by Jan Washburn
Although she had spent her entire childhood in this house, it seemed almost scary in the darkness. She prayed that Jeff had continued to pay the electric bill. When he returned from the war in Iraq, he began to drink heavily. Utility bills lost their meaning in the shadow of his depression.
Shivering in the biting cold air, she groped under the mat by the front door. As long as she could remember, the family kept an extra key there. Of course, a burglar would look there first. She never understood why the family bothered to lock the door at all. Her fingers closed around the key and noiselessly she let herself into the house. Throwing the switch by the door, she breathed a sigh of relief as light flooded the room.
It wasn’t much warmer in the house than it was outside. She raised the switch on the thermostat, heartened by the sound of the heater roaring to life.
She felt as though she should tiptoe as she wandered through the lonely rooms. She was stepping back in time. The house was furnished in an assortment of styles and periods that Tracy called Early Thrift Shop. Everything smelled musty and unused. Nothing had been moved or changed in the three years since she left Allerton.
Six months ago her mother had fled Allerton, too, no longer able to endure the humiliation that her family had brought upon her good name. Tracy’s father had disappeared in an alcoholic fog when she and Jeff were still in grade school. Her brother fell into the same alcoholic trap while the rumors about Tracy’s reputation seemed to multiply. Now only Jeff remained in the house alone, living on his service disability pension and picking up odd jobs.
But this wasn’t the time to stand here mourning the past. She needed to call Maggie and find out where Jeff was. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. It was dead. In all the craziness of the past few days, she forgot to charge it. Crossing her fingers, she picked up the phone in the living room and heard the blessed sound of a dial tone.
She tried to swallow her disappointment when she reached a recording. Scalia’s Kennels, announced Maggie’s cheerful voice. Your dog’s home away from home. Leave your name and phone number, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.
There was nothing to do but leave a message.
Surveying the living room, she stopped to strike a few chords on the little spinet piano. As she expected, it was hopelessly out of tune.
She dropped wearily into an easy chair and then stifled a sneeze as she was enveloped in a cloud of dust. Apparently the house hadn’t been cleaned since her mother left. She eyed the clock. Eight p.m. already. Surely Maggie would call back soon. The Scalias were probably just outside in the kennels.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Lord, she whispered, please keep Jeff safe in your arms. He means more than life to me. Watch over him and give the doctors the wisdom to save him.
Waiting for Maggie’s call was torture. She needed to do something—take some action. Should she call her mother? Faith Dixon had taken refuge with her sister Grace in St. Petersburg, Florida. Tracy could almost hear her mother’s voice. How did it happen? Was Jeff drunk? What will people say? No, it would be better to wait and call when she knew more about her brother’s condition.
Her stomach groaned for attention, and she realized she hadn’t eaten a bite since gulping down a bowl of cereal at her apartment that morning. She pushed herself to her feet and headed for the kitchen. Maybe there would be something in the pantry besides a six pack of beer.
She opened the kitchen door and skidded to a dead stop. She was staring directly into the muzzle of a gun.
More than Great Riches
CHAPTER II
Paralyzed, Tracy could barely draw a breath. The gun was the size of a cannon. She was ready to meet God, but she would prefer to wait until another time. Her eyesight grew blurry as her legs turned to rubber.
And then the rumble of a deep voice penetrated the fog. Hold it right there.
She dragged her gaze away from the gun and looked up. She made out the menacing figure of a man in a dark windbreaker and jeans. The room began to spin in dizzying circles. She was going to faint. She clutched at the doorjamb to keep the world from tipping over.
Through the haze, she saw him jam the pistol into its holster. Her knees crumbled, but he caught her before she hit the floor. As though she were a child, he swept her up in his arms. Barely conscious, she tried not to cling to his neck as he carried her back to the living room. Crushed against his broad chest, she was much too aware of the power in those wide shoulders. The muscular arms that gently eased her down onto the sofa could break her into little pieces.
She kept her eyes tightly closed, but sensed him looming over her. Was he trying to decide if he should put her out of her misery? And then she heard heavy footsteps as he strode out of the room.
Too weak and shaky to move, she clenched her fists as the footsteps returned. Suddenly she felt the coolness of a damp cloth across her forehead. The wave of dizziness began to recede.
Clutching at the shredded remnants of her courage, she opened her eyes a crack. He was holding a small leather folder under her nose - a badge attached to an I.D. card. She made out the words Leif Ericson, Chief of Police.
Police, she thought groggily. It didn’t take them long to track me down.
Cautiously she studied her captor. Leif Ericson. Right out of the history books. He definitely looked like a Viking with that rough-hewn face, powerful build, tawny hair, and eyes the color of a stormy ocean. His five o’clock shadow looked more like seven o’clock or eight, which only enhanced the image. A helmet with horns would complete the picture.
