down and laid the tire iron across his lap. Yes, this was perfect. He could watch the street and the dark car parked behind his. Probably unnecessary, but he was taking no chances. Alyssa’s mention of the other car had put him on high alert. While Alyssa slept, Nick watched.
Chapter 4
One moment, Alyssa was a little girl picking dandelions in a meadow, the next, a loud ringing dragged her from sleep. The phone sounded above her head instead of far away in the living room. Then she remembered falling asleep on the couch ‒ with Nick Trammel in the same room. The phone rang again, shrill in the morning silence.
Clutching the coverlet around her, she sat up. Nick was gone. She yawned, and the area above her left eye ached. Memories flooded her mind. The crash, the stitches.
The phone rang again.
She groped for the receiver and picked it up. “Hello?”
“Ms. Mallory?” The voice was male.
“Yes?”
“Hi. This is Dennis Murphy. Your Suburban’s ready. My brother Mike’s coming to pick you up. Dad wants to talk to you.”
The van. The flat tire. Nick Trammel. What a strange evening. Now it seemed distant and unreal.
“You still there?” Dennis said.
“Oh. Yes. All right.”
“Sorry to wake you, but Dad says it’s real important. Mike’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
Wake her? They’d already had time to work on the van, so it must be late. She glanced at the antique oak clock on the wall shelf. Nine forty-five.
“That’s all right, Dennis,” she said. “Thank you.”
She replaced the receiver, convinced something was seriously wrong with the old Suburban. The shop needed a better van, and Carl had already used his own money for the tires, a loan against the shop account. That was why he had borrowed Alyssa’s car to go to an estate sale in Grand Rapids. Alyssa’s New Honda CR-V had good tires.
In hindsight, Alyssa understood why Ellen had been distant the few weeks before her death. She’d even ignored the van maintenance. Unlike the way in which she’d always kept up the twelve-year-old, high-mileage vehicle. Ellen must have been unwell for some time.
Tomorrow she had an appointment with Ellen’s accountant to go over the shop records. She would find out if the business could afford a new van. Although Alyssa had buried the only mother she had known just a few days ago, the business of the shop was important, not just to her but also to Carl. It was half his, and it was his livelihood. He and his girlfriend would be married someday and would have a family.
Alyssa must consider whether to attend the class to keep her teaching certificate, or submerge herself in the antique business. She would decide after the meeting with the accountant, when she had all the facts.
She thought of Nick. Gone. Not, of course, that she should have expected him to be there. His sport coat was draped over the back of the chair. She would have to deal with him once more. Him and his good looks. His sexy eyes. She didn’t need drama in her life right now. She needed time to make decisions. Time to grieve.
She swung her legs over the edge of the couch. She was standing, ready to move to the bedroom, when she realized Nick had been true to his word. He’d had the van towed to the garage. If it could not be fixed, it wasn’t Nick’s fault.
Her forehead hurt. She traced the little bumps of sutures. Groaning, she headed for the bathroom, wondering how bad she looked.
The mirror showed three barely visible stitches just under her left eyebrow with a bruise along the stitch line. Her eye was slightly blackened. Perhaps some cover-up would hide it. Straw hair, she decided, but otherwise, she looked relatively normal.
The shirt soaking in pink water got her going. She wrung it out and set aside. When she returned from the garage, she’d put it in the washer.
A fast shower, towel-dried hair and clean clothes ‒ old, comfy jeans and a clean, dusty rose T-shirt ‒ made Alyssa feel almost human again. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, when she heard the rackety sound of a pickup pull in behind the house and honk for her. Mike Murphy would have to wait a few minutes.
She groaned. Twenty minutes to get cleaned up and dressed was a record. Not that she considered herself high maintenance. She usually had the luxury of time.
Bella tried repeatedly to climb onto her lap while she put on socks and sneakers. The cat figure-eighted between Alyssa’s legs while she applied a little cover-up to her eye and rose lipstick. Bella was hungry.
“Poor kitty.” Alyssa bent and stroked the cat who meowed plaintively. It took another five minutes to tidy the cat’s litter box, and a few more to give her fresh water and food.
No time for breakfast. And no supper last night. With her “healthy appetite” as Aunt Ellen used to call it, Alyssa was running on empty. She grabbed a banana and her purse on the way out, promising she would take herself out for breakfast after she dealt with the van.
She waved at Mike who waved back. Another minute to sweep the broken glass into a dust pan and dispose of it. She made sure the shop alarm was set and ignored the house alarm. She would only be gone a short time. She locked the door, even though the missing glass allowed easy ingress.
The Murphy son who had come to get her was Joe’s youngest, Mike, the quiet one, a tall, serious young man in his early twenties. Like his three brothers he was a certified mechanic. After a preliminary greeting with comments about the warm weather and Alyssa’s good wishes for his pregnant wife, Mike promised there was nothing major wrong with the van. They rode in silence while Alyssa ate the banana, feeling even hungrier when it was gone.
A few minutes later, she entered the office of Murphy’s Garage and Discount Tires.
“Hi, Joe,” she greeted the owner. Joe Murphy rose from the chair behind his cluttered desk. He was a rotund, white-haired man whose eyes usually sparkled with mirth. He’d always had a teasing manner and a l
ollipop for Alyssa until she had grown too sophisticated for such bribery.
“Miss Alyssa.” Joe Murphy nodded, a serious expression on his face. He held out one hand. A cylindrical object with a flattened top rested in his palm.
He cleared his throat. “D’ya know what this is, young lady?” She shook her head. “Took it outta your tire. The flat one. Made a helluva hole in it. Couldn’t fix it. Gave you four new ones and a spare. Mr. Carl paid for the spare and two tires ahead of time, and Mr. Trammel paid for the other two. I put the spare in place. The dent in the fender ain’t worth worryin’ about. That ole rust bucket can take another dent or two. Now Professor Trammel’s ride needs some work. That whole car is some fancy composite, ya know. Now this. This is somethin’ else.”
She stared at the object in his palm. “What is it?”
“It’s a bullet, Missy.”
Alyssa’s heart skipped. Joe went right on talking.
“Now, I could wonder how a bullet got into your tire. Went through the rubber, got stopped by the rim. It was rattlin’ around inside. My boy, Dennis, found it ‒ he’s my head mechanic. B’lieve me, it’s a bullet. Dennis is the hunter in the family, and he says it’s not a huntin’ gun. He thinks it’s a nine mil slug.”
“A bullet?” A wave of images swept over her. The parking lot, the black car, the crash. “Who –”
“Don’t rightly know what’s goin’ on. Maybe kids playin’ around. But a gun, that’s dangerous stuff in public. You gotta report this. I didn’t think it was my place. Somebody coulda got hurt. Maybe killed.”
“Yes,” she answered, her voice faint. “Yes,” she said again, louder. “I’ll report it as soon as I get home.” She turned to go.
“Wait,” Joe said. He held out his hand. “You take this. Tell ‘em I’ll swear I took it outta your tire. They can do tests and maybe find out where it came from.”
Alyssa hesitated, then took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger.
“Yes, of course.” She dropped the grim piece of evidence into her pocket. Something about last night nagged at her memory, but she couldn’t quite remember.
Double Danger Page 5