Читать книгу Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride - Cassie Miles - Страница 9

Unable to believe what she was seeing, Angela tugged the ragged edge of the ripped white fabric. The skirt had been sliced multiple times. Bits of lace hung like entrails around the bodice. The gown was ruined beyond repair.

Scared and confused, she turned away. On the table was the boning knife—her knife! Was it possible that she had done this? She couldn’t remember. Had she suffered a blackout?

The thought terrified her. True, she hadn’t been in her right mind lately. The lack of sleep and stress had taken their toll. Last night, she’d imagined headlights crashing through her kitchen window. But she hadn’t gone completely insane. Not yet, anyway.

Shane touched her shoulder. In a low voice, he asked, “What do you want to do?”

For one thing, she didn’t want Linda to see this disaster. The owner of the dress shop would have too many questions, and Angela didn’t have answers. “Get me out of here.”

“Done.”

He tossed the knife into the garment bag with the dress and zipped it up just as Linda bustled into the back room with her long, silk scarf flowing behind her.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “I had a mixup with the register. Thought I’d lost a hundred and fifty bucks. Then I remembered that I went to the bank last night.”

Linda was a lovable scatterbrain. But not crazy. Not like me. She thought of Neil’s diagnosis that she needed to see a psychologist. He might be right.

While Shane introduced himself, she gathered her wits, hoping to appear normal. Not that she needed to worry. When she was with Shane, other women hardly noticed her existence. Even without his hat, he was one hundred percent sexy cowboy.

He beamed a slow smile at Linda and said, “Angela is having second thoughts about the dress. She wants to take it home and decide if this is actually what she wants to wear.”

“Brides are all the same.” Linda grinned up at him. “Always fussing about the details. When I got married, I was as nervous as a squirrel on a highway, jumping from one median to another.”

When Angela forced herself to speak, her voice seemed to be detached from her body. “Remember that white suit I tried on before?”

“Indeed, I do. To tell the truth, I liked you better in that outfit than in the gown. The suit seemed more.” Linda flipped the end of her scarf and chuckled. “More suitable.”

“We’ll take both of them with us,” Shane said. “Then, Angela can make her decision later.”

“Fine with me,” Linda said. “But you still need alterations on the gown, Angela. You’ve been losing weight, and a strapless bodice needs to fit like a second skin.”

While Shane went to the front of the store with Linda to make arrangements, Angela let down her guard. She sank onto a stool beside the cutting table and stared, unfocused. What was wrong with her? The inside of her head whirled like a blender. The shelves and boxes in the storeroom seemed to be closing in on her. She was suffocating.

She didn’t remember taking the knife from the restaurant, and she sure as hell didn’t recall attacking her dress. Was she sleepwalking? Had she done this in a blackout? It didn’t happen. Dammit, I’m not crazy.

But if she hadn’t done this, that meant someone else had. Everybody who worked in this area knew that Linda often neglected to lock the back door, and Angela’s dress had been sitting here for several days, unguarded.

She stared at the garment bag. Who could have done this? Why did they want to sabotage her wedding?

SHANE ESCORTED HER through the alley. Though his hands were occupied with holding both dress bags, he was prepared to toss them aside if he saw an approaching threat. Last night, Angela had an intruder. This morning, her gown was attacked. Clearly, someone wanted to hurt her—or at the very least, terrorize her.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making him hypervigilant. Ironically, he realized that he was acting as her bodyguard. In a few weeks, that would be his regular job at PRESS—Premier Executive Security Systems. No longer a small-town deputy sheriff, he was already stepping into the world of big-city dangers.

When she clicked the lock to open her van, he placed the garment bags in the back and turned to her. “We can’t ignore what happened.”

“We can try.” Avoiding eye contact, she opened the driver’s-side door. “I still need to check with the florist and make sure the bouquets are—”

“The daisies will wait.” He caught hold of her arm, stopping her before she shot off in a different direction. “We need to figure out who did this.”

“How did you know about the daisies?”

“They’re your favorite flower. White daisies.” When she married Tom, it was winter and she settled for white roses. Now daisies were in season.

“I got my daisies,” she said, “even though Neil wanted orchids.”

That made sense. Orchids were hothouse flowers, expensive and delicate. Angela was a daisy person—cheerful and bright.

“You got me off the subject,” he said. “We need to investigate, starting here at Waffles.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not going to go marching into the restaurant and accuse my friends. These are people I work with, people I trust and care about.”

“They’re also the most likely suspects. They have access to your knives. They know—as you do—that it’s easy to slip in and out of the dress shop through the back entrance.”

She shook her head. “Nobody I know would be so mean.”