Should she be relieved that she wasn’t about to be shot or fearful that he would drag her back to New York before she had a chance to see Jeff?
Peering up at him, she thought she caught a glimpse of concern. I’ve never fainted in my entire life, she whispered.
A Smith and Wesson has that effect on people, he growled. He snatched the ladderback chair away from the desk, placed it backward in front of her, and then straddled it with his arms across the top rung.
The concern she had seen just a moment before had vanished, replaced by a scowl of suspicion. A storm brewed in those sea-gray eyes. Deliberately he invaded her space.
If you tell me that you broke into this house to get warm, I’m not going to believe you. So why don’t you tell me what you are doing here.
Tracy gaped at him. What am I doing here? I’m minding my own business in my own house. When did that become a crime?
She struggled to a sitting position, lifting her chin in defiance. I’m Tracy Dixon, and this is my home. She paused. I mean it’s my mother’s home. Well, actually it’s my brother’s home. He must think I’m a raving lunatic.
Dixon! He eyed her with disbelief. You’re Tracy Dixon? He glared at her as though he expected her nose to start growing.
Tracy didn’t know why she was on the defensive. She should be the one giving him the third degree. I’m trying to find out where my brother is. He’s been badly injured in an accident.
How did you hear about the accident? The Viking snapped the question like a whip.
My friend Maggie Scalia called me. I don’t understand why there’s a problem here.
So you came home to see your brother?
Tracy merely nodded. She should have added, That’s the only reason I would set foot in Allerton again.
And your mother. Where is she?
My mother moved to Florida. She left the house for Jeff to use.
So you’re just visiting?
Just visiting, she echoed.
After a long pause, the Viking stood up. He swung his chair back into place at the desk and announced calmly, They moved Jeff to the burn center at Mass. General in Boston today. He headed for the door and then turned. I saw the lights in the house and thought there was an intruder. I’m sorry to have frightened you, Miss Dixon.
Tracy sat open-mouthed, watching him leave. So, the NYPD didn’t send him. Apparently he had no clue that she was under suspicion
in the jewelry theft.
Propping herself up on her elbows, she held her breath until she caught the sound of an engine roaring to life. He came in to investigate the lights in the house, but how had he gained entry? Her nerves couldn’t take another home invasion. If she stayed here any length of time, she would have to do something about the locks on the doors.
Leif Ericson. She whispered the name under her breath. If he weren’t so scary, he would be a good-looking man. And if he ever cracked a smile, he’d be downright gorgeous. Not that she was looking for romance. The men in her life had given her nothing but trouble and betrayal. Sometimes she pictured a big Kick Me sign pinned to her back. And police officers meant double trouble. Leif Ericson was just one big complication. She came home to see her brother, and no Neanderthal with a badge was going to stop her.
****
Leif maneuvered his SUV into the parking lot behind the one-story brick building which the Allerton police shared with the fire department. He had discovered that being police chief in a small town involved more than burglaries and accidents. Today included breakfast at the Elk’s Club, explaining why the police department needed to upgrade its computer programs. Allerton was at least five years behind the rest of the state. He was struggling to drag the town, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century.
He limped up the steps to the back door to find Lucille on the phone, as usual. She was his dispatcher as well as his clerk, computer nerd, and right hand. The headset was as much a part of her hairdo as the prim bun of gray hair at the back of her neck.
He inherited Lucille along with his office when he accepted the job of police chief six months ago. She was probably eighty years old, but he didn’t dare to ask. Some old timers in town insisted that Lucille waited on Plymouth Rock to welcome the Pilgrims when they stepped off the Mayflower.
Leland, she greeted him. There’s a detective on the phone calling from New York. Lucille was the only person in town who dared to call him by his given name.
Thanks, I’ll take it in my office. Leif closed the door behind him and settled at his desk. New York, he puzzled, picking up the phone. He didn’t think a New Yorker could find Allerton on the map.
Chief Ericson here, he said briskly.
Chief, this is Detective Diaz, NYPD. We need your assistance.
Glad to help. What can we do for you?
The detective’s voice sounded like coarse sandpaper. You’ve probably heard about the theft of jewelry from Ronda Starr’s home.
It made all the papers here.
We’re trying to trace the whereabouts of the suspect, Rick Timmons.
Leif came to full alert. Do you have reason to believe he’s in this area?
I’ve been questioning a young woman named Tracy Dixon who attended Ronda Starr’s reception with Timmons. She nearly convinced me that she was an innocent dupe, but now she’s skipped town. She left me a message with some cockamamie story about her brother in Allerton having an accident.
Tracy Dixon, Leif muttered. What a dim bulb I am. He was probably the only one in Allerton who didn’t make the connection between his Tracy Dixon and the woman in the news articles about the theft.
