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“This isn’t about Tom. It’s about me.” Her body tensed. “Maybe I’m not cut out to be married.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re a warm, loving woman. Look at what a great job you’ve done with Benjy.”
Without thinking, he dipped his head and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. Her hair smelled of lilacs. When she smiled up at him, the gray-green of her eyes seemed as deep as a mountain glen. Holding her felt so damn good; he didn’t want to let her go. But Angela wasn’t his woman. She was about to be married to another man.
“Thanks, Shane. You always know what to say.”
He stepped away from her. “Let me do my job as an almost former deputy and investigate. I want to figure out who messed up your dress, and I’m starting here. At Waffles. Take me inside, and show me where you keep your knives.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you promise not to interrogate anybody?”
“Not unless they come at me with a loaded gun.”
He strode to the rear door of the restaurant and pulled it open. Inside, the warmth of the kitchen flowed around him in a wave of breakfast aromas—bacon, coffee and freshly baked muffins. The back door opened into a hallway between the walk-in refrigeration unit and the office, which was their first stop. The office space had two small desks— one for Angela and one for Yvonne Brighton, her partner. Two tall, metal file cabinets stood beside two lockers.
Angela opened the locker nearest the door.
“You don’t keep anything locked,” he said.
“Sometimes I do. At the end of the day.”
She removed a black cutlery bag from the lower shelf. When she opened it on the desk, he could see the empty slot where the boning knife should have fit with the rest of the set. Angela touched the space and looked up at him. “Now we know for sure. It’s my knife.”
It would have been simple for someone to slip inside the office and steal her knife. The friendly atmosphere of Old South Clarkson Street made for lousy investigating. “I might be able to get fingerprints off the handle.”
“Most people aren’t that dumb,” she said. “We keep a stock of throwaway gloves in the kitchen.”
Though he nodded in agreement, he figured he could stop by the PRESS offices later if he wanted to check for fingerprints. They had a forensics department and computer access that rivaled that of the Denver PD.
Angela’s partner popped into the office. Yvonne Brighton was a tall, big-boned woman who did a killer Julia Child impersonation. A lopsided navy-blue chef hat covered most of her curly brown hair. She gave them a toothy grin. “I thought I heard someone back here.”
She charged at Shane and enveloped him in a giant bear hug which he happily reciprocated. He liked Yvonne. She was funny and smart—too smart to put anything over on. Before she stepped away from him, she patted his shoulder holster and said, “Expecting trouble?”
“Shane has a new job.” Angela rushed to explain. “He’s working for a bodyguard company.”
His new employer was far more complex, but he didn’t correct her. “I’m moving to Denver.”
“Terrific!” Yvonne wiggled her eyebrows. “Or should I say très magnifique! Angela and I have somebody you really need to meet.”
“The French woman.” He gritted his teeth. What was it about a single man that turned women into matchmakers?
“Marie Devereaux. Very pretty. And an excellent baker. She’s doing the wedding cake, which means it’ll be beautiful and taste good, too. You’ll like her.”
“If you say so.”
“I most certainly do.”
Yvonne wasn’t shy about giving orders. When it came to managing the restaurant, she and Angela complemented each other perfectly. Angela provided the empathetic voice of reason, and Yvonne made sure things got done.
She sat in the swivel chair behind her desk. To Angela, she said, “I’m glad you’re here. I need a break. Could you take care of the kitchen for a couple of minutes while I chat with the mountain man?”
“No problem.” Angela grabbed her knives and went toward the office door. “I feel guilty about not being here more often this week.”
When she left the office, Shane positioned himself in the doorway so he could keep an eye on her. Despite the cozy atmosphere of Waffles, he hadn’t forgotten the danger.
“We need to talk.” When Yvonne pulled off her chef’s hat and ruffled her hair, he noticed a few more strands of gray. He didn’t know Yvonne’s age, but she had two grown daughters. She exhaled a sigh. “I’m worried about Angela.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s been dragging in here like she’s half-dead. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair hanging limp. I’ve seen her hands trembling. And she must have lost ten pounds in the last two weeks.” Yvonne scowled. “It reminds me of how she fell apart after Tom’s death.”
“I remember.” Though Angela and Yvonne weren’t in business together five years ago, they’d been friends. “You and your husband helped her through that tragedy.”
“And you. In spite of the grief you were carrying, you were one hundred percent there for our girl.”
