Authors: Nora Roberts
“She ain’t no chatterbox.” He sat, picked up his coffee, put his boots on the desk. An invitation for Alma to sit. “What do you know?”
“Not much, which bugs the hell out of me. What I got out of Dean McQueen, as he handled the property sale, is she contacted him by e-mail. Saw the sale online, asked some questions, thanked him politely. Few days later, she e-mailed again with an offer. Wasn’t the asking price, but Dean told me it was a little above what he hoped he’d get, and she offered a cash deal.”
“Cash.”
“That’s right. On the barrelhead. The Skeeters jumped on it. Well, you know Dean, he’s a salesman, and he likes to talk it up. He says he couldn’t get much more out of her than yes and no. She wired the earnest money from a bank in Kansas City. Drove in with that dog of hers for the settlement, pulling a U-Haul trailer. Signed the papers, handed over the cashier’s check, from a bank in Fairbanks, Alaska, this time. Dean wants to take her to lunch to celebrate, but she shuts that down. Wants to take her to the property, walk her through and shut down again. She takes the papers, the keys, thanks everyone and that’s that.”
“It’s a puzzle,” Brooks murmured.
“People who say live and let live? They’re not doing a lot of living, as far as I’m concerned.” She got up as the radio in the dispatch area squawked. “It’d be interesting to find out what her deal is.”
“It would,” Brooks agreed. As Alma went out to answer the radio, his phone rang. “Bickford Police Department, Chief Gleason.” For now, he put Abigail Lowery on his back burner.
He handled the paperwork, the phone calls, took a turn at foot patrol, where he listened to the owner of a pottery shop complain about the owner of the neighboring candle shop once again blocking his delivery entrance with his car.
And once again talked to the offender.
He picked up a ham-and-cheese panini, and while taking a late lunch at his desk, started puzzle solving.
He ran her tags, crunched into the chips he’d gotten with the sandwich. He read her date of birth, noted that she was twenty-eight, so he’d been on the mark there. Her license carried no restrictions. She was an organ donor with a clean driving record.
He accessed the database and ran her criminal.
No criminal record.
That should be enough, he told himself. She was, according to the data, a law-abiding citizen without so much as a single speeding ticket.
But …
Out of curiosity, he Googled her. He got several hits on the name, but none of them were his Abigail Lowery.
Caught up now, he continued to dig. He had her name, address, tag number, driver’s license data. Since he knew she had a license to carry, he started with gun registration.
As the data came up, he sat back.
“Now, that’s an arsenal,” he murmured.
In addition to the Glock 19, she had licenses for a Glock 36, one for a Glock 26, a nine-millimeter Beretta, a long-range Sig, a nine-millimeter Colt Defender and a Smith & Wesson 1911, and a pair of Walther P22s.
Just what did the woman need with that many handguns? He was a cop, for God’s sake, and other than his service weapon, he had only two others.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Hey, Brooks.”
The bombshell blonde stood kind of posed in his doorway. Sylbie’s hair fell in gleaming waves over the shoulders of a white lace shirt loosely belted over jeans that were a thin coat of paint over long legs. She had eyes that reminded him of a tiger, tawny and just a little feral.
In high school he’d wanted her more than his next breath. And when he’d had her, his life had been a seesaw of bliss and misery.
Automatically, he toggled over to screen saver. “How you doing, Sylbie?”
“Oh, I’m just fine. I’ve been working since dawn, so I’m giving myself a little break.” She glided into the room on those long legs, perched on the corner of his desk in a provocative cloud of fragrance. “I thought I’d just drop in and see you, and see if you wanted to get together tonight.”
“I’ve got a lot going on here.”
“If the chief of police can’t take the night off, who can?”
“The law’s ever vigilant.”
She laughed, tossed that glorious mane of hair. “Come on, Brooks. I thought I’d pick up a nice bottle of wine.” She leaned in. “And you can take advantage of me.”
It didn’t make him feel manly, but he had to admit the few times they’d gotten together since he’d come home, he’d felt like the one being taken advantage of.
Not that he’d minded at the time. But afterward …
“That’s a nice invitation, Sylbie, but I’ve got to work tonight.”
