Close To Christmas, A Westen Series Novella

by Suzanne Ferrell

“Nothing. I hurried to my car, locked the doors and headed home, feeling way less comfortable being alone in the garage.”

  Good. “And no one followed you?”

  “Not that I’m an expert, but I checked my rearview mirror frequently on my way home. Nothing looked suspicious that night.”

  The way she hesitated set off his internal warning siren. “But other nights?”

  Idly, she rubbed her hand up and down one arm. “Ever since, I’ve had this feeling that someone’s watching me. I’ve caught movement out of my peripheral vision in store windows downtown, or when I’m driving I think a dark sedan is there, but the next time I look, whatever or whoever it is,” she hesitated again, “well, is just gone.”

  “Anything else? Anything missing from your home? Even something small or innocuous?”

  “No. I set the security alarms as I leave and check them immediately when I get home. There’s never been a problem with them.”

  “Phone calls or texts? Anything on social media.”

  “Given who some of my firm’s clients are, I’ve never gotten into social media. No chats, no pages on any sites. The only presence I have is my bio on the firm’s website page.”

  “Good. Too many people put their personal business out there for the whole world to get into.”

  “Anyways, I’m sure it’s all my imagination. Just too many late nights and clients who aren’t always the nicest people.” She shivered again.

  “Let’s get you inside where it’s warm,” he said, opening his door. Before she could complain, he reached in the backseat and grabbed the leather overnight bag and briefcase/laptop bag. He waited for her to get her things from the front seat floor and lock the door, scanning the road they’d traveled.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Just old Todd delivering the mail, probably Christmas cards from one neighbor to the next.

  “Really, I can get it all from here,” she said, holding out her hand for her bags.

  He fixed his not-happening-in-a-million-years stare at her. Finally she huffed, turned, and walked up to the inn’s front entrance. Following, he had to admit that he liked the way she huffed. And he really liked the way her hips moved when she walked. Not quite a strut, not quite a stalk. A woman with purpose.

  At the desk, she smiled at Adele Carlisle, the inn’s proprietress. “I’m Chloe Roberts. I believe you have a reservation for me?”

  “Oh, yes, Deputy Bobby’s sister,” the salt-and-pepper-haired widow said, opening her old-fashioned registration book and handing a pen to Chloe, who quickly signed her name. Adele took Chloe’s credit card and swiped it into the more modern computer. “I have a suite of rooms for you and your other sister, Dylan.” She looked up, apparently in search of the missing sister. “We’re all so happy for your sister and the sheriff,” Adele continued, handing Chloe the old-fashioned room key. “The whole town is just abuzz about it. So romantic, and at Christmas, too. You must be excited for her.”

  “I’ve always wanted my sister to be happy. Will you be attending?”

  “Oh, yes. I think the whole town is either attending or helping with the wedding.” Adele smiled at Wes. “Hello, Deputy Strong. Is there something you need?”

  “No, ma’am. Just helping Bobby’s little sister get settled,” he said, just to watch Chloe’s spine get a little straighter.

  Finished signing in, she turned, a toothpaste-ad smile on her face and anger in her eyes. She held out her hands for her bags. “I think I can get it from here.”

  “We’re not quite done with our conversation,” he said, but relinquished her belongings rather than cause a scene for Adele to gossip with her friends about at the wedding tomorrow.

  “Yes, we are, Deputy,” she said, as if dismissing one of her staff members and turned on her heel for the elevator.

  The corner of Wes’ mouth twitched as he headed out the door toward Petal Pushers on the next block.

  The lady was so wrong. They weren’t done. Not by a long shot.

  * * * * *

  “I thought you might’ve been Harriett, making her daily trip to force me to stay off my feet.” Margaret Dubois said as she let Gage and Bobby into the small Cape Cod-style home.

