by Dana Marton
“Sure I have. If I get a bad vibe, they’re not sleeping here. I tell them the previous guest in the room had an emergency and had to stay on. I’ll refer them to one of the big chains that have overnight security.” She led Allie through the parlor to the dining room. “You pick a chair. I’ll bring the tea and cookies, I was just having some in the kitchen.”
“I don’t mind hanging out in the kitchen. You don’t need to set up out here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Kitchens are homier.” Were they? “I think. In the movies. Like when big families just sit around the kitchen table, talking. I always wanted to do that.”
Shannon patted her arm. “You never had that, did you? Well, you’re always welcome in my kitchen. And you’re right, it is homier.” She led the way.
“We have matching limps,” Allie observed.
“We’ve been down, but we’re not out, and that’s what counts. How do you feel about butterscotch cookies?”
“If it was legal, I would marry them.”
Shannon laughed as she pulled out a kitchen stool for her. “All right. Here.”
Then she went off for another mug while Allie settled in and looked around the familiar space. She used to come in for cookies and lemonade after mowing the lawn. The fridge might have been replaced, but not much else. There was a sign above the window she didn’t remember being there before, white letters painted on a tan background, the wood decorated with dried flowers.
LIVE YOUR BEST HOPE INSTEAD OF YOUR WORST FEAR.
“I saw that on a billboard outside town.”
“Henry used to say it all the time,” Shannon told her. “I sent it in when the call went out for the billboard campaign for quotes that embody hope. Then I caught myself driving out just to see it up. So I had a sign painted for the kitchen. Carol Kerlin did it. Remember her? Used to work in the library. She’s been big on the craft-show circuit since she’s retired.” Shannon looked up at the sign. “She did a good job. And it’s a lovely sentiment, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Allie said, then couldn’t help herself from adding, “Even if it’s not too practical.” At Shannon’s inquiring expression, she shrugged. “Expect the best, prepare for the worst. Right?”
“As long as a person doesn’t spend all their time preparing for the worst and miss when they stumble across the best.”
Allie sincerely hoped her best was yet to come. Because so far, the year had been crap: losing bookings, being arrested for murder, getting banged up…
She selected a cookie and focused on that. “You know, I think the last time I had these was here in your kitchen.”
Shannon brought her a steaming mug of fragrant tea. “That’s way too long to go without butterscotch cookies.”
Allie gave a heartfelt sigh. “You’re telling me.”
And then she lost herself in the culinary delight that was Shannon’s baking, almost too happy to worry about the note she’d left for Harper and how he would take it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“A-and we got the warrants.” Harper sent them to the printer with a click of a button, then jumped up from his seat.
“Can I come?” Mike asked.
“You and everyone else available. I expect the suspect to own weapons, so I want everyone in full gear.”
“You don’t think he’ll cooperate?”
“He won’t answer my calls.” Harper headed to the back for a bulletproof vest. “I drove by a couple of times this week, but he didn’t answer the door. He didn’t show up for his interview.”
Mike nodded as he followed close behind. “Doesn’t sound like a guy who aims to please.”
“Let’s play this safe. Overwhelming force. I want a peaceful surrender.”
“We could do a quiet evacuation of his immediate neighbors before we even knock on his door.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Harper pressed the Velcro of his vest into place. “We lost Old Man Lamm. I don’t want anyone else dead.”
At least Allie was no longer in danger. Brittany was in lockup until Monday morning. Zane was getting his head looked at in the hospital, under Chase’s watchful eyes.
Allie was safe, and Harper had a lot more to say when he got back to her.
Forget playing it cool. He was ready to lay his cards on the table.
* * *
When the old-fashioned phone on the table rang, Allie didn’t pick it up immediately. She expected Harper, calling to yell at her for leaving his apartment without telling him first.
She ran her fingers over her still-purplish ankle, then refastened the brace around her foot as she sat on the bed. She’d been contemplating a nap, feeling decadent with so much time on her hands. Normally, the travel from booking to booking ate up a ton of her time. And a good night’s rest was often elusive, sleeping in a new bed every night, people in the next room blaring their TV or having a party.
So nap, definitely, but first she had to deal with Harper. She hobbled over to the phone, steeling herself so she wouldn’t give in at the first sound of his voice.
“Ginny Knapp is calling you from the Historical Society,” Shannon said on the other end. “I’m going to put her through, then I’m off to the grocery store. Do you need anything?”
“I’m good. But thank you for asking.” A click, and then Allie was talking to the head of the Historical Society. “Mrs. Knapp?”
“Oh good. You’re still at the B and B. Quick question. You mentioned that you have a substitute teacher certificate. Is that for Pennsylvania? And is it up-to-date?”
“Yes and yes.” When she didn’t have bookings and money was tight, sometimes she substituted.
“Listen, I was just talking to Principal Orvosh at my book club meeting. They’re short of a history teacher for Monday. The regular teacher was put on bed rest today. She’s having some complications with her pregnancy, so I recommended you. The principal loved your show. I gave him your cell number, but he just called to tell me he couldn’t reach you. I couldn’t either. Your cell phone gives an error message.”