“Come on by after.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re hurting my feelings.”
“I don’t want to do that.” But neither did he want to get caught up again. They’d come a long way since high school, when she’d captured his heart, then demolished it—and were a lot closer to her two divorces.
“If you want to play hard to get,” she began, sliding off the desk.
“I’m not playing.” She would have slithered right into his lap if he hadn’t pushed to his feet. “Look, Sylbie.”
As he was facing the door, he saw Abigail step into the opening, saw her immediate jolt of embarrassment.
“Ms. Lowery,” he said, before she could back away.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’ll come back.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll talk to you later, Sylbie.”
“I’m buying that wine,” she murmured, shot him her slow smile. She turned, angled her head as she studied Abigail.
“You’re that woman who lives out at the Skeeter place.”
“Yes.”
“Everybody wonders what in the world you do out there all by yourself.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“People have a curiosity. That’s a natural thing. I’m Sylbie MacKenna.”
“One of the local potters. You do very good work. I bought one of your bowls.” Abigail looked at Brooks again. “I can speak to you later, Chief Gleason.”
“You’re here now. Sylbie’s got to get on.”
“So official. He didn’t used to be.” She gave Abigail a knowing smile. “I’ll see you later, Brooks.”
“She’s very attractive,” Abigail commented.
“Always has been.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted. The woman, your …”
“Dispatcher?”
“Yes. She said I should just come back.”
“That’s fine. Have a seat.”
“May I close the door?”
“Sure.”
After she’d done so, and taken a seat in his visitor’s chair, silence ran for several beats.
“Something on your mind?” he asked her.
“Yes. I realize I mishandled our … business this morning. In the market, and when you came to my house. I wasn’t prepared.”
“Do you have to prepare to have a conversation?”
“I’m not a social person, so I don’t have many conversations, particularly with people I don’t know. In the market, I felt uncomfortable with your interest in what I was buying.”
“My interest in what you were buying was a ploy for conversation.”
“Yes.”
Everything about her was cool, he thought, and still. He considered how she served as polar opposite to Sylbie, who always ran hot, always seemed to be moving.
“We’re a small town, Abigail. A small resort town, full of New Agers and old hippies, second-generation hippies, artists. We’re friendly.”
“I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s rude, but it’s fact. I’m not a friendly person, and I moved here for the quiet, the solitude. When you came to the house so soon after the market, it made me nervous, and angry. I have my reasons for carrying the pistol. I’m not obligated to share those reasons. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I like my property, and the land around it. I like this town. I feel comfortable here. I just want to be left alone.”
“What Sylbie said about curiosity’s true. It’s a natural thing. The more mysterious you are, the more people wonder.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“You’re a walking mystery.” He rose, came around the desk. As he did, he saw her brace, stay on alert, even when he leaned back against the front of the desk.
He wanted to ask her who’d hurt her, who she was afraid of. But he’d lose her if he did.
“You’re a really attractive woman who lives alone—with a big, muscular
dog—outside of the town proper. Nobody knows for sure where you came from, why you came here, what you do for a living. And since this is the South, nobody knows who your people are. You’re a Yankee, so people will give you a certain latitude. We like eccentrics around here, it fits right in with the community. If people decide you’re eccentric, they’ll stop wondering.”
“By certain standards I am eccentric. I can be more so if that would satisfy everyone.”
He grinned at her, just couldn’t help it. “You’re definitely different. What do you do for a living, Abigail? If it’s not a mystery, or a matter of national security, you should be able to tell me. And that would be a simple conversation.”
“I’m a freelance computer programmer and software designer. I also design security systems, and improve or redesign existing systems, primarily for corporations.”
“Interesting. And not so hard to talk about.”
“Much of my work is highly sensitive. All of it is confidential.”
“Understood. You must be pretty smart.”
“I’m very smart.”
“Where’d you study?”
She stared at him, cool, calm, contained. “You see, when you ask all these questions, it doesn’t feel like conversation. It feels like interrogation.”
“Fair enough. Ask me a question.”