  She motioned them to the couch as she hobbled from the front door to the large recliner in the corner of the living room, having the good sense to use an old cane. She eased into the chair, carefully lifting her left foot up onto the footrest. It was wrapped in cream-colored elastic bandages. The bruises on her jawline were a mixture of dark purple, green and yellow. The sleeves of her Christmas sweater were pushed up her arms and bandages peeked from beneath where they covered the abrasions she sustained as she fell.

  Whoever the bastard was that nearly hit her, they did a good job of putting the elderly lady out of commission.

  And that made Gage’s blood boil. It was his job to protect the citizens of Westen, especially the ones who couldn’t defend themselves.

  “So what brings you two here the day before your wedding? I’d think you have better things to do than visit one clumsy old woman,” Mags said, once she was settled. “Or did Harriett enlist you in her plan to keep me off my feet? I love her dearly, but that’s one bossy woman.”

  Hello pot, meet kettle.

  Bobby coughed beside him and he knew she was thinking the same thing.

  “We wanted to come by, see how you were doing and find out if you remember anything more about the car that caused your accident,” Gage said after he’d schooled his own features. He’d decided to ease into the topic of the flower mystery once he determined how alert and aware Mags was.

  “Like I told Cleetus at the time, I was making my delivery rounds with wreaths for the third time that day. Making good time, too, since I wanted to get done before the snow really started falling. Hard to pedal on icy roads. Should’ve known better and taken the van.”

  While Henry was the creative genius at Petal Pushers, Mags ran the business side of things, including deliveries. Often she would be seen pedaling her delivery bike around town. She’d had Joe over at the hardware store fix it up with three heavy duty baskets—one up front and a pair that hooked over the rear wheel. Usually, once inclement weather hit, she switched to the van, but apparently the day of her accident she’d wanted one more day of biking before giving in.

  “Do you know what kind of car it was that ran you off the road?” Bobby asked, taking a pad of paper from her bag.

  “It was getting on dusk and I lost my glasses when I hit the ground, so it was hard to really see much.” She stroked the loose skin below her chin. “It was definitely a car, not a truck. A dark color. Black or maybe dark blue. Had Ohio tags, that much I’m sure of. Wasn’t a sports car or one of them SUV things. Nope. More like some kind of family car. Not big like a Caddy or Buick. More like one of those popular foreign models.”

  For someone who was up in her years, had been traumatized by the fall and lost her glasses, Mags had more details than he’d expected.

  “Any chance you saw the driver?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. I was on the right side of the road like I’m supposed to be. They zipped past me awful fast after they clipped my wheel.”

  “They didn’t honk or try to swerve?” Bobby asked, concern and surprise in her voice.

  The hairs on Gage’s neck started to itch. Not a good sign.

  Mags shook her head. “My eyesight might need help, but doc says my hearing is like a teenager’s. Didn’t hear a horn or even a hey, get out of the way. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “I think you did,” Bobby said, leaning forward. “I also wanted to ask you if you remember when we talked about the plans for the wedding flowers?”

  “Course I do. Biggest even to hit Westen since the Methodist Church celebrated their fiftieth anniversary—flower-wise. Why?”

  Bobby looked over her shoulder at Gage, concern in her dark eyes. He nodded for her to continue, curious to see Mags’ reaction to the incident.

  “My s
ister and I stopped by the shop this morning and Henry showed me the arrangements.”

  Mags face brightened. “He does such lovely work, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does, but there was a problem.”

  Mags gave her a puzzled look. “What kind of problem?”

  “All the arrangements had Stargazer lilies in them.”

  “Poppycock,” Mags said, her lips pressed in an angry line. “You told me you were allergic to those. We wouldn’t put those in your flowers. I have a list.”

  Bobby blinked. “I saw the big one for the wedding party’s table myself, Margaret. In fact, I had to leave the shop. My sister said all the arrangements had them.”

  “Now, that’s ridiculous. Henry wouldn’t go against the order you and I made. He always consults the order book while he’s working. So much it nearly drives me to distraction.” The older woman tapped her gnarled fingers on the arm of her chair.

