Christmas At Timberwoods (9 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Christmas At Timberwoods
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Angela scanned the interior of the burger place for an empty booth. The lighting was dim and she found it soothing after the brightness of the mall. Still, she had to peer intently between the tinsel and artificial greenery that hung from the beams overhead.
She almost wanted to put her hands over her ears and keep them there. God, she was tired of Christmas carols. Especially “Jingle Bells.” Didn’t they have any other holiday recordings? Even “Rudolph” would have been an improvement.
Fighting her way between strollers pushed by harried mothers, Angela made her way to what looked like one of the waiting lines. She tapped her foot impatiently, to the undisguised annoyance of the woman behind her. As if she cared. If the woman could put up with the little kid pulling on her trouser leg, she could certainly put up with Angela’s nervousness. She switched from floor tapping to nail nibbling as she moved slowly to the front of the line. “Two coffees,” she muttered finally, forgetting to take plastic lids. The scalding coffee slopped all over her hands and wrists as she turned, but she barely noticed it. She waited patiently for an elderly couple to vacate the booth next to her and immediately sat down. The woman with the little boy fixed her with an angry look and spoke in an offended tone. “You could have taken a small table. Why do you have to grab the last booth?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m waiting for someone,” Angela said, indicating the second cup of coffee.
“I just bet you are. You college kids are all alike. You take over and hog everything.”
Angela frowned at the woman, not understanding why she was so upset. Then she looked pointedly at the child, who was now demanding an ice cream cone and some French fries to go with it, which were sure to upset his digestion. And a seat—hers. Maybe if she had a child like that she would be rude, too. She didn’t budge.
Several minutes later, Angela was startled as a shadow fell across her table. She glanced up and sighed with relief.
“I wasn’t sure if it was you. It’s kinda dark in here,” Charlie Roman said as he wedged himself between the orange table and the brown plastic seat.
“You’re right. It looks like they took out all the overhead lights and put in those tiny colored ones. More Christmassy, I guess. Here,” she said, sliding the coffee toward Charlie, “I thought you might want coffee. I hope it isn’t cold. I drank mine while I waited.”
Charlie reached for the coffee, his eyes on the girl across from him. He wondered what she was all about. “How much do I owe you?”
“You don’t owe me anything. What’s a cup of coffee between friends? You can buy it next time.”
Friends? Charlie frowned. They didn’t even know each other and she was calling them friends. He’d never had a girl for a “friend” before. “Yeah, sure, I’ll buy the next time.”
“Well, now that that’s settled, why don’t you relax and enjoy it—the coffee, I mean. I got it black because I didn’t know what you took in it.”
“Black is fine,” Charlie mumbled. He hated black coffee. He liked it with lots of cream and at least three sugars. And he hated lukewarm coffee with a passion. But he would keep his complaints to himself.
“My name’s Angela Steinhart.” Angela held out her hand.
Charlie looked down and saw her ragged nails. “Charlie Roman,” he said, holding out his own hand hesitantly.
Angela noticed that he wiped his palm on his trousers before he offered it, and she wondered vaguely why he should have sweating palms. Playing second fiddle to Santa Claus must be tougher than she thought. All those whining kids.
“Do you shop here often?” Charlie asked, wondering why he hadn’t seen her around before.
“Not really. Lately, though, I’ve been killing time here a lot,” Angela volunteered. If he wasn’t aware that she’d designed some of the displays, so what? She would have liked to tell him the real reason she was there, but she didn’t want him to think she was crazy.
Charlie was uncomfortable. He squirmed on the hard plastic seat. He didn’t know how to talk to women, and she looked uncomfortable, too. The knowledge that she might be nervous pleased him, and he relaxed for the first time in days. He’d had reservations about meeting her, but now he was glad. She was anything but pretty, but she wasn’t homely, either. He frowned, trying to decide if it was her nose or her teeth that made her face look irregular. Somehow one didn’t seem to go with the other. Aside from that, she was as skinny as a rail, but what the hell? He could put up with her. It wasn’t like they were going to jump into the sack together. They were just having coffee and talking.
“Do you pick up guys all the time?” he blurted. She was staring at him, and God only knew what she was thinking.
“Nah. You never know what you’re getting. You’re different, though. You work here with Santa Claus and all. That makes you a safe bet.” She giggled, waiting to see Charlie’s reaction. There was none. Then she asked, “Do you pick up girls often?”
