Rebecca Zanetti - Under the Covers

“Sheriff?” someone called out.

They both turned and a flash went off. Several flashes peppered the air. With a growl, Quinn stepped in front to shield her.

The photographer rushed toward a parked car and sped off.

Juliet pursed her lips. “What was that all about?”

“I don’t want to know.” Quinn closed her door and took her elbow to escort to the porch.

“But, if that was a reporter, do you think they found out about me?” Oh, God. Any scandal could destroy Quinn’s campaign.

“Maybe.” He released her. “I’ll see you inside.” Without another word, he hurried to where his mother emerged from a truck, her hands full of dishes. After pecking Loni on the cheek, he reached for the bundle.

A lonely chill squeezed Juliet’s chest. She would’ve liked having been part of the Lodge-Freeze family. Sighing, she went inside for the wake.

…

The morning after the funeral, Juliet poked her head outside the gallery door. “Deputy Baker? Would you like some coffee?”

The young officer shook his head. “No thank you, ma’am.” He turned his red head back to survey the quiet street.

“How about you come inside and warm up? You can guard the gallery just as well from inside.” She fought guilt—the poor guy had been outside all night.

“Thank you, ma’am, but the sheriff left strict instructions for me to stay right here until my replacement arrived.” The kid didn’t change his focus.

Sighing, Juliet closed the door. Damn Quinn was punishing her for her decision to return to her apartment and not impose any longer on Sophie and Jake. She punched in numbers and asked to speak with the sheriff. Mrs. Wilson said she’d take a message, but that the sheriff was out on a call. Juliet decided not to leave a message.

Instead, she hustled to her desk in the corner to balance her books. After the showing the other night, she was finally in the black. Thank goodness.

An hour passed.

Then another.

Suddenly, the door blew open. She yelped and jumped. The sheriff stood in the doorway, gun out, his face a concentrated mask. “Juliet?”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “Why is your gun out?”

He frowned and set his gun back in the shoulder holster. “I got a report of screams coming from the gallery.”

The young deputy sidled in from the other gallery. “There wasn’t anybody in the back entrance, sheriff.”

Quinn’s gaze narrowed. “You didn’t hear any screams?”

“No, sir.”

“I think it’s a hoax,” Quinn muttered.

“Who called it in?” The deputy scratched his chin.

“I don’t know. It was a call to dispatch. Take point outside, Spencer. Phillips will be here in five to relieve you.” Quinn waited until the deputy took his leave to focus on Juliet. “I also had a message you called.”

She ran her hand along the back of her chair. “I’m refusing police protection. Please keep your deputies off my property.”

A veil dropped over his eyes. “You’re in danger, now there’s a prank call regarding you, and you don’t get to refuse police protection.”

She glowered. “You’re trespassing, Sheriff Lodge. Please leave.”

“No.” He crossed his arms.

For the love of all that was holy. Stubbornness lived in the man, at home and comfortable. “We broke up.” She understood exactly what “I need time to think” meant. “As such, you no longer need to concern yourself about me. All of the truth is out, and Freddy probably has no interest in me. Especially since Jake explained to him that the money is long gone.”

“Regardless of the status of our relationship, you’re a citizen in my county. If you’re in danger, you get police protection.” Quinn leaned against the door. “Deal with it, Juliet.”

Anger rippled through her veins. So she plastered on a polite smile and straightened her shoulders. “Well, then, I thank you for your diligence, Sheriff Lodge. The citizens of Maverick are fortunate to have you protecting us.”

Temper rippled across his face.

His phone buzzed, but his dark gaze kept her pinned while he answered. “I’ll be right there.” Turning on his heel, he yanked open the door to reveal a different deputy at guard. “Stay with her and report in hourly.” Without looking back, he strode out of sight.

The door drifted closed.

Her phone rang, and she cleared her throat before answering, “Maverick Gallery.”

“Hi, Juliet. This is Mrs. Hudson, from down the street?” an elderly voice chirped.

“Hi, Mrs. Hudson.” Juliet took another deep breath. The sweet widow lived in a small cottage a block down the street, and Juliet often dropped off groceries or goodies for the woman.

“What can I help you with?”

“Oh, Juliet. I dropped my favorite earrings—you know the ones Arthur gave to me right before he died? Well, they slid behind the stereo.”

“Oh.” Juliet glanced at the clock. “You need me to fetch them for you?”

“No, dear. I grabbed them,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Juliet frowned. “Well, good.”

“But then the stereo dropped on my leg.”

“What?” Juliet sprang to her feet. “Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?”

“Oh, no, dear. I’m fine. Well, not fine. My foot is bruised, and I can’t stand on my tiptoes.”

“Do you need me to bring bandages or, well, anything?”

“No. But I do need you to come and get my yellow bowl—the one with flowers on it—off my top shelf. I can’t reach that high, and I’m going to Betty Adam’s for Bunko tonight.”

Relief flooded Juliet. “I’d be happy to help. In fact, I could use a walk right now. Give me a minute.”

“Thank you, dear.” The elderly lady hung up.

Juliet chuckled. Now that was a confusing conversation. She slid her arms into her coat and headed for the door. “Deputy Phillips, I take it?”

Phillips nodded a buzz-cut head. He stood to about six feet and was built like a truck. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How do you feel about a walk?” she asked.

“You walk, I follow, ma’am,” he said with a smile and twinkling brown eyes.

“Excellent.” She stepped into the chilly day and frowned at the gathering clouds. Not another heavy summer storm. She hustled down the block to Mrs. Hudson’s white bungalow. She knocked on the door and pushed it open. The elderly lady hollered for her to come in.

Juliet left Deputy Phillips on the porch and hurried inside. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“In the kitchen, dear.”

Juliet removed her coat, entered the sparkling clean kitchen, and stopped short. “Quinn.”

“Juliet.” He sat at the round table, a large bowl of oriental chicken salad set on the crocheted tablecloth in front of him.

Juliet raised her eyebrows at Mrs. Hudson.

The woman smiled and all but pushed Juliet into the chair across from Quinn. “The sheriff was kind enough to get down my bowl, but now I need a couple of testers for the salad I want to take tonight.” She dumped another bowl of oriental chicken salad in front of Juliet and smoothed her purple, velour pantsuit. “Now you two eat up, take notes, and I’ll be right back. I promised Henry Bullton next door some salad.” Humming to herself, she all but skipped out the back door.

Juliet’s stomach knotted. “I thought she’d injured her foot.”

Quinn took a bite of the salad. “Nope. She’s interfering.”

Juliet’s hand stopped halfway to the fork. “Interfering?”

“Yep.” He took another bite. “The word around town is that we broke up, and apparently, the news doesn’t sit well with Mrs. Hudson.”

Heat climbed into Juliet’s face. “Well, it sits just fine with me.”

“Does it, now?” Quinn polished off his salad. “Good to know.” He stood—a strong man with a hard jaw. “I have a meeting in five minutes. Please tell Mrs. Hudson that I enjoyed the salad very much and to mind her own business.”