Ms. Simon Says (21 page)

“Glad you finally asked, Beauty.” Harry pushed back from the table, too. “Shelby, order us a couple liters of the house red, will you?” He winked and was gone.

Mick watched Shelby watch them as she sat with her chin resting on her clasped hands. There was an undeniable longing in her expression, one he wouldn’t have minded being directed at him. He sighed softly to himself before he spoke.

“That doesn’t look like a marriage in trouble to me,” he said.

“No, it doesn’t, does it?” She turned her whiskey and honey and amber gaze toward him. He could see the lake lights reflected in her gaze. “I just wish I knew what to do to get them back together once and for all. There ought to be something.”

He was about to tell her to mind her own business in a veiled sort of way when the waitress appeared at the table.

“Can I get you folks something to drink before you order?” she asked just as casually as she’d looked at each of them, but then her gaze narrowed on Shelby. “Don’t I know you?” she asked, pointing her ballpoint pen right between Shelby’s eyes.

Once again Mick had a firsthand demonstration of this woman’s high visibility, and it unsettled him. It worried the hell out of him, in fact. Shelby, however, took it in stride. It must’ve been same old, same old to her.

“I’m Shelby Simon,” she said, smiling up at the waitress, making it sound no more impressive than Jane Doe.

Julie flashed in his brain again. Julie of the humble origins who had turned into the unapproachable Dr. Julie, even to him. His late wife would’ve cut this waitress off at the knees.

“Shelby! I
knew
I knew you,” the waitress exclaimed. “I’m Kimmy Mortenson. I used to hang out with you and your sister at the lake. Remember? God, that was so long ago, you probably don’t remember.”

“No, I do,” Shelby said. “You were the waterskiing maniac, right? You were great. I always thought you’d wind up in one of those water shows in Florida.”

Kimmy sighed dramatically. “Yeah, well . . . Here I am, still stuck in North Overshoes. You’re doing great. I read your column all the time.”

“Thanks,” Shelby said.

“I saw Beth a couple times when she was here redoing the house. Too bad she wasn’t here when Sam came back. You know?”

While Shelby nodded, Kimmy’s gaze shifted to Mick. “So . . . this must be your husband.”

He was surprised, but he hadn’t seen such an expression of astonishment on Ms. Shelby Simon’s pretty face since the mailman’s cart blew up in front of her apartment building the other day. Even in the dim light of the restaurant he could see her cheeks flush and she actually stuttered when she responded.

“N-no. He’s m-my friend. This is Mick Callahan.” “Oops. Sorry.” Kimmy laughed and flourished her order pad. “Well, before I step in it again, I guess I better take your order.”

“We’ll start with a couple liters of your house red,” Mick said when it appeared that Shelby’s mind had gone blank.

“Okay. Be right back with that.”

After she hustled away, Shelby took a long drink from her water goblet. Mick got the distinct impression that she was stalling.

“That bother you?” he asked.

“You mean Kimmy’s assuming we were married?” He nodded.

“No, it didn’t bother me,” she said, still looking a bit flustered. “It was a natural mistake.”

“Maybe she thought we looked good together,” he suggested. “What do you think?”

“I think you’d look good with anybody, Callahan.” He laughed. “Oh, yeah?”

“Especially when you smile,” she added.

“That’s not my native expression.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Well, I guess . . .”

He stopped speaking when something caught his eye on the far side of the dining room. Mr. Keeler, the old geezer, appeared to be saying something to a large party, all of whom immediately put their napkins on the table and rose to leave. Fast. Keeler then went to the next table. Same deal.

“What?” Shelby asked, looking across the dance floor.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mick said quietly. He was already half out of his chair.

“What in the world . . . ?”

“Come on. We’ll cut across the dance floor and get your folks. Let’s go.”

“But—”

“Now, Shelby.” He yanked her chair back from the table, grasped her arm, and pulled her up.

After so many years in law enforcement, his instincts were finely honed, especially in crowded public places. And he’d seen too damn many tragedies, too many dead bodies, either trampled or burned, in places where people had lingered too long. He didn’t have to wait until old Mr. Keeler arrived at their table to tell them to make tracks.