Charlie’s eyes widened and he almost burst out laughing. Did she really think that? A guy like him, who was big and awkward and nerdish? She was obviously putting him on. Still, she didn’t look like she was poking fun at him. All the guys he knew lied to women; why couldn’t he?
“Sometimes,” he said quietly. Let her make whatever she wanted out of that.
Angela pursed her mouth. “Well, let’s get one thing straight right now. I don’t go in for onenight stands, and I don’t sleep around.”
Charlie’s face drained. Not the answer he had been expecting, but at least he knew where he stood. She was no Heather Andrews, but she had something Heather didn’t: honesty. He liked the feeling that was starting to stir in him. “So who said you did? I don’t remember inviting you anywhere. You invited me, remember?”
“I just don’t want you to think I’m looking to hook up. I mean, I sort of like you, but I don’t want any misunderstandings later on,” Angela replied.
Charlie stared at her a full minute before he replied. “You’ve made your point.”
“Have you worked here long?” Angela questioned, hoping to change the subject. She had no idea how it had cropped up.
“Close to six years. Why do you ask?” he asked bluntly.
“Why not?” Angela retorted carelessly. “Is it a secret?”
Jesus, just the way she said the word
secret
sent a chill up his spine. He was getting the feeling that she was unstable. The last thing he needed in his life was someone like her. But he was uncomfortably aware that his body had other ideas.
“You certainly ask a lot of questions,” he said coldly, not liking his physical response to her. No point in his getting excited when he knew it would end in frustration. How was he going to tell her he had never had a woman before? She looked experienced. Hell, he would just have to bluff. A bright flush stained his cheeks and he adjusted his pants. “I never had a secret in my life,” Charlie lied.
“That’s hard to believe. Everyone has a skeleton or two in the closet. You do, too. You just don’t want to tell me,” Angela pressed, to Charlie’s obvious embarrassment. Fleetingly, she sensed that she had crossed a line, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her sense of what was right and what was wrong was dissolving somehow.
He had to be careful; she was clever. She almost acted like she knew something. What could she know? “Well, you’re wrong. My life’s an open book.”
“Actually,” Angela said, searching her memory for some kind of compliment to pay him, “you have a nice, open kind of face. Very readable, if you know what I mean.”
Holy crap, did that mean he was giving away his—what was the word everyone used now—oh yeah.
Inappropriate.
He definitely had an inappropriate interest in her. Charlie told himself that he had to get out of here, and he had to do it now.
“Look, I have to get back to the mall. I still have part of my shift to finish, and then I have to clean up the area.”
“Do you want me to help?” Angela offered, not wanting to see him leave. “Say, where do you live?”
Charlie debated a second. Then, what the hell, he thought. “I live on West End Avenue, second house from the end.” Without another word he got up and left the restaurant.
Angela stared after him, struggling to figure out why she had wanted to even talk to an oddball like him. Her sixth sense was tingling faintly. But he couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the terrifying threat to Timberwoods Shopping Mall.
She crumpled her coffee cup in her hand and threw it in the garbage on her way out.
Chapter 5
Eric Summers opened his front door and invited in Harold and Lex. He took their coats and introduced them to his very pregnant wife, Amy.
Lex looked into her soft, doe-like eyes and grinned. “The big day is soon, right?”
Amy ran her long, tapered fingers through her short-clipped natural hair. Her tea-colored skin glowed with vitality as she laughed happily. “Christmas Day, what do you think of that? What better Christmas present could I give Eric?”
Eric’s gaze was clear and direct as he explained to Harold Baumgarten, “This is the closest we’ve come in six years. Amy has had two miscarriages and the doctors told us we couldn’t have children. Someone up there must like us,” he said, smiling.
Harold blinked. “I didn’t know . . . what I mean is . . . I’m sorry.” Suddenly he reached out and grasped Amy’s slender hand in his. “Congratulations. I wish you both the very best,” he said sincerely.
Eric looked across at Lex. “How about a drink?” he asked, rubbing his square jaw, his fingers making a rasping sound against his fiveo’clock stubble.
“Scotch for me. What about you, Harold?”
“I’ll have the same. I’ve never had scotch before. Is it any good, Lassiter?”
“In answer to your question, Baumgarten, it grows on you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t drink,” Eric apologized.
“Don’t be sorry. I just took up the habit. A double scotch,” Harold said firmly.
“Honey, why don’t you . . .” Eric turned toward his wife.
