0373447477 (R) (18 page)

“They can. We have a system set up.”

“What kind of system?”

“The kind that always seems to get me stuck with people who ask a lot of questions,” she grumbled, pulling up in front of Quinn’s apartment. Crime-scene tape stretched across the bottom of the staircase. More blocked the front door.

“I guess they don’t want us here,” Quinn said. “I wonder if my landlady knows what happened.”

“If she’s that lady who’s staring at us from the shop window, then I’d say she does.” Stella pointed to the storefront, and the wizened face that was peering out from it.

“Lucille!” Quinn called as she tried to get out of the SUV.

Tried and failed, because Stella grabbed Malone’s jacket and yanked her back. “Hold your horses, Quinn. What if the guy who tried to run you down is waiting around for another opportunity?”

“Malone and Chance were going after him.”

“Going after him doesn’t mean they have him.” She got out of the SUV, slammed the door shut and strode to Lucille’s bakery. She knocked. Knocked again more loudly. “Ma’am?” she called. “Can you open the door?”

Poor Lucille looked as if she was going to have a coronary, her wrinkled face pressed close to the glass, her mouth gapping open as she stared at Stella.

“She doesn’t open doors for strangers,” Quinn called, getting out of the vehicle, and ignoring Stella’s hard look.

“You think she’s going to open it if someone takes a potshot at you while we’re walking to the door?”

“No one is going to—”

The door flew open and Lucille ran as fast as her eighty-year-old legs could carry her. She threw herself into Quinn’s arms, sobbing hysterically.

“Quinn, thank goodness! I’ve been worried sick!”

“Didn’t Sheriff Lock tell you I was okay?”

“You know how the police are,” Lucille said with a quiet sniff. “They tell you what you want to hear.”

“Well, he told you the truth this time. I’m fine.”

“But, there was—” she glanced at Stella, lowered her voice “—blood all over the floor in the apartment.”

“How did you hear about that?” Stella asked, gently prodding Lucille back toward the shop, her gaze on the road, the row of buildings, the dark shadows at the edges of the trees.

“My great-nephew is a new deputy. He called me because he was worried. Thought maybe I’d been attacked. I told him I was just fine, and then I started thinking about my dear Quinn. Who would I have to share my morning coffee with if something happened to you, dear?”

“Nothing is going to happen to me.”

“It might if we don’t get inside,” Stella said, but her tone was softer. “Ms. Lucille, would you mind if we talk in the shop?”

“In the shop?” Lucille blinked. “Of course, we can go in the shop.”

She led them inside, the scent of fresh baked bread and cinnamon rolls drifting over Quinn as she stepped across the threshold. Three generations had run the shop before Lucille. She’d told Quinn that she was the last in the line. She hadn’t married, had never had children. One day, she’d sell the shop, but for now, she could still bake the breads and treats that she’d been selling for as long as she could remember.

“Sit down, girls,” she said, all the tears and worry gone, her black eyes flashing with the excitement of having late-night visitors and gossip that she could spread at the next quilting bee. “I’ll make some coffee and warm up some pumpkin bread.”

“Don’t go to any effort, ma’am,” Stella said.

“Effort? Is it effort to take a breath of morning air?” Lucille patted one of the old booths that she’d reupholstered in the seventies. Green plaid with hints of gold. She’d told Quinn that she didn’t see any reason to change them. Her customers loved the shop’s vibe.

What they really loved was Lucille.

“Wow!” Stella whispered as Lucille bustled into the kitchen. “She’s really something. This whole shop is really something.”

Quinn guessed it was, but she’d grown used to it over the years—the bright booths and the dark wood floor, the old glass display cases and the newer baskets and warming racks behind them. The old-fashioned register that Lucille still used to ring up customers—its beautiful mahogany and brass exterior a work of art.

“It’s a special place,” Quinn said, as Lucille reappeared, a pretty porcelain chocolate pot on a large tray, silver plates filled with breads and sweets beside it.

Quinn took the tray from her hands, placed it on the old tabletop. “This looks lovely, Lucille,” she said.

“Food should always look lovely, my de...” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening, as she opened her mouth. Tried to speak.

“Lucille!” Quinn rushed to her side, terrified she was having a heart attack.

“The window! He’s in the window!” Lucille shrieked.

