Damsel in This Dress - Chapter 1

September
Seattle, Washington

"Hold on while I get out my thesaurus; this review is going to require more words than my paltry vocabulary contains. Ah, here we go: junk, dross, rubbish, detritus (oh, that's a good one), baloney, claptrap, drivel ...

"To continue would require more space than this column allows, so let me simply conclude by saying that Strike Three for Death, J. Soldier McKennitt's latest so-called crime drama, is a waste of time and money. The plot is ludicrous, the characters stereotypical, the writing amateurish. What less could you ask for? This is the third installment in the Crimes of the Northwest series, and while each entry has defied common sense and literary style, Strike Three for Death is the worst to date ..."

"There's more. Wanna hear it?"

Soldier McKennitt sprawled on his brother's tan-striped couch, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Pinching his eyes closed, he rhythmically thumped his skull against the wall behind him. With each bump, the watercolor hanging above his head bounced.

Finally letting his head rest against the white plaster, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "I think I've suffered enough," he sighed. "Besides, something tells me it doesn't get any better."

Soldier sent his brother a pleading look. "What in the hell does this woman have against me, Taylor? Six weeks on the New York Times best-seller list, but this, this broad hates everything I write!"

Taylor McKennitt grinned as he handed Soldier the bottle of beer he'd just popped open.

"Where have you been, sonny? 'Broad' is politically incorrect when referring to the female gender."

Taking a long swig of beer, Soldier swallowed, then offered, "Okay then, how about 'bitch'?"

"Bitch works. Have you ever met Ms. Whatsername?"

"Tremaine. Elizabeth Carlisle Tremaine and no, I've never had the pleasure."

Taylor tossed the Sunday paper onto the coffee table. "You live in north Seattle. What are you doing subscribing to the Port Henry Ledger? It's way the hell up on the peninsula."

"I don't subscribe. The lovely Ms. Tremaine sends me an edition whenever she trashes one of my books. She calls them reviews. I call them literary castration."

Taylor dropped down on the couch next to Soldier. Grabbing a note pad and colored pencils from his desk, he flipped to a clean page.

"Okay, Detective McKennitt. Let's do a little artist's rendering here. Describe this flower of womanhood to me."

Soldier sat back and relaxed, closing his eyes again. As he took another pull of beer, he formed a wicked smile on his lips.

"Okay. She has a long, thin face. Rather bony."

Taylor dutifully began sketching.

"She's really old, maybe sixty---"

"Hey, Mom's sixty."

"Okay, sixty-one. And she's got carrot-orange hair that sticks out all over like she shoved her finger in a light socket. Her eyes are evil and black and too close together and she has only one eyebrow, sort of shaped like a big M across her heavily wrinkled forehead."

"That's good. What else?"

Soldier sucked on the bottle for a second. "Her nose is long and thin with a bulb on the end. Oh, and don't forget the wart," he said, gesturing toward the paper with his beer bottle.

"Does the wart have hair on it?"

"It wouldn't be wart-worthy if it didn't."

"Right. Hair on the wart." Taylor's pencil scratched the paper in broad strokes.

Soldier contemplated his nemesis once more. "She has a blunt chin and a thin, cruel mouth. All tight and puckered like she just licked the bottom of somebody's shoe." He grinned. "And she's never had sex."

Taylor arched a dark brow. "Not even when she was young and wartless?"

"Nah. I don't see Ms. Tremaine letting a man near her," Soldier said through a vicious grin. Swallowing another gulp of beer, he mumbled, "But I'll bet she owns stock in Eveready batteries, if you get my drift."

Leaning over the sketch pad, he examined what Taylor had created. Gesturing with his index finger, he said, "You've got her tah-tahs too big. They should be more like prunes."

Taylor smirked. "She's beginning to look like my ex-wife."

"I never saw your ex-wife's prunes."

"Well, God knows every other man in town did."