In the kitchen, he saw Angela step up to the grill. Her hands moved nimbly as she poured batter and flipped pancakes. She sprinkled powdered sugar on one order, dropped a dollop of sour cream topped with three blueberries on another. Graceful and fast, never missing a beat, her food preparation was a virtuoso performance.
Shane turned his attention toward Yvonne. Her concern was obvious and sincere, and she knew Angela better than almost anyone else. “Why do you think she’s upset?”
“It’s almost like she’s haunted.”
“Nervous about getting married again,” he suggested.
“Oh, I don’t think marriage bothers her.”
“Then what?”
“It’s Neil,” she said. “He thinks running Waffles is beneath her. His wife should stay at home and tend to his needs. Can you see Angela doing that? Within a month, she’d be climbing the walls.”
“If Neil gets his way and Angela quits, what happens to Waffles?”
“I’d sell the place,” she said without hesitation. “We’ve had offers.”
Yvonne’s theory didn’t tell him much about possible intruders or the person who slashed the wedding gown. Instead, it pointed back to Angela herself. Her fear of getting married—to Neil or anyone else—was eating at her, making it hard for her to sleep.
Still, he found it hard to believe that she’d destroyed her wedding dress in the throes of a blackout. Whether awake or asleep, Angela wasn’t the type of person who committed outright vandalism.
He turned to Yvonne. “You seem pretty sure about Neil.”
“I am.” For emphasis, she slammed the flat of her hand on the desktop. “She shouldn’t marry him, and I’ll do just about anything to stop her.”
Chapter Five
From his car seat in the back of the van, Benjy chanted in a singsong voice, “George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson.”
Angela asked, “And who is president number thirteen?”
“Easy,” Benjy said. “Millard Fillmore. And twenty-three is Benjy Harrison. He’s the best. He’s got my name.”
Her son had an uncanny gift for memorization. He could repeat an entire book back to her after she read it aloud just once. He rattled off the multisyllable names of dinosaurs without a glitch. And he loved lists, like the presidents.
From the driver’s seat, Shane said, “What number is Teddy Roosevelt?”
“You mean Theodore Roosevelt,” Benjy said. “Twenty-six.”
“Theodore used to visit Colorado a lot,” Shane said. “The next time I take you up to the mountains, I’ll show you a hunting lodge where he stayed.”
“Mommy, I want to go to the mountains. Now.”
“Soon,” Angela promised. To Shane she said, “Turn left at the next stop sign.”
Nervously, she checked her wristwatch. They were running late.
After Shane convinced her that it wasn’t smart to stay at her house, she’d packed up a few essentials and some of Benjy’s toys. Neil’s house was safer. Not that it was a fortress, but he had a top-notch security system.
When she’d called Neil and told him their plan, he sounded pleased, which didn’t surprise her a bit. Neil liked to have things under control—his control.
They’d made arrangements to meet at his house at one o’clock sharp for lunch. It was past that time now. Angela fidgeted in the passenger seat, knowing that Neil’s housekeeper, Wilma, would be annoyed. Her thin mouth would pull down in a disapproving frown, and her eyes would fill with judgment.
At the stop sign before they entered Neil’s cul-de-sac, a black truck crossed in front of them. Thousands of similar vehicles cruised the streets of Denver, but every time she saw one, she was reminded of the hit-and-run driver who killed Tom. The black truck was a bad omen.
“Straight ahead.” She pointed. “Pull into the driveway.”
Shane gave a low whistle. “Wow. That’s a whole lot of house.”
Three stories in English Tudor style, Neil’s seven-bedroom house took up the end of a cul-de-sac that bordered on forested land. His perfectly manicured lawn stretched like a green carpet to the double-wide oak doors beneath the porch. Summer flowers and cultivated rosebushes, which were tended twice a week by gardeners, made brilliant splashes of crimson, yellow and purple.
Every time she beheld this magnificent house, Angela wondered how she’d handle the responsibility of caring for the property. Being mistress of the manor didn’t come naturally to her. With the gardeners and the housekeeper and the people who came to clean, she felt as if she was moving into a hotel instead of a home that was truly her own.
As soon as they parked, Benjy threw off his seat belt and scrambled free from the car seat. “Open the door, Mommy.”
To Shane, she said, “We can leave the suitcases here for now. We’re already eight minutes late for lunch.”
“Is that a problem?”
She didn’t want to admit that she was worried about the housekeeper’s opinion and trying her best to live up to everybody’s expectations. “I like to be on time.”