With one arm around Shelby, Mick cut through the couples on the dance floor until they reached the slow-dancing, close-dancing Harry and Linda Simon.

“I hate to interrupt, folks, but I think we better step outside,” Mick said.

“What’s going on?” Shelby’s mother asked, her eyes widening.

Harry, thank God, had taken one hard look at Mick’s face and didn’t need to ask questions. “Let’s go, Linda. Come on. We’ll follow you and Shelby, Mick.”

Outside, he hustled his little flock across the parking lot to the far side of the big Mercedes, figuring that would adequately shield them if anything exploded. It didn’t take more than a few minutes before the place was cleared out completely, including the help and the three members of the band. And just then a police cruiser, its blue lights flashing, peeled off the blacktop into the parking lot.

The officer jumped out, bullhorn in hand. “Just stay calm, folks. There’s been a bomb threat. We’ll let you know when it’s safe to go back inside.”

Mick felt Shelby shudder beside him. He put his arm around her and bent his head to whisper, “Don’t be scared. Ten to one, it’s a coincidence. And more than likely it’s just a prank.”

She looked at him, her eyes big and glossy, as if she were trying with all her might to believe him.

Even as Mick was wishing he believed it himself.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

S
helby and her parents sat in the elegant Victorian dining room in the house at Heart Lake over bowls of canned minestrone, and about the only sound Shelby could hear, other than the occasional clink of a spoon against the rim of a fine china soup bowl, was the incessant rattling of her own bones. She was already wrapped in her mother’s wool and silk shawl, but the chill that ran through her had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Mick had stayed behind at the Blue Inn to help in the search for a possible bomb. Shelby had gotten the impression that he didn’t have a lot of confidence in the local constabulary, and that if indeed anything suspicious was found, he wanted to make sure everything was done properly. Actually, his exact words had been “make sure these yokels don’t fuck up.”

Her parents were doing their best to keep her calm when calm was the last thing Shelby wanted to be. She just wanted this nightmare to end. After tonight’s incident, she felt as if she were doomed to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. God. She might even have to buy a bomb-sniffing dog.

Now that her mother was aware of the situation with the letter bomber, she didn’t seem all that upset by it. Either that or Linda Simon was one hell of an actress. She was tilting her soup bowl now, spooning up the last of her minestrone, and saying ever so calmly, “I’ll bet it’s just as Mick said, sweetheart. Just some bored kid trying to spice up a Saturday night with a prank call to poor old Mr. Keeler.”

“I hope you’re right, Mother.”

“I’m sure I am, honey.”

Her mother’s calm and confident tone made Shelby almost long to be a child again, one who thought her parents knew absolutely everything and that their every utterance was gospel. Pure, indisputable gold.

Lightning won’t strike the house, honey. It’s grounded.
Oh, good.

Lock the doors and you’ll be safe.

What a relief.

Ssh. Nothing bad will ever happen.

Phew.

Her father, who had been unusually quiet ever since the bomb scare had forced them out of the restaurant, spoke up now. “Well, just in case you’re not right, Linda,” he said, “I’m going to spend tonight here in the house.”

He spoke assertively, matter-of-factly, without even the smallest
by your leave, madam
glance down the table at his estranged wife. And much to Shelby’s surprise and pleasure, there wasn’t so much as a flicker of dissent from her mother. Well, hallelujah. Welcome home, Harry. Maybe something good could come out of all this bomb business after all.

It was probably a good time to make her exit, Shelby decided. After kissing her parents good night, she climbed the staircase to the second floor, suddenly remembering how she and Beth had named each of these twenty-eight well-worn stairs for the first twenty-eight presidents of the United States. There had been some debate over whether or not to count the landing, therefore the list sometimes included number twenty-nine, Warren G. Harding, and sometimes stopped with Woodrow Wilson.

At the top of the staircase, or in this case atop Warren

G. Harding, Shelby sighed, once again wishing she could go back to a time when it was important to know the names of the presidents in order, a time when it was a given that her parents would keep her safe forever.