Amy laughed, a bright tinkling sound that fell softly on Harold’s ears. How long since he’d heard a woman’s warm laugh? “I’m going, I’m going. I think I’ll make some brownies. Do you like brownies, Mr. Baumgarten?”
“I love ’em.” Harold beamed. “With lots of nuts.”
“One pan of brownies with lots of nuts coming up.”
“Amy,” Eric said anxiously, “don’t overdo it, okay?”
“Honestly. If I need you to slide the pan into the oven, I’ll call you,” she complained as she waddled toward the kitchen.
Eric sighed. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong at this stage of the game,” he said defensively. He filled the glasses and settled down to await the arrival of Dr. Noel Dayton.
A few minutes later, the doorbell sounded. “I’ll get it, honey,” Summers called through to the kitchen.
He opened the door and admitted a slightly built man whose overcoat was pulled up over his chin. He wore a knitted hat low over his ears.
“Hello, Dayton.”
Shivering, Dayton lifted his face. His ingenuous smile and electric blue eyes met Lex’s and Harold’s. “How do. Pleased to meet you both.”
“Gentlemen, this is Dr. Noel Dayton. Noel—Felex Lassiter and Harold Baumgarten. Here, give me your coat.”
“Where’s Amy?” the doctor asked, a slight New England twang in his voice.
“The kitchen. How about a little something to take the nip out? Still drinking bourbon?”
Dayton headed for the sofa. “Yep. Thanks. So what’s going on? Eric here tells me we have a problem.”
Lex wondered if Dayton used the collective
we
as a leftover from medical school and hospital training. But he took the initiative and broke the ice, telling Dayton about the bomb threat and Angela Steinhart.
“Is the kid on drugs? Is that it?” Noel asked.
“Apparently she’d taken some tranquilizers to calm her down, or so she said. I don’t know how many. But I don’t think she’s an addict,” Lex explained.
“Did she send the threat?”
“She says she didn’t,” Lex replied. “And frankly, I believe her.”
“Where’s Angela now?”
Dayton’s questions were fired off efficiently. Harold sat back, relaxing for the first time since Summers had come to report Angela’s visit to Heather the day before. It was evident that Dayton had a very good grasp of the situation, and he wasn’t panicking.
“I have no idea where she is,” Lex answered. “Heather and I were the last to see her at her home. She wanted to avoid her mother, so she ran out on us. But she can’t get away from this. It’s with her all the time, I could tell. She’s scared. She’ll turn up—I know it in my gut.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Summers demanded.
“Jesus, I don’t know. You were top at the police academy. You tell me, Eric.”
“They didn’t teach us about stuff like this. You were right behind me in class, Lex. If you hadn’t copped out at the eleventh hour, you’d be my boss by now.”
“Police work wasn’t for me. Just like publicity isn’t for you.”
“You could have made a damn good cop. I bleed whenever I think about it.”
“Gentlemen,” Dayton interrupted, “this isn’t getting us anywhere. We have to decide on a course of action. Since you want me to get involved, it’s imperative that I talk to Angela Steinhart. Not that I’m giving credence to her statements about being precognitive. As I see it, she may actually know something about the bomb threat. If she didn’t send it herself, she might know who did. You say this is the third such threat? Did the papers report on the others?”
Eric squirmed. “Yeah, we had a leak somewhere.”
“Then it’s just possible that the whole business is a coincidence. Angela, having read about the previous bomb threats, could just be angling to get noticed, not realizing that this latest missive would back her up.”
“Seems like more than one psychiatrist told her mother the same thing—that she was making a bid for attention,” Eric said. “Maybe she is. I don’t know. But that’s why we want you to talk to her.”
“Well, where is she?” Dayton’s smooth tone and slightly raised eyebrows challenged him.
“What’s your opinion, Harold?” Summers looked at the chief of security, who was sinking lower and lower into the sofa, his empty glass clutched in his hand.
“I don’t know about Angela. I haven’t met her or heard what she has to say. But as far as the mall goes, I don’t think we have much choice. We can’t afford to guess, so it should be closed. Lassiter agrees. Any risk is too big a risk as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s why Richards fired you, because you told him to close the mall.” Eric laughed. “He fired you for the most sensible thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m no fool,” Harold continued, “but what if this is some kind of prank? What if the kid is inventing wild stories to get noticed? If we do close the mall, do you have any idea what it would mean to sales? In Christmas week! Damn it, I need a refill. How about you guys?”
