Cold Comfort (5 page)

A few dogs raised their voices, objecting to his hurried footsteps. No one seemed to notice
—
too early to worry about thieves. He clicked on a small flashlight and found a path behind the backyards, probably made by kids, and ran to meet Claire.

A horrendous racket erupted from the dog next door when he vaulted one-handed over her fence. Claire, standing beside her car, called to quiet the damn dog.

A porch light beamed from the next house, and a man appeared, silhouetted in the open door. "Who's there?" he called, stepping down into the yard. "Claire, is that you?"

A lanky teenaged boy carrying a baseball bat appeared in the doorway behind the man.

Riley crossed the back yard and threw up his hands. "Dammit." He caught up with Claire. "I told you to stay in the car till I got here."

"Yes, I heard you." She arched an eyebrow and gave him a level look. "I checked before I got out. I'm not stupid."

"You thought you were safe the other night, too."

"I wasn't expecting anyone then. Tonight I checked carefully before I got out." A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. She walked over to the fence, leaving him standing.

Jesus. What if the guy'd been waiting for her?

Her back to him, she spoke to the neighbors. "It's all right, Hal, Jason. He's with me. Good boy, Goodyear."

Riley scowled, expecting at least a German shepherd. A large, hairy blimp on stubby legs trotted up to the fence. Goodyear. Claire reached over the gate and patted him fondly, smiled up at her neighbors. "Hal and Jason Beck, this is Mr. Riley. He's a..." She glanced over her shoulder at Riley.

"A friend of a friend." In two strides, he reached her side and stuck out his hand, knowing the gesture wasn't friendly.

Hal's gaze darted from Riley to Claire and back again, checking him up and down before accepting his hand. The guy bristled a little and took a step closer to Claire. Riley watched, kept his expression hard, and wondered about their relationship. Claire seemed unaware of the testosterone fogging the air.

Jason jumped over the picket fence to Claire's side, breaking the tension. "Are you a detective?" A shaky falsetto threatened to break through his excited voice, but the nascent baritone held. "I told Claire she should hire one."

"Jason," his father said.

"It's all right." Riley, in the face of such wide-eyed enthusiasm, relented. He didn't answer the question, just nodded and shook the boy's hand. "Is this your dog?"

"Yes, sir. That's Goodyear."

"He's a great watchdog. I came past several dogs who barely yipped. Only Goodyear here really sounded the alarm."

Claire gave the dog another pat. "He and Jason certainly saved me the other night. I don't think I'd have gotten off so lightly if it hadn't been for them."

"So lightly?" Jason turned to Riley. "There was blood
every
where. I thought he'd killed her or something. But he did take off like Freddy Kruger was after him when I came out of the house. I guess I scared him. I knew something was wrong. So did Dad. Goodyear never sounds like that."

"You saw him?"

"Yes. We saw a figure in black, running away." Hal pointed toward the woods. "We could see Claire on her knees in the light from the car."

Claire shivered. Her eyes lost their focus. Riley didn't know if she remembered the attack in the driveway or the headlights in the alley.

"Yeah. Dad stayed with Claire and I called 911. I told them she was hurt and what happened." The boy enjoyed telling his story. "The guy ran the way you came."

Riley turned to face the yard he'd just crossed. "I don't guess you could see anything about him. Too dark."

"No, I'm afraid not." Hal shoved his hands in his pockets, moved another step closer to Claire. "It happened so fast, and I was more concerned about Claire."

I'll bet
, Riley thought.

Jason cocked his head and chewed his lip for a second. "I think he had a cold."

Hal turned to the boy, surprised. "A cold?"

Riley said, "Just tell me everything you can think of, Jason."

"When he ran away, I could hear him breathe, kind of a wheeze." Jason forced air through his throat, imitating the sound.

"Maybe he has allergies. Or asthma," Riley said, encouraging the boy to continue.

Hal frowned. "Did you tell this to the police?"

"I just thought of it. The other night, well, there was so much going on, and the police were talking to you, not me."

"You remember it now, so it's not a problem," Riley said. "Tell me, how did he run? Young or old? Think about it."

Hal raised his eyebrows at Claire.

The boy frowned into the darkness. "Kind of old. Maybe as old as my dad. And big. Solid. Like a linebacker."

"Good information. You're observant," Riley told him. He figured Beck was close to forty, about his age.
That old, huh
.

* * *

The men continued to talk. Claire leaned against the car, imagining herself sliding off the fender like spaghetti off a plate, congealing into a lump on the ground. Those little white pills, on top of everything else, packed a wallop. The men droned on. Watching Jason, she thought he grew two inches on the spot, and he hadn't squeaked, mumbled, or shuffled his feet once. Riley's easy, matter-of-fact way with the awkward boy surprised her.

Jason blew a warm breath and watched it crystallize in the air, still basking in Riley's praise. He rubbed his arms through his shirtsleeves.

Hal draped his arm over the boy's shoulders. "We'd better go in. It's freezing out here."

"Yes, sir. Goodnight, Claire, Mr. Riley. Come on, Goodyear," Jason said. The dog came to his side, wagging his tail.

Hal raised his eyebrow in a question, offering her a last chance at rescue.

"Thanks for coming out to check. I'll be fine." Nice of him to be concerned, she thought. He turned to walk his son home. Claire glanced at Riley, looking hard and tough. Maybe she didn't need a Rottweiler after all.

"I want to check your house," he said to Claire. "And you ought to cut down this bush."

"My lilac? Never." She loved that bush. Her mother planted it.

Riley's dour expression conveyed his opinion. "Maybe the SOB'll be allergic to them, but at this time of year, it's unlikely."

