Sugarplums and Scandal Page 13

  Wearing dirty tattered clothing and ragged knit caps and jackets, the three men surrounding Cecilia Lattimer also needed shaves and haircuts. The wind sweeping snowflakes down the dark alley carried their odor.

  These men looked like they wanted to do more than a little misbehaving.

  But then, she believed that she was on someone’s hit list, her home entered and de-organized, and now her car wouldn’t start—just after a tune-up. Cecilia should have expected trouble.

  As a professional organizer, she really resented the systematic destruction of her office, closets, shelves—and the telephone hang-ups. Nothing was simply shoved to the floor or scattered about; files had been misplaced, her kitchen pot lids weren’t hanging in order, the bedding sets in her linen closet had been mixed, and her closets no longer were bunched in blouses, jackets, and slacks. Nor were they separated by color. Her dress shoes had been mixed with her joggers and summer sandals.

  The sound of the town’s snowplow bounced off the alley’s brick walls as it passed by. At six-thirty in the evening, the small Missouri town of Dewdrop had settled in for the night—except for the state patrol and the town’s deputies who were probably holed up at Lori’s Cafe, just a block from where Cecilia was cornered. She imagined the lawmen sitting around the cafe, shooting the bull, soaking up free coffee and dining on the special—while she needed them.

  “I’m on my way to a meeting” she said to the men circling her. “I’m the president of our local Christmas Cheer Club and tonight we’re wrapping gifts—Christmas is just a week away, you know… and we’re very busy. I’m bringing the cookies, and I’m certain you don’t want me to be late—they’ll miss me,” she added for effect and hoped that the men didn’t notice the fear in her voice.

  Because these men might be involved with the recent thefts in Dewdrop, and she did not want to antagonize them, she didn’t add that the club’s last meeting was really important. The club was faced with their usual tasks of delivering cheer and gifts to those who seemed in the dumps and replacing the gifts that had been stolen from beneath Christmas trees.

  Cecilia looked at the man who had just entered the alley. He was big. He was dirty and he was hairy. His eyes glistened dangerously in the shadows.

  “Hello, boys.” Seemingly at ease, he leaned against the opposite brick wall of the alley, his hands in his army surplus jacket, the ear flaps of his cap disappearing somewhere into the mass of his hair and beard.

  The men turned to him, but backed closer to Cecilia. One said, “No one invited you.”

  That was good, Cecilia thought as she remembered television scenarios where the gangs battled among themselves. Her view was blocked by the men’s backs, but she heard the swish of something cold and deadly—like a knife being pulled from its sheath.

  There was silence and then the three men looked at each other. Apparently in silent agreement, they hurried off into the snowy night. Cecilia didn’t question their departure, but that left the big man standing on the opposite side of the alley. He watched the men disappear and then his eyes pinned her. He had that wolfish hunter look, and her skin prickled and tightened.

  Cecilia held the cookie container closer to her. They reminded her of the warm safety of her home, but it really wasn’t safe anymore, was it? The ginger-spice scent floated momentarily around her and she heard the pounding, fearful beat of her heart.

  “Rather dumb to be out on a night like this, isn’t it?” he said quietly as the snowplow passed and the light flashed on the pinpoints of his eyes. Then as though doomed, he said, “Let’s get going. Wherever you’re going.”

  Somehow, through her tightened throat, Cecilia managed to repeat her mission. But because she resented the “dumb” remark, honor forced her to add, “My car wouldn’t start, or I would have driven to my meeting.”

  His snort seemed disbelieving and filled with exalted male competence. He stepped out onto the street, and did the left-right scouting thing. Then the sweep of his hand indicated that it was safe to move to the sidewalk.

  “It’s damn cold out here. Let’s move it,” he said impatiently when she stood still, considering the danger of moving too close to him. Her head only reached his shoulder, and he could easily—Cecilia held her breath and forced herself to move by him. She had no idea why the three men had left her alone with him—but then, she suspected that thugs had their own pecking order. Strange—to think that the lawless were somewhat organized. But then, wolves had alpha males, didn’t they?—the rest of the pack wary of them.