“My phone broke.” Something she had to take care of and soon. She needed a phone to run her business. Clients could be calling.
“He said if you’re interested, you can just go in and talk to him Monday before classes. He’ll be in by seven.”
“Do you know how long he would need me?”
“The rest of the school year. Is that a problem?”
A long-term assignment, months in a place instead of days, settling in—all things Allie didn’t do. For a reason.
“Sorry. Thank you for thinking of me for this, but I won’t be able to help. I have bookings all the way down to South Carolina.”
She wasn’t going to give up her hard-won business. She wasn’t going to stay in town and try to fit in, just to be reminded by everyone that they never forgot who her father was. She was a historical reenactor, and a damn good one at that. In Broslin, she’d never be more than the town screwup’s daughter. That was how small towns worked. They never let go of the past. Never.
And if she stayed… Harper… She’d fall for him again, and then he would break her heart again. She couldn’t take that one more time. She wasn’t sure she would survive the pain. Because what she’d felt for teenage Harper back in the day and what she was beginning to feel for adult, hot-cop, funny, kind, thoughtful Harper now… The things she was beginning to long for…
And she didn’t do longing. She did not long for things she couldn’t have, as a rule. She’d wasted too much time on that already. Wishing for a mother, a father who didn’t drink, who had a steady job so they wouldn’t have to worry about the power being shut off… All that was in the past. She had her business now and her independence, and she was happy with what she had.
She was hobbling back to the bed when someone knocked on her door.
“Harper?” She braced herself mentally as she limped forward to let him in. Might as well get that argument over with.
Th
e man standing outside her door wasn’t Harper, however. He was older, eyes smaller and meaner.
He stepped forward, and she stepped back on instinct. A mistake. That one move erased the possibility of being able to close the door in his face. And she wanted to. The cold, calculating way the man was looking at her set off some serious alarms in her brain.
“I don’t know who you are, but I need you to leave my room. Right now.” She tried to shove the door closed, way too late.
He held it open with one hand while yanking a small handgun from his pocket with the other. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.” His gaze darted around the room. “I just need you to make a trade. You come quietly now.”
“What trade? Forget about it. I’m not going to get kidnapped twice in the same day.”
She backed away another few painful steps. The chairs by the table were heavy antiques. She needed to reach the closest one and break it over the man’s head.
He moved after her. “Listen—”
But she didn’t. She turned to run. Forget the chair. By the time she lifted it and swung it, he could shoot her twice over. The bathroom door stood open. She could lock herself in there, open the window, shout for help…
Except he caught her before she gained a yard, his fingers closing on the back of her sweater like the claws of a predator. Her damn foot slowed her down too much, left her vulnerable.
“Leave me alone!” She swung at him, but before her fist could connect with his face, he punched her in the stomach.
God, that hurt.
Nausea rose.
By the time she recovered enough to fight back, he already had her. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out, slamming the door closed behind them. “Want more? I said quietly! Hurry up.”
Screw that.
She shoved him with her shoulder as hard as she could, and he bounced off the staircase, but regained his balance too fast, shoved her in turn, harder, her shoulder slamming against the wall before he grabbed her again. The glass eyes in the jars watched, but they couldn’t help.
“Why don’t women ever listen? You can shut up, or you can die here.” He dragged her by the arm, too fast. “I’m out of patience, bitch.”
“So am I.” She managed to trip him, but he recovered.
Shannon wasn’t home, so no help in the house, but Allie was ready to scream her head off as soon as they were outside. The asshole wasn’t going to march her to a car in the middle of flipping Main Street.
“Who are you?” Maybe he wasn’t even there for her, mistaking her for someone else. “I’m not who you think I am. My name is Allie Bianchi.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
Then they were at the bottom of the steps and she drew a deep breath, heading for the door, but he yanked her back. He dragged her through the parlor instead, then the dining room, then the kitchen. Right by the LIVE YOUR GREATEST HOPE sign, without a knife in sight anywhere, to the back door and through, where a truck had been pulled up against the door with its back rolled up.
She sucked in another deep breath and opened her mouth, but before she could scream, he shoved her into the truck. He slapped the metal door down behind her, and she could do little more than kick at air.
“Wait! Don’t do this!”
Allie scrambled to her knees in the dark and threw herself at the door, but it held. She grabbed for the handle she’d seen as she’d fallen, but it spun without catching, either broken or disabled. She banged on the metal, but the truck was already pulling away, music blaring from the cab in the front to cover the noise she made.
“Help!”
She crawled to the back, to the metal shelving she’d glimpsed before the door had slammed down. She grabbed one of the supports and yanked hard. She could use that to break down the door… But the shelving didn’t give. It didn’t break apart.
She left the damn thing and beat her hands bloody on the stupid paneling before she finally gave up, fist, face, and ankle throbbing with pain.
Fight later. When he opens the door. When it matters.
