The fund-raiser. She’d almost forgotten. They’d scheduled a mini-carnival for that night to raise a quick influx of cash to pay the mortgage. If they failed, Birdie would be out of business in short order. Plus, Emily had invested all of her savings in the business, so if it went under, she and her aunt would be homeless and penniless.
Emily checked her watch. She had to get out of there and quickly. She searched the area for Detective Carothers, who was deep in conversation with Archer and his team leader, Jake Marsh. The detective, a pencil-thin man wearing a baggy suit, clutched a folder to his chest and locked Jake in a stare down. Jake appeared to be asking for something.
Carothers suddenly shoved his hand into his hair and gave a firm nod. He spun, then started toward her. Jake gave Archer a thumbs-up. Archer grinned.
“Ms. Graves.” A sour look claimed Detective Carothers’s face as he dropped into one of the metal folding chairs across the table. “Deputies Marsh and Reed will be sitting in with us, but I’ll be taking lead on this investigation.”
“I don’t mean to sound impertinent, but could you wait to take my statement?” she asked, and explained about the fund-raiser and how important it was to their business. “If I don’t get going now, we won’t be ready on time.”
“I need to take your statement while the incident is fresh in your mind.”
Archer took a step toward Carothers. “Why not cut Ms. Graves some slack? She could jot down her thoughts right now, and you could question her later at home. Withrow is off the streets and won’t hurt anyone, so this isn’t time sensitive.”
Carothers pressed his lips together. “That is against protocol.”
“I get that,” Archer said. “But sometimes we need to be flexible.”
“She could talk to others. Change her story.”
“Look,” Archer added, “I’ll be glad to accompany her home and keep an eye on her all night. If someone is helping Withrow get back at her, I can keep her safe and ensure she doesn’t talk to anyone about the incident. Then if you have questions, I’ll personally escort her to the station in the morning or you can come to the B and B if you’d rather do it that way.”
Carothers took a long breath, let it out, then shoved a legal pad and pen across the table to her.
“Write down your version of the incident, leaving nothing out, and you can go.” He stood, gestured for Deputy Marsh to follow him and stepped away from the table.
She looked up at Archer. “Thank you. Normally, I wouldn’t put you out like this, but the fund-raiser is basically our last chance to keep Birdie’s B and B afloat.”
“I don’t mind.” He sounded sincere and his eyes were warm and friendly. “Besides, it seems like you could use some help getting ready for the fund-raiser, and I’m nothing if not helpful.”
He turned on a megawatt smile, and she had to look away before she found herself smiling up into eyes that were at times icy blue and like now, a warm, soothing baby blue. The last thing she needed was for him to think she was one of the many dopey-eyed women who must fall at his feet all the time.
She didn’t want to date anyone or even engage in a flirtation. Her mind needed to be squarely on helping Birdie. That, and if Delmar’s threat was true, watching her own back so she stayed alive to take care of her aunt.
* * *
Archer trailed Emily Graves’s classic pickup truck around another bend and onto a gravel road lined with tall pine trees. The temperature had dropped and the once-vibrant sunshine disappeared, replaced with heavy shadows moving in the breeze.
As they approached the B and B, an uneasy feeling settled in his gut. His agency patrolled the large county with both urban and rural areas, but he’d never worked the rural beat. Coming from cosmopolitan New York City, where he’d lived his entire life, he was far more comfortable in a city setting than a rural one.
He followed Emily another three miles over hills, around bends, and she finally clicked on her blinker near a large house set back from the road. She turned the rusty truck under a blistered white sign with Birdie’s Bed-and-Breakfast etched in black lettering hanging from large log poles over a dirt-packed driveway. They wound around a few curves until he spotted a guest-parking sign near a small paved lot, but Emily gestured out her window to follow her toward the house.
Two stories, the place was painted a cheerful yellow with white trim, but as he drove closer, he could see the building needed a fresh coat of paint. A wide wraparound porch held white wooden rocking chairs and large planters filled with red and purple flowers. Off to the side of the house, he spotted a small cottage painted in matching colors with window boxes overflowing with the same flowers.
Emily suddenly stopped, and Archer had to slam on his brakes not to rear-end her truck. She jumped out and rounded the front of her car before bending down and disappearing from sight.
A spear of adrenaline sliced into his body, and he charged across the space to check on her. He was aware of Birdie getting out of the car and mumbling, but his focus remained on Emily. He reached the front of her vehicle, and she stood, her back to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to keep the concern from his voice.
She turned and was holding a coffee-colored chicken with white tail feathers. “Birdie left the chicken coop open again.”
“Did not,” Birdie said, but Archer suspected she wouldn’t remember if she had.
“Here.” Emily shoved the chicken into his hands and let go.
“What...” Archer complained, but Emily was already chasing after another chicken running toward the road.
Archer gaped after her. What in the world was he supposed to do with a chicken? His only experience with chickens was in a dining room, and he hadn’t a clue what to do with a living bird.
