Cold Comfort

Ellis Vidler

Cold Comfort

Cold Comfort

An Echelon Press Book

First Echelon Press publication November 2011

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2011 by Ellis Vidler

Cover Art © Karen L. Syed

with Nathalie Moore, Graphics Muse

Echelon Press

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Orlando, FL 32833

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Echelon Press LLC.

eBook: 978-1-59080-862-7

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For my father, who taught me to dream, my mother, who taught me to believe, and for Mike, always
.

To my good friend and critique partner, Polly Iyer: I am eternally grateful for her support and encouragement. And to my friend Maryn Sinclair, for her expertise in pertinent areas. Linda Lovely and Helen Turnage, friends who saw me through this book. To Christy for going to Williamsburg with me and for taking me to Kathe Wolfhart's shop in Germany; for Cathy, who should be here with us. To Mary, Dev, and Joyce for their unfailing support, and to Dee, for always being there.

I don't want to forget the nice men at the Greer Ford dealership who answered my questions and let me crawl around an old Bronco; or Mike for designing Claire's alarm system, sharing his flying experience, and taking me to McClellanville one rainy weekend in December. And Laura at the Crab Pot, who makes the best she-crab soup on the planet. To Karen, who plucked me out the heap. There are others whom I haven't named, but I'm truly grateful for all of you.

Chapter 1

Claire checked her rearview mirror once more for the mismatched headlights—tonight, thank goodness, no one lurked on her tail. She left the rain-slick streets of Colonial Williamsburg and headed for home. The cold, damp air filled her lungs, and tension slid from her hunched shoulders.
I've gotta quit reading those thrillers.
This evening she'd settle back and cheer herself with a glass of merlot and a warm fire. And soft slippers. She flexed her tired feet. After a long day at the shop, she couldn't wait to kick off her heels.

Humming "White Christmas" with the radio, she turned into her driveway. No light. Her pulse jumped a notch and she hit the brakes. Darkness shrouded the thick shrubbery at the edge of the porch. No light shone beside her front door. She'd set it to turn on at five thirty. A tingle of unease flitted across her scalp.

The music died with the engine, and in the silence, she scanned the deep shadows around her porch. Nothing stirred. Geez, talk about paranoid.
Move it, Claire.

She slid out of the car and leaned in to lift her paperwork over the steering wheel. A box tumbled off the pile. She lunged for it. Something clipped the back of her head and slammed her right shoulder, knocking her facedown onto the seat. Nerves screamed all the way to her fingertips. Her heart thudded against her chest.
What—

Strong fingers grabbed her arm and yanked her backward. Her head smacked the doorframe; pain exploded behind her eyes. With a sharp cry, she elbowed her assailant and twisted free, but she couldn't move. Wedged between the car and the door, she kicked at the solid figure, then panicked and dropped to the ground, covering her head with her left arm. Fire seared her right shoulder. Her arm hung limp—
oh, god, is it broken?

Frantic barking erupted from the next yard.

A black running shoe topped by black pants bumped her thigh. She tried to scoot under the door, but the man caught her arm again.

Fight.
She shifted and kicked, aiming for a kneecap. Her heel connected with his leg. His flesh gave.

He grunted.

Scream!
She opened her mouth, but he shoved her hard against the doorsill, driving the air from her lungs. Helpless, she gasped for air. Her heart threatened to explode.

The dog's racket grew louder. Over the blood pulsing in her ears, she heard a distant voice call her name.

A gloved hand caught her chin and squeezed. She gagged on the sour smell of sweat and leather. "I'll be back, sweetheart." He mashed his thumb against her lower lip, cutting the soft inner tissue on her teeth, and then vanished.

Dazed, she tasted blood.

Footsteps approached. "Dad, come quick! Call the police!"

Her neighbor's voice, thirteen-year-old Jason.
Too young. He'll get hurt
. "Go back. Run!" But the words stayed in her head.

"Claire, are you all right? What happened? I saw a man running—is that blood?" Jason's voice cracked on a high note. He reached for her hand.

"Don't touch me. Just give me a minute," she whispered through clenched teeth. If she could get her spinning head under control, she could handle the fire in her shoulder.

"Claire, what happened?" Jason's father, Hal Beck, appeared in wavering triplicate above her. "Jason, run—call an ambulance." He dropped to one knee. "How bad are you hurt?"

Claire couldn't respond. If she opened her mouth, a scream would escape. She closed her eyes, shutting out his shifting figure, and heard Jason call, "I'm on it."

