Éclair and Present Danger (26 page)

“Winnie? This is Chuck. Chuck Rogers. I work with Greg, and I met you the other day when you came to look at one of our ambulances, and then again at the school.”

And for a while, I thought you murdered my friend . . .

“Yes. Hi,” she said, instead. “What can I do for you?”

“Greg called me today and told me you had some questions about a rare coin?”

Aware of Jay's nearness, she did her best to keep her voice as light as possible. “Yes.”

“I'm assuming it's about Bart Wagner's gold double eagle?”

Caught off guard, she simply repeated the same “yes.”

“That thing was worth a fortune. But Bart had no intention of ever selling it. The memory and its tie to his late father meant more than any amount of money. I understood that. I feel the same way about my dad's old trains.”

She mulled over his comments only to find a question pushing to the forefront of her thoughts. “Do you know if anyone in your club took a special interest in Bart's coin?”

“We've all known him for years. And while the history behind it was unbelievably cool, it wasn't anything new, you know? I mean, we knew the story already. Had for ages. That's probably why we were all so excited when we got a new member last month. First new member in something like five years, I think.”

“New member?” she echoed.

“New member, new set of ears . . .”

“I don't understand.”

“Everyone in that club has seen my baseball card collection a million times. Everyone in that club has heard one another's stories a million times. A new member means a new set of ears.”

“Ahhh.” She held the phone closer to her ear in an effort
to try and drown out the chatter of a half dozen or so students walking through the parking lot. “Chuck? Do you happen to know this new member's name?”

“Sure I do. It's Lance—Lance Reed. Guy is a total history buff and super smart. Moved to town a month or so ago to teach at the community college.”

L
ooking back, she wasn't entirely sure how she got out of the parking lot without running anyone over. Or how, exactly, she left things with Jay. But there were no dents in her car, and she vaguely remembered saying something about Bart, his coin, and justice being served. For now, that would have to do.

Especially considering the way everything about Lance as Bart's killer rang true.

Collector or not, a man who taught history would know—probably better than anyone else—just how rare Bart's coin had been. And, according to Jay, community college history professors didn't pull in the salary needed to buy the kind of sports car Lance was driving around town.

Then again, less than twenty-four hours earlier, she'd been convinced Chuck was the killer . . .

Pulling over onto the road's gravel shoulder, Winnie retrieved her phone from Lovey's seat and dialed Bridget's number.

“Hello?”

“Bridget, it's me. Winnie.” She saw Lovey stir but kept her focus on the woman in her ear. “I need to ask you something.”

“My feet are feeling much better today, thank you. I soaked them in Epsom salt last night and that seemed to do the trick.”

“I didn't know your feet were hurting.”

“Oh? I was sure I'd told you. Then again, maybe that was Cornelia I mentioned it to . . .”

Stifling the groan she felt building in her throat, she did her best to proceed with caution. “Bridget, I really have to ask you something. Something unrelated to your feet.”

“Go ahead, dear.”

“It's about Lance.”

She closed her eyes against her next-door neighbor's answering squeal—a sound not much different than one Renee would make under the same circumstances. “Has he asked you out?”

“No!”

Bridget sniffed at Winnie's rebuke and then grew silent.

Removing the phone from its holding spot against her cheek, Winnie checked the connection. Still there . . . “I'm sorry if I sound a bit short, but—”

“Parker and I—we just worry about you, dear. We want you to find someone as special as you are. If that's Lance, then that's wonderful.”

If she weren't trying to put a face on Bart's killer, she'd probably find their conversation amusing, but she was and so she didn't. “Bridget, please! I just need to double-check my memory from that day.”

“What day?”

“The day Bart was murdered.” She wrapped her free hand around the steering wheel and braced herself. “Do you remember when I got home from work? It was my last day at the bakery, and I was feeling a little blue.”

“I remember. But things have really turned around,
haven't they? Your Dessert Squad is the talk of the town—no small thanks to me and my article, of course.”

“Yes, of course. And thank you again for that.” She stopped, took a breath, and glanced over at Lovey happily licking her hindquarters. “While we were on the porch, before I found Bart's body, you and Mr. Nelson were telling me about the incident with Ava, remember?”

She heard a frustrated sigh in her ear. “Yes. And Parker kept cutting me off, telling you all the best parts of the story.”

“I'm calling
you
, aren't I?” she reminded.

“That's just because Parker doesn't hear the phone when it rings.”

She considered protesting if for no other reason than to stroke the elderly woman's ego, but it was pointless. Besides, it didn't matter. Not now, anyway. Instead, she cut to the chase. “Bridget, what did you say about Bart before Ava ran through Ethel's flower bed that day—or, rather, the previous day?”

“I don't remember telling you anything.”

“You did,” she insisted. “It was about Bart and his frame of mind just before Ava set him off . . .”

“I don't know. I—wait. Yes. Bart had looked so happy. He was even smiling for the first time since Ethel passed.”