“Let’s think this through.” He gently took the car keys from her hand. “When was the last time you used your knives?”

When she shook her head, her high ponytail bounced. Sunlight picked out strands of gold in her soft brown hair. “I don’t remember.”

“Think about it. Were you at Waffles yesterday?”

“I came in early to help with the breakfast rush, but I didn’t unpack my knives. One of the waitresses was sick, and I filled in for her.”

“And the day before?”

He could see her calming down as she considered the facts. “I put in almost a full day, and I was in the kitchen. So I must have used my knives. Believe me, I would have noticed if one was missing. I’ve had that set for seven years.”

Seven years ago was before they met, before she’d married his cousin. He’d never really thought about that time in her life. Her youth. Her childhood. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen. I’d just graduated from the Cordon Bleu culinary school in London, and the knives were a present to myself—symbolic of my new career as a chef.”

Shane wasn’t a gourmet, but he’d heard of Cordon Bleu. “How come I didn’t know you had such a fancy background? And how did you wind up in London?”

“When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time overseas. My dad was stationed in Germany.”

He’d known that. “And your father passed away when you were just a kid.”

“Not much older than Benjy,” she said. “I barely remember him. My mom struggled for a couple of years before she remarried, and she worked in restaurants. That’s where I got my love of flavor and texture.” A tiny, nostalgic smile touched her mouth, and he was glad to see her calming down. “She died when I was a senior in high school. I had the choice of college or Cordon Bleu, and I wanted to cook.”

“You were looking for something,” he said.

“A taste.” Her finger traced her lower lip. “You know what it’s like when you bite into something really good? It’s pure joy. I love seeing other people experience that sensation when they’re eating something I created. Their eyes close. And they hum. Mmm.”

He liked seeing her with a smile on her face, but he couldn’t ignore the threats. “We’re way off track.”

“I know. And I’d rather not think about any of this. All I want is to get through the next couple of days.”

“Whoever slashed your wedding gown is sending you a message, and it’s not a love note. I hate to say this, Angela, but you’re in danger.”

She turned away from him, stared across the alley at a six-foot-tall redwood fence. Her slender arms wrapped protectively around her midsection as though she were physically holding herself together. “What if it was me?”

He didn’t understand what she was saying. “Explain.”

“I might have imagined the intruder last night. There’s really no proof that anyone was outside the house.”

Earlier this morning, he’d inspected the ground outside the windows and found no footprints. The only possible bit of evidence was that the screen on Benjy’s window was missing a couple of screws.

“What about the dress?” he said. “I’d call that proof.”

“Not if I did it myself.” Though the morning was warm, she shivered. “I’ve been an emotional basket case lately, and don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”

“Something to do with getting married,” he said.

When she looked at him, he saw a painful vulnerability in her eyes. Her mouth quivered. “I’m scared, Shane.”

“It’s okay.” He pulled her close, offering his shoulder to cry on. “Talk to me.”

“Being married to Tom was the best thing that ever happened to me, but it was a bumpy road. Right from the start.”

Shane knew his cousin’s flaws better than anyone. After his first tour of duty, Tom had a pretty serious case of posttraumatic stress disorder. And he was a recovering alcoholic. Before he and Angela got married, he quit drinking. She’d been good for him, helped him straighten out. “Tom wasn’t perfect. Nobody is.”

“This isn’t about Tom. It’s about me.” Her body tensed. “Maybe I’m not cut out to be married.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re a warm, loving woman. Look at what a great job you’ve done with Benjy.”

Without thinking, he dipped his head and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. Her hair smelled of lilacs. When she smiled up at him, the gray-green of her eyes seemed as deep as a mountain glen. Holding her felt so damn good; he didn’t want to let her go. But Angela wasn’t his woman. She was about to be married to another man.

“Thanks, Shane. You always know what to say.”

He stepped away from her. “Let me do my job as an almost former deputy and investigate. I want to figure out who messed up your dress, and I’m starting here. At Waffles. Take me inside, and show me where you keep your knives.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you promise not to interrogate anybody?”

“Not unless they come at me with a loaded gun.”

He strode to the rear door of the restaurant and pulled it open. Inside, the warmth of the kitchen flowed around him in a wave of breakfast aromas—bacon, coffee and freshly baked muffins. The back door opened into a hallway between the walk-in refrigeration unit and the office, which was their first stop. The office space had two small desks— one for Angela and one for Yvonne Brighton, her partner. Two tall, metal file cabinets stood beside two lockers.

Angela opened the locker nearest the door.

“You don’t keep anything locked,” he said.

“Sometimes I do. At the end of the day.”