Stella was up like a flash, shoving Quinn toward the back of the shop. “In the kitchen! Go! Stay away from the windows and door.”

“But—”

“Go!” Stella ordered, turning toward the window, a gun suddenly in her hand. “If there’s a phone, call... Never mind.”

The tension eased from her body, she tucked the gun away.

“Those idiots,” she said, but there was a note of affection in her voice, a hint of relief.

She strode to the door and yanked it open, Lucille shrieking for her to stop or they’d all end up dead at the hands of a murdering fiend.

Only it wasn’t a murdering fiend who walked in. It was Malone, dark hair a little mussed, T-shirt still stained with soot, a gun holster strapped over his chest. He looked better than any man should, and seeing him there made Quinn’s heart do a couple little flips that had nothing to do with fear or worry, and everything to do with Malone.

“Well!” Lucille said, apparently realizing Malone wasn’t intent on doing any of them bodily harm. “Perhaps next time you could knock on the door instead of staring in the window, young man.”

“My apologies, ma’am. I saw the light and thought my friends might be inside. I didn’t mean to scare the tar out of you.”

“Scare the tar, huh? Are you a Southern boy?”

“Tennessee. Born and bred.”

“I’ve always had a soft spot for Southern manners. Sit down. We were having refreshments.”

“Actually—”

“Sit! I’ll bring another plate.”

She hurried back to the kitchen.

“She might want to bring three more plates,” Malone said. “August and Chance are talking to the sheriff. They’ll be in when they finish.”

“I’ll go tell her,” Stella offered, following Lucille into the kitchen.

And then Quinn was alone with the only guy besides Cory who’d ever made her pulse leap and her heart jump.

She ran her hand along one of the booths, avoiding his dark gaze. “Were you able to catch the guy?”

“We weren’t, but a couple of deputy sheriffs snagged him off the boat he stole.”

“He stole a boat?”

“Rowed out into the lake, and then realized he had nowhere to go.”

“So, that’s one less person going after Tabitha.”

“Going after you,” he corrected. “You keep forgetting that. You’re a means to an end, Quinn. Jarrod wants his wife back, and you’re his way to do that now that Jubilee is inaccessible.”

“I haven’t forgotten, but I’ve got a lot of people working to keep me safe. Tabitha is on her own.”

“By her own choice.” He moved close, touched her chin, urging her to look into his eyes.

And how could she not?

He’d stepped into her life as a stranger, done everything he could to keep her safe. She owed him.

“Does it matter if it’s her choice?” she asked softly, because her throat was tight again with that same feeling of anticipation and sorrow that she felt every time she looked into his eyes. “I still don’t want her fighting this on her own.”

“Because she’s your sister, and you love her. Sometimes, though, we have to let the people we love learn from their mistakes.”

“Learning from her mistakes might mean she dies, Malone.”

“No. It won’t, because we’re going to prove that Jarrod is coming after her. The guy who’s being booked on assault is Charles Libby, and according to the two other men who are in custody, he knows who’s footing the bill for all of this. We’re hoping that he’ll decide to plea bargain for a lesser sentence.”

“That might be difficult if he’s the one who murdered the guy they found in the lake.”

“Whether he did or not isn’t our problem to worry about. The sheriff will handle the investigation. What I’m worried about is you.” He touched her jaw, his finger skimming over the bruised skin, his eyes so filled with compassion and concern she glanced away. “I want you to go back to DC with Chance, Quinn,” he said quietly. “He needs to leave in the morning so that he can be back there for Boone. We can get you a flight out, too. You can stay with him until this blows over.”

“What? You’re kidding, right?” He didn’t look as if he was kidding. He looked dead serious.

“The three of us discussed it on the way over here, and—”

“You didn’t include me in the discussion? You didn’t think I’d have an opinion about what I wanted to do?”

“I knew you’d have an opinion. That’s why I’m filling you in now, before your brother arrives and tries to force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

“How is that different from what you’re doing?”

“This isn’t forcing, Quinn. This is explaining. You’re in danger here, and you’ll continue to be in danger until Tabitha decides to seek the help she obviously needs.”

“I know.”

“Do you also know that it would really bother me if something happened to you?” he asked. “Do you understand that the world isn’t going to be nearly as nice of a place without you in it?”

