Irish Stewed Part 23

"So . . ." I broke off a piece of b.u.t.tered bread and popped it in my mouth. "If Sophie didn't kill Kim and if you didn't kill her, who did?"

He brushed crumbs from the front of his black T-s.h.i.+rt. "Good question. And here's another thing to think about. We can be reasonably sure the story Kim was going to break on the eleven o'clock news wasn't the story about the Food Pantry Robin Hood because Sophie and I are the only ones who would have cared if that news came out, and since you've so graciously"-he gave me a quick little bow-"eliminated us as suspects, there has to be something else Kim was about to reveal."

"About someone else who didn't want the story to get out." I scooped up our dishes and took them to the sink along with the knife he'd used to slice the bread. "She said she was going to break the case wide open, right? She said she was going to reveal who the killer was. If it wasn't you and it wasn't Sophie, then it was someone else." That was obviously a no-brainer, and thinking about it, I drummed my fingers against the counter, and the noise they made against the stainless steel added a thrumming beat to the pounding already going on inside my head.

"What we really need to do," I said, "is look through Kim's reporting of the murder. Maybe she said something somewhere along the line. You know, gave some sort of clue that no one paid any attention to because it was small and didn't seem to matter. I wonder if the station would let us look through their tape archives."

"I wondered the same thing." Along with the soda bread, he'd brought his iPad into the kitchen with him, and now Declan tapped the keyboard and crooked a finger so that I would come around to the other side of the counter and stand next to him where I could see the screen.

There was Kim Kline's face, right at the center of it.

"You got the tapes of Kim's reporting?" I shot him a look. "How?"

He tried hard not to smile. "I know a woman who works down at the station. In accounting. And she knows people in production. She's pretty persuasive."

"I'm sure you are, too, and I'm not going to ask what you promised in return for these."

"Hey, it's not like they're top secret or anything. Most of this stuff is what's already been on TV. Although there is one segment . . . Well, you'll see."

Like Declan, I stood and watched the recorded segments. There was one from right outside the Terminal the night Jack Lancer died. Another the next day with Kim looking as if she hadn't gotten much sleep. A little shorter story from the next night. All of them pretty much reported the same thing: Jack Lancer, hero of the people, was dead. There was mention of Owen's arrest and later, of his release. There was talk of a reward for information, of dead ends when it came to suspects, of all the good Jack had done for the community and how much he would be missed. There was footage of his wake and the crowds of people outside the memorial chapel.

In the midst of it all, reporting and commenting and looking suitably morose, was Kim Kline.

"Poor Kim." I s.h.i.+vered. "It's hard to watch. I mean, with what we saw last night."

"Shhh! This is the part I think you'll want to see."

He was right. The next segment on the tape was one that hadn't aired on TV. I knew this for a fact because there was no setup, no banner with Kim's name on it across the bottom of the screen. Instead, it opened with a shot of Kim asking her cameraman if he was ready, he said he was, and then she- "She's tucking a little camera in his lapel," I said, pointing to what was happening like Declan wasn't looking exactly where I was looking. "It's a little surveillance camera. And then they're walking into-"

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"That was the day she came in here for dinner!" This time when I pointed at the screen, my finger trembled. "She's . . . she's taping me!"

"My guess is she had something up her sleeve. Like maybe doing a story about you somewhere down the line, you and your Hollywood connections."

"If I knew that," I grumbled, "I might have killed her myself."

Side by side, Declan and I watched the rest of what the cameraman had caught with his hidden camera. If you asked me, it wasn't much and it sure wouldn't have made for interesting TV viewing. The cameraman (I remembered his name was Dustin) turned briefly toward the front door when Denice raced in, apologized for being late, and tucked her Terminal polo s.h.i.+rt into her black pants. Just like I remembered, her son, Ronnie, was with her, and he sauntered by and went to sit at a table along the far wall to wait for his daily supply of free coffee.

Not knowing I was being recorded, I handed Kim and Dustin the menus I'd handwritten, the one that featured my new brainstorm, ethnic foods.

"Irish stew?" Kim crinkled her nose.

I darted a glance across the street toward the Irish store. "A neighborhood family recipe," I told her, and added, "Though I've changed it up a bit, made a few modifications."

"The Fury family?" Kim sat up and looked across the street, too. "All right, I'm game. I'll give it a try. Denice . . . I'll try the stew and, Dustin . . ." She looked his way and the picture wobbled when he nodded. "Make that two."

"That's pretty much it." Declan stopped the videos. "I don't know about you, but to me, there doesn't look like there's anything there worth killing for."

My mind working over the problem, I kept right on staring at the blank screen. "I don't suppose while you were charming your way into your TV station friend's heart, you managed to get a look at Kim's story files?"

"You think I can be charming?"

It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Not what we were talking about."

You wouldn't know it from his grin. "But we could."