  Cecilia shivered inside her long cherry-red berber coat and drew the hood over her gaily knitted Scandinavian cap. The man’s eyes narrowed and slowly moved down her coat to her red snowboots. His nostrils flared, but then most men’s did when catching the scent of her gingersnaps. When he looked at her face again, he seemed to be enjoying a private joke. Now that was irritating.

  “Going to Grandma’s house?” he asked.

  “No, I’m going to my meeting. Thank you for your help. I’m late and I have to hurry,” Cecilia stated as she hurried away from him.

  The firm grip at her winter coat’s collar halted her. “They’re still out there. I’ll walk you to the police station, where you can file a report. But it’s a really dumb thing to do, lady—out in a snowstorm by yourself.”

  “You’re telling me,” she muttered. She couldn’t file a report. Not when the police chief is probably at the bottom of her recent problems.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not reporting anything.”

  “ ‘Anything?’ What else has happened?” Those wolfish pinpoints of his eyes locked onto her. When she refused to answer, he nodded and walked silently beside her.

  Despite her long coat, her knit cap, and insulated snowboots, her body was still bone-chilled. Fear had a way of doing that and she’d had a lot of fear lately—especially since she’d learned that the so-called upstanding police chief would do anything to protect himself from the one person who knew that he had a mistress and who could expose him—one Cecilia Lattimer.

  Cecilia had no doubt that her messed home and the three men were Police Chief Monroe Ringer’s way of getting his Shut-up or Die message across to her.

  She braced herself and turned to the stranger, who towered over her. Snow drifted down between them, settling on his cap and broad shoulders as he hunched beneath his coat. She had to get rid of him. “Thank you for helping me, but I can manage just fine now.”

  “Why aren’t you reporting this? I’d say it was a little dangerous back there, for a woman who’s not smart enough to stay in where it’s safe.”

  Assaults on her intelligence were not necessary; she’d already had enough of that from her ex-husband and her ex-fiancé. She began walking away. “I’d rather just go to my meeting. I can manage now.”

  “Oh, yeah. The Christmas Cheer Club,” he repeated softly at her side, as if making a mental note to himself.

  The blizzard’s freezing wind whipped at her, as if reminding her that she needed to repay him, before getting rid of him. As they were walking, Cecilia handed him the cookie container. “Hold this.”

  She dug into her pocket and pulled out her wallet, extracting a twenty from it. She held it out to him. “Thanks. We’re coming to a cafe where you can go in and get a hot meal. The food is good.”

  The stranger looked at the collection of police cars parked in front and shook his head. He handed the container and the bill back to her. “I’ll stick with you.”

  Men did not stick with Cecilia; they feared she would try to organize them and they usually ran for cover.

  As they came closer to the cafe, Cecilia wondered if she should make a break for it and run into the cafe. Then she saw her ex-fiancé exit the building and stop on the front steps. Edward Regan immediately spotted her and started walking toward her. “Dumb thing to be out on a night like this, Cecilia. You should have better sense. But then, you were never one to make sense, were you? What the hell are you doing walk
ing in a blizzard?”

  As the town’s biggest attorney, high on the social ladder, Edward wasn’t making her night any better. A fresh gust of wind hit her, and she turned to where the stranger had been standing. Only the snow flurries remained, the streetlights pooling into the swirling mist. She glanced at the cafe’s windows to find the police chief and his deputies staring out at them, no doubt waiting for the usual fiery confrontation.

  Edward’s gloved hands wrapped around her upper arms. To the people inside, it may have looked like a pleasant greeting; it wasn’t. He leaned down to her, all clean and shaven and handsome—and extremely furious, his ice blue eyes flashing at her, the line of his mouth cruel and hard. While Edward was the darling of his mother’s social set, he was also a bully, which was why Cecilia couldn’t marry him. “Let me go, Edward.”

  “Tonight just proves how incompetent you are in decision making. You should have married me a year ago. Now you’ll have to apologize and crawl before I’d have you again. You need help, Cecilia—a man to make your decisions for you.”

  “I’ve made one decision right now. If you don’t let me go, I’m going to kick you. Remember the last time you tried to muscle me?”