Turning once again to the dour effigy Taylor had created, Soldier tapped his finger on the paper. With the beer bottle poised at his lips, he said, "Chin needs to be more mannish. And don't forget the scar ..."

#

Betsy Tremaine rubbed her chin. It felt odd, as though somebody were tickling it. She wished. The stanza of an old song ran through her head: Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody... Except it was Sunday, but that didn't really matter, not when you were alone every night of the week.

Twenty-eight years old, and the only male in her life was Piddle, her mother's five-hundred-year-old Chihuahua. Even now, the ancient creature lay hairless and trembling at her feet beneath the kitchen table. She was careful to move slowly around him, for the slightest noise would shatter his tenuous control and he'd live up to his name all over her floor.

Scooping the last bite of chocolate mint chip ice cream into her mouth, Betsy tossed the empty container in the trash and her spoon into the sink. Gently lifting Piddle from the floor, she rose and padded toward the living room.

The house had been built in the Victorian style over a hundred years ago. For a structure of its era, the rooms were large, and what had once been the parlor was now used as the living room. The front of the house faced west, allowing the setting sun to filter through the long lace curtains. Everything in the room - from her grandmother's antique porcelain vase, to the mahogany coffee table, to the tatted doilies that decorated the back of the couch - was tinted amber by the fading light of day.

A flagstone fireplace dominated the center of the interior wall, its wide mantel displaying photographs of Loretta and Douglas Tremaine, laughing, their arms wound around each other, as well as photos of Betsy as a little girl, in what she had come to refer to as "the Before Time," when her mother and father had loved each other and they had been a family.

Nestled in the corner to the right of the fireplace sat Betsy's work area. She shuffled over to the roll-top desk, an antediluvian piece of furniture that had once belonged to her great-grandfather. Now, it was piled high with books and papers, pencils, pens, more family photographs, and the latest National Geographic. An extra set of car keys peeked out of a cubbyhole, while a roll of stamps, paper clips, staples, and an assortment of office supplies lay strewn about in disorganized order.

Betsy had anticipated a cool evening, so she'd built a little fire in the fireplace, its woodsy fragrance and warmth cheering her a bit. Glancing out the window, she noted the heavy clouds rolling in from the sea. Night would come early, she thought, along with lots and lots of rain.

Another rainy night, she mused. In a couple of hours, while the raindrops tapped along the eaves, she'd be all snuggled down in her warm bed. Alone.

She sighed. She needed to snap out of it. Sure, she lived by herself, but she was seldom truly lonely. It was just that . . . well, lately, she'd been feeling restless, expectant somehow, yet each new day was no different than the previous one. That was a little depressing, and depression made her introspective, and introspection always led to the fact that she was alone, and that always made her feel . . . well, lonely, dammit.

Setting the dog on the Oriental carpet at her feet, she eased into the desk chair and punched the button to turn on her computer.

"Okay, let's see what's happening in Cyberland," she said to Piddle. The dog shivered but gave no response. Circling slowly, he finally settled between her feet, where he gave an exhausted sigh, then lowered his long lashes.

Checking out the letter icon on the desktop, Betsy grinned. "Oh, lookie here, Pids. We've got mail. Maybe your mommy is coming home and you can go back to her house and ruin her rugs and stink up her kitchen . . . ."

Piddle's response was a congested wheeze as he drifted off to doggy dreamland.

There were two e-mails from people whose names Betsy recognized. The one from her mother, vacationing for two months in Paris, was just a quick hello. But the other one was from J. Soldier McKennitt. Her review of his latest book had hit the paper last week. Considering how much she had hated it, and had said so, he probably wasn't writing to thank her.

Dear Ms. Tremaine:

I'm sorry you didn't like my book. Since I have received a fairly good response from other critics around the country and have a somewhat faithful readership, I am curious as to what you found so objectionable about Strike Three for Death (not to mention One Gun, and Murder for Two)?

Any enlightenment you can give would be most appreciated.