It squirmed and squawked in his hands, and he held it out as he searched for a place to get rid of it. Instead, he found five more chickens pecking the ground and scurrying around. He searched for Birdie, but she’d ignored the fiasco and was climbing the wide steps to the house.
So he stood like a dolt, hands outstretched until Emily returned with her fingers around the wayward chicken’s feet, the body clutched against her side and the head tucked under her arm.
“Follow me and hold that chicken this way.” She lifted her arm. “Or she’s going to squirm out of your hands.”
He tried maneuvering the plump bird, but she clucked loudly so he held her as close as he could and trailed Emily. She zigzagged around the yard, corralling the other birds. Together, they all clipped across the clearing and down a hill toward a small weatherworn building. It sat on raised stilts with a side room made of wooden uprights and covered in chicken wire. Emily scooted the chickens through a door into the open area, then slipped the one she was holding into the space.
Good. Archer could get rid of this animal, too. He rushed forward, maybe too fast for the bird, and made it nervous as it deposited a big splotch of white-and-brown gunk on his shirt.
“Ack,” he shouted and held out the chicken.
Emily watched him for a moment, then started laughing.
“It’s not funny,” he warned sternly. “This is my uniform, and I don’t want it ruined even more than it already is from the mall.”
“You’re right. The shirt isn’t funny, and I’m sorry this happened.” Her grin widened. “But you stared down a guy with a bomb not more than an hour ago with hardly a hint of what you were feeling, and now? Now the horror on your face is from a chicken. That’s priceless.”
“I’m not a country guy, all right?” He shoved the bird at her.
“That goes without saying.” She cradled the chicken and settled it in the building. “If she was making an egg, the way you held her would surely be the end of that.”
Archer didn’t care about an egg. He looked down on his shirt and gagged. He
quickly undid the buttons and rubbed the offending gook onto the grass. He wore a khaki-colored T-shirt to match his uniform shirt, but it had a moist spot as well so he held it away from his body.
Emily turned and when her gaze landed on him, she stopped in her tracks and peered at him. The humor was long gone in her expression, and she stared at him with a clear look of interest.
If he wasn’t so creeped out about the goo on his shirt, he suspected he’d be returning the gaze, but this mess outweighed most everything else. “Is there somewhere I can clean up? I’ve got clothes in my trunk, but I’m not putting them on until I wash up.”
“I can wash your shirt.” She held out her hand.
He gladly turned it over. “I’ll grab my clothes.”
He sensed her watching him as he walked back to his car and could just imagine what she was thinking. He was a deputy. Could carry a gun and shoot people. Was trained in defensive combat and worked out to keep in top physical shape, and yet, a little bit of bird poop and he’d acted like a big sissy.
He didn’t like it any more than she did, but he was raised with overly strict cleanliness standards and, try as he might, he’d never been able to relax them. His pants and shirts were pressed at all times. If he got a spot on them, even a small one, he changed. Sure, it was prissy, but it was ingrained, and he made no apologies.
He grabbed his duffel bag and met Emily on the front porch. Without a word, but the remaining hint of a smile on her face, she escorted him straight to an upstairs bathroom.
“Do you need a full shower or will a washcloth with soap and water suffice?” Her eyes creased with unspoken laughter.
“No shower necessary,” he retorted and didn’t mind one bit that she gave him a knowing look as she shut the bathroom door.
In fact, he kind of found her teasing cute and endearing.
Odd.
He sure didn’t react that way when the team razzed him about his cleanliness obsession. Although he didn’t like it coming from them, for some reason this was different. He was sure that if he examined his feelings, he might discover the underlying cause, but in his mind, this situation was best left unexplored.
He ripped off his undershirt and scrubbed his stomach clean before putting on the fresh FRS uniform of a black polo shirt and tactical pants that he always kept at the ready. When he stepped back into the hallway, Emily was waiting for him.
She held out her hand. “I can add the undershirt to the washer, too.”
For a moment, he froze as it seemed so personal to be handing an undershirt to a near stranger, but like it or not, he’d rather the stain be removed.
“I can help,” he offered.
“You want to help because you don’t trust me to get it clean enough.” She grinned up at him.
“Busted,” he said and found himself smiling back at her. “Also, I came here to help, not add to your workload.”
“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s taking us longer to talk about this than it will take to do it.”
“Then would you mind if I have a look around the place while you put it in the washer? I want to check out the security.”
Her smile fell. “Security. Why?”
“I promised to make sure you remained safe, and I always keep my promises.”
“Oh, I heard you all right when you said that. You also said you’d keep an eye on me all night, but that’s not going to happen.”
“I meant that figuratively, but make no mistake, Ms. Graves, I’ll be staying here all night.”
She narrowed her eyes. “On the couch.”
He refrained from dropping his mouth open at her innuendo. “I’m here to protect you and nothing more.”
“I didn’t...” She shook her head and ran her fingers through long, chocolate-brown waves. “Do you really think one of Delmar’s friends is going to come after me?”