She removed a black cutlery bag from the lower shelf. When she opened it on the desk, he could see the empty slot where the boning knife should have fit with the rest of the set. Angela touched the space and looked up at him. “Now we know for sure. It’s my knife.”

It would have been simple for someone to slip inside the office and steal her knife. The friendly atmosphere of Old South Clarkson Street made for lousy investigating. “I might be able to get fingerprints off the handle.”

“Most people aren’t that dumb,” she said. “We keep a stock of throwaway gloves in the kitchen.”

Though he nodded in agreement, he figured he could stop by the PRESS offices later if he wanted to check for fingerprints. They had a forensics department and computer access that rivaled that of the Denver PD.

Angela’s partner popped into the office. Yvonne Brighton was a tall, big-boned woman who did a killer Julia Child impersonation. A lopsided navy-blue chef hat covered most of her curly brown hair. She gave them a toothy grin. “I thought I heard someone back here.”

She charged at Shane and enveloped him in a giant bear hug which he happily reciprocated. He liked Yvonne. She was funny and smart—too smart to put anything over on. Before she stepped away from him, she patted his shoulder holster and said, “Expecting trouble?”

“Shane has a new job.” Angela rushed to explain. “He’s working for a bodyguard company.”

His new employer was far more complex, but he didn’t correct her. “I’m moving to Denver.”

“Terrific!” Yvonne wiggled her eyebrows. “Or should I say très magnifique! Angela and I have somebody you really need to meet.”

“The French woman.” He gritted his teeth. What was it about a single man that turned women into matchmakers?

“Marie Devereaux. Very pretty. And an excellent baker. She’s doing the wedding cake, which means it’ll be beautiful and taste good, too. You’ll like her.”

“If you say so.”

“I most certainly do.”

Yvonne wasn’t shy about giving orders. When it came to managing the restaurant, she and Angela complemented each other perfectly. Angela provided the empathetic voice of reason, and Yvonne made sure things got done.

She sat in the swivel chair behind her desk. To Angela, she said, “I’m glad you’re here. I need a break. Could you take care of the kitchen for a couple of minutes while I chat with the mountain man?”

“No problem.” Angela grabbed her knives and went toward the office door. “I feel guilty about not being here more often this week.”

When she left the office, Shane positioned himself in the doorway so he could keep an eye on her. Despite the cozy atmosphere of Waffles, he hadn’t forgotten the danger.

“We need to talk.” When Yvonne pulled off her chef’s hat and ruffled her hair, he noticed a few more strands of gray. He didn’t know Yvonne’s age, but she had two grown daughters. She exhaled a sigh. “I’m worried about Angela.”

“I’m listening.”

“She’s been dragging in here like she’s half-dead. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair hanging limp. I’ve seen her hands trembling. And she must have lost ten pounds in the last two weeks.” Yvonne scowled. “It reminds me of how she fell apart after Tom’s death.”

“I remember.” Though Angela and Yvonne weren’t in business together five years ago, they’d been friends. “You and your husband helped her through that tragedy.”

“And you. In spite of the grief you were carrying, you were one hundred percent there for our girl.”

In the kitchen, he saw Angela step up to the grill. Her hands moved nimbly as she poured batter and flipped pancakes. She sprinkled powdered sugar on one order, dropped a dollop of sour cream topped with three blueberries on another. Graceful and fast, never missing a beat, her food preparation was a virtuoso performance.

Shane turned his attention toward Yvonne. Her concern was obvious and sincere, and she knew Angela better than almost anyone else. “Why do you think she’s upset?”

“It’s almost like she’s haunted.”

“Nervous about getting married again,” he suggested.

“Oh, I don’t think marriage bothers her.”

“Then what?”

“It’s Neil,” she said. “He thinks running Waffles is beneath her. His wife should stay at home and tend to his needs. Can you see Angela doing that? Within a month, she’d be climbing the walls.”

“If Neil gets his way and Angela quits, what happens to Waffles?”

“I’d sell the place,” she said without hesitation. “We’ve had offers.”

Yvonne’s theory didn’t tell him much about possible intruders or the person who slashed the wedding gown. Instead, it pointed back to Angela herself. Her fear of getting married—to Neil or anyone else—was eating at her, making it hard for her to sleep.

Still, he found it hard to believe that she’d destroyed her wedding dress in the throes of a blackout. Whether awake or asleep, Angela wasn’t the type of person who committed outright vandalism.

He turned to Yvonne. “You seem pretty sure about Neil.”

“I am.” For emphasis, she slammed the flat of her hand on the desktop. “She shouldn’t marry him, and I’ll do just about anything to stop her.”