Amy Fetzer - Under His Protection

“Caring was all I got from you.” And a baby I never got to hold, she thought.

Nash struggled with his heart. He wanted to say things, things she needed to hear and he wanted to tell. But he couldn’t. Not when just looking at her pushed the heat simmering between them up a notch. Even in the apron and grubby T-shirt and steaming mad, she turned him inside out. He’d always felt incredible heat and electricity with her, more than anyone else. He’d never trusted it. And there was more here, this time. Yet the expression on her face said he didn’t have a chance. And the fact that he was prying into her life and considered her a prime suspect wasn’t helping his position. Did he want something with her? Was he willing to resurrect the past? No. Attraction was only about hormones, he thought, and forced himself to shut off the thoughts and turn up his cop brain.

He let her go. After a moment he asked, “What herbs and flowers do you use to make the teas?”

Back to detecting, she thought, rubbing the warmth from her arm. “For the bath I use lavender, rosemary, lemon balm…eucalyptus, if I have it. For drinking…mint, lemon mint, chamomile and catnip. A couple of other herbs if they’re growing well.” Her frown deepened. “Why?”

“I’m not at liberty to say right now.” Because he wasn’t certain how the digitalis got into Winfield’s system.

“Fine. Didn’t I tell you to talk to my lawyer next time you wanted to ask me anything?”

Nash pushed his fingers through his hair. “What are you hiding?”

“Not a thing.”

“Then talk to me.”

“Considering we have a past, I don’t think that’s wise.”

He knew she was right. It was almost a matter of pride to be objective with her stomping on his every effort. “I’m not trying to send you to jail over four-year-old jilted feelings, for pity’s sake.”

“Jilted, Nash? You have to be engaged to be jilted.”

With that she marched up the steps and into the house.

NASH SPENT the rest of the day trying not to brood and went through Winfield’s briefcase again. For a broker, there wasn’t much there. It was as if he’d put together this briefcase for just this trip. The PalmPilot gave Winfield’s schedule in New York, yet the appointments stopped the day he flew into nearby Charleston. There was a notation of a number. Nash called it. He got the Baylor Inn. Okay, nothing new there. What about the blank real-estate contracts in the victim’s briefcase?

He backtracked and called the man’s lawyer. After a ten-minute conversation in which Nash explained that his client was dead and privacy would only hinder finding out who killed him, the lawyer told him that Winfield had gone to Indigo to take up with old acquaintances and perhaps purchase property. No, the attorney said, he didn’t know what property Winfield was interested in. The record of Winfield’s calls from the hotel produced only one—to Lisa.

Nash spent the remainder of the afternoon calling Realtors and came up empty. Winfield hadn’t contacted any of the Indigo Realtors, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t searching outside the area. Maybe Winfield had been looking at real estate in Charleston, and was just using Indigo as a base because Lisa was here. Nash would have to widen his search and wondered what unsuspecting rookie he could sic on the job. Maybe Winfield spoke directly with the property owners?

Nash stared at the pile of evidence he still had.

Blank sale contracts. A PalmPilot that held nothing past the day he’d arrived and a laptop with a password even his best tech experts couldn’t get around. Then there was the picture of Lisa.

Talk to me, Winfield. Who wanted you dead?

He reached for the phone to call New York and see what the police had found in Winfield’s apartment, but caught a glance at the time. He muttered a curse and quit for the day, but when he was driving home, he decided to swing by the Baylor Inn and see if he could learn how the gift basket got into the hotel room. Although the concierge said all deliveries were recorded and signed for, the gift basket got past the reception desk somehow. This time, Nash went to talk to the lowest man on the totem pole. And struck gold.

The bellman, Mick, a young blond about eighteen, gave him an exasperated look. He was on his break and didn’t want to spend it talking to the police. “Look, man, I don’t know what else to tell you. It was the messenger service half the town uses. Mercury.”

Nash was relieved. Lisa had said she hadn’t delivered a basket. “Did you check it, stop them?”

“No. Not only is it not my job, they come in all the time—messages, flowers, deliveries from local shops. People vacation here, y’know, they buy stuff and don’t want to carry it around, so they have it delivered. The delivery people just go right to the room if they know which one. If no one’s there to accept it, they drop it off at the desk and I take it up later. I didn’t. Not to Mr. Winfield.”

This wasn’t the efficient picture the concierge had painted. “So you remember Winfield?”

The teen snorted. “Yeah, I do. He was a good tipper, but the man wanted you to practically cough up a lung for him for the cash.”

Nash smirked, wondering how Lisa could marry a guy like that. “Can you describe the messenger?”

“My height, black hair. Wearing a helmet, goggles and bike shorts.”

Nash had seen the riders around and made a note to call Mercury Messenger Service. At least he was getting somewhere. The searches on the other employees’ pasts would take a bit to compile. And read.

“What time was it when you saw the delivery?”

“About six.”

Nash dismissed the kid after handing him his card and reminding him that if he recalled anything else to phone him. The teen slouched away and Nash set out to find Kathy Boon; he was lucky enough to find her just starting her shift. She was in a second-floor storage room tying her sneakers.

She smiled brightly and the smile stayed there when he flashed his badge. “You caught me at a good time—I just got here.”

She was younger than he’d expected and she sure as hell didn’t look like a housekeeper. Peaches-and-cream skin was the first thing he noticed, then her eyes, crystal-blue and set gently in an angelic face. Rich, nut-colored hair surrounded her face and spilled onto her shoulders in fat curls. And man, did she have curves. Compact and wearing shorts and a polo shirt bearing the inn’s logo, she was adorable.

“Come on,” she said, curling a rubber band around the ponytail of hair. Still smiling, she inclined her head as she pushed a cart that looked too heavy for her to manage down the hall. “I didn’t think of anything else, Detective Couviyon.”

“It’s pronounced coo-vee-yon,” he corrected, smiling back. “Do you recall a messenger coming to Winfield’s room?”

She knocked on a suite door, called out, then let herself in with her passkey. “No, sorry. I didn’t see anyone but the redhead in lime-green. You should sit down, darlin’. You look exhausted.”

He was, and couldn’t recall the last time he ate, but continued, “Have you ever used the back stairs?”

“Good grief, no. Too steep and I don’t trust them. Plus, there’s no reason to trek up there.” She collected used glasses and plates, depositing them outside the door.

“Have you ever seen anyone go up there?”

“To the balcony? Only the guests use the balcony to watch the sunset. It’s eye-popping gorgeous, but I bet from up there, it’s magnificent.”

“Are you from around here?”

She kept her head down as she polished an antique clothes press. “No, farther north. Is there anything else, Detective? I’ve got six suites to clean and a double shift.”