Oh, great. She was regressing again, turning into a big damn baby. What was it about coming home that stripped her of her sense of self, her independence, and whatever amount of courage she possessed?

She flopped on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Anyway, she didn’t need her parents’ protection, did she? She was a grown-up. She could damn well protect herself, and if not, well, then, she had her very own card-carrying, gun-toting, bomb-sniffing bodyguard, right?

Callahan.

Jeez.

She hoped he was better at fighting crime than he was in the romance department.

There was no freaking bomb.

While the local cops waited for the arrival of a certified dog and handler from Grand Rapids, they stood around the Blue Inn’s parking lot, talking about bass and bluegills and blowing away Bambi in the upcoming hunting season. Mick had nothing to contribute to the discussion. He’d never understood the sporting aspect of firearms, or maybe it was just that he’d seen too many seriously dead bodies. He was tuning the local yokels out when Kimmy the waitress had pulled him aside.

“I think I might know who made that call,” she whispered, “but I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

“Better him than you,” Mick told her, using the well-practiced evil eye he used on the street in Chicago.

Kimmy sighed. “My boyfriend and I had a big fight before I left for work. He’s tired of me working on Saturday nights. Says it ruins his weekends. So, when I walked out, he yelled from the door that I might as well not go because I wouldn’t be making any big tips tonight anyway.”

She gazed at the front door of the deserted restaurant, and sighed again. “And he was right. I didn’t.”

Mick passed the information along to the sergeant in charge, and after the phone company confirmed that the call had indeed come from Kimmy’s number, Mick didn’t know whether he was relieved or not. He wanted Shelby’s bomber apprehended, but at the same time he didn’t want the guy anywhere near her or her family.

The sergeant gave Mick a ride back to Heart Lake where he found Harry Simon sitting on the front porch, blowing cigar smoke rings into the chilly night air.

“Cuban,” Harry said, gesturing toward Mick with the stogie. “Care to try one?”

“No, thanks.”

“Find anything at the restaurant?” her father asked. “Nothing. It turned out to be just a prank. Some guy trying to close the place to make sure his waitress girlfriend didn’t make any tips tonight.”

“Asshole,” Harry breathed through a cloud of smoke. “Shelby’s scared to death. You better go inside and let her know everything’s okay.”

“I’ll do that,” Mick said, already on his way toward the front door. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Mick.”

Upstairs, Shelby’s door was closed. Assuming she was asleep, he was about to continue down the hallway to his own room when she called out softly, “Callahan? Is that you?”

“It’s me.”

Mick heard the key twisting inside the lock, and a few seconds later the door opened. From the look of her eyes, Shelby had been crying. From the look of the rest of her, she was just about the most desirable woman on the planet from the top of her head to the dimples in her knees and the tips of her bare toes. He was suddenly aware that he was staring at her chest, not because he was ogling her boobs, but because he was trying to read what was printed on her T-shirt.

When Shelby realized what he was doing, her arms flew up to cover herself. “Don’t read that,” she said. “This shirt was a gift. Just a stupid joke.”

“What does it say?” “Never mind.”

“I’ll bet it says you’re out of estrogen and you’ve got a gun.”

She shook her head.

“Well, what then?” Her distress made him just that much more curious, so he gently grasped each of her wrists. “Come on. Let me see.”

“Oh, all right.” After wrenching out of his grip, she lowered her arms. “There. Satisfied?”

Mick read aloud. “ ‘What’s wrong with always being right?’ ” Then he laughed out loud. “Boy, somebody really had your number.”

“Very funny.” Worry washed over her face again. Her eyes darkened. “What happened with the bomb?”

“Nothing.” He told her about Kimmy and her disgruntled boyfriend.

“Well, that’s a relief. I guess.”

She didn’t look all that relieved, though. She bit her lower lip and looked away. Aw, damn. Mick couldn’t stand to see her cry.

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching out his arms to bring her close against him, glad that she moved forward so willingly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“That’s not what you said before,” she muttered into his collarbone. “You said I
should
be afraid.”

“I said you should be cautious.” He pressed his cheek to her warm hair and whispered, “Anyway, I’m here. So you don’t need to do anything but relax and let me take care of you.”