Cold Comfort (2 page)

"He knows your name, and it sounds like he's seriously focused on you," Parsons said. "I'm afraid you've got a stalker."

A stalker! Her stomach turned over. A chill ran through her. The word sounded so much worse than a one-time thief or mugger. Why would anyone be stalking
her
? Since she'd abandoned her dreams of a family, her whole life centered on the store. She didn't go out, didn't search for her soul mate in cyberspace, didn't do anything that would attract attention.

"He was waiting for you. I found broken glass on the porch from the lightbulb. It didn't burn out."

"I don't understand. Why?"

His rueful smile offered sympathy but no answers.

"By the way," Parsons said, turning into her drive, "I picked up your papers and stuff from the driveway and left them in your car. Want them?"

"Not now, thanks. Tomorrow will do." The chemical aftertaste of the anesthetic lingered in her mouth, and the coppery blood-smell clung to her clothes. She desperately needed a shower and a toothbrush. Swallowing against the threatening nausea, she leaned against the cold window glass, gathering herself.

He helped her out of the car, then walked her to the house. She fumbled for the lock in the darkness. Grateful for the policeman's presence, she stiffened her spine and opened the door.

"I'll do a quick walk-through, make sure it's clear."

"Thanks." Exhausted, she stumbled through the rooms after him.

"All secure." Parsons stepped back from the last window and turned to her. "Hey, you've had a rough night. Are you sure you don't want me to call someone, take you to stay with a friend?"

"No, I'm just tired." She pulled herself together and ushered him out. "After I lock this door, I'm going to bed and planning to sleep for a week."

"Be careful. Give us a call if you hear anything." He stopped and peered into the darkness outside. "If you've got a lightbulb handy, I'll replace the one on your porch."

"Thanks." She unscrewed the one in the lamp on the hall table and handed it to him, wishing he'd go. "I'm sure the man is long gone. Tomorrow I'll decide what to do," she added, closing the door behind him.

After tossing her bloodstained sweater into the trash, she showered, careful to keep the stitches dry. Pink water swirled briefly in the drain. Blood.
My god, what's happening?

Before collapsing completely, she called and mumbled a brief message to the shop's answering machine for her assistant. "Mary, I'll be in very late. I'll explain when I see you."

She eased into bed and turned onto her good side. The phone on the night table waited like an evil jack-in-the-box, ready to go off. Gritting her teeth, she sat up and turned the ringer off. Tonight she really, really didn't want to hear that menacing singsong, "Helloooo, Claaaire." Right now, she didn't care if the bastard killed her as long as he didn't wake her up first.

* * *

Lunch-hour crowds jammed the roads, making Claire glad she hadn't taken one of the pain pills. She dropped her coat at the cleaners, hoping the rust-colored patch would come out.

She arrived at Mistletoe to find a police car in front of her shop, a sharp contrast with the Christmas scene in the window. Alarm replaced her usual feeling of pride. Something else about last night? Did they catch the man? She parked and hurried along to the shop, her papers tucked against her good side.

"Oh, Claire, I'm so glad you're here." Mary greeted her with an anxious frown. "The back door was open this morning, and I found something in your office. I called the police."

Claire froze.
What now?

"Ms. Spencer." The police officer nodded and gestured for her to follow. "Ms. Miller tells me you were the last to leave the shop yesterday. Is that right?"

"Yes." Her stomach sank. "Why? What is it?"

Worry filled Mary's wide espresso eyes; she patted Claire's hand.

Ignoring her injuries, Claire straightened and joined the officer at the back of the store. A woman in a Crime Scene Technician shirt was snapping pictures in her office. At the door, Claire halted. Little arms and legs lay scattered over her desk. The doll's head rested at one side, a blood-red ring circling its jagged neck. A pencil protruded from the limbless torso.

The technician bumped the desk, and a red magic marker rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor. Claire reached for it without thinking, but the woman stopped her.

"I'll take it in case there are any fingerprints. He must've used it for the blood."

Claire backed off. Her stomach rolled and the bitter taste of bile rose in her throat.

The woman slid the marker into a paper bag and closed it.

The first officer led Mary and Claire back into the store. She dropped gratefully into a chair, downed a pain pill, then explained about last night.

Mary listened in horror. "Is that why your lip's swollen?"

Claire nodded, running her tongue across the small cut.

The officer wrote down the details. "I'll look at last night's report. Be careful. You may have a serious problem."

No kidding.
She felt the stitches under her hair. What the hell happened to her life? Six months ago, her future seemed assured—she had a growing business, a man she loved, and the prospect of children and happily ever after. Then Prince Charming dumped her and here she stood, floundering, without dreams. Geez. She'd thought returning wedding gifts was tough. After all this, she'd be lucky to even
have
a future.

The police left, and the two women moved back to the office. Claire discarded the nasty remains and wiped off her desk while Mary made tea. The chime would alert them if the front door opened.

Mary dropped two bags of Earl Grey into a pair of vintage cups and filled them with boiling water from a modern electric kettle. "You have to get help—hire a detective or something."

Claire agreed.

A short time later she hung up the phone with a bang. "That does it. Private detectives cost way too much. He's the third one, and he's even higher than the other two. I can't afford to hire anyone—I put all my money into expanding the store this fall. I'd investigate it myself, but how do you find out who's following you?" She waved her hand and winced, then tucked her right arm against her side. "Or wants to hurt you?"

"No idea, but you've got to do something. Possibly being followed is scary, but being attacked in your own driveway is serious." Mary handed a cup to Claire.

"I always thought I could take care of myself. Mother drummed it into my head. 'You can't wait for someone else to bail you out. Do it yourself, girl.'" Remembering the firm voice made her smile. "But this time I don't know what to do."