He hefted himself up from the sofa and headed toward the bar, where he splashed more scotch into his glass. “Right now we need to find the girl,” he continued. “And I don’t need to remind you, Lex, that she hasn’t been charged with anything and we can’t just haul her in here without an arrest warrant. And you don’t think we’re going to get that, do you?”
“No. Although I think her own mother would turn her in,” Lex added. “Mrs. Steinhart is one of the reasons that I don’t believe all this stuff with Angela is a coincidence. The woman is scared, scared because she knows something is going on with her daughter, that she’s somehow connected to all of this. And that’s reason enough for me.” He turned to Dayton. “You’d have to meet her,” he said, “but it seems to me that Angela is an embarrassment to her. She was absolutely livid because she knew Angela had caused the flooding throughout the house. The whole place is ruined—ceilings, floors, the works.”
“She flooded the house?” Harold asked, incredulous. “Why?”
“How the hell should I know? Maybe she thought she was getting back at her mother. Mrs. Steinhart started out by saying she’d had an argument with Angela, then changed the word to
discussion
.”
Dayton listened with interest. He turned to Eric. “Maybe you could have her brought in for questioning. You’ve got enough to go on. How much does the department know?”
“Only about the threatening letters,” Summers said sheepishly. “So much has happened and so fast.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way for the time being,” Dayton suggested. “Give the department one good lead and they forget everything else. If it turns out to be a blind alley, too much time will have been wasted. We need to find out what the Steinhart girl can tell us. In the meantime, let the police attack the problem from the other end—the letter.”
Eric reached behind the sofa and pulled out a shiny black phone. He dialed a number and motioned for the other men to be quiet. “John Wharton, extension 232.” He waited, tapping strong square fingers. “John, old buddy. How’s it going? . . . Not bad. Listen, you owe me one and I need to collect. I want you to pick up a young woman named Angela Steinhart . . . No, there’s no file on her, at least none that I know of. Go ahead and check it out. When do I need her? Yeah, yesterday . . . You can reach me here, at my house. Or at Timberwoods Mall. Not downtown. If you can’t get me, try Felex Lassiter at Timberwoods . . . Yeah, he’ll know where to reach me.”
As soon as Eric replaced the receiver, Noel stood and checked his watch. “Look, Eric, I’m not sorry I came over. I’m only a half hour away and I’ll come running when you need me. Okay?”
“Fine, Noel, but you’re not running out yet. You haven’t seen Amy. She’s as big as a house!” Eric laughed affectionately.
“But beautiful—and she’s bringing out a pan of brownies.” Harold beamed. “With lots of nuts.”
 
 
The persistent wind beat against the north side of the Summerses’ house. Within its brick walls Eric and Amy nestled beneath the bed covers, warm, and content to be in each other’s arms.
“Amy?” Eric ventured.
“Hmmm?”
“You’re uncomfortable, aren’t you?”
“A little, but it’ll be over soon enough and it’ll all be worth it. Imagine, a child of our own, Eric. Our own baby.”
Eric put his lips against the warm, scented skin at the back of Amy’s neck. He loved her like this, warm and loving and looking forward to the future. Sexual desire had little to do with the feelings right now; this was more basic. It was the deep, abiding love a man felt for his wife.
“I love you, Amy,” he said.
“Both of us?” Amy smiled, snuggling closer to Eric’s strong body.
“Both of you.”
The sound of the bedside phone was a rude intrusion into the dark room. Amy reached for the receiver, but Eric stopped her. “Go to sleep, honey. I’ll take it in the living room.”
Eric padded out to the living room and picked up the jangling phone. “Yes?” he asked wearily.
“Detective Summers? Pete Hathaway here. My chief told me to report to you. You’re looking for Angela Steinhart?”
“Right.”
“Wharton told us to keep an eye out for her. I spotted her out on the highway and pulled her over, but she got smart with me and—well, things got interesting. I hate to admit it, but she kicked me and got away. She asked me something funny, though—she wanted to know who was paying me, her mother or Timberwoods Mall. Say, ain’t that where you’re assigned for the next couple of weeks?”
“Yeah. Go on.”
The officer’s tone became belligerent in the face of Summers’s coldness. “Look, Wharton warned me this ain’t police business and I got no reason to stick my nose in. But I was told to report to you. Consider it done.”
“Okay, okay. Get back to your beat. Remember, I want that kid.”
“Yeah, yeah, and I want to go home,” Hathaway muttered as he hung up the phone.

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