If Looks Could Kill (5 page)

Finally, Shelly looked over, and Chris was privileged to the silent tears no one else in town saw. It was a burden she sorely wished she could have escaped.

"Why can't I have a nice family like other people?" the girl whispered. "Amy's family looks wonderful. And Krystal's. And you're so normal and everything, ya know?"

Chris could only offer her a sad smile. "Nothing's the way it seems, honey. Just because somebody acts happy doesn't mean they're any less miserable than you. Don't envy anybody."

"Would you mind if I stayed?" the girl asked, sounding so much like a child it should break a person's heart.

Her heart particularly susceptible, Chris gave Shelly her best smile. "I'd mind if you didn't. As long as the lights being on all night doesn't bother you."

Shelly was already getting to her feet so she could make up one of the couches. "Never does."

Chris got the linen.

"Hear you got some interesting news tonight," Shelly said over her shoulder as she unfolded the couch into a bed.

Her hands full of sheets, Chris came to a stop. She guessed she shouldn't be surprised anymore. The grapevine in this town put CNN to shame. Two years ago Thelma Potter over at the EasyLube had known that Chris's second book had made
The New York Times
best-seller list before Chris did. Last year when her house had been broken into, she'd been tracked down way out on an isolated promontory on Preacher's Mountain within forty minutes to get her home.

Even so, she demurred a while longer. "All I know is that I have to call the police department up in St. Louis," she said, shaking out the sheet. "Probably a parking ticket they're trying to get me for from the last time I was up there."

Now that she'd found haven, Shelly decided to thoroughly enjoy the salacious news. "I heard there's a serial killer after you," she informed Chris, her plain face lighting with almost unholy glee. "And that the new police chief—have you
seen
him—offered protection."

"You're going to have to stop seeing those slasher movies, Shel. It's not healthy."

Chris was surprised to see Shelly go still, the pillow she'd brought in clutched tight in white-knuckled hands. "Nobody's gonna hurt you, Chris," the girl said, her eyes glittering oddly. "Nobody. I'd never let them."

For just the briefest of moments, Chris couldn't quite pull together a snappy retort. There they were, alone in her house, the clocks echoing in gentle syncopation beneath the high tin roof that had once covered a general store, the bears looking down with smiling, friendly faces, the setting comfortable and familiar. She shouldn't have felt so suddenly unsettled.

"Honey," she insisted, her voice as soft as Shelly's, just as serious. "Nobody's trying to hurt me."

Shelly's face twisted, just a little. "If you weren't who you are," she said, her voice in deadly earnest, "the judge would have had you by the throat two years ago."

All Chris could do was give her an unconcerned smile. "Well," she retorted as easily as she could, knowing just how true what Shelly said was, "that's why I am who I am. Now, let's get you to bed."

They didn't get the chance. Just as Shelly was heading into the bathroom with an oversized T-shirt Chris kept as a spare nightgown, the doorbell rang again. And again, Chris looked over at the grandfather clock.

"Is there an Open sign on the front door?" she demanded, soda can back in hand as she walked toward the noise.

"Maybe it's Bobby Lee," Shelly whispered, frozen in place.

"If it is, I'll just tell him to go home."

Again, that harsh, too-knowing laugh.

"If you're worried," Chris suggested, hand already on the door, "then wait in the bathroom."

Shelly straightened to attention right where she was. Chris fought a sigh. It was too typical, showing bravery in a no-lose situation. The next time Shelly was alone with Bobby Lee, she'd let him pay her back, just like her father had always done, and nothing would be different.

"What if it's the killer?" Shelly asked now.

"I'll tell him to go home, too."

It wasn't Bobby Lee. It wasn't, as far as Chris knew, the killer. It was the new police chief. She was so surprised to see him standing out in the puddle of light on the sidewalk that Chris found herself caught flat-footed, her hand still on the door. The brisk night air swirled through the screen and raised goose-bumps on her bare legs.

He didn't actually smile. "Tina said you stayed up late."

Chris lifted her hand in an ineffectual wave at convention. "Can I, uh, do something for you?" Then her natural curiosity got the better of her. "What are
you
still doing up?"

He was still in his uniform, too, the white shirt as crisp and creased as if he'd walked right off a recruitment poster. His predecessor, old L. J. Watson, had always carried at least three of his last meals on his uniform shirt, and had blotted reports with his tie.

"I wanted to spend a little time with all three shifts," he said, not quite standing square on his feet, as if balanced to react. Tensed, even in the middle of the night in Pyrite. "And since Tina said you probably wouldn't mind, I thought I'd give you the note about that situation in St. Louis on my way home. So you can get in touch with them."

He was doing his best to keep his attention on her face but, like everybody who came to Chris's house for the first time, it seemed he couldn't help letting his gaze stray over her shoulder. Chris couldn't exactly blame him. She never had opted for the conventional, and now that she could afford it, she was able to satisfy all her whims. And appease her phobias.

"Come on in," she invited, pushing open the screen door.

He didn't hesitate. When he reached her entryway, his head went right back to take in the stamped ceiling some thirty feet over his head, and he laughed. "Well, they told me."

Chris looked after him, knowing that what she saw was different than what he did. He probably saw the huge rectangular room that had once comprised Pyrite's General Mercantile and now held her living and dining area, the balcony fifteen feet up that edged all four walls with workspace and bedroom, the mahogany cases that had once sported dry goods, and the new two-story greenhouse out the back that served as kitchen and extra dose of sunlight while she worked. Now the addition was shaded like all the other windows, and the track lighting ruled.

"What's your electric bill like?" he asked, eyes following the high white walls back down to glossy hardwood floors.

