Wednesday, February 7th
Chapter 1
I arrived at the newspaper office on Wednesday morning unaware it would be my last calm—all right, make that normal—day for over a week. The day also marked the beginning of the most terrifying week I had yet to experience, and permanently engraved itself in my memory.
That morning, my co-workers—gathered as usual in the break room for a few minutes to chat before hitting the city room—grinned at me. I was five minutes ahead of the regulation hour instead of my normal fifteen minutes behind it. I figured their reaction was surprise at my early appearance, although I admit no one applauded. My tardy arrivals at work—tolerated by my boss—rarely broke with a simple on-time start to my day. For me to arrive early constituted a major event.
I unwound my scarf, shrugged out of my heavy overcoat, and once I got them on the hook below my name on the coat rack, I headed down the hallway to the city room.
I stopped four paces short of my desk.
A magical transformation had taken place. An elaborate bouquet of flowers now occupied the space on my desk where my typewriter lived. A lovely milk glass vase filled with roses, carnations, and daisies sat where my Remington spent its life. A small card lay in front of the vase.
I glanced up to see the Daily Gleaner’s editor-in-chief, Bernie Slater, standing in his doorway at the head of the large room. His grin matched all the others.
“A truly red-letter day,” he offered as he joined me at my desk. “You’re early—and you have flowers.”
“Valentine’s Day is a week from today. Someone’s calendar is off.”
“Christmas is over so I know it’s not birthday wishes. Or if it is, someone is very, very late,” he dryly commented. “Who sent them?”
I reached for the envelope and opened the flap. My desk phone rang before I withdrew the card.
“Daily Gleaner, Lauren Kaye.” I used the standard telephone answer for the Long Island paper.
“You’re on time,” a familiar gruff voice said without preamble.
“Good morning, Captain,” I greeted our local law officer. “It happens once in a while. I like to keep people guessing.” I balanced the phone on my shoulder and got the card out.
“Well?” It came in unison from the receiver at my ear and in front of me. My jaw dropped open; as a term for it, surprise seemed lame.
My boss continued with a grin, “You look amazed.”
I handed Slater the card. “Thank you for the flowers,” I said into the telephone. “What’s the catch?”
Slater’s eyebrows tried to reach his receding hairline as he read the salutation on the card: To My Favorite Friendly Thorn.
His wording accurately reflected my relationship with Daniel O’Brien, captain of the Northwoods Glen Police Department. It tended to waver between love and hate, tolerance and annoyance, and acceptance and irritation, but forever rested on a foundation of respect.
“I need a favor.” His almost-raspy voice framed the words in fast, staccato fashion. I knew him well enough to figure out he was embarrassed at having to ask.
“A favor?” I struggled to keep my shock from becoming obvious. “Such as?”
“I’d—I’d rather not go into it on the phone.”
“I’ll be at my desk all day unless I have to cover a breaking story. Or if you’d prefer it, I can drop by the station on my lunch break.”
“No.” Brusque and typical response.
“If you’re looking for neutral territory, I’m sure we could meet in Robert Mallory’s library,” I suggested, recalling the many unofficial meetings which took place at the home of my mentor who was also his best friend.
“No, this one is not for any ears but yours.”
“Wilfrid’s?” It was the coffee shop not far from the newspaper office.
“Too public.”
“Since you don’t like my ideas, it’s your turn.”
“Lunch. Noon. Be ready.” The line went dead. O’Brien rarely wasted words on niceties.
I replaced my handset. “I have a lunch date.”
Slater opened his mouth to speak.
“Boss, don’t ask, because I have no idea. You’ll have to live with your curiosity.”
“Curiosity doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“Do I get to know where my typewriter is?”
“Under your desk.” He smiled and retreated to his office. Right before the door closed, I heard, “Don’t call me Boss.”
I carefully placed the flowers on my side table and fished my machine out from where he stashed it. I spent the morning alternating between my attempt to make a dull mayoral interview sound interesting and my speculation on what was going on in O’Brien’s mind. Both efforts proved equally fruitless.
