“You should get her a dog.”
“What?”
“She says she isn’t ready, but it was clear by the way she behaved and reacted to Bert she is. She misses having a dog in her life. She—I’m sorry.” Color rose up to her cheeks. “It’s not my place.”
“We don’t stand on place so much around here. She loved that dog. We all did. It just about flattened us when we had to have him put down.”
He looked down at Bert, resisted—because he liked having his hand—reaching out to pet the dog. “You really think she’s ready to start with another?”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“You did. I’m asking your opinion.”
“Then yes. It seemed to me she felt it would be disloyal if she herself got another dog. But a gift, from one of her children. That’s different, isn’t it?”
“It is. Thanks. She liked you, my mother.”
“I liked her. You should take the rest of the pie, and her dish.” Abigail rose to cover the remaining pie.
“Here’s your hat; what’s your hurry?”
“You weren’t wearing a hat.”
“It’s an expression. Like, say, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”
“Oh. Then yes, you have to go. I need to feed my dog, and I have work waiting. Please tell your mother I enjoyed the pie.”
“I will.” He rose, picked up the dish.
“And thank you for the wine. I’ll let you out.”
At the front door he waited for her to unlock, turn off the alarm. Then he set the pie on the little table.
“Tell your dog to relax.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to put my hands on you, and I’m going to need them to drive after I do. I don’t want him biting one off at the wrist.”
“I don’t like to be touched.”
“You like sex. A kiss is somewhere between being touched and having sex. Aren’t you curious, Abigail?”
“A little.” She studied his face in that X-ray manner, then looked to the dog. “Ami,” she said, laying a hand lightly on Brooks’s arm. “Ami, Bert.”
Still, she stiffened when Brooks took her hand—her gun hand.
“Ami,” he murmured. “That one stuck with me. So let’s be friendly.”
He laid his other hand on her cheek, eased his way in. And she watched him. That ready, steady look in her eye just hit some chord in him. He kept it light, maybe a little over the friendly line, but light and soft. Lips meeting, eyes locked.
He pressed, just a bit more, body to body, until her hand came to his shoulder. Until it slid around to the back of his neck, up into his hair. Until her tongue teased his, and those watchful eyes went a deeper green.
As he stepped back, he released her hand. With a shake of his head, he picked up the pie. “You know I’m going to have to come back.”
“It’s a mistake.”
“For who?”
“For both of us.”
“Different points of view, remember.” He leaned in, quick—and this time friendly—touched his lips to hers. “I’ll be coming back. See you, Bert,” he added as he walked out and to his car.
Abigail closed the door, locked it before she heard his engine turn over. She let out a huff of breath, looked down at the dog.
“It’s a mistake,” she repeated.
10
Brooks spent most of his day putting righteous fear in a trio of preadolescent shoplifters, dealing with a traffic accident—which primarily involved preventing the two drivers from coming to blows—handling the resulting paperwork, and listening to Sid Firehawk whine when Brooks finally cited him for the blown-out muffler.
To reward himself, he opted to make a quick run to the bakery for some fancy coffee and a snickerdoodle, but Alma stuck her head in his office. Rainbow peace signs the size of babies’ fists dangled from her ears.
“Grover called in. There’s a dispute over at Ozark Art.”
“What kind of dispute?”
“He just said things were getting a little hot, and asked for you to go by.”
“All right. I’ll walk over. I could stop at the bakery on the way back if you want anything.”
“Get away from me, Satan.”
“Just saying.” Brooks got up from his desk, grabbed his jacket.
“If a chocolate macadamia cookie and a skinny latte found their way onto my desk, it wouldn’t be my fault.”
“No one could blame you.” As Brooks headed out, he wondered why she’d put the skinny in a latte when she was having a cookie. But that was one of the female mysteries he didn’t worry himself into a headache over.
He glanced at the sky as he walked. The temperatures refused to settle, shooting up, diving down and clashing in the middle as a welcome mat for tornados. But the sky held to a harmless faded denim.
He crossed over to Shop Street, pleased to see the Saturday-afternoon bustle of locals and tourists. He passed the gourmet market, thought of Abigail, and walked down another block to Ozark Art.
He didn’t see any signs of a dispute through the display window. In fact, he didn’t see Grover or a customer or anyone else. The little bell jingled as he stepped in, scanned the main showroom and its walls of paintings, the stands displaying sculptures, shelves of handblown glass and local pottery.
The air carried the fragrance of a spring woodland from one of those reed diffusers. Grover’s work, he thought absently. The guy looked like a storybook gnome, and was a wizard with scents.
He started back toward the storeroom and office, saw no one at the checkout counter.
And heard the click of heels on wood.
Sylbie, hair tumbled, eyes slumberous, slipped out of the back room.
“Well, there you are … Chief.”
“What’s the problem, Sylbie?”
“I’ll tell you.” She crooked a finger, tossed her hair and her own personal scent as she opened the back-room door. “In here.”
“Where’s Grover?”
“He’ll be back in a few minutes. Somebody has to watch the shop.”
Brooks felt the trapdoor creak under his feet. “Sylbie, Grover called the station, said there was a dispute that needed police involvement.”
“There is a dispute, but there doesn’t have to be. Come on into the back, and we’ll settle it.”
“We’ll settle it here.”
“All right, then.” She wore a dress swirled with black and white. And then she didn’t.
“Jesus Christ, Sylbie.”
She laughed, again tossing her hair and perfume before she leaned against the doorjamb, naked but for a pair of high red heels that showed a peek of toenails painted the same shade.
“You didn’t come see me the other night, Brooks. I had to drink that wine all by myself.”
“I told you I was busy. Put your clothes back on.”
“Now, that’s something I don’t recall you saying in the past.”
He kept his eyes on hers, surprised and a little disconcerted that it took little effort to keep them from roaming down. “I’m saying it now. Put your dress on, Sylbie.”
“Come on over here and make me.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You talk Grover into calling the station, requesting an officer.”
“Not just any officer, honey.” She pursed her lips in a kiss. “I wanted you.”
“Shut up.” Temper he rarely lost strained against the leash. “If you’re not back in that dress inside ten seconds, I’m arresting you.”
“Oh … you want to play that way.”
“Look at me, God damn it. Am I playing?”
His tone, his face, finally got through. Temper lit her eyes in turn as she bent down, pulled the dress back up.
“Don’t you think for one minute you can speak to me that way.”
“I’ll do more than speak to you if you pull something like this again. I’m the fucking chief of police, Sylbie. I’m on duty.”
She fit the dress straps in place with two defiant snaps. “Like anything ever happens around here.”
“I’ll tell you something that’s going to happen. I’m going to find Grover, and I’m going to fine him for calling in a false report.”