"Except we shouldn't."

"Why not?"

I was so busy hating the fact that I let out a sigh, I didn't have time to consider if it was one of annoyance or surrender.

"I don't do relations.h.i.+ps," I told him.

"Because . . . ?"

I threw my hands in the air. "Because I don't. Because I never have. Because I don't know how. You, you've got all that . . . family . . ." I'm not sure how I thought throwing out my arms and wiggling my fingers in the direction of the Irish store explained either his family or what I thought of the crazy, wonderful, musical lot of them and how much they terrified me at the same time they made me as jealous as h.e.l.l. "You've got all those people around all the time and you always have and so you know how to relate to people. And me, I've . . ." I dropped my arms to my side. "I've never had that. I never will. And it's fine, really," I added quickly when he stepped forward and I got the sneaking suspicion that he actually thought it might be a good idea to hug me. "But what it means is I don't do relations.h.i.+ps and, correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm thinking that's the only thing you do. Relations.h.i.+ps. You're not a one-night-stand sort of guy."

Too bad the kitchen was such a mishmash of light and shadows. Otherwise, I might have been better able to read his expression. It was too rock steady to be considered bittersweet, and besides, he wasn't the bittersweet type. He raised his eyebrows. "I could learn to be."

I had a feeling he was half-serious so I played it cool and boffed him on the arm. It was that or admit that just the thought made me feel as if all the air had been forced out of my lungs.

"There you go," I said, "trying to be charming again."

"And it's"-his shoulders sagged-"not working."

"It's not going to." I was so sure of this, I lifted my chin. I pointed to him. "Relations.h.i.+ps. Family. Stability." I swung my finger around to myself. "Not so much. I can't give you what you're looking for, Declan, and you, you've got too much to give me. Besides, once Sophie gets back, I'm outta here. And, admit it, the last thing you want is an outta-here kind of girl. Isn't that what you told me? You're one of the settled ones."

He let the message sink in, then stood tall and inched back his shoulders. "That's good. That's great that we're clear about all that. It's good to get that sort of thing out of the way right from the start, don't you think? It's like-"

"Like something they'd ask you on one of those surveys from an online dating site," I put in and, yeah, like his, my voice was a little too light and airy and my smile was a little too broad. "It's one of those things that exes out two people from ever being a couple."

"Absolutely." He grabbed his iPad and went to the door.

"Positively," I called after him.

He backed up to the door and b.u.mped it open with his b.u.t.t. "Glad we got it out in the open."

"Me, too. Thanks for the bread. And the recipe."

"Anytime," he said, and he was gone.

And me? I was thrilled, right? Well, of course I was. I knew everything we'd just said was true, and like Declan, I was grateful to get it all out in the open.

I told myself not to forget it and while I was at it, I grabbed the salt shakers that needed to be filled and got to work. A moment later, I realized the sun had inched up enough over the roof of that nearby factory to stream through the windows and flood the kitchen.

Funny, though, it felt as if those long, dark shadows were still all around me.

It was that kind of Monday. We were reasonably busy for lunch and dinner and for that, I was grateful, but not nearly as grateful as I was to finally get home that night. It was nearly eight and already dark by the time I pulled into Sophie's driveway, and I braced myself for what was sure to be another ugly encounter with m.u.f.fin.

I dragged to the front door, poked my key into the lock, and when it didn't slide in easily, I grumbled a curse.

"New locks," I reminded myself. "Wrong key."

Though I thought I'd left the front porch light on when I left that morning, I had apparently been in too much of a hurry. It was dark there on the stoop, and I fumbled to figure out which key on the Swarovski crystal keychain I'd gotten from the salesman when I picked up my BMW Z4 was the one given to me by the locksmith on Sat.u.r.day.

And, in hindsight, I guess that was a very lucky thing.

That meant I was still outside and the door was still locked when an arm went around my waist and a gloved hand covered my mouth.

"Open the door," a man's hot, wet voice hissed close to my ear. "You make one funny move, and you're dead."

My breath caught behind a ball of panic in my throat at the same time an idea burst into my head with all the subtlety of a Fourth of July rocket.

One funny move and I was dead, huh?

No funny moves, and I'd be alone in the house with a stranger, and the door would be closed behind me.

Before I could tell myself it was probably a very bad idea, I c.o.c.ked my elbow and jabbed it as hard as I could into the guy's ribs.

Years of working in restaurants lugging trays laden with gla.s.ses and dishes had done a lot for my muscles. And I had the added advantage of surprise.

Chalk one up for funny moves. He was just surprised enough to loosen his grip and step back an inch or two, far enough away from me to allow me to twist out of his grasp.

But not for long.