“Malone...” She shook her head, turning to look at one of the black-and-white photos that lined the wall. Pictures of the bakery when it was new, the customers wearing long dresses and hats, the men in snazzy suites and shiny shoes.

Sometimes she wished things didn’t have to change, that time didn’t have to march on the way it did. Sometimes, like when Cory had just been diagnosed and his health was still good, she wanted time to stand still, things to stay exactly the way they were.

There were other times, though, when she understood how wonderful it was to grow and change as time swirled around her. Like when she’d finally gotten her college degree, finally said I do, finally kissed Cory goodbye for the last time and watched him slip from suffering into eternity.

And, maybe, like now, when a man she admired seemed to admire her, and when she thought that maybe she could accept that.

“What is it?” Malone said, turning her so that they were face-to-face, ignoring Stella and Lucille who were walking back into the room, discussing the best recipe for yeast dough.

“I understand, but I can’t go until I know she’s okay. I can’t.”

He nodded, his jaw tight, his expression grim.

He didn’t try to convince her, though, didn’t say another word as the door opened and August walked in with Chance.

* * *

August pushed hard to get Quinn to leave. She refused. Once. Twice. A dozen times while everyone sat at the booth eating sweet bread and drinking coffee.

Finally, Malone had had all he could take. He’d spent most of his teen years listening to siblings squabble, he didn’t plan to spend any more of his adult life doing the same.

“Enough,” he said, interrupting August midsentence.

“What do you mean
enough
?”

“She’s not leaving town. Obviously nothing you say is going to convince her to do it. The best thing any of us can do is bed down for the night, get some rest, and come at the problem fresh in the morning.”

“The
problem
is Tabitha’s, and I say we let her deal with the mess she made on her own.” August paced across the room.

“I can’t lose both my sisters over this,” he continued. “And if things escalate the way they have been, that’s exactly what might happen.”

“You’re not going to lose either of them, if we have anything to do with it.” Stella touched his arm, and Chance frowned.

“We’re
not
going to lose anyone, but we’re also not going to accomplish any more tonight.” He stood. “Let’s see if we can find a place to stay. I think there’s a bed-and-breakfast in town. If not there, then—”

“Don’t be silly!” Lucille exclaimed. The woman looked like she was ninety and acted like she was twenty-four, bustling around on spindly legs that didn’t look as if they could hold a toddler up. “You’re not going to pay a dime to that old bat who owns the bed-and-breakfast.”

“Lucille!” Quinn chided. “Mary isn’t an old bat. She’s not even sixty.”

“And she doesn’t care squat about that property. You know it, and I do, too. Which isn’t the point. The point is, there is no reason for any of you to pay for a place to stay. I have plenty of room at my house.”

“We couldn’t put you out like that, ma’am,” Malone said, not because they really couldn’t but because the danger seemed to be following Quinn, and he didn’t want Lucille to get hurt.

“Put me out? Are you kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had in decades!” Lucille sighed happily, and Malone almost felt bad for refusing.

Almost.

“We really do appreciate the offer, but there’s been some trouble...”

“Like the blood, right? Someone was murdered upstairs? And you’re worried the murderer will come after me while I’m sleeping because I’ve given you all a place to stay?” She shook her head, white curls bouncing wildly. “It’s a sad, sick world we live in, but don’t worry, I’ve watched plenty of true-crime shows. I know how these things work. I’ll keep my bear spray under my pillow and spray any intruder who enters my boudoir in the face.”

Someone snorted.

Maybe August. It was hard to tell because he’d turned away and was staring at the floor.

“Lucille,” Chance said, taking both her hands in his, turning on the charm the way Malone had seen him do countless times before. “We appreciate your willingness to sacrifice your safety for us, but my organization is built on the premise that we never draw someone into an unsafe situation unless it is absolutely necessary. Tonight, it isn’t. We can rest in the SUV—”

“You’ll stay here, then!” Lucille interrupted, her cheeks pink. “I’ll just drive over to the house and get some pillows and blankets. This young lady can come with me.” She grabbed Stella’s hand and started dragging her to the door. “You can sleep on the benches or the floor. Not the most comfortable arrangements, but better than the Blue Bonnet. Besides, I may not like Mary, but I certainly don’t want her dead.”