“It’s too early to tell,” he said to keep from heightening her apprehension. “But threats have been issued and we have to take them seriously until we can prove them false.”
“Understood,” she said, suddenly looking distracted. “I’ll get the laundry started, then meet you on the porch when you finish your tour.”
“Are there any rooms off-limits?”
“We don’t have guests right now, but I suspect Birdie might be napping. Her room is on the third floor in the front. If the door is closed she’s asleep, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb her.”
“You got it.”
She looked at him as if pondering something, then turned and started down the hallway. Maybe he wasn’t able to read all of her expressions, but one thing was clear. She was uneasy around him, and she didn’t try to hide it. He’d tried to be compassionate and understanding so he wasn’t giving off a tough-deputy vibe, but there was obviously something else that bothered her.
Maybe he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding the way she piqued his curiosity. Or maybe, she was just out of her element with everything that had happened.
Archer watched her disappear in the stairwell. He’d read in her statement that she was an accountant and he tried to imagine her in that position. With his MBA, he understood the duties in an accounting job, and he honestly couldn’t see her spending her days inside, bent over a desk in a small cubicle.
Problem was, he wanted to know more about her so he could figure out where she belonged.
“Get a grip,” he mumbled as he started his tour. “Remember why you’re here.”
He searched five guest rooms and three bathrooms, all decorated in a traditional style to match the age of the house. The windows and locks were original, and it wouldn’t take much to jimmy them open. Hopefully, the first-floor windows had better locks.
Archer climbed creaky stairs to the third floor, where the temperatures spiked and any attempt at decorating stopped. He suspected these were once servants’ quarters.
One door was closed, and he heard a fan running from inside. Birdie’s room, he supposed. He walked through a small sitting room with a table holding a reading lamp and piled high with books. He went into the other bedroom, and the wildly colored clothing hanging on a portable clothes rack, much like the bright hue of Emily’s shirt today, told him it was her room. The furniture was period and all looked original, especially the worn sofa against the far wall and the tall highboy in the corner. Water stained the upper portion of the plaster wall behind her ornate headboard and large sections of plaster had been removed, exposing the studs.
Archer suspected they’d opened the wall to fix a plumbing leak and never finished the repair. Her window was open with a box fan running on high speed, but it was still stifling hot in here, and he left the room before he started sweating in his clean shirt.
He took the stairway to the main floor. The dark wood was old and worn, but polished until it gleamed. The living area held comfortable furniture and walls filled with shelves packed with books.
Clean, tidy and spotless like the other rooms. He’d been impressed with Emily before, but her penchant for neatness added to the appeal.
The locks were of the same flimsy nature as the upper floors, and he didn’t like that one bit. Frowning to himself, he stepped into the kitchen and climbed up on a chair to look at the beam holding the pot rack. He spotted roughly patched holes, likely where it hung before and had been moved over a few inches. Archer saw nothing to suggest Withrow caused the rack to fall, but then with the original holes patched, Archer didn’t think he would. He pulled hard on the rack just to be sure it was securely fastened, and once he was satisfied, he finished his inspection before stepping onto the porch, where Emily gazed over the property, a clipboard in hand.
A cool, soft breeze played over his skin. The temperature in the secluded location was far cooler than the city and the steaming-hot grocery store. She’d tid
ied up a bit, pulling her hair up into a ponytail, giving her a girl-next-door look. She seemed so sweet and innocent, so far removed from the catty socialites he’d met when he’d lived in New York. Maybe that’s why she sparked his interest.
She pointed at a large truck in the driveway. “The workers just got here with the bouncy house and other games. Would you mind overseeing the setup to make sure they put them in the right location?”
“Sure, tell me where they go and I’m all over it.”
She pulled a very detailed map from her clipboard.
He studied it. “When do you need these ready to go?”
“An hour.”
“Okay, you got it.” He set an alarm on his watch.
“My timing isn’t that precise.”
“Time is money, you know,” he said, issuing one of his favorite quotes. “You can count on me to have it all ready within an hour.”
She eyed him for a few seconds. “Let me know if you have any issues.”
She jogged down the stairs, her ponytail bouncing. Made her look carefree, but with her struggle to keep the B and B afloat and the incident this afternoon, she was clearly anything but.
He got that. If she was right about this Stan guy, she had to be worried about another attack. At least Archer was concerned, and only one way to put it out of his head. A visit to Stan Fannon, which he would do first thing in the morning.
FOUR
The afternoon flew by and Emily couldn’t believe she’d managed to get everything organized for the small carnival. She wouldn’t have been able to do it without Archer. He pitched in wherever needed, and that included the last item on her list, gathering eggs from the coop so she could sell them. She’d built rollout nest boxes that would allow him simply to open the back to retrieve eggs without entering the coop or sticking his hand under a chicken, but he still puckered his lips as he started gathering.
Silent Sabotage Page 3