  “Chloe, my sister, had him double-check. The order listed Stargazers on every arrangement. Henry even confirmed it was your handwriting.” Bobby hesitated a moment. “Could you have written things down wrong when we talked?”

  Mags shook her head. “No. I wrote the order into the book just as you and I talked about them over lunch that afternoon last month. I even double-checked it. Like I said, your wedding is the biggest event and I wanted to get it right, especially since it comes in the middle of the holiday season like it does. Whatever will we do? I don’t think we can get more flowers here in time, especially with the snow.”

  Bobby laid her hand over Mags’, stilling the agitated movements. “Please don’t worry. Chloe has a friend who’s a florist in Columbus. She’s bringing flowers tomorrow and will help Henry get the arrangements remade. Chloe is paying for the new flowers and Gage and I will still pay you as we’d agreed.”

  “Wasn’t worried about the money, sweetie, just wanted your wedding to be perfect. I hate being here when Henry obviously needs me.” She stared off into space as if gathering her emotions, then turned to fix a narrow-eyed gaze at Gage. “Do you think this has anything to do with me getting run off the road?”

  The clarity of that question, the laser-point precision of her eyes on him, told Gage that Mags Dubois hadn’t made any mistake over Bobby’s flower order.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bobby watched Gage’s reaction to Mags’ question. As always, he gave little inclination to what he was thinking. It was one of the traits she’d learned to appreciate about him when working with the public. Until he knew all the facts of a case or situation, he gave little away for others to speculate over. In private, he had no trouble sharing his thoughts and emotions with her. She just had to be patient.

  “Margaret, I honestly don’t know,” he finally said, then stood, pulling Bobby up by her hand and fixing a smile on the elderly lady. “I do think Henry will come through for us and you don’t need to worry. Is Harriett letting you come to the wedding?”

  “Just let her try and stop me,” Mags said, this time with a twinkle in her eyes.

  They let themselves out and walked hand-in-hand to his truck, where he held the door for her in old-fashioned courtesy. Before he closed the door, he leaned in to kiss her. Something he did every time—as if he were making up for all the years he couldn’t kiss her because they had yet to meet.

  Good Lord, when had she gotten so whimsical?

  And the tears the thought evoked. Was it the wedding or the baby? Both?

  She shook off the emotions and questions as Gage climbed in the driver’s seat, turned on the engine and the heater.

  “Do you think Mags’ accident and the flower mix-up might have a connection?” she asked after they’d sat quietly a few minutes and her teeth stopped chattering from the cold.

  Gage rubbed a hand over his face, stopping to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Doesn’t make any sense to me, but it is an odd coincidence that Mags gets hurt, and then a major screw-up happens at the florist shop the day before our wedding.”

  “And you don’t believe in coincidences.” He’d told her that more than once since they’d met.

  “No. Trouble is, I have no clue as to why someone would want to do that.”

  A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Do you think someone wants to stop you from marrying me?”

  Gage turned and took her hand in his. “No way. Everyone in this town loves you. Especially me.” He drew her into his chest and punctuated his words with another kiss. Long and slow, reassuring her how much he loved her. When he finally lifted his lips from hers, he stared down at her with worried eyes. “If this is aimed at anyone, it’s probably me. When I was working undercover back in Columbus, I made some enemies. My cover was pretty good, but who knows, someone might’ve found me.”

  She raised her hand to the side of his face. “What do we do, then?”

  He kissed the palm of her hand. “You are going to go enjoy the night with your sisters. I’m going to make a few calls to some old contacts in Columbus then head out to Wes’ for the bachelor party.” He winked as he released her. “And tomorrow we’re getting married. I’ve been waiting long enough to make you officially mine. No way am I letting someone screw that up.”

  Her cell phone rang.

  Bobby looked at the caller ID before answering. “Hi, Willie Mae. How are things at the Yeast & West today?”

  “Getting things finalized for the wedding tomorrow, but I’m a little confused,” the bakery owner said.

  Bobby hit the speaker button so Gage could hear the conversation, too. “What’s got you confused?”