At noon on the dot—shivering despite being bundled in my heavy coat, scarf, gloves, and hat—I stood in the doorway of the newspaper office. The biting wind whistled past my ears. Nothing short of Eskimo gear would have protected me. Our February weather seemed to be determined to prove more feisty than usual and the entrance’s slight recess proved woefully inadequate.
The grey sedan pulled up to the curb. I did not wait for O’Brien to come around and open the car door for me. It was too cold to accede to polite formalities. Once I settled in my seat, he signaled and steered back into traffic.
“I thought we would go to Bryant Park,” he stated.
“You’re driving.”
The downtown park, predictably, was deserted. He chose a parking spot, put the gear lever in neutral, and set the handbrake. The car remained on for heat.
“I—I want, um, would like—um, need,” he said hoarsely and cleared his throat. “This is embarrassing.”
“What’s the big deal? You’re acting like a green kid trying to land his first date.” I squelched the urge to laugh.
“It is not my first date.” He took a deep breath as if to speak and stopped, a rare case of his being tongue-tied.
“I didn’t think it was. You said you needed a favor. What?”
“You were pretty close. It’s not my first date,” he repeated and swallowed hard, “but I am—well, ummm—trying to ask you—”
“This is getting painful for both of us,” I mumbled. I glanced sideways and commanded, “out with it!”
“I want to ask you for a date.”
“What?” Dumbfounded, I hauled my jaw up to close my mouth.
“For the dinner dance,” he hastily added. His words tumbled out in a rush. “You know about the fundraiser, right? The Valentine’s Day Dinner Dance in the hotel’s ballroom?”
“I do read the paper I help write, yes. It’s to benefit the police and fire department auxiliaries. The publicity has been going on for weeks. I also know Mr. Mallory, who is on the planning committee or some such. He told me he bought a table.”
“I have been ordered to go.” His sigh came from his toes.
“I can see where it would be appropriate.”
“I was planning to skip it entirely. When I found out I had to attend, I figured I’d go stag.” His second sigh was somehow deeper. “The commissioner himself called me in this morning. I have to have a date.” He swiveled in his seat and faced me directly. “Frankly, I was hoping Bernie asked you to cover it so we could pair up.”
“Nope. He handed it to Roland Beasley. According to Rollie, it’s considered culture, and you know how jealously he guards his bailiwick. Please don’t ask me to request it. Our rotund self-proclaimed arts and culture maestro has not forgiven me for the events surrounding the opera production.”
“You can attend, and I need a date. I know you can dance,” he said with a snicker, an obvious reference to our first unofficial case together. “I did arrange to be seated at Robert’s table.”
“This thing is a week from today. That’s not a lot of time, especially since I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.” I frowned. “I hate shopping.”
“I’ve heard rumors. Is Julie Mallory coming home this weekend?”
“No idea. However, once she hears what’s going on, she’ll undoubtedly jump at it.” I grimaced. Mallory’s daughter was my best friend and loved shopping for clothes. I regarded it as something to be avoided, if at all possible, very close to sitting in a dental chair manned by a sadist. “Why couldn’t the event fall on a Tuesday? Then I’d have a class as a great excuse.”
“I know it’s short notice, but I’m desperate.”
“Oh, swell. Thanks.” I scowled.
“Blast it, I didn’t mean it the way it came out. I only meant—”
“Oh, bother it.” I cut him off. “Yes.”
“Yes?” His grey eyes widened in surprise. “You’ll do it?”
“For one thing, you’ve never asked me for a favor before. Also, the flowers are lovely. I’ll call Mr. Mallory and see if Julie can help me shop. If she can’t, maybe Mrs. Fiddler would be willing.” My frown returned. “I’m definitely going to need assistance.”
He gave a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Now that this is settled, can we go get lunch? It’s the least you can do after conning me into this. Wilfrid’s?”
He treated me to a genuine smile, released the handbrake, and put the car in gear.
“One more thing,” he said when we pulled into the coffee shop’s parking area.
“You have nerve if nothing else. Now what?”
“Can we agree I demanded you accompany me?”
“Why? Are you afraid someone might think you’re human enough to ask a favor?”
“Something like that.”
“How do we explain the flowers?”
“A bribe.”
“O’Brien,” I laughed, “someday all this will catch up with you. All right, I’ll say you gave me an order. Everyone will believe that!