Yours, JSMc

Betsy nudged the zoned-out dog with her toe. "Can you believe this, Pids? The nerve of that old geezer."

Her chair squeaked as she settled more deeply into the peony-and-rose-print chintz cushion. What should she say to this guy that hadn't already been said in her review? It wasn't as though anything she wrote in the Port Henry Ledger would make a difference in the sale of his books. Hers was a small town newspaper with a limited circulation, while he was published nationally. How on earth had he even seen a copy of the damn thing?

In her job as editor of the Port Henry Ledger, she occasionally wrote book reviews just to give her something else to do. She enjoyed it and considered it a sort of public service, letting readers know which of the latest books were worth shelling out twenty-five bucks for and which to avoid. According to the back cover blurb of Strike Three for Death, J. Soldier McKennitt was a Seattle detective who fancied himself a writer and had taken to fictionalizing some of what he considered his more interesting cases. There was only a brief bio and no photo, which Betsy thought unusual. But maybe that was to prevent any problems with undercover work. Or maybe he was just plain old ugly.

Betsy glanced down at Piddle. Speaking of ugly. Well, she had to come up with some kind of answer to Detective McKennitt's note. Her heart squeezed in protest. She didn't like confrontation, not even when it was only electronic.

"Pids? Do you need to go out?" Stirring from his slumber, Piddle opened his luminous brown eyes, his long lashes fluttering as he gazed up at her. He gave one final shudder, then closed them again and went back to sleep.

So much for creative avoidance, she thought. Taking a deep breath, Betsy began to type.

Dear Detective McKennitt:

Everything I had to say, I said in my review. Please keep in mind that mine is only one opinion. I'm glad you have such a large following and wish you continued success in your writing career.

Betsy Tremaine

There. Short, sweet, and to the point. Was she gracious or what. Not argumentative, not defensive, but definitely not an invitation for further discourse. End of story.

Allowing herself a hearty yawn, she glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was almost seven. Okay, she'd get ready for bed, then read for a while before going to sleep. Tomorrow was Monday and she needed to get in early to prepare for the weekly staff meeting. Ryan Finlay, her boss, always ran the meeting, but she prepared the agenda. Her assistant Carla Denato would be in early too, to make coffee and set up the conference room.

Bending, Betsy picked up a woozy Piddle and carried him through the kitchen to the back door. "Time to do your duty, Pids."

Opening the door, she set the dog on the porch. Cool, damp air drifted around her body, making her shiver. Stepping back inside, she closed the door against a whirl of dry leaves.

She'd give him ten minutes. It would take him five just to move that ancient carcass to the middle of the yard and find a good spot, then five to stagger back. By that time she'd be ready for bed.

As she jogged up the stairs to her room, she thought about her mother. Why on earth had she decided to go to Paris now of all times? And for two whole months.

Betsy had planned to attend the four-day-long Northwest Crime and Punishment Writer's Conference starting on Thursday in Seattle. She'd have to take the Pidster with her since she couldn't afford to hire a dog-sitter for that amount of time, and a kennel was out of the question. God knew she needed the time away from work. With or without her mother's dog in tow, Betsy intended to shove her job firmly into the recesses of her brain for four lovely days.

She loved her job, adored it, but lately things seemed strained, and she couldn't quite put her finger on why. People were talking about something, but they hushed up whenever she got within earshot. Since she'd never done anything out of the ordinary or weird in her life, her coworkers couldn't possibly be whispering about her. Still, it gave her an uncomfortable feeling, and she was looking forward to a little breather.

Quickly stripping off her clothes, Betsy tossed her lightweight flannel gown over her head then went into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth.

She turned on the faucet then quickly turned it off. Was that a noise? She waited. Nothing. She twisted the faucet a second time, then quickly turned it off again. Yes, there had been a noise, but what was it and where had it come from?

Wiping her hands on a towel, she padded down the stairs. Throughout the house, her drapes were pulled. Nobody could see in. Reaching the kitchen, she snapped off the light, then stood in the gloom and silence, listening . . . .