She frowned at him, eyes level. “I don’t have a question.”
“If you’re so smart, you can think of one.” He pushed off the desk, went to a dorm-sized refrigerator and took out two Cokes. He handed her one, popped the top on the second. “Something wrong?” he asked, when she just stared at the can in her hand.
“No. No. All right, a question. Why did you go into law enforcement?”
“See, that’s a good one.” He pointed at her in approval, then leaned
against the desk again, the hills at his back in view out the window. “I like to solve problems. I believe in a lot of things. Don’t believe in a lot, too, but one of the things I believe in is there’s right and there’s wrong. Now, not everybody figures right and wrong exactly the same. It can be a subjective sort of thing. When you’re a cop, sometimes it is black and white, and sometimes you have to decide—in this situation, with these people, is it wrong, or just something that needs handling?”
“That seems very confusing.”
“Not really. It’s solving problems, and the only real way to solve them is to use your head. And your gut.”
“The intellect is a more accurate gauge than emotion. The intellect deals with facts. Emotions are variable and unreliable.”
“And human. What good are laws if they’re not human?”
He set his Coke down to take hers. He opened it for her, handed it back. “You need a glass?”
“Oh. No. Thank you.” She took a small sip. “Chief Gleason.”
“Brooks. Aren’t you going to ask me how I got a name like Brooks?”
“I assume it’s a family name.”
He pointed at her again. “You’d assume wrong. Now, aren’t you curious?”
“I … Yes, a little.”
“Brooks Robinson.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was afraid of that. Baseball, Abigail. Brooks was one of the best third basemen to ever guard the hot corner. My mother came from Baltimore, where he played. My mama, she’s a fiend for baseball. Even when she drifted here, back toward the tail end of the seventies, she followed baseball, and worshipped the Baltimore Orioles. According to her, when she watched Brooks win MVP in the 1970 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds, she vowed when she had a son, she’d name him Brooks.”
“She must be very serious about baseball.”
“Oh, she is. Where’d Abigail come from?”
“It’s just a name.”
“I like Abigail. Old-fashioned class.”
“Thank you.” She rose. “I need to go. I still have work to finish today. I apologize if I seemed rude this morning, and I hope I’ve cleared things up.”
“I appreciate you coming in. What I said this morning stands. If you need anything, call.”
“I won’t, but thank you for the Coke and the conversation.” She handed the can back to him. “Good-bye.”
When she left, he studied the can. What did it say about him, he wondered, that he was actively thinking of sending it off for DNA and prints?
Didn’t seem right, on several levels, he decided. But he took the can to the restroom, poured the contents down the sink. Back in his office, he slipped the empty can into an evidence bag, and stored it in his bottom drawer.
Just in case.
The entire day left Brooks feeling restless, and it wasn’t his usual state of mind. He didn’t want his own company, and since he’d told Sylbie he had to work instead of just saying no, thanks, he couldn’t justify dropping by McGrew’s Pub for a beer, a game of pool, some conversation.
Instead of heading home, he drove to the end of Shop Street, hung a left and pulled into the rambling, never-quite-finished house behind his mother’s Prius.
Scaffolding clung to the side, where he could follow the progress on her current mural. Sexy fairies, he noted, with flowing hair, delicate wings. Under the roofline on the front, burnished-skinned, leanly muscled men and women rode dragons with iridescent scales of ruby or emerald or sapphire.
It was impressive work, he thought. Maybe a little strange for house and home, but no one could miss the O’Hara-Gleason place.
He stepped onto the cherry-red porch to the door flanked by pointy-eared elves.
And stepped inside music and scent and color. Clutter and comfort reigned, dominated by his mother’s art, cheered by the flowers his father brought home at least twice a week.
Tulips to celebrate the coming spring, Brooks decided. Every color of the rainbow and tucked into vases, bowls, pots scattered around the room. The black cat his father named Chuck curled on the sofa and barely slitted his eyes open to acknowledge Brooks.
“No, don’t get up,” Brooks said under the blast of Fergie filling the house.
He wandered back, past his father’s office, the tiny, crowded library, and into the hub—the kitchen.