Once in the terminal, they met up with Riley, who’d acquired a transportation cart so the author didn’t have to walk through the concourse.
“I’m going ahead to pick up the luggage and make sure our limo is ready,” he told Shelby. “That’ll minimize any delay outside the security gates.”
Shelby weighed the risk inside the terminal, without dual protection, against the time it would take to procure their ride outside the secured area. Riley was right to keep their time outside to a minimum. “Okay. We’ll see you in a few.”
“Stay alert,” Riley warned and headed down the concourse.
Shelby scowled at his retreating back. Like she ever did otherwise.
She assisted Ms. Kane aboard the cart. It wasn’t long before Shelby lost sight of Riley in the heavy holiday crowds. While they traversed the concourse, she watched passengers, located emergency exits, and checked locations of TSA personnel. The process was rote, a habit she’d acquired in her youth, reinforced by training in the military, and then again with Northstar.
A shout drew Shelby’s attention as they passed a news shop.
A woman in her late thirties waved at them and started running toward the cart. Not good. Ms. Kane was on that side. Shelby stood, and although the cart was still moving, she scooted Ms. Kane to the center of the seat and urged the driver to speed up. Unfortunately, the crowds were so heavy the cart barely moved.
It took only moments before the woman was within a few feet, shouting and waving frantically. Three—no four, other women joined her. Their hysteria had the makings of a mob. Shelby didn’t know what these women wanted, but was certain it involved Rosalee Kane.
Shelby automatically reached for the retractable baton she kept strapped to her belt. It wasn’t there. Then she remembered stowing it in her luggage to pass through airport security in D.C.
She was torn between jumping off the cart and confronting the women directly, or keeping her body between her client and imminent danger. She could handle all of the women, but not before one, maybe two of them got to Ms. Kane first.
Suddenly Ms. Kane shouted, “Stop.”
“No!” Shelby countered. She smacked the driver’s shoulder. “Keep moving.”
The author tugged on Shelby’s arm. “It’s all right. Look.” She pointed at the books the women held in their hands.
It took a moment to realize the women weren’t carrying weapons. It wasn’t that Shelby didn’t recognize a book when she saw one—but she’d been dealing with a perceived threat and didn’t expect something so innocuous.
The driver looked over his shoulder from Ms. Kane to Shelby. “What do you want me to do?”
“They have my latest release.” The older woman clapped her hands. “I didn’t realize it was out already!”
Great. The women were fans. Just what Shelby didn’t need. “We aren’t stopping. It’s too risky.”
Ms. Kane grabbed Shelby’s wrist with a surprisingly firm grip. “Did you or did you not say that you wanted me to behave normally?”
Shelby tried to free her arm, but the other woman held on tightly enough that she might hurt her if she used more force.
“Answer me!” The author was fierce in her stubbornness. “Or I’m sending you back on the next plane.”
Shelby took a breath and let it out slowly. This case couldn’t be over soon enough. “Stop,” she told the driver. “Let me handle this,” she said to Rosalee as the cart slowed. “You stay on the cart, understand?”
Ms. Kane smiled triumphantly. “Thank you.”
The women rushed to the famous author, gushing over the new book.
“Make a single file,” Shelby commanded, standing between her charge, still seated on the cart, and the mob of women.
Ms. Kane produced a pen and one at a time, asked the women their names as she signed their copies, while Shelby presided over the group with a watchful eye.
When digital cameras and cell phones were produced, Shelby took the requisite pictures of the author with her fans—in pairs and collectively. “Now don’t forget to e-mail me a copy of those photos for my fan website,” Ms. Kane instructed each of the women.
With smiles and promises, the women took their prizes and made their way down the concourse toward their gate.
“Well.” Ms. Kane settled back into her seat. “That was certainly exciting. I just love my fans.”
“Yeah. Exciting.” Shelby eyed a TSA agent who looked unhappy about the disruption in the terminal. She didn’t blame him, but when the fracas first began, he was nowhere to be seen. A little crowd control would have been nice.