There! A high pitched yelp and then nothing. Piddle?

The kitchen door screeched on its hinges as Betsy flung it open and snapped on the back porch light. She wrapped her arms around her waist against the chill and searched the landscape with narrowed eyes.

Beyond the meager reach of the porch light, her quest was useless. Night fell quickly and completely this time of year, turning the lovely yard into unknown territory filled with shifting black shapes and foreboding shadows.

Though she couldn't see much at the moment, Betsy knew the yard itself was deep and wide, graced here and there with trees. An ancient willow filled the back corner, its long leaves turned yellow by an early frost. A few tall firs, dark and pungent, stood sentry around the perimeter. Several rhodies marched in a line against the back fence, and old roses - pink, cream, gold, their blooms fading as they succumbed to the change of seasons - hugged the back of the house near where she stood.

Now, the atrium lay in shadows. All was still. Not so much as a leaf fluttered, and yet Betsy had the distinct feeling she could hear, or feel, the pulse of movement. Breathing. She sensed that eyes were fixed on her, but from where, she couldn't tell.

A mournful whine rose from the area of her feet, and she gasped and instinctively took a step back.

Piddle? What the---

The Chihuahua lay on his side on the porch, all four legs thrust stiffly away from his body. His chest heaved with labored breaths and his huge eyes stared helplessly into hers. He looked like a large paralyzed rat with a red collar.

Betsy quickly stooped and picked him up, then slammed and locked the back door.

Snapping the kitchen light back on, she examined every inch of him. He appeared unhurt, but something was definitely wrong. He seemed more shaky than usual. If she didn't know better, she'd say he'd been traumatized.

Whimpering, he thrust his face under her arm and tried to burrow as far in as he could get, a featherless, bonsai ostrich hiding his head in the sand.

It was then she saw what was bothering him.

She reached out and warily touched the piece of paper tucked tightly under his collar. Pulling it out, she absently set Piddle on the floor and unfolded the paper.

HEY DIDDLE-DIDDLE,
I COULD HAVE NAILED PIDDLE
BUT I DIDN'T DO SUCH
'CAUSE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH
OR DO I?

Betsy's heart skipped a beat while her breath caught in her throat. She lay the paper on the kitchen counter and fumbled for a chair, sat down and stared at the scrap.

Her gaze moved warily to the back door. Should she open it to see who was out there?

Immediately her common sense shouted, Hell no! What a stupid idea!

The more she stared at the paper, the faster her heart raced. A lonely woman in a lonely house living a lonely life should be thrilled that somebody loved her. Except it was plain he didn't love her.

Quite the contrary.

#

Officer Sam Winslow looked like a million bucks: tall, an all-American type with brown eyes, dark blond hair, a cleft in his chin, the works. Betsy held Piddle close to her chest as Officer Winslow completed his paperwork.

He grinned. Straight, white, perfect teeth. Inwardly, Betsy sighed with longing. It was a pleasure just to look at the man.

"Now, Ms. Tremaine---" he began.

"That's Miss," she corrected, trying not to appear too obvious.

"Ah, yes, then Miss Tremaine. You're certain, ma'am, that you have no idea who could have written this note?" The note in question now resided in a small plastic evidence bag he held in his large clean hand.

Betsy shook her head. "No, sir."

Winslow grinned again. "You don't have to call me sir."

"You called me ma'am."

"Yes," he said through a sheepish grin. How charming. "We're supposed to do that. As a courtesy. Ma'am." He grinned again as he tossed the evidence bag into his leather case. Betsy slid a glance to his left hand as he snapped the lock shut.

No wedding ring. Should she tell him now that she wanted to have his baby, or should she wait until she knew him better?

She wiped the silly grin off her face before he turned back to her. All he would see now was a serious young woman of medium height, with a plain face but rather good complexion, hazel eyes, short, chunky-cut blond hair, shoulders that were too square, a bust just a tad too full, a slim waist, and her grandmother's thighs.