"Let me call my brother. Maybe he knows someone who could help." Resting one hip against Claire's desk, Mary spread the long African-print skirt over her knee, pinned the phone with her shoulder, and swished her teabag back and forth through the hot water. "Hello, Ray?"

Claire listened without comment while her friend sketched a quick version of the story. Mary's conversation dwindled to one-word answers, then she put the teacup down and scribbled a name and number on a pad. "Thanks. She'll tell him you said to call."

Brushing back a stray strand of hair, Claire leaned over to see. "Ben Riley. Is he a detective?"

"Not exactly. Ray calls him a problem solver, says he's strange—he might help you or he might not. They met in the Navy. This guy worked in Intelligence or something." She shrugged. "Can't hurt to ask."

The door chime announced someone's entrance.

"I'll get this one. Call Ray's friend. If he says no, you're no worse off." The hard light shining in Mary's dark eyes and the furrow marring her walnut-colored brow promised trouble. "If you don't, I will."

Claire could count on one hand the times she'd seen her serene friend angry. During Mistletoe's first, chaotic Christmas, Mary came in with her son's class. Before the field trip ended, Claire offered her a job and they'd never looked back. Damien, her son, now a teenager, often helped out on Saturdays.

Damien! What if something happened while he and Mary were in the shop?
Fear clutched Claire's heart. She had to do something. Whatever else happened, she couldn't put her friends in danger. Bracing herself, she reached for the phone and punched in Ben Riley's number.

After a single ring, a gravely voice said, "Leave a message."

The abrupt message surprised her. After a second's hesitation, she managed to leave her name and number. If he wanted to know what it was about, he could call.

She sank back into her chair and lifted a small silver reindeer with a cracked antler from her desk, turning it over in her hand. She'd take it home for surgery—with a little glue, the deer could go in the "free" basket. She pictured her lonely house. The pointed antler would make a good weapon.

On the other hand, Mary's couch held a certain appeal. Maybe she should stay with her and Damien in their apartment for a couple of days until she could get a handle on this.

The chime sounded several times in succession. "Saved—I'll think about it later."

All afternoon the children, some held in check and others left to run wild in the wonderland of twinkling lights and fir boughs, kept her busy. By six o'clock, Claire dredged up her last smile. Her head throbbed, her shoulder ached, and she could have fallen asleep on the cash register. Mary waited for her by the door.

Claire was gathering her things when the phone rang. "Mistletoe."

"Claire Spencer? This is Riley. You called?"

"Riley?" She drew a blank. "Oh! Ben Riley. Sorry. It's been a long day. Uh, yes. I have a...that is, someone recommended you as a
—
a..."
A problem solver?
She pressed her fingers to her forehead. "I have a problem."

"What is it?"

"Well, ah, it's difficult to explain. Someone has been following me
—
at least, I think so. And last night someone tried to—" Tried to what? Kill her?— "attacked me when I got out of my car."

"Did you call the police?"

"Yes, of course, but there isn't much they can do. They suggested a
—
a stalker."

"Ms. Spencer, I assume you're trying to hire me. I'm not a bodyguard."

With his rough voice and terse questions, he sounded more like a junkyard dog. "I hadn't even thought of a bodyguard. I want to find out who it is." This wasn't going well. Her pain pill had worn off, and she couldn't muster the energy to think. "Mr. Riley, I'm finding this very awkward. Could we meet and discuss it?"

"Sorry. I'm not in that business anymore. If you still have the problem in a week or so, maybe I can refer you to someone. By the way, who gave you my name?"

"Ray Bonney."
Ben Riley's a jerk.
Her grim tone promised retribution, and the jerk could probably hear it. Tough. "Thanks for returning my call." She hung up without waiting for a reply. So she was in this by herself—now what? Should she buy a gun? A Rottweiler?

She fingered the little reindeer in her purse.
Don't be dumb.
A reindeer against the hulk who attacked her last night? "Mary, wait. Is your couch still available?"

Chapter 2

Riley hung up the phone and curled his lip in disgust. "A stalker. The woman watches too much TV. Probably a simple mugging that scared her stupid." A large, gray-striped cat, opened one eye and flicked a notched ear, then returned to his nap on the desk. Absently scratching the cat's scarred head with one hand, Riley picked up a stained mug, only to find the coffee cold. "Dammit."

He fished a notepad out of his desk drawer and scribbled
Call Ray
across the top. The phone sat six inches from the pad. He reread his note and added "Later" in large letters. The numerals on his clock changed to 6:21. Claire Spencer's voice echoed in his head. Mugger or not, fear lent a hollow note to her voice. The pencil snapped in two between his fingers, surprising him. He stood, shoved his chair away, and threw the stub at the fireplace.

Running his hands through his hair, he crossed the room to the window. The river, choppy and gray, gave way to memories. A girl's face, her mouth stretched in a scream, swam into his vision. Christ. He knew the image would keep him awake tonight. Why did Ray give this woman his name? Did he think Riley could handle an easy problem like Spencer's? A quick fix that would lure him back to a job he could no longer do?
Not bloody likely
.

* * *

At eight thirty the phone rang. Riley swung the ax, sinking it into the log, and went inside to answer. The pile of wood he'd just split ought to last him a month. He brushed his hands on his jeans and grabbed the phone before his "Leave a message" started. "Hold on." He switched off the machine. "Yeah?"

"Dammit, Riley," Ray Bonney's voice boomed over the line, "you could at least talk to her. The woman needs help. She's got a goose egg and stitches in her head, and now the bastard's been in her shop."

"The Spencer woman?" Riley wasn't getting suckered into another job, especially one involving a woman.
Especially
an injured woman. Never again. "Forget it. I'm through. Tell her to call the police or a private eye."