She needed more to make her case. But she wanted to hear it from Bridget's mouth rather than in her own head where it could be mixed with an entirely different memory. “Do you remember why he was so happy?”

“I wasn't privy to what actually went on, of course, but I suspect that young man had just told a joke that struck Bart's funny bone.”

“Young man?”

“Lance. I saw them step out onto Bart's porch together, and Bart was
smiling
.” Winnie heard a few odd noises and surmised that Bridget was shifting the phone from one hand to the other. Sure enough, the woman's voice resumed
its normal strength. “Or was until that little girl decided to run through that flowerbed.”

“So Lance had been inside Bart's house?”

“He had indeed. Why do you ask?”

Ignoring the woman's question, she tossed out one last one of her own. “Do you happen to know whether Lance was around that next morning? The morning that Bart was murdered?”

“That was a Tuesday, yes?”

“Yes. Tues—” The day disappeared from her lips as a memory from another conversation took center stage in her thoughts. A conversation and a voice that was suddenly as clear as the soft purr coming from the passenger seat . . .

I've got an eight
A.M.
class every day except Tuesday . . .

She sucked in her breath, the reality of what was sitting in her lap simply too hard to ignore. The only question that remained was what to do with the information.

Did she go to the police or did she go straight to—

“Thanks, Bridget. I've got to go.” She disconnected the line, tossed the phone onto the seat next to Lovey, and pulled back onto the road, her destination clear. “You better believe you'll see me on Serenity Lane, Lance . . .”

Ten minutes later, she piloted the ambulance into Lance's driveway and cut the engine. “Well, we got him, Lovey.”

Lovey popped her head up and blinked.

“You stay right here, okay? I won't be long.” Then, realizing the cat wasn't going to answer, she stepped out of the vehicle and headed up to the house. She wasn't entirely sure what she was going to say when he answered the door, but she'd figure it out. Bart had deserved better. If nothing else, she'd be sure to tell Lance that . . .

She half walked, half jogged her way up to the door and knocked, her anger rising with each answering step she heard. When the footsteps stopped, the door swung open.

“Oh. Hey. Winnie. This is a nice surprise. Come on in.
I was just about to fix a snack of some sort. Do you like nachos?”

She supposed she nodded, but she wasn't sure. She did know that she accepted his invitation and stepped into his hallway—a decision she couldn't help but second-guess as she heard the click of the door over her shoulder.

Still, she owed this moment to Bart.

And Ethel.

“C'mon, we can talk in the kitchen while I pull everything together.” He led the way toward the kitchen at the end of the hallway, stopping every few feet to wave at a different aspect of his new place. “I've put an offer in on this house. To buy it outright. The second it goes through, I'm gonna gut this place and start all over. New walls, new floors, new furniture, new windows, new everything.”

“Sounds expensive.” She didn't bother to look at the rooms they passed. They didn't matter. There would be no gutting, no buying, no changing of anything. Except maybe the color Lance was wearing . . .

“It will be. But I've got it covered.” When they reached the kitchen, he gestured her toward a chair and then ripped open a bag of nacho chips he'd already placed on the counter. “Do you like your cheese with or without a zip?”

“Either is fine.” She sifted through a pile of travel brochures on the table and held up one pertaining to Greece. “You like to travel?”

He shook the chips onto a plate and then popped a bowl of cheese into the microwave for forty seconds. As the cheese heated, he leaned against the nearest counter and smiled at Winnie. “I'm about to find out as soon as the current semester is over.”

“So you're going to keep teaching?” she asked, returning the brochure to the pile. “Even though you don't have to?”

“I'd teach history if I was the richest person in the world.”

She considered his answer, swiveling her body to face
him as she did. “
In the world
might be a stretch, but I'd say that seven and a half million probably solidifies you as the richest person in Silver Lake. Maybe even the whole county.”

If she'd been thinking beyond her own need to call Lance out, she'd have taken advantage of his momentary shock to run for the front door, but, since she wasn't, she was ill prepared when he lunged forward, his face contorted with rage.

She did manage to struggle to her feet, but not without knocking over her chair.

“You little witch!” He reared his arm back to strike her, but somehow she managed to step out of his reach and alter his balance enough so she had time to think.

Glancing around wildly, she tried to assess her best route to freedom.

Jump over the chair and make a break for the front door, or find a way to get around him to the back door . . .

She was just about to take the second option when she spied Mr. Nelson peeking around the door's drab curtain panel, the index finger of his non-cane-holding hand poised in front of his lips. If she went that way, she'd put her friend in danger.

No.

Lance recovered his balance and lunged at her again, his sudden and menacing movements so frightening she shrieked in terror.

“Scream all you want, Winnie. No one in this neighborhood of hearing aids and walkers will be coming to your rescue anytime—”

The sound of glass shattering in the front hall made them both jump. Before either of them could process what was happening, an arm reached through the glass, unlocked the door, and shoved it open.

“Jay!” She tried to run toward him but was stopped mid-step by Lance—his left arm wrapped around her
neck, his right arm wielding a kitchen knife angled toward her throat.