She slid down, collapsing with her back against the side of the truck. Her heart raced. She gasped for air.
Some part of her knew there was plenty of oxygen in there and she wasn’t going to suffocate. But her body didn’t get the message. Panic threatened to swallow her as thoroughly as the darkness had.
The vehicle rattled as it pulled out of the driveway and took a sharp turn.
Right on Main Street, Allie made a mental note as she braced to stop from sliding sideways.
She could hear the cars that passed them. In desperation, she banged on the paneling again. “Help! I’m in here! Help!”
She waited, but the truck didn’t slow, wasn’t stopped, nobody came to open the back.
To keep her spirits up, she hummed to herself.
Harper would look for her. She hung on to that thought with everything she had. Until another one occurred to her.
How would Harper even know where to start looking?
And if Harper didn’t find her…
Chapter Twenty-Six
While the four unmarked police vehicles surrounded Poole’s sprawling rancher one at a time, the two cruisers stayed out of sight. Joe, dressed in plumber overalls, walked up to the neighbor’s house on the right. He wore a fake mustache so he wouldn’t be easily recognizable from afar. He used to be Broslin’s very own college football star, so a lot of people knew his face, knew he was a cop now. If Dicky looked out his window and made him, he’d know something was up and might not open his door.
Harper’s plan was to have Mike walk up in a USPS uniform and pretend he needed Poole’s signature for a package. When Dicky opened up, they’d grab him and cuff him, avoiding a potential shoot-out. But just in case they didn’t succeed, Joe and Harper needed to tell the neighbors to go down to their basements for the time being. Just as a precaution.
Harper, in plain jeans and a Flyers jacket zipped up over his bulletproof vest, was knocking at the house on Dicky’s left, his shoulders up around his ears as if against the cold, to block his face as much as possible.
“I already know Jesus, and I ain’t buyin’ anythin’,” the woman who opened the door said.
Harper kept his voice low and flashed his badge between them so nobody else would see it. “Detective Finnegan from the Broslin Police Department. I need your help.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “With what?”
“We’re serving a warrant next door, and we have reason to believe that the man we’re arresting might be armed and dangerous. I’d like to ask you to go down to your basement until I come back and give you the all clear. Do you need help getting down there, ma’am?”
“I might look a hundred, but I can manage. And if I can’t, my boyfriend can help me down there. That’s why I have a man.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who you arrestin’?”
She’d be watching from the basement window, so there was no point in keeping it a secret. “Dicky Poole.”
“Oh.” She looked past him, toward Dicky’s house. “Dicky ain’t home.”
“His car is in the garage.” Harper had checked.
The woman shook her head. “An ambulance took him away this morning. I saw them wheel him out on a gurney. Ronnie, my boyfriend, talked to the EMTs. Heart attack.”
“Do you know when?”
“Around ten?” She shrugged, then looked Harper up and down. “Show me the search warrant.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Ronnie has his spare key.”
Harper pulled the warrant from his pocket. The woman put on the glasses that hung from a lanyard around her neck and read the piece of paper over, to the last letter. Then she stepped back into her kitchen and, a few seconds later, reappeared with a key.
“There you go. Figure you gonna go in either way. This way, you don’t have to break down his door.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
As
Harper turned on his heel, he saw Joe hurrying toward him.
“Ambulance took Poole,” Joe said when they met in the middle of the driveway.
“Just heard.” Harper handed over the search warrant and the key, but kept the arrest warrant. “You guys search the premises. I’m heading over to the hospital.”
“You still think he’s our guy?”
“He’s been avoiding me. Maybe it’s a delay tactic.”
“Sounds like you want him to be our guy. Watch out for that. Bias can muck up a case, can make you miss clues that point in a different direction.”
Harper didn’t defend his position. He did want Poole to turn out to be the killer. He wanted the man in prison.
As Joe hurried on, Harper jumped into his car and took off. He called the hospital, identified himself, asked to talk with the emergency room.
They confirmed receiving Poole and tracked him down for Harper, patching him through to the nurses’ station in surgery.
“They just rolled him out,” the helpful nurse told him. “He won’t be awake for a while.”
Okay, the man hadn’t faked the heart attack. Which didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t Lamm’s killer.
“I’m almost there. Who do I talk to regarding his condition?”
A pause before the response came, the nurse probably looking up the information in the computer. “His surgeon was Dr. Abara. Sixth floor. Cardiac surgery suite.”
“Thanks.”
In another fifteen minutes, Harper could see the hospital up ahead. He didn’t bother with the parking lot, but pulled up right at the front doors. He hurried through the lobby, then up the elevator. In minutes, he was talking to the surgeon.
The man, a clean-cut sixty-something in scrubs and fancy sneakers, told him the same thing the nurse had. “The patient is in recovery. He’ll be out of it for a while. And even when he’s awake, I’m not going to let you interrogate him. He just had open-heart surgery. They almost lost him in the ambulance on the way here.”
“I’m going to have to secure him to the bed.”