  Edward visibly shrank back, apparently struck by that painful memory. But still furious, he leaned down to her. “I’ll make good my promise to ruin you, you know. No woman ever humiliates Edward Regan.”

  “No, you do that nicely by yourself.” Cecilia pushed on through the snowstorm, warm now with righteous anger.

  The tall, hairy stranger swung in beside her and Cecilia ignored him. “I don’t have time for you.”

  “You have a problem with that guy?”

  He was a stranger in Dewdrop. He’d be moving on, a ship in the night. She could tell him anything—almost. “That’s my ex-fiancé. He has a little problem with me. I said ‘no’ at the altar.”

  She thought she heard a chuckle as she walked down the street layered with impressive homes. Somehow John Lattimer’s former mistress and now second wife, Tracy, had managed to have the most important meeting of the whole year at her home. It was festive, of course, decorated to the hilt, which was good advertising for Tracy’s gift shop, Fancy Stuff.

  Cecilia stared at the Lattimer plaque on the walkway. She shivered at the memory of how her ex-husband, John, had told her he really loved Tracy and would be marrying her as soon as possible.

  “We’re here. Thanks for the company. Have a good night, and the shelter here in Dewdrop really is very good.”

  The stranger was looking at the bedecked house, studying it closely. Cecilia wondered if he could be part of the ring that had burglarized Dewdrop. He turned to study the other homes on the street, all massive, two-story, and loaded with Christmas presents beneath the trees.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Cecilia ordered quietly.

  “Huh?” He was still studying the layout of the upscale homes. Cecilia thought of the home she had shared with John—modest, warm and—She inhaled suddenly, John knew exactly how well she loved order in her life; he would know to put the files beginning with KL in front of the KE files. He would know to put the smaller pot lid between the two larger ones. He would know how small differences, like turning the china cup handles in opposite directions would upset her.

  Engrossed in her John-as-a-suspect thoughts, Cecilia had no time to deal with this stranger. “Look. I know what you look like. If I have to, I’ll report you as a suspicious character, and I really wouldn’t want to do that.”

  She wasn’t prepared for his “Why not?”

  “It’s the Christmas season, that’s why.” Balancing fear, anger, and holiday cheer was a regular emotional teeter-totter.

  And in a few moments she would be facing her ex-husband’s new wife. Tracy would be in form, dropping careful little snippets about how she made John sexually happy—and what John had said about his lacking ex-wife.

  The big stranger looked down at the cookie tin marked LATTIMER, and then to the bronze marker of her ex-husband’s home, clearly matching them. Whoever he was, this man was noting everything. Pride demanded that Cecilia make a distinct difference between her home and John’s new one—with Tracy. “This isn’t my home. I have to go. Thank you,” Cecilia said as she hurried to the house.

  When Tracy answered the doorbell, she stuck out a Santa Claus cap. “Put it on. Where have you been? We’ve been waiting forever for you. Jayne’s already been into the punch.”

  “Car problems.” Cecilia removed her winter cap and coat, aware that Tracy had noted the cheaper brand names with a superior sniff. And had overdecorated as usual, her home alight and atumble with expensive Christmas decorations, all sold at Fancy Stuff.

  “John is working in his office. You know how he is, a man holed up with his work,” Tracy said in her usual taunting tone that said she was the woman who got the prize that Cecilia still longed to reclaim. “Everyone else is here. Their husbands dropped them off, so they wouldn’t have to walk in the blizzard. You can sit on the hallway stool to remove your snowboots.”

  Cecilia ignored Tracy’s last dig and smiled at her friends, all five sitting on the floor, amid a storm of wrapping paper and ribbon. “Hiya, Cecilia,” Jayne called warmly, and Mary hurried to make a place for Cecilia on the floor. “Tracy thought we should go ahead and work on our list of people who needed Christmas cheer, because you were late.”

  Lists were usually Cecilia’s task, because she was very efficient and organized.