Shelby stayed watchful, as the rest of their ride through the terminal remained uneventful. The moment they passed the other side of the security gate, she geared up to high alert, watching the milling crowds. This was where the risks increased.
A man in a raincoat hurried in their direction. His stare seemed locked on Ms. Kane. Shelby tensed, ready to defend the author as he drew closer. Suddenly, he veered and greeted another passenger who had followed the cart to the luggage area.
Shelby flexed her hands, letting some of her anxiousness drain. When she spotted Riley waiting for them, luggage at his feet, she asked the driver to stop the cart. She helped Ms. Kane off and pulled her close, a hand on her charge’s elbow.
Riley glanced between the author’s glowing face and Shelby’s frown. “Everything okay?”
“Some unexpected fans,” Shelby groused, then grabbed her duffel from Riley and opened it to find her retractable baton, which she quickly looped through her belt. Now she felt ready to handle a horde of fans.
Ms. Kane grinned with pride. “My new book is out. Obviously, I had to autograph it for them.”
Riley produced a lopsided smile for their client. “Obviously.” He looked like he wanted to laugh at Shelby, but she sent him a cold glare and his smile disappeared. “This way, ladies.” He motioned for them to follow as he led them to the waiting limousine where he assisted the driver in loading the luggage.
Shelby rolled her eyes. Heaven save her from raving fans and smirking agents—even if he was the boss’s son.
The limo service O’Neal had arranged offered a bulletproof vehicle and skilled driver to escort them to Rosalee’s residence. When Shelby ushered her charge into the back seat and climbed in after her, a little of her tension eased.
Riley’s cell phone rang as he settled into the seat across from Shelby and Ms. Kane. He checked the caller ID. “Hold up a minute,” he told the driver. “O’Neal,” he said into the phone.
Shelby had always envied Riley’s poker face, much like his father’s, but the news he received on the phone must have taken him completely by surprise because his eyes widened with concern. Moments later, he disconnected the call.
“What’s wrong?” Shelby had a feeling the news was going to be something she didn’t want to hear.
“Allison’s gone into labor.” He pocketed the phone.
“So soon?” Shelby ran a quick calculation. “That’s almost four weeks early.”
Riley nodded. “The doctor’s trying to prevent an early delivery, but that means she’s stuck in bed for the duration.”
Shelby winced. Allison was extremely active, and wasn’t going to like being confined. Then she realized that wasn’t the worst of her worries. “So O’Neal wants you back sooner?”
Riley gave their client an apologetic smile. “He wants me back tonight. The NYPD has put the maid’s murder front and center. They’re demanding full disclosure on our investigation. Without Allison, I need to take point.”
Ms. Kane looked Riley in the eyes. “That’s a good thing, right? It means this will be over sooner.”
“Possibly,” Riley agreed. “But it also means I need to leave you two ladies.” Riley gathered his bag and climbed out of the limo. “The director booked my return flight for an hour from now.”
Chapter Three
A ship’s horn sounded across Long Beach Harbor, its mournful bellow cutti
ng through the morning mist. As the sound faded, Shelby tuned in to the other noises around Ms. Kane’s neighborhood. She’d risen early to take advantage of the quiet house and review more data on the USB drive. Once it grew lighter outside, she pulled on a jacket and crept downstairs to survey the property around the estate.
The house was close to the harbor, adding to Shelby’s unease at guarding such an open area. A bigger house meant more areas to secure. The amenities inside were quite nice—something Shelby didn’t dwell on other than for the security aspect. During assignments, she ignored the luxuries most of her clients enjoyed. After shuffling from place to place all her life, her current home was a one-bedroom apartment near L.A.’s Little Tokyo. Sparse, functional, and it suited her just fine.