Like a mental ticker tape, her mother's sad-but-true appraisal of her deficiencies ran yet again through her head.

You've got an hourglass figure, dear. Men hate hourglass figures. Look at movies and TV if you don't believe me. Sleek and toned, lots of muscle, small breasts, long legs, trim hips. You do have good teeth, though.

Good teeth? Who did her mother think she was, Trigger?

Officer Winslow stood. Betsy rose, too, subtly pulling her pink sweater down over her hips. She'd changed back into her jeans and a top after phoning the police, and now wished she'd stayed in her nightgown. At least it covered her body, including those damned hips, from neck to toe.

"It looks like our guys have finished in your backyard," he said. "I'll get in touch with you if anything turns up on the note. I doubt we'll find any prints on it besides yours, but you never know."

"You never know. Right." Betsy smiled. She absently wound a short curl around her finger then let it go and shoved her hand into her pocket when she realized she had come very close to being coy. "Do you think I'm in danger, Officer Winslow?"

The lawman stopped in the doorway. His shoulders were so broad, she couldn't see past him to the street. He looked ... heroic. Or was it just that she was ... desperate.

"Read the literature I left for you. It'll give you some tips on keeping yourself safe. Also," he said, granting her another perfect smile, "we'll increase the neighborhood patrols for a while. Oftentimes, a visible police presence is enough of a deterrent, but, well, we'll see. I don't want to scare you, but I do want you to be aware."

He reached down to pat Piddle on the nose, but the dog took offense and growled. Officer Winslow's smile stayed frozen in place.

"Uh, nice dog."

"No he isn't."

Piddle sneezed.

As one of Port Henry's finest walked back to his patrol car, Betsy couldn't help but notice the man's empyrean body.

Empyrean! What a stupid word. It meant ideal, sublime. She knew because she'd been forced to look it up. J. Soldier McKennitt had used it to refer to somebody in his book, and now she couldn't get the damn word out of her head.

Empyrean. Well, if it meant perfect, Winslow surely was that all right. He slid behind the wheel, gave Betsy a smile and wave, then drove down her quiet, tree-lined street and out of sight.

"He works out," she confided to Piddle. "He wouldn't want a woman who doesn't work out, I'll bet." With a man like Winslow, hourglass figures wouldn't do. He was buff; he would want buff.

Against the now late evening chill, Betsy closed and locked her front door. In the Olden Days, she thought as she meandered toward the kitchen, men courted women for their ability to cook a good meal, keep a clean house, raise healthy kids, plow a straight furrow, milk a cow single-handed. Nowadays, you could cure cancer on Monday, climb Everest on Tuesday, solve world hunger on Wednesday, but unless you had a perfect body, a sexy guy like Sam Winslow would never give you a second glance.

The hunky cop had instructed her to keep her doors and windows bolted, her drapes closed, and her eyes and ears open. Whether he found her interesting or not was the least of her problems.

She was being stalked. Maybe. She wanted to go deeply into denial, but that wouldn't make the situation go away. As much as she hated the very idea, she was going to have to behave like a crime victim, because the simple fact of the matter was, she was a crime victim.

Well, maybe.

In the blink of an eye her orderly life had changed, and she had to respond accordingly. To ignore the warnings could mean her life. Or not. Only if she really was being stalked.

The urge to dismiss the whole thing was overwhelming. Gosh, she thought, maybe she was just turning this little molehill into a mountain. Perhaps the note was intended for Mrs. Banes next door. Sure, Mrs. Banes was an eighty-five-year-old widow, but you never knew who had the hots for whom. Maybe some old gent at the Port Henry Senior Activity Center had designs on her.

Besty nibbled on her lip. She didn't know who, she didn't know why. But someone had come secretly into her backyard and terrorized her dog. By mistake? Well, the note he'd left her was now being analyzed at the county crime lab.