“Take one more step and I swear I'll—”

The threat changed into a groan as Lance took a blow to the side of the face and stumbled backward, confused. Before Winnie could think, before she could even scream, Jay was past her and on top of Lance. Beside them stood Mr. Nelson and his hand-carved wooden cane.

“Walkers, canes—either way they get the job done.” Mr. Nelson poked his cane in the middle of Lance's back and then pulled Winnie in for a tight hug. “You're safe now, Winnie Girl.”

S
he sat on the top step of the porch and smiled out at her friends standing or sitting around the yard in groups of two and three. News of Lance's arrest in the murder of Bart Wagner had spread up and down Serenity Lane like wildfire. In fact, the disgraced teacher's ride up the street in the back of a patrol car had been quite an event.

Today, though, was about something different.

Today was about coming together to celebrate Bart Wagner's life.

It was, as Bridget had said the previous night, a chance to heal and to put the Serenity back in Serenity Lane.

Now, as she sat mere inches away from a semi-purring Lovey (okay, maybe not
purring
, exactly), Winnie had to admit she needed this kind of peace and calm every bit as much as her friends did.

To her left, Chuck and a scooter-riding Harold Jenkins were deep in conversation. She wasn't close enough to hear what they were saying, but considering Chuck was holding a sleeve of baseball cards and Harold was actually paying
attention (rather than winking and blinking at Cornelia Wright), she figured baseball was a safe guess.

Off to her right, Renee (dressed in a pair of formfitting jeans and matching stilettos) was laughing at something Mark had just said. Winnie had called Bart and Ethel's son once she'd gotten back to the house after the debacle with Lance—the man's heartfelt gratitude in response to news of an arrest in his father's death still making an occasional loop through her thoughts.

Mark was a little rough around the edges, but he seemed determined to make a go of his dream—a dream his father had wanted for him every bit as much as he wanted it for himself.

She followed Renee's occasional shy glances around to the side of the house where she spotted Greg playing catch with Ty, the ten-year-old's excitement over having found an unexpected playmate bubbling over into silly jokes. Greg, being the sweetheart that he was, laughed at all the right places. If he noticed Renee looking over at them, he didn't let on.

Ahead of her, just under the large oak tree, stood Mr. Nelson and Bridget, pointing up at a bird's nest hidden among the branches. Mr. Nelson, along with Jay, had saved her life. From what Jay had told her the day before, he'd been worried about her after she'd left the college so abruptly (leaving her rescue bag behind in the process). When he arrived at the house to check on her, Bridget was on the porch with Mr. Nelson, relaying her odd phone call with Winnie—a phone call that led the men to Lance's house (and Bridget to call 911) just in the nick of time.

Somehow, someway, she'd find a way to pay them back. Not just for saving her life, but for making it so special day in and day out.

“You look awfully pensive sitting there by yourself.”

Startled back into the present, Winnie turned to find Jay smiling at her from the walkway, his blue green eyes fairly
dancing in the afternoon sun. A few steps behind him, and to the left, stood Caroline, her expression the antithesis of her father's.

To Jay, Winnie seemed to represent hope. Maybe even a second chance.

To Caroline, Winnie seemed to represent—

Lovey woke from her nap beside Winnie to run down the steps and straight into the arms Caroline swooped down to offer. Seizing the opportunity the distraction afforded them, Winnie gave in to the smile Jay's presence warranted.

“I was kind of hoping you'd show.”

“How could I not?”

His daughter's name was on the tip of her tongue, but she refrained from sharing it aloud. Instead, she gestured toward the preoccupied pair with her chin. “They have a lot in common.”

“Oh?” Jay closed the gap between them and lowered himself onto the step beside Winnie. “What's that?”

“I've been forced onto both of them . . . and they both hate me.”

He slipped his arm around her back and pulled her in for a much-needed (and oh-so-wonderful) side-arm hug. “From what I could tell when we just walked up, it looks like maybe Lovey is starting to warm up to you.”

“Why? Because she wasn't hissing at me at that exact moment?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe she thought I was Bridget sitting here.”

“Nope. She knew it was you.”

Was Jay right? Was Lovey finally warming up to her?

“Mr. Nelson told me to give it time. Said she'd come around.”

Jay followed her gaze toward the tree and the elderly man now spying at them from behind the thick trunk. “Mr. Nelson is a smart man.”

She waved at Mr. Nelson and his slightly more inconspicuous partner in crime, Bridget. “That he is.”

“I think the same will happen with Caroline if we give her time.”

“You do?”

“I certainly hope so.” Leaning over, he whispered a kiss across her forehead, the warmth of his breath against her skin like nothing she'd ever felt before. “She's not going to make it easy on us, Winnie, but I refuse to give up. You're much too special.”

Refuse to give up . . .

Refuse to give up . . .

She grabbed hold of his free hand and held it close. “So, you're telling me not to give up, yes?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

Poking her head around the corner, she called out to Renee. “Hey, I just came up with another dessert. We'll call it Never Give Up-side-Down
Cake.”