A second later, his knee slammed into the small of my back. Pain shot through my legs and radiated up my spine and I let out a yelp. While I was at it, I kept right on yelping, too. I had yet to meet any of Sophie's neighbors, but this seemed as good a time as any. I turned to face my attacker and, with the clarity that often comes at times like this, I evaluated the situation and the man whose eyes burned at me from behind a black ski mask.

Five-ten. Whip thin, but plenty strong.

Jeans. Dark sweater, hood up and over a ball cap. A logo on it I couldn't see because of the dark.

And something in his right hand. Something sharp and s.h.i.+ny.

I didn't need to see any more. I screamed until my lungs hurt.

"Shut up!" He tried for a backhand slap, but, hey, years in the system and some really bad placements had taught me to be quick on my feet; I ducked under his arm. That's when I remembered I still had my keys in my hand, and I poked them up through my fingers, and closed my fist around my key fob. The next time he got within striking distance, I jabbed the keys into the man's stomach.

He let out a grunt and made a grab for the keys. He wanted me in the house, and I knew I had to do everything in my power to make sure he never got the door open.

When he gripped my arm, I kicked and punched and when I finally managed to squirm away far enough so that I could get a good windup, I threw the keys as far away as I could. They landed in the shrubbery, the geraniums, and the petunias outside Sophie's living room window.

My attacker looked at the dense undergrowth and he knew exactly what I knew: it would take too long to find the keys.

With a curse, the man slapped me across the face. Then he turned on his heels and ran.

Even though the pulsing lights of the police car roll bar flashed in my face and practically blinded me, I knew when Declan arrived. The whole vibe of the scene out on Sophie's driveway changed. I recognized him immediately silhouetted against the light, all rigid shoulders and raised chin and a jaw held so tight, even before he was in my face, I had a feeling it just might snap.

"What the h.e.l.l!" He grabbed my shoulders, which wasn't so great an idea considering that I'd just been attacked by a stranger and so wasn't in the mood for close contact. Not with anyone.

Which made it perfectly justifiable for me to haul off and punch him in the nose.

"What the h.e.l.l!" Declan jumped back and fingered the bridge of his nose, but, truth be told, there wasn't much damage; I was pretty worn out from all the fighting I'd done with the man who tried to get inside Sophie's house.

"Hey, you two!" Gus Oberlin stomped over. "Is there a problem over here?"

"No problem." Declan knew better than to try for another hold on me. He backed up a step, gave me a quick once-over, and glanced at Gus. "Just making sure Laurel's okay."

"Laurel's more than okay." I thought Gus would have known better; he clamped a hand on my shoulder.

I wiggled out from under the hold.

"She fought back like a trouper," Gus told Declan. "Not always the smartest thing for a woman to do, but in this case, it worked."

"He wanted to get in the house." My throat was raw, my voice was hoa.r.s.e. "If he just wanted my purse or the car, he could have taken it. But he wanted . . ." When I gulped, my throat protested. "He wanted to get inside the house."

"Just like someone wanted to get inside last Sat.u.r.day?"

The question from Declan made my head snap up. "How did you know . . . ?"

"A better question," he growled, "is why didn't you tell me?"

"You?" This time, I snapped my gaze to Detective Oberlin. "You really think you should share that kind of information with-"

At one time in his career, Gus must have been a traffic cop. He stopped me with arm extended and his hand out. "Hey, it's all public record and, besides, I thought it was only fair to let Declan know what was going on. Chances are, it's one of his relatives behind this burglary ring."

"And you think that's what happened here? An attempted burglary?" I had to give Declan credit; though his voice simmered with anger, he ignored Oberlin's dig and went straight to the heart of the matter. "Think again, Gus. From what I've seen, none of the other reports say anything about the burglar confronting the homeowner. Why should he? He comes in when people are out of the house, he rips off whatever's worth taking, then he disappears. There's less chance of getting caught that way, less chance of being seen. What happened here-"

"It fits the pattern." When one of the uniformed officers called Gus over to the front door, he turned and walked away. "You'll see, counselor. When all the pieces fall into place, I'd bet any money we find a Fury at the bottom of this burglary ring."

"Son of a . . ." Declan sc.r.a.ped a hand through his hair. That is, right before he said, "Sorry. For . . . you know . . . for grabbing you like that. I should have known-"

"Knee-jerk reaction," I told him. "You want to come in the house? We'll get some ice for your nose."

Since the cops were still busy poking around out front-they found my keys, hurray!-we went around to the back door.

"Looks like he tried to get in here first," Declan said, checking out the scratches on one side of the jamb.

"But not tonight." A block of ice formed in my stomach. "The other day . . . I heard a noise . . . I thought it was the cat."

"So, someone's been trying to get into the house for a few days?" This time, he placed a hand gently on my elbow and I didn't fight back. We walked into the kitchen and I flopped into the nearest chair.

Declan turned on the ceiling fan and the second the light was on, I saw a black-and-white flash head out from under the table and down the bas.e.m.e.nt steps.