She shuddered when she recalled pulling the back door open without turning on a light or even checking to see if someone was out there. As a woman living alone, she should have known better than that.

Betsy looked down at Piddle. "As my Canine in Shining Armor, I trust you will protect me if and when the time comes?"

The dog's luminous eyes stared into hers. He looked guilty. But then, he always looked guilty. His long lashes fluttered nervously, his wet nose twitched.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Betsy went into the kitchen and opened the pantry door. The brass knob felt cool and smooth in her fingers.

"Hm," she said, leaning down to pick up the dog. "Just like Old Mother Hubbard who went to her cupboard to fetch her poor dog a bone ... although why she kept bones in the cupboard, we have no way of knowing." Piddle burrowed deep under Betsy's armpit and began quaking hard enough to register on the Richter scale.

"A little something to settle the nerves, I think," she mumbled as she pulled a dust-covered bottle of Jack Daniel's from the depths of her spice shelf. "My nerves, not yours."

It took concentration to keep her fingers from trembling as she unscrewed the cap with one hand, but she managed it.

For a moment she considered calling her best friend just to hear a reassuring voice, but after checking the time, Betsy realized Claire would still be at the hospital. And, after all, what was happening to her wasn't exactly an emergency, so interrupting her doctor friend's rounds would be a selfish thing to do.

Splashing an ounce or two or three into a tumbler, she added Coke and a few ice cubes.

"It's probably not a good idea to drink too much of this stuff on an empty stomach," she said to her companion, "but I'm too freaked out to stay totally sober."

Fortifying herself with a gulp from her glass, she went through the house to her desk once again and plopped into the vintage chair. Setting Piddle on the floor, she straightened and took another swallow of the fizzy drink.

Who had written her the note? And for God's sake, why?

Visions of some sicko with gnarled, hairy knuckles scratching out those horrible words made a chill creep up Betsy's spine. She had to leave in four days for the conference. Would her house be okay while she was gone? Perhaps she could get Carla or Dave from work to keep an eye on the place for her over the long weekend?

Did he know her routine? Would he follow her into Seattle? Maybe she should buy a gun.

Right. Like she knew how to use a gun. She'd end up shooting herself or Piddle ... hmm. Piddle. Naw. Her mother would never forgive her.

After a few minutes Betsy realized her vision was getting a little hazy. A decidedly warm feeling infused her entire body. She felt relaxed. More than relaxed. She grinned to herself and twirled the chair around a couple of times, holding her drink in the air as though toasting some unseen visitor. Downing another large gulp, she giggled into the tumbler.

This is cool, she thought ten minutes later as she held the empty glass in her hand. Nothing like getting shit-faced when you were being stalked and could be murdered at any moment.

The trill of musical notes caught her attention. She glanced at the computer. Uh-oh. Another note from J. Soldier. Taking a steadying breath, Betsy absently wondered what the J stood for and why the old guy preferred to go by his middle name. She wasn't sure she cared enough at the moment to find out.

Ms. Betsy:

Granted, yours is only one opinion, but because it is so divergent from the sentiments expressed by others, my curiosity is piqued and I thought I'd give it another try.

What is it about my books you don't like, exactly? I'm an adult and a professional. I can handle criticism.

If you'd take a moment to enlighten me, I'd appreciate it.

Thanks, JSMc

So he couldn't let it rest, huh? Betsy thought as her eyes tried to focus on the screen. So he can handle criticism, can he? Well, be careful what you wish for, Detective Mr. J. Something McKennitt. You just might get it.

Her fingers lightly tickled the keyboard as she considered her reply.

She sucked on her lower lip. Then she sucked on her upper lip, which was not nearly as easy to do. Finally, she giggled and blew her bangs out of her eyes, then got down to business.

"Okay, Detective Mr. J. Soldier McKennitt Person," she mumbled to the computer screen. "You want enlightenment? You got it."