  Her mind still on the disarrangement of her home, her stalled car, the three men, her ex-fiancé, and the alpha male stranger, Cecilia settled into the clutter of paper rolls, ribbon, and tape. She automatically placed all the tape within a small basket, where they could be easily found. She neatened the paper rolls and lined them on the carpet, placing the ribbons in an empty box, separating them by color. All of that busy work brought her mind back to Dewdrop’s police chief and how just yesterday she had accidentally dialed his private number.

  “Hold on,” Monroe Ringer had simply said and as she waited, he’d gone on with his conversation on another telephone line. She wanted to wait and apologize for misdialing. After all, it would be rude to just hang up.

  Without putting her on hold, Monroe spoke to someone else, “I don’t care how you do it, just clean up this mess. I don’t want any problems. Don’t tell my wife anything. She doesn’t need to know. Hell, yes, I’ll pay the tab somehow. Just get Cecilia Lattimer.”

  “Get Cecilia” had caused her to shiver. Because she knew exactly why: Monroe was new in town, an upscale city cop who wanted to move to a small town. His wife was evidently classy and very pregnant. And it wasn’t his wife in his arms, snuggled up to him in that police car when Cecilia drove by. The girl was young, gorgeous, and her arms were around his neck. From the backseat, Monroe had glowered at Cecilia, and since then his suspicious looks had raised the hair on her nape.

  Monroe could not afford gossip or upsetting his wealthy, pregnant wife—and Cecilia was now on his hit list. And running wasn’t an option because she had clients and contracts. Mistress-adultery-exposure without actual proof wasn’t an option either. Cecilia had kept her uneasy silence, and therefore safety, until “Get Cecilia.”

  “I don’t know how thieves can steal presents from under the tree. It’s just horrible,” Amy was saying. “Cecilia, you’ve just put a purple bow on that blue package. Is something wrong? Is something bothering you?”

  Cecilia stared at her work. She wished she’d never seen Monroe and the girl snuggled together in the backseat of that police car; she wished she’d gone to Florida to visit her brother and parents. Just tonight, her fear factor had escalated and she had to do something to protect herself.

  Instead, she said, “We’re going to have to start thinking about fund raisers for next year. We’re over budget because of trying to replace the stolen presents.”

  After the meeting, Cecilia dreaded walking out into the night. But the roads were hazardous and s
he didn’t want to endanger her friends—and she would not accept Tracy’s too generous offer of staying the night. She would be more alert this time and walk—or run—home.

  Cecilia hurried down the street and the big stranger appeared at her side. She didn’t look at him, but lifted her cookie tin. “Here, you can have what’s left.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It isn’t nice to hurt someone who feeds you.” What a thing to say to a potential hit man! But then, having just seen Tracy wrap her arms around John, lifting her leg to circle his—humiliation and anger were back. If anyone wanted to hurt Cecilia now, she’d mow them down.

  The stranger moved silently beside her, blocking the icy wind and snow. The scent of her gingersnaps and his “Mmm. Good” was vaguely comforting. Then he asked, “You’re really steamed. Why?”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Like Tracy making out with John in front of me… how rude! “What’s your name anyway?” Just in case I have to write it in the snow with my own blood.

  “Berenger.”

  That would be a long name to write as she lay dying. Cecilia hurried on, braced against the wind. Then her house appeared at the end of the block—small, formerly safe, with a home office and an attached garage. On the street in front of her house, she stopped so suddenly that the stranger’s body hit hers, almost knocking her into the snowbank that blocked her driveway. She stood looking at her house, dreading entering it. Her anger had slid away, replaced by fear. If Monroe wanted to intimidate her, he was doing a good job of it.

  “Problem?” Berenger asked softly beside her.

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s your house, isn’t it? It has C. Lattimer on the door, just like the name on your cookie tin here.” He handed the tin to her. ‘”Not very smart, putting your name out there where anyone can find you. Bet you have a personalized license plate, too. You probably list your name in the residential section of the telephone book? Don’t you know how dumb that is. to put your name and address out there?”

  Her anger stirred, warming her. Of course, she did all three. But it was a small town. Hiding was really not an option. “Maybe. Look, I’m just considering my options and how to get rid of you. And I’d feel better if you just—” Cecilia stared after the man walking up to her front porch. “Hey, get away from my house!”