Chris smiled, hands on hips, seeing every corner in her big, bright house. Seeing the shadows evicted. It still didn't always help, but it was better than anything she'd had before. "Not all mystery writers yearn to live in gothic towers," she said. "I happen to like bright, open spaces."

"It's really excellent," Shelly spoke up from where she stood at the bathroom door. Clad only in the oversized T-shirt that brushed the tops of her thighs, she presented a totally different picture than the waif who'd landed on Chris's doorstep.

Chris went right into action. If there was one thing she could depend on from Shelly, it was inappropriate behavior. Chris was halfway across the floor before either Shelly or the Chief could comment.

"Back inside," she commanded. "The front door's still open."

"But I want to say hello." Shelly pouted, suddenly looking older than her fifteen years, her attention on Chris's latest guest.

A confused adolescent was a dangerous beast. Especially one who'd been abused. Shelly had no idea how to act around men, which was why she ended up with dates like Bobby Lee.

"Say hello," Chris instructed, standing foursquare in front of her and blocking her view of MacNamara and vice versa, "and then get your little butt back in that bathroom or the deal's off."

For just the briefest of moments, Chris was exposed to the anger, the blind, flashing fury that bubbled beneath the surface of that troubled, painfully uncertain child. Fear, shame, hurt, all chased quickly across Shelly's expressive features before she capitulated with no more than a shrug. "Hello, Chief. I'm Shelly Axminster. Chris says I can't stay to visit." Then she leaned around Chris and flashed the chief her best smile. "Maybe later."

To his credit, MacNamara refused the bait. "Hello, Shelly. If you don't mind, I need to talk to Chris for a minute."

"Oh, about that mad killer thing," Shelly gushed, eyes wide, leaning farther around Chris, her expression avid. "Is he headed this way? Are you staying tonight to protect us?"

Chris grabbed the girl by the shoulders and swung her back toward the bathroom. "There's plenty of stuff to read in there. Take a bath if you want. If you come out before I come in to get you, you've lost your visitation rights here. Understood?"

That almost pretty face teetered on the edge of rebellion for just a second before crumbling into submission. "Tyrant."

Chris stood before the door until she heard the click of the lock. Then she turned back to the chief with a rueful smile. "I can offer diet soda or regular soda. Anything else has to wait until my next run to the store."

He waved a dismissal. "No, thanks. I just wanted to give you a name and phone number anyway." His voice dropped just a little. "Judge Axminster's daughter?"

Chris walked on past him to close the front door. "Sometimes when a kid doesn't get along with her parents, it's nice for them to know she has a safe place to go."

She stopped alongside the chief long enough to get a careful reaction. "Diplomatically stated," was all he would allow, which meant he had learned a lot during his first day on the job.

Chris shrugged. "Words are my life."

In her own house, Chris had no problem setting the pace. It didn't bother her that MacNamara needed a few minutes to acclimate to her atmosphere, or that he'd dropped in unexpectedly at two in the morning. As long as he didn't expect her to venture out at this time of night. As long as he didn't demand any explanations she couldn't give.

Unbuttoning his breast pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper. "Sgt. Elise Lawson," he said. "And not the St. Louis Police. It's St. Louis County. The way she talked, I take it there's a big difference."

Chris nodded, already distracted, the sense of impending doom growing again. "The city's independent of the county. It's two separate government systems completely." As he handed over the paper, she filled in the rest for the chief, who had obviously never partaken of C. J. Turner. If he had, he would have already been familiar with St. Louis politics. "My suspenses have all been set in St. Louis County. They feature a psychic English professor, Dr. Livvy Beckworth, and a county detective, Sgt. Frank Stephens."

"St. Louis doesn't really strike me as a film noir kind of town."

Chris tried to smile as she accepted the folded paper and turned toward the furniture grouping in the center of the floor. "You'd be amazed what goes on up there. Did Lawson say why she thought there was a copycat?" she asked, settling instinctively into the rocker, pushing off with her feet.

The chief followed her, but didn't take up a place on the couch. "She mentioned
Hell Hath No Fury
." He was reaching into another pocket when his hand stilled and he looked around.

"Ashtray's on the top of the jukebox," Chris said, her attention on the paper in her hand. "That's the book?"

It didn't make any sense. It still didn't make her feel any better.

Instead of going for the ashtray, he settled on the arm of the couch, his fingers straying back to his upper lip. "It's the only one she mentioned."

Chris looked up. "I wouldn't have an ashtray in the house if I minded smoke," she prodded gently.

His scowl was rueful. It made him look more human than his smiles had so far. "I try not to smoke on the job anymore."

"I'm trying to lay off caffeine," Chris countered dryly. "I'm having about as much luck."

"Chris!" came the plaintive cry from the bathroom.

"Read chapter two!"

The response was unladylike and imaginative enough to make Chris chuckle. "She really is a good kid," she said. "She wants to be a juvenile social worker. I'm trying to talk her into business school."

"You don't like social workers?"

"I don't think there's any future in it. Lousy pay, worse hours, impossible caseload. It's like being a cop, except you can't shoot back. Unfortunately people who grow up with problems think they can solve them by helping somebody else, and it doesn't work." For just a minute, Chris looked over to the closed bathroom door and thought of the weight of perception. Then she turned back to the chief. "Don't take her advances seriously, and never take them alone."

He seemed surprised, whether by the opinion or the warning Chris wasn't sure. Even so, he thanked her for the advice. In return she thanked him for the information.

"You'll let me know?" he asked. "When you talk to Lawson. I'd be happy to help."

Chris gave in to a small grin. "Already too quiet for you?" she asked.

He was gentleman enough to smile back. "It will never be too quiet here for me."

"Mind my asking a question?"

He didn't move. Didn't so much as stiffen. Even so, Chris saw the sudden retreat. Minute contractions of the muscles around his mouth, an eerie stillness to his eyes.