Detective JSMc, sir (I learned that from the police today):

Pfffft! That's right. Pfffft! That's my reply. Why don't I like your books? Pfffft!

Not to put too fine a point on it, the writing is about as polished as my kitchen floor (which really isn't very polished, thus the comparison, but you'd have to see my kitchen floor to understand what I mean). Your plots are about as believable as Santa Claus, which whom I used to believe in him but life is nothing if not occasionally disappointing. So sue me.

Your characters are bland. Bland, bland, bland. No life. The dead ones have more life than the live ones have who have no life. And they're stupid. The live ones. They act irrationality.

I've read my share of mystery novels and crime thingies, and, given the facts you give, your conclusions are faulty. I find I do not buy them, sir! I would characterize your style, such as it is, as cold, impersonal, vulgar, and graph-ick!

My sincerest apologies if I have in any way hurt your feelings. I'm really a very nice person, but I've had a rough day. Somebody says they love me except they don't and I'm frightened.

And then I got your message and I just feel it's important to tell the truth. I've always been that way. People don't always want to hear the truth and sometimes it serves no one, but I don't know any other way. My father taught me that honesty is the best policy, but he's been out of my reach for years now, so he won't ever say that to me again, even though I can still hear his lovely voice in my heart.

Continued success on your writing career. I meant to tell you what a jerk I think you are for accosting me with your e-mail and demands for explanations, but now that I think about it, I just can't do it. I mean, I do think you're a jerk, but I'm just not going to say it.

Empyreanly yours,

Betsy Tremaine

#

Soldier looked up from the screen and blinked at his brother, who was laughing so hard he was drooling.

When Soldier spoke, his voice was low and solemn, filled with awe at what he had just read.

"Drunk," he said. "She must be blitzed on her butt." He shook his head. "I've read letters from Kazakhstani crack addicts that made more sense than this."

Taylor laughed harder as he read the e-mail again. "I think you should frame it," he howled. "Hang it right next to the picture we drew of her." He wiped the tears from his eyes. "God, this is a classic, Jackson. Maybe you can blackmail her with it."

Soldier shrugged. "Hell, I don't know whether to put out a hit on her or give her a hug. The woman is in worse shape than I thought."

Taylor pulled up a chair. "Go for the hit. I'll do it if you want."

"Very funny."

"You gonna respond?"

Soldier widened his eyes. "What in God's name would I say? 'I'm sorry you're a lunatic? Perhaps a little therapy would be in order here?'"

Pressing the print key, Soldier watched as the laser jet rolled out a copy of the e-mail. He picked up the paper and folded it together with the picture Taylor had drawn. Shoving them in his pocket, he sighed. "Well, my life may be crap, but I'm a lot better off than Betsy Tremaine. Not only is she ugly," he smirked, thinking of his brother's artistic rendition, "but she's nuttier than a Snicker's bar."

However, even as he said the words, he felt uneasy. He sure didn't agree with her reviews, but they had at least been well-written and coherent. Her e-mail had been okay, too. Something must be wrong. Perhaps she was just getting up there in years. Undoubtedly, she was a spinster and lived alone. Probably had a dozen cats, or some yappy little dog. The fact that she'd mentioned the police and that she was frightened bothered him, even if she'd been drunk or crazy at the time.

Soldier didn't know the woman, yet he felt a sense of connection with her. She didn't like his books and had said so. No crime in that, except it had pissed him off. He knew the male ego had the tensile strength of a wet Kleenex, but he'd always thought he possessed a stronger sense of self than to let some little old lady from Nowheresville upset his apple cart.

Abruptly, the thought that had been subtly nagging at Soldier for weeks pushed itself to the forefront. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he rested a hip on the kitchen doorjamb.

"What do you think, Taylor. Should I go back to work full-time?"

In the meaningful silence that followed, Soldier stepped away from the threshold and sauntered over to where his brother was constructing a towering sandwich. "Make me one of those, will you?"