"The police officer checked all the locks the other night." She opened the door and entered the hallway, reached for the lamp switch before she remembered the missing bulb. "Oh! The lights
—
"

Before she could explain, Riley shoved past her into the dark hall. "Get down!"

Startled, it took her a second to understand.
The light.
"Wait, the
—
"

"Quiet," he mouthed, cutting her off. Crouching, he edged around the arched opening to the living room.

In the dim light from the porch, Claire glimpsed the gun in his hand—the last straw. She gulped back tears. In their place, laughter bubbled up in her throat. Imagining his reaction, she tried to suppress it, tried hard. Then she heard him trip. She winced, understanding instantly. She'd left the electric drill on the living room floor when it got too heavy to hold anymore. Riley would kill her himself, saving someone the trouble. Wild laughter erupted through her fingers, pressed tightly over her mouth.

Lights flashed on, exposing his humorless expression. "What, exactly, do you find so funny, Miss Spencer?"

"The lightbulb
—
" She gasped and interrupted herself with another burst of laughter. Peal after peal tumbled out of her, until tears rolled down her cheeks.

He grabbed her shoulder
—
the left one, fortunately
—
and swung her around to face him. "Stop it. You're hysterical."

She couldn't.

He caught both shoulders and gave her a quick shake.

Pain shot through her. Her eyes opened wide, then closed. The laughter died on her lips. She stifled a cry, feeling like a punctured balloon. "I'm sorry," she managed, still trying to catch her breath.

"Now, would you like to tell me what this is about?" He lowered his hands, still clenching his fists.

"I gave the lightbulb to the policeman. He put it in the porch light for me. And the drill...the windows. I was so tired..." A hard lump formed in her throat. Tears, real ones this time, filled her eyes. She spun out of his reach toward the kitchen. "I'm going to make a cup of tea," she said, her voice strained, and ran.

"Hold it." Riley pushed past her into the kitchen, glanced around. "Let me check the house before you go charging off."

She heard him mutter "Women" like a curse before he disappeared again. Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face. After a minute, she patted her face dry with a paper towel, took a deep breath, and opened her eyes. Black smudges stained the white paper. Damn. Dracula's daughter. She was not a pretty crier.

* * *

Riley made a cursory check of the upper floor. Clear.

Nevertheless, he paused at the landing and listened intently. No creaking floorboards, no scraping drawers. And no wheezing. Something bothered him, but he couldn't pin it down. He shrugged and began a real examination of the house, avoiding Claire and the kitchen, wondering why he didn't just lock up and get the hell out. The source of tonight's fiasco—a small brass lamp on the hall table—had no bulb. He'd take care of it later, sure he'd find a pantry in the kitchen, sensibly stocked with a spare everything. The lights from the living room would do for now.

One small lamp shone on a stunning portrait, the focal point of the room. He moved closer. The woman's character, strong and loving, infused the painting. Probably her mother. He recognized the Alabama artist, Jackie Williams. Claire had an eye for quality.

He spotted the offending drill. Following the cord between a stuffed chair and an ottoman, he found a box of three-penny nails and a hammer. A small scattering of sawdust on the windowsill led him to a nail head protruding from a corner of the sash. Homemade security. He shook his head and picked up the drill to finish the job. Why not? It made a better deterrent than many things on the market.

Finishing her handyman project, he surveyed the rest of the room. A framed clipping hung near the door. He leaned closer to read the
Southern Living
feature on Mistletoe, dated a few months ago. The article included a nice shot of Claire standing beside the fireplace in her shop. She must have been thrilled—the publicity probably jacked up her sales.

Soft footsteps sounded on the wooden floor and he turned. She padded down the hallway in her stocking feet, carrying a Coke in one hand and her cup in the other. "I didn't think you'd want tea."

The faint scent of her perfume tickled his nose, making him want to lean closer. He took the drink and backed off to a safer zone. "Thanks." Diet. He could have guessed. He nodded at the article. "So you're famous."

"Serendipity. I wish my mother had seen it." A hint of a smile lightened the shadows under her eyes. "The writer's car broke down and he came into Mistletoe to use the phone book. Business doubled the month the article came out."

"Nice." More pink ornaments—just what the world needed.

"What are you looking for?"

Those blue eyes watched him over the rim of her cup. He picked up a nail, flipped it through his fingers, distracting himself. "Just getting a feel for the place, trying to see what someone else might be after."

"If you need me, I'll be here," she said, sinking into a chair. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

"Why don't you go to bed. You'll be asleep in about ten seconds. I'll finish and let myself out."

Her eyes opened again slowly, and she yawned. "You're right." She pushed herself up and shuffled toward the stairs. "Lock up when you leave."

He stood by the banister, watched her to her bedroom door. Relieved to have her safely out of sight, he crossed to the coffee table to check the magazines. Nothing indicated expensive or exotic tastes or hobbies, but several focused on cooking. Interesting. The kitchen moved up his priority list.

The corner of a
Richmond Times-Dispatch
folded open caught his attention. He slid it out from under the magazines and found an article on Senator Nolan Jennings's upcoming wetlands bill. The article wasn't exposed accidentally
—
yellow highlighter marked the salient points. He sat down on the couch to read, surprised it interested Claire.

A second article gave an update on Jennings's condition. The senator's heart attack occurred two days after a heated debate with Elton Burley, the multimillionaire developer from the Virginia Tidewater area who testified against the bill. A picture showed Burley and Jennings nose to nose, both angry. Riley recognized the developer's name, but he'd never paid much attention. He examined the photo
.
Burley, good-looking and well dressed, could have modeled for GQ. In a highlighted quote, the man said, "The Clean Water Act does not regulate activities on lands far from navigable waters, which makes these guidelines illegal. I'm bringing suit in federal court."