She told you the truth about the accident, Detective Diaz. Her brother is in the burn unit at Massachusetts General.
Diaz sounded skeptical. Well, maybe she is on the level, but she picked an interesting time to leave New York.
So, how can we help you?
Keep an eye out for Rick Timmons. If Miss Dixon was his accomplice, he may try to contact her.
Leif picked up his pen and a notepad. Give me a description. Do you have a picture?
No, apparently he’s an old pro. He knows how to blend into the wallpaper, but I’ll fax all the information we have. He’s well built, about 6’2, blond hair, brown eyes, clean-shaven. He has probably changed his name and his appearance, but he should be easy to spot in a small town. If Miss Dixon has a visitor, you’ll know what to look for.
I’ll get the word to my men, Leif assured him.
Better warn them this guy is vicious, Diaz added. We still don’t know if the butler is going to live. Timmons used the butt of a pistol to beat him senseless. It looks as though the butler caught him in the act of cracking Miss Starr’s safe.
Do you have a description of the stolen jewelry?
I’ll fax you a list. The street value is probably at least a half million, but most of the pieces are irreplaceable—family heirlooms, gifts from celebrities, stuff like that. Priceless.
I’m on it. I’ll stay in touch. Leif jotted down the detective’s phone number and sank back in his chair. Massaging his bad knee, he considered his strategy. The public tended to think a crime wave in a small town involved someone spitting on the sidewalk. But this was grand theft and attempted murder, and Tracy Dixon was right in the middle of it.
He found it hard to believe that someone who looked like a fairy tale princess was aiding and abetting a dangerous criminal. When he questioned Tracy, he managed to maintain his professional demeanor, suppressing his normal male weakness for a pretty face, but it wasn’t easy to keep his focus in the depths of those beautiful eyes. They were a startling clear blue with a thick fringe of dark lashes. And, when he picked her up, he had almost lost his objectivity. She was slender, but her curves were in all the right places. A police officer tried to cultivate his powers of observation, but maybe he had noticed a little too much about the lovely Miss Dixon.
A year ago, he let a beautiful face undermine his good judgment, and he paid the price for his weakness. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. Miss Tracy Dixon was about to acquire an extra shadow.
****
Armed with a map of Boston, Tracy climbed into her car. It was much warmer today. The sun shone bright in the clear blue sky, and a light breeze from the east brought the scent of salt air from the bay. The beautiful spring day gave a lift to her spirits.
Maggie had given her a little more information about Jeff’s accident. Witnesses said he had been driving at a high rate of speed, weaving in and out of traffic on Route 3, when he spun out of control, plunged off the highway, and plowed into a tree. In an instant the car was engulfed in flames. A few brave souls risked their lives to pull Jeff out of the inferno, but not before he was badly burned.
From her earliest years Tracy adored her big brother. Growing up with no close neighbors, they turned to each other—the two musketeers. When Jeff became the man of the family at age ten, he became her protector. No one dared to give his sister a hard time. He was her superhero.
She whispered a prayer. Lord, thank you for those wonderful people who saved Jeff’s life. He’s been hiding from you, but he needs you now. Keep watching over him. And then she added a postscript. Please, I want him to know I’m here for him.
She backed out of the driveway and headed for town. Unfortunately she had to pass through the center of Allerton to get to the interstate. By now, everyone had probably heard the news of her latest misadventures. She was sure she heard a car driving slowly past her house several times during the night. Maybe nosy neighbors, but she suspected the police chief had put her under surveillance.
She felt a tug of nostalgia as she braked for the stoplight at Main Street. Keith Bradford had smeared her name all over town, but no matter what her reputation in Allerton, it was home. As far as she knew, the residents who pitied her outnumbered the ones who looked down their noses. Of course, she wasn’t sure which was worse—pity or disdain.
The center of town looked the same, as though it were caught in a time warp. The tall white spire of the community church looked out like a benevolent monarch over the buildings that surrounded the village green—the massive town hall, the gracious eighteenth century homes, and the inevitable antique shops. Walden’s drugstore was still on the corner, looking just as it did when she and Maggie had made their regular stop for a soda after choir practice each week.
As the light changed, she came out of her reverie
and accelerated into the intersection. Crack! A deafening explosion of sound blasted her eardrums. She slammed on the brakes. Was someone shooting at her? She ducked down behind the steering wheel, waiting for the next shot. But everything was quiet.
Cautiously she lifted her head and peered out the window. The noise had attracted a few spectators, but they didn’t seem frightened, just curious. Perhaps it was just a blowout. Her tire treads were getting thin.
She couldn’t just sit here in the middle of Main Street. Deciding she wasn’t under attack, she climbed out of the car. But a close inspection showed her tires were intact.