Holidays Are Murder. Charlotte Douglas

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СКАЧАТЬ twenty-two years ago, and I didn’t want anything to spoil that friendship. Tonight, although he’d been retired from the job for two years, I looked forward to hearing his take on my rooftop burglar.

      I slid into a booth across from Bill. Toby Keith belted out “How Do You Like Me Now?” from the ancient Wurlitzer in the corner, and locals from the marina filled the stools at the bar and watched a pregame football show on the new plasma-screen television high on the wall in the corner.

      Bill greeted me with a grin. His thick hair, once brown, was now white, a handsome contrast to his deep tan, and his blue eyes retained their boyish charm. “I already ordered.”

      “No problem.” I always had an old-fashioned burger all the way with fries, and Bill was well versed in my preferences.

      The waitress served frosted mugs of cold beer and when she left, Bill said, “For someone who just came off vacation, you look tired.”

      “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

      “You also look beautiful,” he hastened to add, “but I’m worried about you. You wore yourself out on the weight-loss clinic murders. I was hoping with those solved, you might slow down a bit.”

      “No rest for the weary.” I sipped my beer and hoped it wouldn’t send me into a deep coma.

      While we waited for our food, I gave Bill the details on our rooftop burglar. “Looks like I’ve hit a wall,” I said when I’d finished.

      “Have you tried tracking the Clinton mask?”

      “Adler worked on it all day. But the masks were produced over a decade ago and carried by the thousands by Wal-Mart and K-Mart, as well as other specialty stores. Nobody kept records on individual purchases of the masks. Besides, you know how many transients and new residents we have in this county. That mask could have been brought in from anywhere in the country.”

      “What about online?”

      “I’ll make sure Adler checked that, too.” I hated computers, didn’t own one and barely tolerated using the one at work. In a profession becoming increasingly high tech, my technophobia was another compelling reason to toss in the towel. I refused to own a cell phone and only reluctantly carried a beeper.

      Our meals arrived and as I bit into my burger with gusto, I realized I’d forgotten to eat lunch. Good thing, since the food in front of me represented an entire day’s ration. Fresh memories of three overweight murder victims had me counting calories.

      Bill put down his burger and wiped his lips with his napkin. “Margaret—”

      Besides Bill, only members of my immediate family called me Margaret. When I’d first partnered with him, he’d called me Princess Margaret, a derogatory reference to my debutante days, but after I saved his life during a domestic dispute call, I’d won his respect and he’d referred to me as Skerritt on the job. Later, after his divorce, when our relationship developed outside of work, he’d begun calling me Margaret, often with a tenderness I found hard to resist.

      “Margaret, I’ve given this a lot of thought.” His blue eyes locked gazes with mine and his expression was deadly serious.

      My heartbeat stuttered. Had my unwavering rejections of his marriage proposals convinced him to move on?

      “I’ve decided,” he continued, “to accept your invitation to have Thanksgiving at your mother’s.”

      “That wasn’t an invitation,” I said, relieved only until the prospect of Bill and my mother in the same room hit me. “That was a threat.”

      “She can’t be that bad.”

      “She doesn’t approve of anything about me,” I countered. “And she lets me know it every time our paths cross.”

      My mother was a social scion of Pelican Bay. Her father had been a prominent physician, my late father a distinguished cardiologist, and she enjoyed her position of wealth and influence. When I had graduated from college with a degree in library science and announced my engagement to Greg Singleford, who was completing his internship in the ER, Mother had been over the moon. But Greg’s brutal murder by a crack addict in an ER treatment room had changed everything.

      I’d loved Greg with all the passion and innocence of youth, and his death had shaken my core values. As a result, I couldn’t see spending my life with books, or, as my mother had intended, at meetings of the Junior League and Art Guild, once I’d realized that the world was such a dangerous place. Daddy had supported my decision to enter the police academy and had openly expressed his pride in my accomplishments. He’d served as a buffer between Mother and me until his death twelve years ago. But Mother had been horrified from the beginning that her younger daughter had chosen a down-and-dirty career in law enforcement over social prestige. And she never let me forget it. During the recent publicity over my arrest of Lester Morelli for the clinic murders, she’d taken to her bed with a sick headache and had remained there until after Morelli had been indicted and the news coverage had ceased.

      “So you’re withdrawing the invitation?” Bill asked.

      “No, I’m just warning you that dinner with Mother will be an ordeal. It always is. So you might want to reconsider.”

      He reached across the table and grasped my hand. “Maybe just once you ought to tell your mother to take her hoity-toity attitude and stick it up her—”

      “Bill!”

      “You’ve heard the word ass before,” he said with a rare flash of temper. “You’ve even used it a few times yourself.”

      “But never in relation to my mother. Mother wouldn’t be caught dead with a common ass. She has only a very sophisticated derriere.” I teased to defuse his irritation.

      “You’ve got to stop tiptoeing around her.”

      “She and Caroline are all the family I have.”

      Pain flashed through his eyes, and I wished I could take back my words. Bill had even less family than I did.

      He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Maybe it’s time for a family of your own. We could be a family, you and I.”

      I was on the verge of choking up over his proposal when my beeper sounded. “I have to call the station.”

      “I’m giving you a cell phone for Christmas,” he promised with a scowl.

      “I’d either lose it or forget to charge it, so save your money.” I hurried from the table to the pay phone in the lobby.

      I was gone only a couple of minutes before I returned and cast a longing look at my unfinished burger. “Gotta go,” I said. “Another break-in.”

      “You’re dead on your feet,” Bill said. “At least let me drive.”

      For a few seconds I luxuriated in the unaccustomed comfort of having someone fuss over me. Then duty kicked in.

      “Okay, but let’s roll. Shelton was already frothing at the mouth over last night’s burglary. I don’t want him putting me on report for slow response.”

      CHAPTER СКАЧАТЬ