As soon as she opened the van door for Benjy, he jumped out. With his backpack tucked under his arm, he bounced along the sidewalk to the porch.
Neil opened the door and stood there, framed by his grand and beautiful home. In his white shirt with the open collar and his gray linen slacks, he looked elegant. Lean and healthy, he had a summer tan from playing golf and tennis. His sandy-blond hair curled above his forehead. His best features, as far as she was concerned, were his dark eyes. There was a fierceness in those eyes, an indication of passions that ran deeper than his sophisticated outer veneer.
When he lifted Benjy in his arms and gave the boy a hug, her tension eased a bit. She could see that Neil cared about her son. Marrying him wasn’t a mistake.
As she and Shane approached the porch, Neil said, “I have a surprise. My dad just arrived from Virginia.”
She stiffened her spine. Only once before had she met Roger Revere, retired general and former JAG lawyer. He’d made it very clear that she needed to shape up if she truly wanted to be a member of their family. He would certainly disapprove of her disheveled hair, the smear of cooking grease on her chinos and her well-worn sneakers.
“You boys go ahead to lunch,” she said. “Start without me. I need to freshen up.”
“Take your time,” Neil said as he carried Benjy through the foyer to the dining room.
Shane hung back. He touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
Not okay. I’m a wreck. She felt like a big, fat mess— confused and borderline nuts. “I’ll make it.”
“Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”
His offer of unconditional support touched her. Everybody else in her life made demands and passed judgment. Not Shane. He’d seen her at her worst, and he was still her friend.
Forcing a grin, she turned away from him. “Start without me. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
She darted up the stairs to the second-floor master bedroom she would be sharing with Neil, probably from this day forward. The black-and-white décor felt sterile and cold. The only pictures on the walls were black-and-white photographs of landscapes—places she’d never been. In the adjoining bathroom, she closed the door and leaned against it.
The tension she’d been holding at bay coiled tightly around her, squeezing her lungs and making her heart beat too fast. No matter how fiercely she denied the threat, she felt danger all around. Either she was going insane or someone was after her. I’ve got to calm down.
She dug into her purse and took out the amber vial of the prescription sedatives Neil had given her. She was only supposed to take one at night before bed, but she needed to quell her rising fears. Even if she fell asleep this afternoon, that was better than running through the house screaming.
Popping off the cap, she tapped a light blue pill into her hand and swallowed it dry. Soon, she’d be more relaxed.
In the mirror over the sink, she confronted her reflection and groaned. Making herself presentable was going to take more than a fresh coat of lipstick. This would require a major repair job.
FOLLOWING NEIL, SHANE entered the spacious living room with a fireplace at the south end. When they were outside the house, he’d noticed two chimneys rising above the gables. As he’d said to Angela, this was a whole lot of house—big and classy with Persian rugs, heavy furniture and framed oil paintings. Two older gentlemen sat opposite each other in oxblood leather chairs.
One of them he recognized as Dr. Edgar Prentice. Prentice was the doctor Tom had used for the frozen embryo procedure, and Shane vaguely recalled some kind of recent scandal involving Prentice’s fertility clinic in Aspen.
Slowly, Prentice unfolded himself from the chair. He moved with hesitation as though he suffered from arthritis. Even stooped, he was nearly as tall as Shane—taller if Shane counted the thatch of thick white hair.
“We’ve met before,” he said.
“Tom Hawthorne was my cousin. I came to your office with him.”
“And you’ve remained in contact with his wife for all these years. An admirable display of loyalty.”
His comment made Shane’s relationship with Angela sound like an obligation. Nothing could be further from the truth. “I’m privileged to call Angela my friend.”
The old man’s eyes lit up behind his glasses as he focused on Benjy. “This must be the young man I’ve heard so much about.”
“I’m not a man,” Benjy said. “I’m a kid.”
“Of course. And what’s in your backpack?”
“Stegosaurus, T-Rex, Triceratops. Want to see?”
The boy plopped down on the carpet. With much straining, Prentice bent lower, listening intently as Benjy unpacked his plastic dinosaurs and talked about the Mesozoic era.
Neil introduced him. “Shane Gibson, I’d like you to meet my father, Roger Revere.”
In contrast to Prentice, the stocky, red-faced man sprang from his chair with impressive vigor. Shane braced himself for a power handshake; he wasn’t surprised when Roger glared into his eyes and squeezed hard.