Crunching on a dill pickle, Taylor nodded and pulled out a second plate. "Why are you asking my opinion?" he said. "You never ask my opinion. You're the big brother. You know everything." He took another bite of pickle and sent Soldier a grin.

"Just because I know everything, doesn't mean I know everything. So, should I go back out on the street?"

Both McKennitt sons had inherited their father's intensely blue eyes, eyes that appeared to sear directly to the bone. Taylor leveled those eyes now on Soldier.

"You've been sitting on your ass long enough," he said, working on Soldier's sandwich. "That thing with Marc sucked, but it wasn't your fault and it's time you got over it. You're a cop. So, get it together and go be one."

"I failed Marc," Soldier all but growled. "I made an error in judgment that cost him his life. Now his widow and kids are paying for my blunder."

He felt his stomach knot. Marc's death had been a horrible blow. They'd been partners for four years and he'd grown to love the guy like a brother. When Soldier had realized he'd been fed false information, and that he'd sent Marc right into the trap, he'd broken every speed law on the books trying to get to his partner in time. But it had been too late.

Soldier had found Marc's torn body thrown in a trash bin. He'd pulled him out of the garbage and called for help. But by the time the paramedics had gotten there, it was over. Marc had died in his arms, his wife's name on his lips, his fingers gripped around Soldier's wrist.

Whether Marc's death grip was a demonstration of trust or hatred remained an unanswered question that haunted Soldier's dreams.

From day one, cops knew the score. You could take a hit any time. But this was different. This had been his fault. Marc had been careful, it had been he who'd screwed up, and his partner had paid the price.

Soldier had tracked and collared the killer, but it wasn't enough. It wouldn't bring his friend back, soothe his widow at night, feed his kids. Regret was a useless demon, but it had eaten away at his conscience for months, weakening his confidence, making him fear the same thing might happen to his next partner. To the next man who trusted him with his life.

And it was what kept him from looking for a wife, from making a family with some nice woman. It could all be gone so fast.

"So," Taylor interrupted Soldier's thoughts, pushing the plate and completed sandwich toward his brother. "You're thinking, how can I ever trust myself again? What if I screw up again and somebody else gets killed?"

Soldier hitched in a tight breath. "Yeah, something like that."

"Hey, I'm a cop, too. Remember?"

"Yeah, but you've never---"

"No, I've never. Not yet, anyway. But we all know the risks. All we can do is our best, Jackson." He took another bite of his sandwich and stared into Soldier's eyes.

Soldier liked being with his brother. He and Taylor had always been close, but never so much as lately, since Soldier had lost his partner and Taylor had lost his faith in women.

At thirty-three, Soldier had never been married, let alone divorced, so he didn't know how this was all supposed to work. Having watched Taylor go through hell because of that faithless slut, Soldier was glad that years ago he'd sworn he'd never get married. But he'd been there for Taylor, no matter what it took, no matter how long it took. And Taylor had been there for him when Marc was killed.

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Taylor said, "When are you leaving for the conference?"

Soldier looked up from his own sandwich and glanced over at the wall calendar, an obvious freebie from Joe's 24-Hour Towing Service. "Uh, Thursday. I'm not scheduled to speak until Saturday night."

"I'll lay you odds that Old Lady Tremaine will be there."

Soldier popped the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth, chucked his plate into the sink and wiped his hands on a paper towel. "Nah. Too much excitement for an old broa--- I mean, a lady with such fragile sensibilities."

"Fragile sensibilities? You've been watching PBS again, haven't you?" Taylor accused. "It would be funny, though, don't you think," he chided, "if you met her face-to-face? Like, what if she's young and beautiful and you fall for her?"

Soldier laughed and patted his jeans pocket where he'd shoved the drawing and her obtuse e-mail message.

"Fall for her?" he chuckled, squinting at his brother over the top of the fresh beer he'd just opened. "Taylor, if I ever met Elizabeth Tremaine, the last thing in the world I would do is fall for her."

There's no Place Like Home