Hal took her hand in his, rubbed it gently. "Help's coming. Hang on." Squatting by her side, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

The next few minutes blurred into a cacophony of sirens, voices, and the staccato blasts of a police radio. Whirling red and blue lights merged with the harsh beam of a powerful flashlight, blinding her. Nausea rolled through her stomach. She swallowed hard.

A Williamsburg Police badge swam into view, but the uniform backed away when the paramedics reached her. In a quick, organized burst of activity, they hustled her away from Hal and the police and laid her flat on her back in the ambulance.

Hal appeared at the ambulance doors. "Jason and I can meet you there. I can't leave him if there's some lunatic running around."

"No need, I'll be all right," she managed to say.

"Call if you need us." The doors closed and his voice faded.

She drifted away and concentrated on the handsome divorcé as she'd first seen him a couple of months ago, swinging a sling blade at the overgrown weeds in his backyard. Her thoughts whirled in confusion. She'd given serious consideration to having those arms around her. Obviously she needed to be a lot more specific with her wishes.

When she opened her eyes again, she was rocking in the gurney toward the hospital. The spinning emergency lights reflected into the van in a nauseating cycle. She closed her eyes.

In the hospital, uniformed orderlies wheeled her into an examining area. After what seemed hours of poking, prodding, x-rays, and the promise of stitches, a nurse showed up with an electric shaver to cut her hair away from the gash in her head.

Claire summoned the energy to protest. "Oh, no. I'm not having a giant bald patch."

The doctor talked both the razor-wielding nurse and Claire into a pencil-thin strip. "That's the best we can do."

Resigned, Claire watched the brown spirals drop into the wastebasket.

"Only three stitches," the doctor said. "It'll heal in no time and your hair will grow back. But it'll itch—don't scratch it."

"Gee, something else to look forward to." She forced her eyes open. "Thanks. May I leave now?"

"Yes, there's nothing more tonight. Your shoulder will be sore for a while, but it's not serious. Watch the head."

"Trust me, I will." She listened to his instructions and accepted a small bottle of pain pills. After the doctor released her, the police officer, who introduced himself as Bob Parsons, met her in the lobby.

"Your mother was the English teacher, right? I learned a lot from her."

"Yes."

"I recognized your house—I delivered papers there. Nice lady, your mother. I'm sorry for your loss. Must be hard for you, being alone."

"Thank you. I'll be fine." Brief longing for her mother's soothing touch squeezed her heart; Claire blinked away tears.

She spotted a phone beside a miniature Christmas tree on the reception desk. "I need to call a taxi."

"I'm off duty now. I can give you a ride," Parsons said. "Where do you want to go?"

"Home."

"You sure? Don't you have family or a friend you could stay with?"

"No, no one." She thought about Walt Kramer, her former fiancé. She could hardly call him—he'd eloped with his secretary—his
pregnant
secretary—two months before the wedding. Six months later, it still stung. Tears of self-pity stung her eyes. Roughly, she wiped them away.
Get over it.

The officer wheeled her outside the door to his car and settled her in the seat.

Numb from shots and pills, she described the events of the past week. "For three nights, I noticed a car with one dim headlight—it could have been following me."

"I'll put it in the report. Keep watching for that odd light. Anything else?"

She rubbed her forehead. "Maybe. Several times I had this prickly sensation of being watched. I thought I must be imagining it. And someone may have been inside my house."

"May? Did you report it?"

"I started to, but I couldn't find anything missing—only the rumpled bedspread and the scent of tobacco and aftershave. No signs of anyone breaking in. I couldn't be sure all these...it wasn't my imagination." Maybe she should have called, but she'd been raised to take care of herself. She nibbled her fingernail, then shoved her hands under her thighs. "I didn't want to overreact."

"To be honest, you wouldn't have gotten much attention."

"I found one of the dolls in my storeroom with its head crushed." But how could she report a broken doll? "It could have been an accident. It just didn't look like one."

He nodded. "Someone's being very clever, trying to scare you without leaving real evidence."

"Last night I got a phone call." The voice replayed in her head, making her skin crawl. "As soon as I realized what he was saying, what he wanted to do, I hung up and turned off the ringer."

"Caller ID?"

"No. But I added it today."

"Not much else you can do unless you get an unlisted number." He glanced at her with apology in his eyes. "Chances are he watches enough TV to know how to hide his number."

"Tonight, just before he ran off, he said he'd be back." She tightened her arms around her midriff.