The ship’s horn sounded again, a bit closer this time. When she looked toward the harbor, it was still too foggy to see the vessel’s exact location. The morning fog made it almost as hard to see as it had been the previous night when she’d done a quick tour, but muted light was better than no light. As she walked the grounds, she got a better feel for the place. Rosalee Kane was well-off and not in need of book sales, but Shelby’s research hadn’t revealed the author lived in such a grand style.
Her steps sounded unnaturally loud along the quiet street as she finished her walk and headed back to the house. Little attention had been paid to security when designing the landscape. Tall palms lined the street and offered some seclusion surrounding the large estate. Yet, hedges close to the front windows, and ornate evergreens on either side of the main door, provided too many hiding places. The front yard was small. In comparison, the back yard included a pool and guesthouse, and with the exception of a side gate in the eight-foot fence, was completely inaccessible from the street. Chalk up one point in favor against the monster task Shelby faced.
She checked the side gate, making a mental note to get a padlock as soon as she could. Pausing on the cobblestone walkway leading to the front steps of the Tudor residence, she glanced up the street. The heavy ocean air cooled her face. Everything was all clear for now. A big part of any personal protection assignment required patience. She couldn’t let down her guard even for a moment.
Shelby fished the house key Ms. Kane provided the previous night out of her cargo pants pocket. Before she could slide it in the lock, the heavy ornate door opened. Marta Cortez, the housekeeper, stood in the doorway. She took one look at Shelby’s rumpled appearance and furrowed her round forehead. Shelby’s brief introduction to the stout housekeeper after they’d arrived late last night apparently wasn’t enough to quell the woman’s suspicion.
“I was inspecting the grounds,” Shelby said, to explain her presence at the front door. “Ms. Kane was sleeping when I came down.”
“Not anymore, dear.” Ms. Kane’s voice came from behind Marta as she stepped off the foot of the grand staircase and crossed the polished wood floor.
Shelby discreetly checked her watch. Seven-thirty a.m.
Ms. Kane must have noticed Shelby’s movement. “I’m typically an early riser, but decided to take advantage of some extra sleep. Especially today,” the author added as she joined Shelby and Marta. “We need to get ready for the Christmas party. Isn’t that right, Marta?”
“Sí, Mees Rosalee.”
Shelby shut and locked the door. The housekeeper stepped closer to Ms. Kane like a sentry guarding her charge.
“When is this party?” Maybe they could catch the culprit before she had to quash a large gathering that would put her client at risk.
“Tonight.” Ms. Kane beamed. “Marta is making her famous enchiladas. You’ll love them.”
Enchiladas were the last thing on Shelby’s mind. “No party.” The words were as automatic as her response to the lunatic fans in the airport yesterday.
“I beg your pardon?” Ms. Kane’s perfectly sculpted brows arched to her hairline.
“It’s too risky, Ms. Kane.” Shelby shook her head slowly, emphatically.
“Please. How many times must I ask you to call me Rosalee? We’re going to be together for several days.”
Fine. If it got her point across, then Shelby would call the client whatever she wanted. “No party. Rosalee.”
Rosalee beamed. “And must I call you Shelby? It seems so impersonal. Your given name, Justine, is so pretty.”
“About this party…”
Rosalee scowled. “I see you’re not easily distracted. I will get my way before the day is out, though.”
Shelby held back her frustration at Rosalee’s detour away from the topic. “After what happened in New York, I’d advise keeping a low profile. This party is not a good idea.”
“Nonsense. A party is exactly what I need to take my mind off these threats. Besides, it’s too late to cancel. Right, Marta?”
“Sí.” The housekeeper nodded, salt and pepper curls bobbing atop her head. “The caterer will be here at five to set up. I have already cleared the main dining hall for guests.”
“Surely you can postpone until we’ve apprehended the person responsible for the letters.” Shelby attempted an appeal to the author’s sensible side.
“Postpone Christmas?” Two bright spots of color stained Rosalee’s cheeks. “I think not!”
“Not Christmas…just the party.”
“My dear girl, to my guests, it would be the same thing.” She pointed a long slender finger at Shelby. “Byron assured me I wouldn’t need to rearrange my schedule. Can you perform your duties as he promised or not?”