  “Didn’t you tell me the reception would start at five, right after the ceremony ended?”

  “That’s the time. Is there a problem?” Bobby’s gaze met Gage’s.

  “Someone called while I was in the back of the bakery and told my assistant, Lucy, that the reception had been moved back by two hours. I thought it was odd and then really wondered when Lucy said they claimed to be you, but they didn’t sound like you.”

  * * * * *

  Chloe tapped her foot as the ancient elevator descended to the lower floor. She needed coffee. After getting her things put away in the old-fashioned armoire, she’d called Dylan to find out when she’d be getting to town and arrange for her to surprise their sister at her home. Then she’d torn the room apart looking for a coffee maker, coming up with nothing. Not even a packet of instant. Loads of tea and an electric kettle sat next to the basket of snacks from the local businesses, but no coffee maker.

  Who ran an inn with no in-room coffeemaker?

  Apparently Mrs. Carlisle did.

  So now she was on the hunt for the inn’s official coffee maker. Surely they had one in the kitchen, but she had her coat in hand just in case there wasn’t one.

  The doors opened and she stepped out onto the Persian rug that ran the length of the hardwood lobby and headed for the check-in desk where the proprietress stood, polishing the solid-oak counter.

  “Oh, Miss Roberts, I hope everything in your room was satisfactory,” Adele said, putting her dusting cloth beneath the counter and looking hopefully at her.

  She hated to be demanding, but dammit, she needed coffee. “It’s a lovely room, Mrs. Carlisle—”

  “Please, call me Adele,” the older woman interrupted her before she could get to the question of coffee. “The quilts are made right here in our community by many of the Amish women. There’s an extra one in the closet in case you need it tonight.”

  “Yes, I found it and they’re quite lovely, but I have a bit of a problem.”

  “A problem?” Adele asked, looking quite concerned and now she felt like she was about to kick a puppy.

  “Um, yes. There isn’t a coffee maker in the room.”

  “Oh, I know. I cannot abide the smell of coffee. Haven’t been able to be around it since I was pregnant with my first child nearly thirty years ago. I do provide herbal teas instead,” Adele said with a smile.

&n
bsp; Crap.

  “So there’s no coffee in the kitchen either?” she asked, hoping against hope for some to appear.

  “Perhaps I can help,” a deep voice said from behind her.

  Chloe slowly turned, knowing that voice. In one of the two tall, wing-backed chairs flanking the entry to the dining area sat Wes Strong. Had he been sitting there the entire time she’d been up in her room? Surely not.

  “Deputy Strong. I thought you had to run down flowers or something?”

  “Been and done,” he said, no smile, no teasing. “Then I thought by now you’d be looking for a fix.”

  “A fix?” Surely he couldn’t know her addiction.

  “Caffeine.”

  Yep. He’d guessed it.

  “And since the restaurant attached to the inn only serves tea, I thought you might like me to hook you up with the best coffee in town,” he said slowly rising from the chair. Not only was the man the stoic and silent type, but he moved with a grace that would put any athlete to shame. Great. The last thing she needed was her dormant hormones to decide to kick in.

  “You mean there’s a Starbucks hidden in this little town?” she asked hopefully as she slipped her coat on.

  “Not yet.” He held the door for her to pass by, then headed the opposite direction of her car. “It’s just a block’s walk.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she’d follow, just started off in a long-legged stroll.

  “Hey, wait up,” she said, hurrying as best she could in her high-heeled boots.

  Without a word, he stopped until she was beside him. “How did you know I’m a caffeine addict?” she asked as they started up the block again. She noticed he’d slowed his stride to match hers.

  “Might’ve been the collection of used coffee cups in your car. Might’ve been the twitchy agitation.”

  “I don’t twitch.”

  “Might’ve been the irritability.”

  That stopped her so suddenly in her tracks that her foot slipped on a patch of ice. Her arms wind-milled as a squeak escaped her, and her butt hitting the sidewalk was inevitable. Only it never did. Two strong hands on her waist stopped her fall.