Not under these circumstances. Shelby wanted to shout, but kept the thought to herself. How could the director possibly think a party was a good idea? Maybe he hadn’t realized the extent of his client’s social commitments. “Surely you understand the risk?”
“I’ve personally overseen the guest list.” Rosalee placed her hands on her hips in a battle stance. “I know everyone who is attending. Trust me, little Miss Northstar, no one on that list wants to harm me.”
Shelby took a deep breath, knowing she’d have to accept Rosalee’s wishes. Any change in the author’s agenda would potentially tip off the culprit. “Fine. If we can’t cancel, then we’ll mitigate your exposure.” A compromise was probably the best she could do, anyway. “I’ll do a more thorough inspection of the interior.” Last night before turning in, she’d checked the exits and confirmed the windows were locked. She’d studied the alarm system, but now needed to make sure access to other rooms were blocked from the party areas.
“Then I’ll leave you to your duties.” Rosalee turned toward the dining room. “Please join me in the kitchen for a cup of tea when you’re through.” She walked through the dining room and disappeared behind a swinging door. Marta hung back.
Shelby felt she was being measured as the housekeeper studied her from head to toe. “I am glad you are here, Mees Shelby.” With those words, she followed her employer into the kitchen.
Shelby stared at where the women had disappeared, wondering what she’d done to allay the housekeeper’s suspicions. Those two presented a united front, but having the housekeeper on her side may prove beneficial.
She mentally switched gears back to the daunting task ahead. She was on her own and had to keep security tight. The wide stairway led to the second floor. If she made sure the upstairs was inaccessible during the party by arranging a table or some other furniture in front of the staircase, she’d only have to worry about the main floor.
Next, she entered the living room. Huge bay windows covered three sides of the room and made her feel like she was standing in a fishbowl. Those tall palms that surrounded the property blocked much of the street view. However, anyone on the grounds had a perfect shot at someone passing in front of the windows. Making sure the interior wasn’t visible from the outside was the first thing Shelby intended to change.
As she studied the room, she felt transported to some far-away land. Polished maple wood floors shone with such luminance she could almost see her reflection. The honeyed hue offered a
warm backdrop for the twists and turns of chrome lamps and art deco seating. Brightly colored throw pillows, artlessly placed atop each chair and couch, accented off-white upholstery.
In the corner of the room stood a live Christmas tree decorated like something from a Dickens novel. The fresh piney scent reminded Shelby of a forgotten childhood fantasy about Christmas, where loving families gathered to exchange thoughtfully selected gifts. She’d never had such a Christmas, but hoped one day to bring that fantasy true for a child. She sighed. It just wouldn’t happen this year.
The modern furnishings clashed with the heavy walnut sideboard adorned with a crocheted doily runner. Porcelain figurines and gilded framed photographs crowded the surface.
A black-and-white photograph on the sideboard caught her eye. The snapshot was of a young couple. The woman appeared to be in her early twenties, wearing a long wool coat and looked like a much younger version of Rosalee. She stood next to a man only a few years older, who was wearing the uniform of a United States Army captain. The uniform was old, possibly from World War II. Rosalee must have been a child, or maybe not yet born, when this photo was taken. Perhaps these people were her parents. They gazed into each other’s faces, oblivious of the photographer.
Such adoration for another was something she’d never personally experienced. What would it feel like to have someone gaze at her as though she were the only person in the world? The twinge of envy at the blatant display of love took her by surprise. A vague discomfort settled in Shelby’s middle, as though she were spying on a private moment not meant to be shared.
Shaking off the maudlin reflections, she turned away from the photo and the Christmas tree and headed into the dining room.
Just as Marta said, the entire floor was cleared. Chairs were arranged around the perimeter, and a long, empty table awaited what was sure to be a show-stopping buffet. Garland, decorated with hundreds of small glass ornaments, draped along the walls. This room felt even more festive than the living room with the tree.
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